Free Shadows on the Sand by Gayle Roper Page A

that? “I’m okay.”
    The man nodded. “Looks painful.”
    “Who are you?” Josh demanded.
    “Mac88. Who are you?”
    Josh turned on Greg. “What kind of an idiot name is Mac88?”
    Greg mentally rolled his eyes.
    “Hey, buddy, watch your mouth.” Mac88 scowled at Josh.
    “He’s a tweeter,” Greg explained. “Mac88 is his Twitter name.” Did that mean there were eighty-seven other Macs on Twitter or that he was born in 1988? Or on the eighth day of August, the eighth month?
    “Facebook too,” Mac88 said.
    Josh studied the lanky guy with the BlackBerry and sniffed. “I was right. He’s a twit.” And he turned his back.
    Greg bit back a smile at Mac88’s outraged expression.
    Josh resumed his rant. “You were in charge of this eviction; therefore, this is your fault, Barnes. I expect you to take care of all this mess. Get estimates on repairs, select the cheapest, and get this fixed by tomorrow.”
    “It may take a bit longer, what with insurance and all.” To say nothing of contractors with previous commitments.
    “Tomorrow!” Josh puffed out his chest, the very picture of self-importance. “The sale is finalized tomorrow, as you well know.” Josh was selling every property he owned, and he’d transferred the responsibility for the negotiations with the representative of a consortium of buyers to Greg. All Josh planned to do was show up tomorrow to sign on the dotted line—or lines, as the case may be—and collect his money.
    Which explained the new Escalade. How like Josh, buying the pricey car before he had a check in hand. It seemed he’d never heard the one about “many a slip twixt cup and lip.”
    “Fred will be in town early tomorrow,” Josh said as if he, not Greg, had been the one to work with Fred through the purchase process. “He’ll give you a call. Just make sure he shows at one for the meeting with my lawyers. I’ve got to go.”
    And he climbed into his Escalade and went.
    Greg breathed a sigh as the black car disappeared down the street. Josh always got on his nerves, had from the first time they met.
    “He’s a real winner.” Mac88’s voice dripped with dislike. “I’m going to Carrie’s Café to see what’s happening there.”
    Greg had never heard a more appealing plan.

9

    I t was midafternoon, and I was waving a relieved good-bye to the last of the tweeters, ready to flip the lock, when Greg pulled up to the curb. I pushed open the door and waited for him on the sidewalk.
    “Hey, look,” one of the tweeters exclaimed. “It’s the guy the Hummer guy tried to run down.”
    Greg looked pained as all eyes fixed on him. “How do they know that?” he asked me.
    I shrugged. “I’d guess one of the tweeters at the Sand and Sea posted a picture of you.”
    “He’s also the one whose family got blown up,” another called. “Check this link.”
    Greg looked as if he’d been slapped.
    “Quick!” I grabbed his arm as their heads bowed and they watched something about the event of three years ago, probably footage on YouTube. I pulled Greg inside and turned the door’s lock.
    They looked up, eyes bright with curiosity. Intent on coming back in the café and getting up close and personal with the object of their nosiness, they moved as one, like kernels of caramel corn stuck in a clump.
    “I’ll take another Coke,” one called as he pulled on the door, remembering my admonition about having to buy something to be admitted.
    “Yeah, me too,” several said, expressions becoming those of desperate people dying of dehydration after enduring days under the blazing Saharan sun.
    “And I’ll tell everyone what a wonderful place this is,” another called, holding up his iPad.
    “Don’t let them in!” Lindsay called from the pass-through. As if I would. “There’s nothing left to feed them. They’re worse than a horde of locusts!”
    “Sorry,” I called through the door, giving the tweeters the evil eye. “We close at two and it’s now