A Big Mistake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

 

“And that is the end of the factory tour.” Mr. Whidbee turned with a fat smile while leading Howard Richard Deacon the Third back into the office areas. They had toured the entire factory where ‘Rick’ Deacon was to spend a complete month working different shifts, learning how his one of father’s businesses functioned from the ground up. It was supposed to be an educational experience.

Mr. Whidbee gestured for them to go up the stairs to the second floor where he had his office. Weary on his feet and rather annoyed that he had to start his summer after high school graduation in some fringe town in Alabama at one of his father’s factories, Rick trudged up the steps after the manager. It was training, his father had said. It was the ground up, his father had said. That was all well and good and everything—but Rick wanted a real vacation for once. Yet his father was always about preparing him for taking over Deacon Enterprises one day. Couldn’t he just be an eighteen year old kid for once?

But gazing back out at the workers who had watched him tour about the place—most of them bemused, amused, and downright appalled that the rich heir was going to spend the month alongside them and learn their jobs on their shifts—Rick knew that was not to be. They had every intention of putting him in his place as a know-nothing rich boy. He had overheard their gossip. They thought that he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and he would be a hindrance.

They were mistaken, though. He most definitely wouldn’t have touched a silver spoon, let alone put it in his mouth.

Leading him into the hallway, Mr. Whidbee, who reminded Rick a bit of Boss Hog from Dukes of Hazzard reruns crossed with Tweedle-Dee on his spindly legs and with his height. Rick could not understand how a man could be so fat in his face and belly, and yet have such thin long legs. He thought it rude to ask the man if he had cancer or some kind of leg defect, so he didn’t try. The fact that the manager had managed to walk as fast as he did through the factory made Rick think it was just glandular—or he wasn’t fat at all, but was wearing some kind of thick Kevlar vest under his shirt… full of paranoia that his employees would attack him. Mr. Whidbee had a red face and a wide mouth, as well as condescending eyes. And during his tour, he spoke like he was teaching a 101 class in basic woodworking. He kept warning Rick not to touch certain things, as “…that is very dangerous, and you could get hurt.” As if he were a three-year-old. Rick had taken a count of how many times the manager had told him that in one way or another. He had counted twenty-two so far.

Mr. Whidbee opened the office door and let Rick in. “Now, your suitcase has been taken to your lodging. You will be staying at the Culpepper’s house in Newsom Springs. I’ll introduce you to him once your shift starts.”

Rick nodded, looking around at the office. The room had strong odor of camphor and Bengay. The man had fish on the walls. Stuffed fish. And fishing lures and traps and all those kinds of pictures on the dark veneer wood trim. There was even one of him hold up a huge fish next to another fellow who had an even larger fish. In the photograph, Mr. Whidbee’s knees looked funny in those shorts. And his hat looked like it had been squashed on his head like a tea cozy.

“You can take a nap on the couch there and get a snack from the break room. You start your shift in a couple hours,” Mr. Whidbee said.

He stepped back to shut the door, but Rick spun around and followed after him. “Did you just say I am starting my shift in a couple hours?”

Mr. Whidbee nodded, a smug crook turned up one side of his smile. “Yes, I did. You start on the night shift.” And he stepped once more to go out.

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” Rick grabbed hold of the door, and pulled it back open. “I don’t think so. Dad made it clear I was starting on the day shift, then going to swing, then night.”

There was hardly a beat as if the manager had expected that response… Almost as if he was waiting for it, and enjoying it. Laughing, almost guffawing from his big chest, Mr. Whidbee shook his head. “Ah, no. He wanted you to start from the bottom and work your way up. That means night shift.”

This was bad.

Rick shook his head, breaking into a little sweat as his eyes raked over the clock. It said it was only four. But in a few hours it would be dark. “No. No. That is not what he meant. Day is paid the least. Night is paid the most. I am supposed to start in day shift.”

Laughing more purposefully, waggling his finger at Rick, Mr. Whidbee answered like he knew he would get a fight, “Nice try, boy. But are going to take the least-liked job first then work your way into day shift.”

“I can’t do night shift this week,” Rick protested, staring at him. “Dad didn’t intend for me to do night shift this week. I am sure of it.”

Mr. Whidbee shook his head. “You are mistaken. Now go get some rest.”

Rick adamantly shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. This week, I can’t do night shift. And I am positive that dad explicitly gave instruction that I start with day shift first.”

All humor in Mr. Whidbee’s countenance evaporated. Perhaps he didn’t expect the fight to last this long. His voice grew terse as he said, “Listen, son. Even though your father is CEO of this company, I run this factory. And he entrusted that I teach you the ropes of business, starting from the bottom up. And night shift is the bottom.”

Groaning, knowing this was not good, Rick clenched his teeth. “Be that as it may—”

“That is how it is.” Mr. Whidbee marched back into the room, eyes dark on him like a tiger. Rick stumble backward from him, nearly forced inside for that planned nap before a night shift. “You have to learn this lesson. There is no favoritism here.”

“Favoritism?” Rick protested. “I’m not talking about—”

“You will start the night shift tonight,” Mr. Whidbee didn’t quite tower over Rick, as he was a tall young man, but the manager was like a walking cudgel and looked likely to bash the strapping youth into the ground. “And there will be no crying or calling for ‘daddy’. You are going to be a man and do your job without complainin’.”

“Wha—?” Rick shook his head, clenching his teeth. It took all in himself not to lose his temper and spring on this man who was threatening him. His instinct would have made him do so, but the phrase ‘calling for daddy’ stuck in his head. He generally didn’t call for his father, but this was an emergency. He pulled out his cell phone and immediately pressed the speed dial.

Before it could even reach a dial tone, Mr. Whidbee yanked it out of his hands and tossed it into the hall where one of his assistants caught it with a smirk on his face. That man pressed END.

“HEY!” Rick went to retrieve his phone, realizing that assistant had been waiting there, probably for this moment. “Give that ba—”

Two other men entered the room—large ones who obviously ran the bigger machinery. Rick backed away from the giants, shuddering. His eyes flickered to the clock. He whipped around to Mr. Whidbee, trying to appeal to his reason. “You don’t understand, I have a physical condition. I can’t work night shift this week. Especially tonight. It would be bad.”

One of the workers cocked his head and stared at Rick, drawing in a deep breath. He quickly put a hand over his nose as the Bengay smell was really strong in the room.

“Ah, the widdle baby can’t handle it,” one of the workers said as Mr. Whidbee backed out of the room, waving smugly at him ‘good-bye’.

“Go take that nap, boy. You’re gonna need it, as you are gonna be working for eight hours startin’ at nine pm.” Mr. Whidbee then laughed and left the room.

Rick stared after him, then at his ‘jailers’. He was a prisoner

He had to get help. He had to call his father. He had to call Henry who had brought him there in the first place, especially if he couldn’t get his dad. Night shift that particular week was definitely not in the plans.

Rick looked around for an office phone, turning toward the desk. It was between the pencil cup and the computer.

The large workers’ eyes followed him.

“Oh no you don’t!” One of the workers jumped ahead and pulled out the cord. He snatched up the phone, handing it to his compatriot before Rick could get to it.

“This is kidnapping!” Rick shouted, grabbing at the phone, but not quite ready to take that man on in a fight. The man had to be bench pressing three hundred pounds on average. His hands were like hubcaps. One punch could probably smash his head in.

One shove pushed him back into the room.

Rick stumbled on his feet. “You are making a big mistake.” Rick was now panting now in desperation. He had to get out. There was no way he could do a night shift. Not that night. Not the next night, or the night after it either. It was the full moon for pity’s sake. He tried to break past them to the door, but they shoved him back inside once more. Both men left, locking the office.

Springing up, Rick groped over the door handle. There was a keyhole rather than the usual inside lock switch. He wondered if it had always been like that or if it had been changed especially for him. But that was paranoid, he told himself…. And yet it was too convenient for them.

What business did that manager have to change his father’s plans? How dare he assume he knew better than his father! It was his father’s company for pity’s sake. Didn’t he understand that his father had a reason for starting him on day shift first? Why had that manager assumed he knew better?

Rick’s eyes quickly turned to the door hinges. He had to break out. He had to. But staring at the hinge work, his shoulders slumped in dismay. On a regular door, normally he could pry out the pins and lift the door off. You couldn’t shut a door that wasn’t attached. Only this particular hinge did not seem to work that way. And though he had his pocketknife with which he could pry the pins off, he could not tell top from bottom, and after a little prying at them, he realized they required a specialized tool to remove them.

The Bengay odor in the room was also beginning to give him a headache. Perhaps there was an open bottle somewhere. Maybe Mr. Whidbee liked the smell.

Looking around the room again for another exit, he realized there was no other door out. But there were windows.

One wall was entirely glass covered in blinds. He could see the summer sky through the tint looking darker than it really was, almost HD like those sunglasses that reduced glare while improving the color. Rushing to them, Rick peered out the glass, searching for catches and handles and possibly sliding mechanisms. The first thing he noticed was that they were wire reinforced. The second was that the windows were not the sliding kind, but set in place with a narrower awning windows up top. He cranked one open. The awing window was narrow enough that if he sucked in his breath he could probably slip out. Unfortunately, they were on the second floor. And he would have to hop onto the sill and climb out head first. Falling out that way, he probably crack his skull open.

Rick looked down below at the outside to see what he would land on. Just beneath the window was a small three-foot wide plant bed filled with flowering shrubbery. After that was sidewalk then parking lot asphalt. The shrubbery would soften the fall, but one drop to concrete as a grown man would definitely break something in him. Was it worth it? Could he limp away?

But what if he didn’t go out as a grown man?

Looking back toward the locked office door, Rick cringed. One thing was for certain. He had to get out. That stupid manager was not going to listen. And he could not explain the truth. The man would think he was a lunatic—or worse. Fact was, he had to get out before the full moon rose in the night sky. If he didn’t, the results could be disastrous—for everyone involved.

Kicking off his shoes and tossing socks (as they would be of no use where he was going), rolling up his pant cuffs and shirt sleeves, Rick shoved the desk to the window and stacked up the chair on top of it to make a stairway. Then, in one furry hop, Rick climbed up and slipped through the gap in the window. Leaping down into the bushes while his claws scraped the brick to slow him down, he tumbled through the shrubbery, avoiding the concrete. Stuck with leaves and sticks, he scrambled and out and ran on all four paws across the parking lot then out to the countryside before anyone could see that he was a wolf.

 

 

Survival

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

Dayshift was over. Workers at the Alabama Deacon Enterprises factory clocked out as others clocked in, chatting over the events of that afternoon. Already rumor had spread about the tantrum from the heir to the Deacon Empire, as they liked to call it. The little prince had been strutting around the factory like a pompous little…

No, that was not true, others bickered. The heir was looking tired and a little agitated like a teen age boy who didn’t want to work in a factory during summer break.

But the counter group protested that he was a petulant little boy with an attitude who threw a fit over working night shift. He deserved a swift kick in the pants.

They all loaded into their cars and drove away to their respective towns. Day shift was over.

Rick overheard it all, hiding in the shrubbery not far from the lot. But what could he do? He was a werewolf. And he was rich. He could not tell the truth about the first detail to anyone, and people hated him for the last one… mostly because they envied what he had. He couldn’t blame them exactly. But he thought it was extremely ignorant of people to assume things about others without knowing their circumstances. His grandfather had built up their fortune for the protection of his own life, and for the protection of his posterity. But the greed of the envious was sometimes difficult to endure. Besides, his family was giving back the community the best they could. They provided jobs and they paid well with benefits.

Trotting away from the factory on four paws, Rick-the-wolf went over what he had to do for the next three days. For the three nights of the full moon, he had to hunt. It was imperative that a werewolf make a kill on each night of the full moon. And therefore, it was imperative that he get as far away from human civilization as possible—because hunting humans was out of the question.

When he had arrived at the area for this business training, Henry (their family’s current and deeply loyal steward) informed Rick that this part of Alabama was sparsely populated and had plenty of wild lands he could roam in during the full moon. He even showed him a place not far from his lodgings on the map where he could go. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there now. So he had to find a suitable replacement.

Following his instincts, Rick-the-wolf eventually found himself in tall grass as he went further and further away from the factory. His ears open, his nose to the air and ground, he searched for that night’s dinner, hoping not to run across people as that would be disastrous. Because when he hunted, he had to let his instincts take over and let go of his human side, and he was afraid of what he might do if he encountered a human while he was ravenously hungry.

Very small and extremely quick game was all around him. Most were in their burrows, dodging him faster than he could track them. What he needed was a rabbit. He just hoped he didn’t run into a skunk. Not that he would eat one, he just didn’t want to get sprayed by one. It had happened once before on a wildlife reserve, and bathing in tomato juice to get rid of the smell afterward wasn’t the best experience.

It started to get dark. His paws had trod in a westerly direction, still in search of a kill, and as the full moon rose higher in the twilight sky, he was getting hungrier.

Then he smelled it. Not a skunk, thank heaven, but a jackrabbit. Perfect. Hares were good eating, though fast. And though they did not dig holes or gather in groups (making them much more difficult to catch), he actually preferred them to regular rabbits. Less fatty. It was also more satisfying to hunt an animal that was able to fight hard for its own survival.

And the jackrabbit smelled him.

It darted into some dense shrubbery.

Rick-the-wolf went after it.

The chase went all over through the grasses, thorns, and plants. Rick was on its heels a number of times. He almost had a bite twice. And though winded, he was starving and would not give up. He was going to have that hare no matter what.

That’s when he heard the wolf cry.

It was distant, to the south. And though normally such a cry urged him to respond, his desire to beat the competition to his dinner was stronger. He ran down that jackrabbit, biting hard around its neck to kill it in one bite.

Actually two. The hare struggled to break free in the first bite, though wounded. And pitying it, as it was dinner, Rick-the-wolf put it quickly out of its misery.

The wolf cries came again, a little closer.

Grabbing his rabbit in his teeth and carrying it off, Rick-the-wolf ran from where the wolves were coming. He could smell them. There was more than one. And he didn’t want to share.

Besides, he had the feeling that he was hunting in their territory.

Wolves were definitely territorial—though Rick was certain he had read the native red wolves of Alabama had gone extinct in the 1930’s. Or maybe it was the 1920’s. He couldn’t remember. Yet somehow, here were wolves. A pack of them. And they were coming closer.

They had to have smelled him. The air was muggy and hot. It was full of odors, including their wolf scent which marked the trees and rocks. He was the intruder.

Avoiding being hunted was not a new thing for Rick Deacon, but usually he avoided human hunters and not other predators. Nearly every full moon a hunter from the Supernatural Regulator’s Association searched him out—often failing to find him, though frequently they had the luck and preparation to be ahead of him and cause him a great deal of grief. Most of his scrapes with the SRA usually left him with scars. He had two bullet wounds from two separate encounters, besides other scratches and nicks from other hunts. War wounds, Henry once joked. Rick didn’t think it was funny. He had too many scars—the worst actually from an encounter with a demon who was hunting a friend of his back in New York. He didn’t like hunts.

From the wolf cries, he could tell they were getting nearer. Wolves didn’t have language, not in the human sense at least. Their howls and noises were pure expressions of emotion. And they drew out an emotional response in him. Currently, it was a ripple of fear. There were many of them.

Luckily, he knew how to throw off a wolf scent, being a wolf himself. The first rule was to find a batch of smelly plants with oily saps and to roll in it. It would ruin his sense of smell as well, but it was a risk he had to take. He wasn’t tracking them so he didn’t need it so much. The second would have been to find a skunk and get sprayed—which he didn’t recommend, no matter how effective it was. The third forced him to take a dive in a river and swim down it to a safe place to get out. He had seen a creek not far away when he had chased the hare, which would do. Carrying his dinner quickly to the small river, going through what smelly plants he could, he set the dead jackrabbit down and stripped off his pants and shirt, dropping them on the shore. Taking up his dinner again, he dived into the water and dog paddled down with current. It eventually dragged him into a pond where the water swelled and let out on the other side over smooth rocks. From there, Rick-the-wolf climbed out near the outlet on the shore and devoured his sopping bloody hare.

In the distance, he could hear the wolves cry. It sent shivers down his spine, and it took everything within him not to respond with a cry of his own. It was not how he liked to spend his evenings, gnawing through wet raw meat and bones. But as he finished off the animal until his stomach was satisfied (as well as part of the curse of being a werewolf was satisfied), he was able to regain a sense of humanity again—that sense of self-control that animals only gained after human training. He pulled back into human shape for a bit, breathing hard. With revulsion, he stepped away from the remains of the poor animal he had devoured. The blood was on his face and hands. The fur was everywhere, including still in parts of his mouth. The wolf in him had enjoyed it. But the human in him would have much preferred his meat cooked with a little sauce. And as he thought this, he thought he smelled barbecue.

Sniffing the air, Rick lifted his head. The odor smelled like molasses, worchestershire sauce, mustard, pepper, paprika… no garlic, though. Most barbecue sauces had garlic and honey in them. They usually made him sneeze. In the distance he could see the light of a bonfire. It was bright against the trees. He could smell the smoke and the odor of roasting… It wasn’t beef. It didn’t smell like chicken either. He knew that smell intimately. Could it be deer? He had never tasted deer before.

The sound of wolves struck his ears. Howls, yips, the rush of feet, breathing. He could hear them coming. Looking around, he realized he might not be able to outrun them. His eyes quickly set on the pond. Though it was dark, Rick had no choice.

Diving into the water, he held his breath.

The current pushed him toward the outlet of the pond. Diving down deeper, Rick swam to the inlet then grabbed the first thing he could find to anchor him. He got hold of a tree root which probably was connected to the enormous tree near the edge of the pond. And he hung on.

After a while, he floated to the top for a peek, struggling for a quiet exhale and another inhale.

In the moonlight, concealed in the shadow of the big tree, Rick could see the wolves prowling on the shore. They did not see him. He was in the shadow of the tree above. Gray wolves, some of them. But there were also black wolves and lighter haired ones, which was peculiar. It wasn’t the usual for wolf packs to be mixed like that. Extremely rare, actually. In nature, packs were mostly homogenous—it wasn’t like people living together in New York after all. Wolves did not have affirmative action to guarantee ‘diversity’. It made him wonder if they had all escaped from a zoo—especially since wolves were definitely reported extinct in that area. And none of these looked like Alabama red wolves.

The wolf pack tracked around the shore, not smelling him, not seeing him despite their night vision. Their eyes were on the grasses and land about the pond besides, not on the shadows in the water. A cluster had jogged to the remains of his dinner. They snuffled at it, shook their snouts then continued on in their search at a run.

Breathing silently, Rick watched them all rush off with almost hound-like baying until they left. Quickly, he swam back up river, climbing onto the shore in hopes to fetch his clothes. 

It was quite late, taking forever to find where he had left his heavy things. The stars were all out in a nearly cloudless sky. The moon continued to move across the sky like a staring face which Rick honestly hated. It was like a mocking face, laughing at him for having to be a wolf for three days each month. But the path along the river was so unfamiliar. He couldn’t find his pants at all. Not even shirt which would have reflected against the moonlight. They weren’t anywhere. But as he looked further, sniffing around for the smell of his leather wallet, he heard the wolves cry again. They were coming up river toward him.

Dropping back into the water, Rick scrambled through the water over to the other side to search for pungent smelling plants. He had to lose them or he was never going to sleep that night. And he was so tired.

Hurrying back onto four paws on the other side, Rick dashed into the damp grasses of chicory and the ever useful aniseed which gave him a black licorice smell. And he did not stop running until he found a safe place to rest his wolf head.

Morning

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

Itchy. Tired. Bitten by ants. Rick sat up and rubbed his awry head of hair, groaning. Though he usually enjoyed camping, he generally required a sleeping bag—and clothes. He had to sleep in his fur most of the night for warmth. But when it got too hot, he naturally became human again. Unfortunately, that also made it so the insects could get to his skin easier.

He looked down at himself. Blood was still on his front, despite his swim in the river right after his ‘meal’. And his skin was covered in dirt along with little raised bumps from insect bites. With a heave out of the grass, tromping barefoot back to the creek in nothing but his boxer shorts, Rick dunked himself in it and swam to the other side. He rubbed off his face and hands, scrubbing the blood that had dried in his skin so that there was no evidence that he had eaten an animal with his bare wolf teeth and claws the night before. Besides, if he were going to find people for help, it wouldn’t do for him to walk around with a bloody chin or chest.

That accomplished, he once went in search for his pants and shirt. Now that it was day, finding them ought to be a cinch. Most importantly, he wanted to find his wallet. During the entire mess the night before, he had forgotten that his wallet had been in his pants pocket. In fact, he was chastening himself for going hunting in his clothes. It was stupid, really. Normally he stripped down to his boxers which were the shade of his fur, since he didn’t enjoy running around naked and he needed a pocket for his cell phone, just in case. But of course that boss guy had stolen his phone. And he had been frazzled at the time just trying to get in the hunt to strip and leave his clothes in a safe place. But now, walking along the shore in nothing but his boxers, there was no sign of either pants or shirt. Not even an empty wallet, tossed aside, if it had been picked up by some passerby.

Pacing the shore again, going even down toward where he could see the pond and retracing his steps up again, there was no sign even that the wolves had got at them. If they had, wouldn’t there be shreds of them everywhere? Or at least somewhere? It made sense that there would be.

The mosquitoes buzzed around his face.

Rick waved them away, grumbling. This was not how he had wanted to start his summer training. With a frown, thinking over what his options were, Rick cringed. He looked around. His eyes lifted further as he worried over what he ought to do.

And then he saw it. In the distance.

Not his wallet, but buildings.

Houses.

He was near a town.

Shuddering, a horrid sinking sensation settled in his gut. He had been hunting that close to a town? His mind went to the bonfire and the smell of roasting meat. It had been a barbecue. With people. He could have bitten someone. Or killed someone’s dog. Or pet chicken. Or… who knows really? A bad something could have happened.

But now that he stared at the buildings, it being daylight and he having nothing but his boxer shorts on, an idea occurred to him. He wondered if quite possibly somebody there could help him out. He could get to a phone and call Henry. And Henry could pick him up and take him home, or at least to a hotel. Or better, take him to that Culpepper place where he could get a change of clothes and quite possibly fix that stupid fiasco at the factory.

Relief swelled over him.

Deciding on it, Rick waded barefoot through the grasses to the nearest house which was a stark white two-story thing. It was painful going barefoot over this ground, with stick and rocks and prickly bits poking the soles of his feet—but he didn’t dare go on calloused paw. He had to resist taking the shape of a wolf no matter how convenient it was, as he didn’t want to frighten any of the residents.

As he got closer to the house, passing trees and wild shrubbery, a peculiar feeling crawled over him as the view before him became less distant and he could see detail. The white house he saw was in ill repair, paneling falling apart. Peeling bleached paint, eaves and wood fencing half fallen over and some rotten. And an almost sagging roof. So were all the nearby homes. A rusty heap of a car was buried nearly in the grasses with no tires. The place had an eerie, ghost town feel to it. For a moment he thought it was one of those abandoned towns and that he had imagined the bonfire the night before—until he noticed a woman in her thirties with frizzy, pulled-back hair, rising out from a well-tended garden behind the house (masked by the tall waved of grasses) where she was picking tomatoes from off a plant and tucking them into her apron. He watched her carefully as he approached a little slower, eyeing her sun-bleached calico shirt and denim skirt. It looked like she had not gotten any new clothes for three decades. Nearby with her was a towheaded child in a large stained cartoony tee shirt, with no pants on, whining over something and tugging on her skirt hem. A little girl trotted out of the house with a basket in hand, a little newer clothes on but not in the current fashion, going down the porch steps announcing that she wanted to get strawberries for their breakfast. But then the girl’s eyes latched on Rick.

The woman nodded, yet immediately turned, following her daughter’s gaze. Staring at Rick who had halted, the woman drew in a breath.

Rick raised a hand, ducking his head between his shoulders as he called, “Sorry for trespassing. But… I got a little lost and I need some help.” Trying to be as friendly as possible.

He tried to approach slowly, hoping he didn’t look like a crazy person, half-naked and wet from his dip in the creek. He also hoped all the blood from the night before was entirely off. The creek wasn’t exactly the best mirror.

“I just need to use the telephone. I’ve lost mine,” he said, showing he was unarmed.

Leaning back, examining him carefully the woman replied, “You seem to have lost more than a telephone.”

Laughing, Rick nodded, looking down himself. “Actually… I lost my shirt, pants, and my wallet. I took a brief dip in the river there and I somehow misplaced them. I’d love help finding them, if possible.”

But her eyes took him in carefully. She gestured back to the house. “We have a telephone inside. And I can give you something to wear in the meantime.”

“Mother!” the young girl protested, eyes wide on the woman and Rick both. “Are you so sure about that? What if Dad were to see a man like that in our house?”

Turning to her daughter, though with one eye still on Rick, the woman said, “We must all be

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 24.04.2018
ISBN: 978-3-7554-7901-7

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