despite all of Augusta’s best intentions, she seemed to be adding to those secrets day by day. For her sake, she had to believe all those sins could be washed away.
Shoving Ian resolutely out of her thoughts, she studied the house she had come to despise, wondering what part of the renovation to tackle first. Somehow, even with all the drama surrounding them, she was going to have to make time to do it—sometime between funerals and aiding and abetting accused murderers. Jesus, what a mess she was! And pretty soon, if she didn’t get to work on the house, she was going to be a broke-ass mess, as well.
Maybe she would call in a contractor tomorrow? She had a few recommendations, but that was as far as she had gotten.
When she’d first considered the task of restoring the old house, she’d approached it resentfully and without any real purpose. In fact, the only thing that had even remotely excited her was the prospect of gutting the sucker—literally—and getting rid of every stick of furniture. Absolutely nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to toss those old Civil War muskets hanging in her mother’s office and the family portraits of people she didn’t really want to be related to into a raging bonfire. But here she was, and after three months of whining over the task her mother had set before her, it was beginning to become important to her to believe this old place could somehow be redeemed . . .
Maybe her mother had known something after all?
Nah, she decided, refusing to give her mother any credit. Florence W. Aldridge had remained completely absent from their lives; she didn’t get to start parenting from the grave.
Plucking her keys out of the ignition, Augusta got out of the car. She slammed the door, locking it. It used to be that you didn’t even think about having to lock your car outside your own front door, but after all that had transpired you couldn’t be too careful.
She paused at the top of the porch steps, looking out over the marsh. There was always a slight breeze this close to the water, and the marsh grasses bowed submissively under the oppressive afternoon sun.
Where will Ian go first? Will he come here? Back to the ruins? He was searching for something, but what?
She’d kept her cell phone near, even though she wasn’t even sure whether she planned to answer. Poor Cody had disappeared from the old abandoned church where she and her sisters had played as kids. Even then the place had seemed sinister. Why were kids drawn to danger?
The same reason adults are, a little voice in her head pointed out. What the hell is Ian if not dangerous?
Damn, but she didn’t relish having to explain her actions to her sisters.
She was so lost in her own thoughts, wondering what to say to them, that she didn’t hear the raised voices until Sadie was near the front door.
“Of all people, Savannah! I wouldn’t have expected this from you!”
The door opened abruptly, and Sadie, purse in hand, gave Augusta an angry glare, then, muttering something unintelligible, tried to close the door before Savannah could follow her out.
Savannah stepped out before Sadie could shut it, and Sadie turned and marched down the stairs without waiting for the door to close. Taken by surprise, Augusta moved out of her way and Savannah came out of the house to plead a little desperately, “Sadie, I didn’t go behind your back—please! Listen to me!”
Sadie kept walking, shoulders straight, making her way down the drive toward her house. “If you girls get hungry,” she said without turning, “you know exactly where the fridge is!”
Augusta was pretty sure that was meant for her, since clearly, Sadie wasn’t pleased with Savannah and didn’t give a damn whether she ate or not.
Savannah’s hand went to her hip. The left hand, which was still in a cast after a nasty fall from a kitchen stool, hung helplessly at her side. “Sadie!” she shouted.
Sadie kept walking, ignoring
Shoving Ian resolutely out of her thoughts, she studied the house she had come to despise, wondering what part of the renovation to tackle first. Somehow, even with all the drama surrounding them, she was going to have to make time to do it—sometime between funerals and aiding and abetting accused murderers. Jesus, what a mess she was! And pretty soon, if she didn’t get to work on the house, she was going to be a broke-ass mess, as well.
Maybe she would call in a contractor tomorrow? She had a few recommendations, but that was as far as she had gotten.
When she’d first considered the task of restoring the old house, she’d approached it resentfully and without any real purpose. In fact, the only thing that had even remotely excited her was the prospect of gutting the sucker—literally—and getting rid of every stick of furniture. Absolutely nothing would have given her greater pleasure than to toss those old Civil War muskets hanging in her mother’s office and the family portraits of people she didn’t really want to be related to into a raging bonfire. But here she was, and after three months of whining over the task her mother had set before her, it was beginning to become important to her to believe this old place could somehow be redeemed . . .
Maybe her mother had known something after all?
Nah, she decided, refusing to give her mother any credit. Florence W. Aldridge had remained completely absent from their lives; she didn’t get to start parenting from the grave.
Plucking her keys out of the ignition, Augusta got out of the car. She slammed the door, locking it. It used to be that you didn’t even think about having to lock your car outside your own front door, but after all that had transpired you couldn’t be too careful.
She paused at the top of the porch steps, looking out over the marsh. There was always a slight breeze this close to the water, and the marsh grasses bowed submissively under the oppressive afternoon sun.
Where will Ian go first? Will he come here? Back to the ruins? He was searching for something, but what?
She’d kept her cell phone near, even though she wasn’t even sure whether she planned to answer. Poor Cody had disappeared from the old abandoned church where she and her sisters had played as kids. Even then the place had seemed sinister. Why were kids drawn to danger?
The same reason adults are, a little voice in her head pointed out. What the hell is Ian if not dangerous?
Damn, but she didn’t relish having to explain her actions to her sisters.
She was so lost in her own thoughts, wondering what to say to them, that she didn’t hear the raised voices until Sadie was near the front door.
“Of all people, Savannah! I wouldn’t have expected this from you!”
The door opened abruptly, and Sadie, purse in hand, gave Augusta an angry glare, then, muttering something unintelligible, tried to close the door before Savannah could follow her out.
Savannah stepped out before Sadie could shut it, and Sadie turned and marched down the stairs without waiting for the door to close. Taken by surprise, Augusta moved out of her way and Savannah came out of the house to plead a little desperately, “Sadie, I didn’t go behind your back—please! Listen to me!”
Sadie kept walking, shoulders straight, making her way down the drive toward her house. “If you girls get hungry,” she said without turning, “you know exactly where the fridge is!”
Augusta was pretty sure that was meant for her, since clearly, Sadie wasn’t pleased with Savannah and didn’t give a damn whether she ate or not.
Savannah’s hand went to her hip. The left hand, which was still in a cast after a nasty fall from a kitchen stool, hung helplessly at her side. “Sadie!” she shouted.
Sadie kept walking, ignoring
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