Page 110 of Death on Gallows Path

“You’re right. That is something to think about. We have a lot to think about. But until we know more . . .”

From Clara’s expression I’d brought the mood way, way down.

* * * *

Teague messaged that he wasn’t going to make it home tonight.

Secrets weary of their tyranny.

I’d thought Kit was retroactively scolding me with that James Joyce quote. Retroactive, because I’d ended that tyranny when I told Teague my secret.

But Teague . . . Was he still under the tyranny of his secrets? Was our relationship?

I tried to push those questions out of my mind in favor of questions surrounding Damon Swindell’s murder. They seemed more restful.

DAY ELEVEN

THURSDAY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Clara looked at me over her sunglasses when she joined me in the parking lot at the dog park around noon.

I had Gracie and Murphy on their leashes. They were not amused at our waiting for Clara and LuLu, instead of going inside.

“Whoa. You don’t look great,” she said.

Without removing my sunglasses — which meant she didn’t know the half of it — I said, “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You and Teague—?”

“He didn’t come home last night.”

“Well, that was the other possibility for you not sleeping well. The less fun one.”

“I kept having dreams that woke me up. Had a hard time going back to sleep. I’d finally drift off and have another weird dream.”

“What dreams?”

“Let’s get in first.”

“You got it. Here, give me Murph’s leash.”

I followed her, feeling as if my brain was stuffed with cotton pads.

I was so woolly — so maybe wool instead of cotton? — I didn’t even notice Berrie and the Bostons weren’t around. Thank heavens. I don’t think I could have taken Marcus’ greeting.

Clara waited until we sat atop our favorite picnic table, our trio of dogs dashing around like someone turned their dials to full speed.

“What dreams?”

I streamed out a breath. “I doubt I remember them all. There was a trolley with a bunch of people in it, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. A treasure chest. A map, to the treasure chest, I think. And a huge calendar, the old desk kind with a square for each date, but the squares were doors and I kept walking in and out of them, getting more and more lost. One of the last dreams when I was trying to squeeze out more sleep before I gave up, was about a wild game of Hangman.”

“Hangman?”

“Old game. Sort of like the ancestor of Wheel of Fortune, where you guess a letter at a time to try to figure out a word.”

“Oh, yeah. Each wrong guess builds part of a—” She broke off on a sucked-in breath. It came out on the final word. “—gallows. Don’t you see? You dreamed about building a gallows — like Gallows Path, where Damon was murdered.”