Not Quite Right (A Lowcountry Mystery) (Lowcountry Mysteries Book 6) by Lyla Payne Page B
Authors: Lyla Payne
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safe.”
He’s gone before I can respond at all, but thank you isn’t on the tip of my tongue. He owes me—for leaving me in the dark all of this time about both his existence and our family history, and a bunch of other stuff too twisted and hidden to name.
There will be time to focus on my own personal issues—and I have enough to keep a therapist busy for years—once these curses have been resolved. Until then, I need to keep my eyes open and my head down.
M y eyes are heavy after a late night reading through Charlotta Drayton’s journals in the kitchen with Amelia. We pored through them from the time we finished our dinner of frozen pizza—and wine, for me—until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. There’s plenty in the journals about Charlotta and James’s romance at the Hall, up until the day her brother found out she was pregnant with James’s child. Then nothing.
Charlotta either stopped writing down the details of her life or Jenna hadn’t brought all of the journals. We aren’t quite done, not with an in-depth read, so maybe we missed something. I’m going to read through them again today since it’s my day off. They’re calling to me now, waking me even though it’s too early after last night’s delayed bedtime.
Groaning a little, I stretch and open my eyes to the unwelcome sight of Henry Woodward’s ghost in the corner, sulking as usual, but I’m no longer sure whether his attitude has to do with his own inability to move on or his being unwillingly at my father’s beck and call.
Either way, my patience is running thin.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” I inform him, like the super mature person I am.
He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and guilt, the latter of which suggests he knows exactly what he’s done to earn this morning’s cold shoulder. His expression turns beseeching and he holds out his hands, as though to show me they’re clean of any fault.
I shake my head, rolling out of bed and shuddering when my feet hit the cold floor. I can’t stand sleeping in socks, and we’ve got to do something about the heating and insulation in this old house.
“Nope, sorry. If you can’t help tattling on me to Frank, you could have at least told me.” He points to his mouth, which we both know is useless between the two of us. My heart relents, but I smack it away. “Whatever. That’s a bullshit excuse. Every other ghost who’s come around has found a way to communicate. You’re just lazy.”
Based on the way he goes pale and turns away from me, that seems to insult him. He doesn’t leave, though, and there’s nothing I can do to force him. Instead of sticking around and letting him frustrate me, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and slip into a clean pair of yoga pants and a hoodie.
Amelia is downstairs, dozing in front of the TV as another Harry Potter marathon begins, even though it’s not even nine o’clock. Worry over her sleepwalking creeps in, but she’s assured me that not being able to sleep well during the last trimester is perfectly normal. It’s hard to know what an average pregnancy would be like, but I know she and Mel talk. It’s probably nothing.
She doesn’t wake as I tiptoe into the kitchen and put on some coffee, making as little noise as possible. Who knows how long she’s been down here trying to fall asleep. No one respects a good nap like I do.
My plan to let her rest is blown out of the water when the doorbell rings at half past the hour. I’m sitting at the kitchen table drinking my first cup of coffee and shivering while I read the news on my cousin’s laptop when it dings through the house, so loud it makes me drip hot liquid onto my lap.
Amelia stirs, her eyes confused and sleepy, when I pass her in the living room. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not clairvoyant.”
“Who knows with you,” she tosses back, snuggling further under the heavy blanket Gramps favored
He’s gone before I can respond at all, but thank you isn’t on the tip of my tongue. He owes me—for leaving me in the dark all of this time about both his existence and our family history, and a bunch of other stuff too twisted and hidden to name.
There will be time to focus on my own personal issues—and I have enough to keep a therapist busy for years—once these curses have been resolved. Until then, I need to keep my eyes open and my head down.
M y eyes are heavy after a late night reading through Charlotta Drayton’s journals in the kitchen with Amelia. We pored through them from the time we finished our dinner of frozen pizza—and wine, for me—until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore. There’s plenty in the journals about Charlotta and James’s romance at the Hall, up until the day her brother found out she was pregnant with James’s child. Then nothing.
Charlotta either stopped writing down the details of her life or Jenna hadn’t brought all of the journals. We aren’t quite done, not with an in-depth read, so maybe we missed something. I’m going to read through them again today since it’s my day off. They’re calling to me now, waking me even though it’s too early after last night’s delayed bedtime.
Groaning a little, I stretch and open my eyes to the unwelcome sight of Henry Woodward’s ghost in the corner, sulking as usual, but I’m no longer sure whether his attitude has to do with his own inability to move on or his being unwillingly at my father’s beck and call.
Either way, my patience is running thin.
“I’m not talking to you anymore,” I inform him, like the super mature person I am.
He looks at me with a mixture of surprise and guilt, the latter of which suggests he knows exactly what he’s done to earn this morning’s cold shoulder. His expression turns beseeching and he holds out his hands, as though to show me they’re clean of any fault.
I shake my head, rolling out of bed and shuddering when my feet hit the cold floor. I can’t stand sleeping in socks, and we’ve got to do something about the heating and insulation in this old house.
“Nope, sorry. If you can’t help tattling on me to Frank, you could have at least told me.” He points to his mouth, which we both know is useless between the two of us. My heart relents, but I smack it away. “Whatever. That’s a bullshit excuse. Every other ghost who’s come around has found a way to communicate. You’re just lazy.”
Based on the way he goes pale and turns away from me, that seems to insult him. He doesn’t leave, though, and there’s nothing I can do to force him. Instead of sticking around and letting him frustrate me, I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and slip into a clean pair of yoga pants and a hoodie.
Amelia is downstairs, dozing in front of the TV as another Harry Potter marathon begins, even though it’s not even nine o’clock. Worry over her sleepwalking creeps in, but she’s assured me that not being able to sleep well during the last trimester is perfectly normal. It’s hard to know what an average pregnancy would be like, but I know she and Mel talk. It’s probably nothing.
She doesn’t wake as I tiptoe into the kitchen and put on some coffee, making as little noise as possible. Who knows how long she’s been down here trying to fall asleep. No one respects a good nap like I do.
My plan to let her rest is blown out of the water when the doorbell rings at half past the hour. I’m sitting at the kitchen table drinking my first cup of coffee and shivering while I read the news on my cousin’s laptop when it dings through the house, so loud it makes me drip hot liquid onto my lap.
Amelia stirs, her eyes confused and sleepy, when I pass her in the living room. “Who’s that?”
“I don’t know. I’m not clairvoyant.”
“Who knows with you,” she tosses back, snuggling further under the heavy blanket Gramps favored
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