It was ten a.m. when Austen called and woke me up.
“Hello?” I sounded as creaky as a coffin.
“It’s Austen.” He was speaking in a whisper. “Did I wake you?”
“Nope. Been up for a couple of hours,” I lied. I’d actually only been in bed for about three.
Once we’d locked away the grisly remains of Flora’s last meal, we’d headed down the road, flashlights in hand.
Just as Grant had predicted, the ugly brown car was pulled off into the grass. With the help of YouTube, we jimmied the door open and searched the glove box and visors, coming up with a registration under the name Robert Webb, a receipt from the Pretty cafeteria, and a cell phone.
What the receipt meant, I didn’t know. Had I been followed? Had Vic? And how did all that tie into Jonathan?
Before I could think to stop him, Grant p
