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He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. “I’m sorry about everything you’ve been going through. If you ever want a sympathetic ear, call me. Maybe we could do lunch?”
“Thanks,” I said in a non-committal tone, then pocketed the card. I climbed on my bike and rode away, legs pumping. A hot rush of anxiety flooded my chest. I couldn’t hide out much longer.
I needed to finish writing the book.
Ack, I need to start writing the book.
July 17, Wednesday
I WAS sitting in a wicker chair on the wraparound porch, expanding the outline of my manuscript in my notebook, when an orange vehicle pulled up and parked near the chicken coop. It was an old El Camino, half-car, half truck. The back held a large riding lawnmower and some other tools.
A wide person emerged, dressed in yellow spandex and workboots. They waved. “Hiya, I’m Kelly. Finally shook the crud. Whew, look at this grass, why don’t you? Gonna take me a while to knock it down.”
“Hi, Kelly.” I still couldn’t tell if Kelly was male or female—not that it mattered. I just felt gauche asking, so I didn’t.
“I see Satan is back.”
“Satan?”
“The goat. He’s trouble.”
“I know. He broke into the house and destroyed the kitchen.”
“Sounds about right. I’ll make a pen for him. And pee-ew, I can smell the chicken coop from here. I’ll fix that, too.”
“Thanks. I’ve been gathering the eggs.”
“Yeah, Coleman at the grocery told me you’d been by… and Wayne said he talked to you yesterday.” Kelly grinned. “I think he has a crush on you.”
News spread like wildfire in Irving. I was starting to realize hiding out in a small town might’ve been an error in judgement.
On the other hand, I realized Kelly might be a source of information. “How long have you been looking after things around here?”
“Not long—a couple of months.”
My shoulders sagged. “So you didn’t work for Rose Whisper?”
Kelly’s eyes widened. “Nobody wanted that job. Rose Whisper was a witch.”
I wet my lips. “You mean, she was difficult to work for?”
Kelly scoffed. “No, she was a witch, like the kind that ride broomsticks and shit.”
Kelly turned and strode back to the vehicle, whistling under their breath.
But the casual proclamation left my hair standing on end.
July 18, Thursday
WHEN MY phone buzzed, I glanced at the screen and my stomach seized up.
It was Bruce, my editor.
I didn’t want to answer, but Bruce didn’t leave messages. He would keep calling until I picked up. So I picked up.
“Hi, Bruce.”
“Josie, my favorite writer—next to your mom, of course. She called me.”
