SIXTEEN
They were waiting for us when we left the RV. All of Peter’s family: Mrs. Faa, the pugs, the wives and grandsons—even the kids—were parked at a kiddie table where they made sleepy efforts to utilize the crayons and paper before them. It had to be around six in the morning, and yet those poor children had been dragged out of bed and forced to color while the adults stood clustered around Mrs. Faa’s chair.
“Well, that doesn’t look good,” I said sotto voce when they turned, en masse, to glare at us. “Everyone is there but Gregory. That rotter. I swear to you that I saw him right before I was bashed on the head, which means either he’s purposely hiding to make us look bad, or he’s staying out of our sight so the family can pretend we’ve done something drastic to him.”
“I don’t think
