“Why do you care?” he asked. There was a flare of pain in his voice. I was startled. “Why wouldn’t I?” “Most people around here think I’m a fucking axe murderer and my wife is buried under the floor of my woodshed.” “You know about that?” I blurted out. “Someone should teach the good folk of Durango Falls how to whisper.” There was neither bitterness nor malice in his voice. He didn’t care what they thought. I grinned. “They do speak loud enough to wake the dead, don’t they?” “I’m surprised my poor dead wife hasn’t risen up from under the floorboards and gone to haunt them,” he said dryly.
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