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I jogged downstairs and met the driver when he alighted, signed for the box and carried it back inside.
When I set the box on my desk, I hesitated and glanced over at my rumpled notebook.
Then I slid the box containing my new computer under the bed.
August 13, Tuesday
I SOLD my extra eggs at Coleman’s grocery, then rallied and walked to Blakemore Books, although my feet and stomach felt heavy.
Wayne Blakemore’s face erupted into such a big smile, guilt pinged through me. I chastised myself, then returned his smile. It wasn’t his fault that bookstores made me anxious.
You read that right.
Since I was a child, my mother had dragged me into every bookstore we passed so she could rearrange her books on the shelf and wheedle better placement from the clerks. As her career progressed, her book displays expanded from front-and-center shelving to endcaps to table placement to front-of-store table placement to point-of-sale checkout placement. It was common to pass a bookstore and the entire window was dedicated to Vanessa Vanguard’s somber, literary tomes. She’d won every notable award except the Pulitzer, but she’d been on the shortlist more than once and it was an inevitability.
Worse, most of her books had been about fraught mother-daughter relationships, with many centering on a daughter who had somehow wronged her mother. The academic side of me knew it was fiction, but some softer part of me couldn’t help but feel her inspiration came from having a novelist daughter who continued to disappoint.
“Josephine, welcome!” Wayne glided toward me, then clasped my hand between both of his. “Everyone is so excited about the booksigning Friday—we’re going to have a nice crowd.”
He introduced me to his two employees, Dora and Lawrence, who seemed equally pleased I was there.
“I’ve read all your books,” Dora gushed.
“They got me through the lockdown,” Lawrence added.
People really were nice, I conceded. And I relaxed.
The bookstore was pleasantly stocked and merchandised. The books in my Skirts series were displayed on a table near the front with a sign to Meet the Author! Wayne showed me the area where the event would take place. I assured him I was looking forward to meeting his customers—and suddenly I was.
“And you’re still planning to share a sneak peek of the new novel?” he asked.
I nodded. “I can do that.”
He beamed, then he bit into his lip. “Have you had time to read my manuscript?”
I hesitated. I really, really needed to tell him that Satan had devoured his manuscript before I could read it, but I didn’t want to cast a pallor over the event.
“Not yet,” I said. “But I’ll make it a priority… after the booksigning.”
August 14, Wednesday
I WAS writing in the graveyard when I heard a car arrive. I looked up to see a dark sedan that seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it until a tall man with wide shoulders emerged.
The cop from Atlanta was back.
He closed his car door, then shrugged into a sport coat despite the stifling heat. His long legs carried him through the gate and into the cemetery in only a few strides. He was carrying a bouquet of fresh flowers and had reached the grave of Serena Benson before he noticed me.
“Hello,” he said with a nod.
“Hello.” I bent back to my notebook but watched him under my lashes.
The big man reached over to touch the headstone and briefly closed his eyes. Then he knelt to lay the bouquet of flowers on the base of the headstone. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe off the gravestone, then leaned over to pull a few weeds.
I felt compelled to offer, “We’re in between groundskeepers, so it’s not as tidy as usual.”
“That’s okay. Are you the caretaker?”
I smiled. “I’m staying at The Whisper House, and to my surprise, the graveyard came with it.”
