Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
It stirs my pulse and instantly brings me back to the moment I threw all caution aside.
“So, this is your first Thanksgiving dinner in twenty years, huh, big guy?” Jon says, breaking the spell.
Logan refocuses on his plate. “Yup. Thanks for constantly reminding me.”
But Jon is oblivious, ladling squash to his overflowing plate while Sarah monitors Egan in a high chair on one side of her and Macy on her other, the little girl on her knees in an adult chair, attempting to serve herself potatoes. For all the positive he’s done to renew and grow the Landry ranch, Jon is equally incompetent when it comes to rearing children and keeping his foot out of his mouth.
Thomas grimaces. “They don’t have Thanksgiving in prison?”
Logan chuckles. “Not like this. It’s deli turkey and instant mash, frozen peas and carrots. Runny gravy.”
“Nothing runny here,” Sarah announces as she pours a helping of her homemade version onto Macy’s plate.
Carson leans over to Egan’s high chair and whispers with a wicked smile, “Gobbles.”
The little boy’s bottom lip quivers for one … two seconds and then he lets out a shrill scream that has forks clattering.
“Not this again,” Jon exclaims with exasperation.
Sarah rests her forehead in her hands, looking seconds from crying herself.
“That’s it.” Holt tosses his napkin on the table and shoves his chair back, the grating sound against the wood abrupt. “Carson, get up.”
Sarah’s eyes dart from Holt to Jon and back to Holt. “Dad, what are you doin’—”
“What should have been done already.” He rounds the table and snatches up Carson’s plate of food. “On your feet, boy. Now.”
This is the Holt I remember from childhood—the one with no soft edges and discipline waiting around every corner.
Carson’s gray-blue eyes widen like saucers. Even Egan’s cries have muted, either from fear or curiosity.
“Dad?” he says feebly.
“Nope, sorry. Can’t help you now, bud,” Jon says solemnly. “Better listen to your Grampa.”
Carson rises and, head bowed, follows Holt through the kitchen and out the back door.
“I guess the dogs are gonna get their turkey after all.” Annie tsks.
“He’s feeding Carson’s dinner to the dogs?” Thomas exclaims, horrified for a second time tonight.
“He used to do that with your mom and your uncles when they were misbehaving at the dinner table too.” Annie waggles her fingers between Sarah and Logan.
“Not me,” Sarah corrects haughtily, her hands pressed against her chest. “It was always Jay. Logan, once or twice maybe.”
“I forgot about that.” Logan’s smile is wistful. “I don’t think Jay ate Thanksgiving dinner for, like, three years straight.”
A memory strikes me then. “My mom always said the Landry dogs ate like kings around the holidays.”
Logan laughs, and the deep sound brings a giddy smile to my face.
“And here you two thought losing your gaming time was the worst thing that could happen today,” Jon muses before inhaling a forkful of stuffing.
“Never seen two dogs clean a plate so fast.” Holt’s voice carries from inside again. “Now, go on and put that dish in the sink. Then sit on the couch and think about your behavior while you watch us enjoy our meals.”
“He used to say that to Jay too.” Logan reaches for the salt shaker. “Guess he didn’t think hard enough.”
An awkward silence blooms across the table as Holt returns with a sullen Carson, and it has nothing to do with that spectacle and everything to do with a past no one is in a rush to remember.
“At least I’m not being a shithead,” Brooks announces suddenly, reaching for his glass of milk.
Jon chokes on his food while Sarah’s jaw drops.
“I’m not disciplining every one of your kids tonight.” Holt ruffles Egan’s hair on his way past to retake his seat. “Now, can we all please enjoy this dinner—”
Knuckles rap on the front door.
“For fuck’s sake!” His knife clatters against the plate.
“Holt,” Annie scolds, but her furrowed brow shows her irritation as she sets her cutlery down. “Who could that be now?”
Unfortunately, I already know. “Logan should answer it.”
He turns to meet my gaze.
“They’re questioning anyone who saw or spoke to Holly on Friday night,” I explain calmly, reluctantly. “They know she approached you in the bar, and they want to see if you know anything that might help find her.”
“What do you mean, Holly approached him?” Holt asks me, but he watches Logan. “What the hell did a teenage girl have to say to you?”
Logan’s jaw tenses.
Another knock sounds.
Tossing his napkin to the table, he eases out of his seat and walks toward the door.
“Emery?” A tinge of hysteria laces Annie’s voice.
“There’s no need to worry. Logan did nothing wrong.” I force a smile for a woman who has earned every right to panic when the police show up at her door regarding her son. “They’re doing their job.” And I’m going to make sure Terry does it right. I leave the table, slipping on my shoes and jacket on my way after Logan.