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A reminder that sometimes things and people need a reason to stay. A little something to hold them in place.
Good mothers wanted to protect their children.
In small towns flexibility was key to survival.
Home. She blinked repeatedly. This had not been home for a very long time, yet somehow, it always would be. Funny how life was like that.
It was hotter than blazes, and the humidity level felt like 200 percent. By August it would be worse, like trying to breathe underwater. She’d lived in the South her whole life, so one would think she would be used to the heat and the swelter. Who could possibly acclimate to this level of misery?
Even now she could summon the sound of rain on that roof and the cascading purple blooms that appeared on those vines each spring.
Luna loved books and was the assistant director of the local library.
The remembered sound of laughter and the feel of sweating glasses of lemonade whispered across her senses as she climbed the steps.
Eve’s gaze narrowed. “You know I get these feelings about people who’ve died. Instincts, I suppose you’d call them.”
Vera almost laughed at herself. No question about it. There was very little of the country girl left in her now. Give her air-conditioning and bottled vitamin water any time.
Even the yellow crime scene tape appeared to droop in the oppressive humidity and ruthless heat.
Don’t get separated. Watch for snakes. Drink your water. Get home before dark.
The woman hopped around from subject to subject like a rabbit on crack.
“As for the hair,” she added, “you know the old saying. The higher the hair, the closer to Jesus.”
But, in truth, Eve felt far more comfortable with the dead than she did with the living. She’d come to understand this fully after her mother’s death. That was when she’d started spending time here to be close to her mother.
Vera had seen plenty of dead folks in her time—definitely not as many as her sister, but more than she would have liked. Growing up, the only transgression worse than not putting in an appearance at a viewing or the funeral of a neighbor was taking God’s name in vain.
“One thing I’ve learned”—he crumpled his burger wrapper and tossed it back into the bag—“is sometimes we can’t see what’s right in front of us.” He inclined his head and studied her. “It isn’t always about being blind or distracted. It’s about not wanting to believe what we see.”
Her grandmother always said that if a frog had wings, it wouldn’t bump its butt when it hopped.
Long ago she had learned that when trouble started, it was best to choose her battles. She had a very bad feeling that the real war was yet to come.
“Every action tells a story. You just have to take the time to read it closely enough.”
This late into July was like hell on earth in the South.
He’d thought of her hundreds—maybe thousands—of times. Dreamed about her. Wondered about her. Then she waltzed into town, and suddenly he was right back there, twenty-odd years ago, thinking he couldn’t breathe deeply enough without her. But he had, and he could. He just hadn’t wanted to . . . didn’t want to now.
There are folks who will do anything to keep their secrets.
