when I heard footsteps descending the creaky staircase.
“Avery, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Fran looked fresh, as though she’d managed to sleep. She saw the paper in my hand, and her mouth tightened. “Is there any mention?”
“Just a small piece about finding her.”
She nodded, her face solemn. After a pause, she held out her hand. I turned the paper so she could see the article, discreet and innocuous at the bottom of the page. She seemed relieved.
“What’s this?” She pointed to another small article in the space above the two paragraphs about Neanna. Before I could read the headline, one of the B and B’s owners greeted us with a cheerful, “Good morning. Two for breakfast?”
I followed Fran to our table, biting the inside of my lip to keep from laughing at the news article she’d pointed out:
ARE YOU HAUNTED?
A group of paranormal investigators from Charlotte, North Carolina, needs your help
.
Does your house exhibit signs of paranormal activity? Do you know places in Camden County where evidence of such activity may be investigated? The group will be conducting investigations in Dacus and Camden County in the coming weeks. Please contact Colin “Mumler” Gaines for information
.
The article included a phone number and an e-mail address.
Fran and I sat, listened to the instructions about breakfast, and ordered tea to drink—iced for me, hot for Fran.
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Fran said, indicating the article.
I didn’t want to laugh, out of respect for her and her grief, but the ghost-hunter plea struck me as ludicrously funny.
“I wouldn’t want to be answering Colin Gaines’s cell phone for the next several days,” I said. “This will draw out every nut in the tri-county area.” What kind of nickname was Mumler?
Fran nodded with a faint smile. I was glad to see her smile, though it did little to ease the tightness around her eyes. She headed toward the table filled with fresh fruit and berries while I went for the hot food.
I spooned buttered grits onto my plate and chuckled at the thought of what Mumler would find in his voice mailbox. The lady standing across from me shot a glance through her heavily mascaraed eyelashes as if she feared my lithium had worn off. Probably visiting from a big city, where crazy people were scary because she didn’t know them, and only crazy people chuckled to themselves. In bigger cities, maybe the nuts feel they have to straighten up and fit in because all they have is a first impression. In small towns, nuttiness can just hang out in plain view.
I ate my eggs Benedict and let Fran guide the conversation. She talked about the weather and how she hated driving in the traffic on I-85. Maybe she wanted to avoid eavesdroppers in the crowded dining room, or maybe she just needed to pretend life was normal for a while. I couldn’t imagine how much her heart must hurt.
All day yesterday and this morning—and likely in my dreams—Neanna had stayed at the edge of thought, coloring my mood with a sadness I couldn’t shake. I hadn’t known Neanna, but I kept trying to imagine what had been in her head. What drives someone to kill herself? How impotent and angry Fran must feel, thinking she could have done something. How would I feel if I lost my sister Lydia under any circumstances? Especially if I was left wondering what I should have done to stop it.
After we finished eating, I got another pot of tea, and we carried it to Fran’s room where we could talk in private.
Before I could sit the pot down, she said, “Avery, I’ve got to go back to Atlanta. To make arrangements.” She stopped, unsure of her voice.
I poured dark tea into a dainty rose-patterned china cup for her, to give her time.
“Avery, you’ll find out what happened to Neanna. She didn’t kill herself. I—know that. I know I keep repeating that, but I want you to believe it.”
With those last words, her reserve broke. She hid her face in her hands and
“Avery, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Fran looked fresh, as though she’d managed to sleep. She saw the paper in my hand, and her mouth tightened. “Is there any mention?”
“Just a small piece about finding her.”
She nodded, her face solemn. After a pause, she held out her hand. I turned the paper so she could see the article, discreet and innocuous at the bottom of the page. She seemed relieved.
“What’s this?” She pointed to another small article in the space above the two paragraphs about Neanna. Before I could read the headline, one of the B and B’s owners greeted us with a cheerful, “Good morning. Two for breakfast?”
I followed Fran to our table, biting the inside of my lip to keep from laughing at the news article she’d pointed out:
ARE YOU HAUNTED?
A group of paranormal investigators from Charlotte, North Carolina, needs your help
.
Does your house exhibit signs of paranormal activity? Do you know places in Camden County where evidence of such activity may be investigated? The group will be conducting investigations in Dacus and Camden County in the coming weeks. Please contact Colin “Mumler” Gaines for information
.
The article included a phone number and an e-mail address.
Fran and I sat, listened to the instructions about breakfast, and ordered tea to drink—iced for me, hot for Fran.
“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Fran said, indicating the article.
I didn’t want to laugh, out of respect for her and her grief, but the ghost-hunter plea struck me as ludicrously funny.
“I wouldn’t want to be answering Colin Gaines’s cell phone for the next several days,” I said. “This will draw out every nut in the tri-county area.” What kind of nickname was Mumler?
Fran nodded with a faint smile. I was glad to see her smile, though it did little to ease the tightness around her eyes. She headed toward the table filled with fresh fruit and berries while I went for the hot food.
I spooned buttered grits onto my plate and chuckled at the thought of what Mumler would find in his voice mailbox. The lady standing across from me shot a glance through her heavily mascaraed eyelashes as if she feared my lithium had worn off. Probably visiting from a big city, where crazy people were scary because she didn’t know them, and only crazy people chuckled to themselves. In bigger cities, maybe the nuts feel they have to straighten up and fit in because all they have is a first impression. In small towns, nuttiness can just hang out in plain view.
I ate my eggs Benedict and let Fran guide the conversation. She talked about the weather and how she hated driving in the traffic on I-85. Maybe she wanted to avoid eavesdroppers in the crowded dining room, or maybe she just needed to pretend life was normal for a while. I couldn’t imagine how much her heart must hurt.
All day yesterday and this morning—and likely in my dreams—Neanna had stayed at the edge of thought, coloring my mood with a sadness I couldn’t shake. I hadn’t known Neanna, but I kept trying to imagine what had been in her head. What drives someone to kill herself? How impotent and angry Fran must feel, thinking she could have done something. How would I feel if I lost my sister Lydia under any circumstances? Especially if I was left wondering what I should have done to stop it.
After we finished eating, I got another pot of tea, and we carried it to Fran’s room where we could talk in private.
Before I could sit the pot down, she said, “Avery, I’ve got to go back to Atlanta. To make arrangements.” She stopped, unsure of her voice.
I poured dark tea into a dainty rose-patterned china cup for her, to give her time.
“Avery, you’ll find out what happened to Neanna. She didn’t kill herself. I—know that. I know I keep repeating that, but I want you to believe it.”
With those last words, her reserve broke. She hid her face in her hands and
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