American Lease (A Dylan Cold Novel Book 1) by K. D. McAdams Page A

me then if I had?” He knew the true answer.
    “No. It’s just—” Eliza looked off to the street.
    Dylan followed her gaze and watched a police car roll past. They hadn’t indicted him for murdering the cop, though it was lack of evidence that freed him. It was possible that they were still suspicious of him and they were around to catch Dylan if he slipped up.
    “I can understand you wanting me gone. All I’m asking for is a few days. Please? I promise you, nothing will happen. I would never do anything to put Ryan or you in jeopardy.” He could sense her getting ready to cave.
    “I don’t know,” Eliza said. She looked back at the house and froze.
    Dylan turned to look with her. In the window was Ryan, holding a football. His head was leaned up against the glass and moisture on his cheeks glistened in the sun.
    “You have until Saturday,” Eliza said suddenly. “If there is even a hint of trouble, you’re gone immediately and I’m calling the cops. Do you understand?” There was a tremor in her voice.
    “Thank you,” Dylan choked out as tears welled in his eyes.
    Eliza turned and began walking back toward the house. Before she got too far, Dylan thought of something from earlier in the day. “Eliza, you’ve lived in town for awhile right?” he asked to her back.
    “Twenty-five years,” she answered, turning to face him.
    “Have you ever heard about a lease or something buried in Monson?” Dylan asked.
    “Is that why you’ve been walking in there everyday? Looking for a buried treasure?” Eliza laughed.
    “No. Someone at the police station asked me about it today and I thought it was a trick to confuse me. The guy who kidnapped me had what looked like a map and some other weird documents in the car. Would the paperwork for some old town charter be worth killing for?” Dylan didn’t think that the lease was real or worth pursuing even if it was, but he liked it here and didn’t want to have to leave.
    “Well, between you and me, the buried treasure idea was the brain child of a local marketing executive. In the late nineties, a developer wanted to build a few homes on the land and it would have interfered with this guy’s views and given him the worst thing you can have in New Hampshire.” She let her eyes drift back to history.
    “What is the worst thing you can have in New Hampshire?” Dylan asked curiously.
    “Neighbors you can see,” Eliza said. She filled out the story: “But anyway, he came up with this story about buried treasure and important colonial documents hidden somewhere in the boundary of the old town. He spun a good yarn and the locals who wanted to believe it never searched for much proof. The development was blocked and the town bought the land for short money and put it into conservation.”
    “That makes more sense than a mysterious lease. Thanks.” Dylan let her leave and shuffled to his door.
    He finished removing the yellow crime scene tape that had been across the door. Dylan feared that when he got the chance to really look, the inside would be in shambles. It was doubtful that the local and state police had been careful when going through searching for clues. Inside, he was surprised to see that stuff had clearly been moved but nothing was broken or even left in disarray.
    Montana nudged past him and through the door. Without waiting for instruction, the dog trotted over to the couch and hopped up. He curled himself into a ball and lay down with his head on the arm.
    Dylan closed the door behind him and barely made it to his bed before collapsing. Sleep came almost instantly.

Chapter 12
     
    Hunger woke him some time around mid-day. Montana was whining by his bowl and Dylan’s stomach rumbled. After all the time asleep, they both needed food.
    Pouring some kibble into the dog’s bowl, Dylan wondered about the last time Montana had eaten.
    A flash of light off the windshield of a car on the street got his attention. He looked out the window and saw it