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The great thing about small towns is that almost everyone knows each other. On the other hand, the worst thing about small towns is that almost everyone knows each other.
“That’s Ward Carlisle,” Aunt Tilly snarls. “The devil himself.” “Hot,” I manage. Aunt Tilly arches an eyebrow at me. “In hell,” I add belatedly. “Must be hot in hell. Where the devil lives.”
the last few days of September shouldn’t feel like a front-row seat to Satan’s armpit.
I know exactly the kind of person she is. Pretty on the outside and jack-o’-lantern rotten on the inside.
