Snow On The Beach // R.C.

1.04

"Excuse me? Can I help you?" I call as I pull up to my house. A large, lifted black truck takes up the majority of the driveway, and two men are busy loading box after box into it.

Parking Sarah's bike (the one I had to borrow since Rafe deflated the tires on mine) by the chicken coop, I carefully remove the tin of cupcakes from the wicker basket and balance it in my hands.

"You, uh, you know John Routledge?" One of the men asks as I approach them, wind blowing through the yellow skirt of my sundress.

Taking in his scruffy beard and thick brown hair, I then eye the overflowing box in his hands. "Yes... I'm his sister."

The men glance at each other before the shorter, bearded one loads the box in the truck. Only then do I notice the labeling on the side. Royal Merchant Manifests/Cargo Logs. It's from my father's office.

"I'm sorry—But I'm going to ask one more time: Can I help you?" I say, my words colder than they were before. "Where is John? Is he here?"

"No," the taller one speaks. "When we talked last he told us he'd be out today and to help ourselves. We've been in contact about your late father's historical findings, and Routledge Jr. agreed to donate them to us."

My brother sure as hell doesn't talk like that. And he certainly would never let anyone help themselves so freely to Dad's research. Not to mention that we keep his office locked, neither of us having braved our way in since his passing.

"Who is 'us'?" I lift a brow. If it weren't for the cupcakes, I would cross my arms over my chest.

The tall one looks to the short one. I don't miss the silent discussion they share with their eyes. "The archives at University of Charleston. We are working on a collection of maritime themed pieces of history. We plan to open an exhibit soon— Next summer, actually."

Something is off. Very off. I almost remark on it, calling them on their bullshit, but when the shorter one turns to round the truck, I notice a lump at his back, hidden beneath his shirt. Then I feel the eyes of the taller man on me, noticing what I just noticed.

He knows, that I know, that they have a gun.

"Oh, that's right! Yes, I totally forgot. My brother told me you would be stopping by. Here," I say a little too brightly, jumping into action. "Take these for the road. They're hibiscus flavored."

Walking forward, my feet feeling like lead, I remove the lid from the tin, praying they can't see how badly my hands are shaking. Reaching the truck, I extend it, breathing rapidly as I wait for the taller guy to take some. He looks into the tin, looks at me, looks back at the cupcakes. The other one peers over from the passenger seat.

"Grab me that one on the left," he says.

My shoulders sag with relief. As the taller man grabs two cupcakes, I keep eye contact with the other, who bares his teeth at me in a poor excuse for a smile. Backing up, I watch the tall one hand the desserts off to his friend before he gets into the vehicle. He shuts the door a little too loudly.

"Have a safe drive!" I say, waving and smiling as they back out and disappear down the road. Through my teeth, curse after curse bubbles out of me. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, HOLY SHIT!"

"'Holy shit' is right!"

I scream, cupcakes flying out of my hands as I whirl around.

"Noooo!" JJ cries, dramatically flinging himself into the ground in an attempt to catch them.

"In what world would you have caught those?" Pope deadpans, shaking his head.

"I don't know, man," JJ says, still on his stomach in the dirt, hand outstretched towards the smooshed cupcakes. "Like a movie, or something. You know those dramatic, slow motion scenes with the music and shit?"