The Strays ⎈John B Routledge⎈

The Stray

With two-fifths of the Pogue family gone, the other three did what they did best.

Acted casual in the face of adversity.

While Peterkin stared at the three, John B walked to the kitchen to grab the water jug while CJ flopped back on the pull-out. Her brother sat next to her, stretching out his tense limbs. After a week, their bruises had faded, reducing the pain to much more manageable levels but still painful nonetheless. Peterkin tried not to pay too much attention to the gnarly yellowish-green dotting their skin, knowing it would only make her feel worse for the teenagers she needed to only view as delinquents.

"So...I heard the house got ransacked." She started, noticing the automatic curiosity that came from each of the Pogues though they tried to hide it. "Looks pretty good, considering."

"Thanks. We're good at cleaning up after ourselves." CJ said bitterly, a smart ass smile on her face. Peterkin nodded, looking to the floor for a moment with an amused turn of her lips.

"We'll agree to disagree." She said, thinking back on all the times she'd been left to clean up their messes. What she didn't truly realize was that no matter how many messes she cleaned up or left undiscovered, there were twice as many that the Pogues dealt with themselves. "Found out who did it. Some of Big John's things were in their truck. Thought you'd like to know."

With a newfound energy, CJ surged up from the bed, staring intently at the officer. If the police didn't have them in custody, whoever it was would have hell to pay. "Who?"

"Out of towners. Two of 'em." Peterkin explained, carefully watching the young girl's expression. She had, of course, been the one asking around about the men. "They're dead."

Any suspicious she had of the teenager fell to nothing when CJ's eyes widened in horror and confusion. What did Peterkin mean, they were dead? What the hell were they even here for in the first place? Were they dead because of what they took? And finally, why did people keep dying in the OBX? This would now be three since Agatha hit, which was unusually high for the area.

"They were murdered." Peterkin continued, only making CJ's eyebrows furrow until they were practically one with her eyes. "Wasn't sure if you three would know anything, but by the looks of it, you're all shell-shocked."

She was right. Behind her, John B had stopped in his pursuit of the living room, water jug halfway to his mouth. JJ was trying to act cool but was kind of disgusted by the correlation between their home and two dead guys. Part of him thought they deserved it for what they did, though. He was also glad that someone got to them before his sister because that would either end with her in a hospital or in a jail cell.

"Had to keep some of the things for evidence, but everything else is in John B's bedroom." Behind him, she could hear the boy scurry through the room, shoes scuffing on the hardwood floor as he set down the water jug. "Maybe try staying away from trouble for a while. I've seen your faces too many times this month for my liking."

CJ didn't even have the heart to scoff as the older woman left. She just sat on the pull-out, wondering what the hell was going on. Why on earth would murders be in any way connected to Big John Routledge? With a sigh, her warm water-induced good mood plummeted and her head fell into her hands, finger brushing through her hair. Flopping back on the bed once again, she brought the Juul to her mouth, just hoping the next day would come quickly.

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The waves felt incredible lapping against CJ's knees. Legs stuck in the water, ass on her surfboard, she and John B simply sat and allowed themselves to enjoy the warm sun against their skin.