July 8, Monday
WHAT WAS good for the goose was good for the gander, I decided. Into the search engine I typed "Sawyer King Irving Alabama" and hit enter.
Several pictures popped up, all candids taken by someone else. In some, he was identified as Captain Sawyer King in dress blues performing in the color guard or in fatigues assisting after regional disasters. In others he was photographed or filmed in civilian clothes preserving or restoring historical headstones, especially for graves of veterans, as far back as the Revolutionary War. Twice he was attributed as being a sculptor. I dug deeper and found an Instagram post of someone who'd purchased one of his pieces, a hawk on a tree branch made from white marble.
I frowned. The man was legit.
My phone buzzed and I glanced down to see another text from my friend Frida.
If you don't call me this minute I'm contacting the FBI.
I sighed and reluctantly hit the call button. She answered before it could ring.
"Are you dead?" she demanded. "Because it's impossible that you've been there a week and haven't returned my calls. You'd better be dead."
"I'm not dead," I confirmed. "I texted you when I arrived."
"And for all I know, some redneck axe murderer could've taken you out the minute you hit send."
I smiled. "No axe murderers here. Just regular people. And chickens."
"You're taking care of chickens?"
"Well, so far they kind of take care of themselves, but I collect the eggs."
"Seriously? To do what with them?"
I laughed. "Eat them."
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"Frida, where do you think eggs come from?"
"The supermarket."
"Well, that's half right."
"What's the house like?"
I glanced around the bedroom I'd adopted as my own. "It's big—huge, in fact. And old. But I'm pretty much only living in the kitchen and one of the bedrooms. All the furniture is covered with sheets and for now I'm going to leave it that way."
"Sounds spooky."
"It is… a little."
"Are you scared?"
"I was the first few nights, but now I'm getting used to the quiet." I hesitated. "The house came with a graveyard."
"It sounded like you said ‘graveyard.'"
"I did. There's a private graveyard on the property. I have to unlock the gate every morning and lock it back in the evening."
"That's insane!"
"I'm getting used to it."
"Have you met any of the locals?"
"Um, not really. I had to buy a few supplies." I pressed my lips together. "And there's a guy who repairs headstones in the graveyard."
"Wait—that's a thing?"
"Apparently it's a hobby of his."
"Oh, so you've had some conversations with this guy?"
I picked up on the interest in her voice.
"Only because he saved me from a chicken. And because he's in the graveyard all the time." I made a face because I realized how next-level crazy that sounded, borne out by the stretch of silence on the other end.
"Do I need to send a rescue team?" Frida asked. "Cough if you're being held against your will."
I laughed. "I'm fine, really. How are things on that end?"
"I'm loving your apartment. And your bed linens—girl, what kind of thread count are those sheets?"
"Fifteen hundred," I said longingly. I did miss those sheets. "Any mail?"
"A couple of things," she said vaguely. "Bills, mostly."
I winced.
"And a couple of things with Curtis's name on them. Should I toss them?"
"Better not," I said miserably, "in case it's something I'm responsible for."
"Okay, but I don't like it." She sighed. "And you got a postcard from your mother."
My pulse blipped. "From where?"
"Greece, I think."
I exhaled. My mother, the famous British literary novelist, Vanessa Vanguard, was on an around the world tour with her new husband. I was hopeful she didn't know and wouldn't ever know about my scandal. She already thought I was throwing my life away writing romance novels. She didn't need another reason to disapprove of me.
"Send it when you can," I said, then gave her the mailing address of the Whisper House.
"Meanwhile, answer your damn phone," she admonished.
"I will," I said. But when I ended the call, I turned off the ringer.