Dad Bods and Blizzards (Dad Bod Christmas #1)

10. Ten

Ten

Naomi

Griz’s confidence shifts into something raw and restless as he shows the message to the other two men. Is it a message from my father?

Tubs rushes out of the living room and returns with a blanket, wrapping it around me. It helps with the physical chill, but an emotional one takes its place.

“Make yourself at home, Little Lamb. We need to handle this urgent business matter.” Griz kisses my cheek.

“Is everything okay?” I clutch the blanket tighter.

“Nothing for you to worry about.” Griz’s voice is too emphatic. “Kitchen’s through there. We won’t be long.”

Woody’s kiss on my cheek is so fleeting, he almost misses as he hurries down the hallway.

Tubs lingers as Griz ducks into the same room as Woody. He stretches his neck side to side and exhales hard. “I’m sorry. We’ll clear this up and…” His eyes hold pain. “We’ll explain everything. Why this house is so sparse. Why—”

“Tubs,” Griz calls out, getting immediate compliance.

I bite my lip, then step to the hallway entry. Their urgent whispers remind me of Dad’s hushed conversations I wasn’t privy to.

But are their secrets like my father’s? Will they hurt me? Nothing makes sense. These men didn’t accept me as part of a business deal. They donated millions to charity to win me. They treated me with more care than anyone has in years, particularly more than emptying my bank account and locking me in a room.

Woody’s voice escalates. “She deserves—”

“Not yet.” Griz’s response is sharp but he pulls his voice down quickly. I think he says, “Not until we’re sure…” It fades out.

I fight the urge to run. I have to get to the bottom of the secrets that made my father desperate enough to sell his only daughter. My best chance could be in that room. And as long as I play the part of the innocent little lamb, the princess in need of rescuing… Huh, Woody hasn’t given me a nickname. Anyway, as long as they underestimate me, I have the advantage.

“We need more time.” Griz’s voice comes in spurts and he seems to be pissed off by someone on the phone.

He storms out of the room so quickly, I don’t have time to move. He stutter-steps. Regrouping, he says, “We have to go. It might be a few hours. You’re safe here.”

Tubs grabs the bump in the blanket where my hands hold it closed. “Please, stay here, Princess.” Then he bolts after Griz.

Woody fumbles with the door handle then pauses before passing me. “Whatever you know, or think you know about us… please trust us.”

And they’re gone. I’m alone. My car is still at the Aubergine Affair . What the hell was I thinking? The sound of their tires spinning on the dirt and gravel fades as they drive away. Moving to the window, I watch the taillights of their truck disappear around a bend in the driveway.

Wind whips the snow into a beautiful, sparkly scene that’s lost on me. The wind howls through the trees, making the cabin creak and groan. Cold air sneaks in the window frame. The draft cuts through my blanket. The glass panes rattle with each powerful gust.

Another oversized truck with a plow attached to the front sits in the driveway. I’m pretty sure it could push my Mazda right off the road and not even slow down. I’m sure it’s useful with their long driveway.

Then it hits me. I’m alone in their house. Not locked in a room, but still isolated. The next wave of the storm has left a fresh blanket of white on the road.

They said to make myself at home. I’ll do just that.

I spin around. The flames flicker tentatively in the fireplace in response to a downdraft, then settle into their warm glow.

Heading straight for the room they just met in, which happens to be the same room Griz took the files when we first arrived, I’m stymied by a locked door.

Taking a minute to explore the other rooms, I’m struck by the utter lack of personality, unless drab and boring fits. The absence of a history. It’s as if they only exist in the moment.

Their drawers and closets don’t even hold a single memory. If I trust my gut, these guys aren’t who they say they are. Does a childhood spent watching Scooby-Doo give me a skill set worthy of solving this mystery?

If only I’d chosen my Mystery Machine keychain today. Enough silliness.

Not wanting to waste time, I head back to the locked room and squat to inspect the lock. They clearly weren’t prepared for me. It’s a basic lock set that only requires a wire coat hanger poked into it to release the mechanism.

I’m guessing that the manufacturer’s privacy key is on top of the doorframe but I’m not tall enough to reach it.

Dropping my blanket, I head to the closest bedroom. I’m not surprised that the few coat hangers are wire. I straighten the hooked end on my way back to the lock, and in three seconds flat, I open the door.

The wooden walls, sans decorations, match the rest of the house. But it’s the wooden desk, complete with a computer and landline and a few neatly stacked files that surprise me. A short file cabinet sits at one end of the desk. Three laptops are charging on a side table.

This room has purpose.

The shades are drawn, unlike the rest of the house. They don’t want this room to be seen. They don’t want people snooping. And normally I wouldn’t, but I’m not sure who to trust, or why.

And suddenly I’ve channeled Velma from Scooby-Doo . Acting quickly, I grab the file that’s on top of the stack. Taking in the first page, I’m not sure what to think about the government letterhead.

Is it real?

Skimming what appears to be a report, I can’t make sense of the details. The dates and times don’t mean anything to me. What I’m guessing are codenames are also useless. But troubling.

I’m not reading the private ramblings of a mountain man. Even my untrained eye picks up on the secrecy of a government operation. And my father must be their target.

My hands shake as I flip through more pages. Surveillance notes. Coordinates. Maps. My throat tightens with each page.

Setting the first file down, I reach for the next one. This manila folder is thicker and heavier, loaded with secrets I’m not sure I want to know. But I’ve come this far.

The exterior of the file is blank except for a case number. I flip it open and freeze.

My house. An ickiness settles over me.

The wind slams against the cabin again. I jump, startled by the sound, and drop the file. I stop short of saying Velma’s “Jinkies!”

Papers scatter over the wood floor, coating it in white like the snowfall let itself in.

Pausing to gain my bearings, I determine that the continued sounds are ice pelting the windows.

I have no idea how I’ll get the papers back in order. I only know which one was on top. Gathering the sheets, I turn them all the same direction and note that there aren’t any page numbers before taking time to study the contents.

Another photo taken from a high angle puts my bedroom window dead center in the frame. The timestamp shows last week. Someone official was watching me? With a drone?

I blink tears back, but I’m too late. One of them slides down my cheek and lands on the page, smearing the handwritten word in the corner: Nightingale .

My codename? Or did a childhood full of cartoons fill my head with fantasy?

I’m numb as I flip through more photos. More angles of my house. Me walking to my car. Entering the diner. Hanging out with friends. A floor plan with exterior walls numbered to match the exterior photos.

The room spins. I grip the edge of the desk to steady myself.

Griz, Tubs, and Woody have been spying on me?

My stomach lurches. What have I gotten myself into?

I remember my vow to myself. Make the most of my circumstances. I peek inside the next file—it’s focused on my father. Another file is a man I’ve seen my father doing business with. Another file details various gun shipments with dates and times matched by codename to my father and the other man.

Clamping my eyes shut, I wish I could make it all go away. I want to backtrack twenty-four hours to my blissfully ignorant life of hiding money from my father so I can move out on my own.

But more than that, I want to understand.

Crack! A loud thud on the roof, followed by a sliding sound, forces me to open my eyes. I’m not safe here. I peek out the window to see a large branch has fallen. That’s my best-guess detective work since it isn’t covered in snow.

The thing about Scooby-Doo is that once the crew solves the mystery, it’s never as big of a problem as it seemed at first.

But this isn’t a children’s cartoon. And I don’t have a crew. Not yet anyway. I run to the living room, rifle through my bag, and grab my phone.

Is this the right time to call Lazovski? No, he might be a part of this. I text a friend, asking if I can stay with her for a few days.

Thankfully, she agrees right away.

I rush back to the office, take pictures of a few pages so she doesn’t think I’m making this up, then grab my purse and overnight bag. They’re all I have to my name.

My heart sinks at the thought of returning home, but I can’t live off of one change of clothes and no money—surely my dad’s drained my account again.

Ready to write my own history, I hurry to the kitchen where I saw another set of keys on the counter.

My heart twinges a tiny bit that they don’t even have a fun keychain—just a metal ring with two keys. One looks like it’s for the house and the other seems to be a car key. At least that’s easy.

Time for a crash course on driving a snowplow.