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good luck
JESSA
I was probably about to get murdered.
When I stepped out of the taxi and into the soupy humidity, I looked down the gravel lane and confirmed my suspicion that murder was imminent. Or at the very least, abduction. Beyond the metal bar blocking the way, the dusty drive disappeared into a thick and endless forest, and as the driver removed my bags from the trunk, I stared into the dense tree line, wondering if anyone lived close enough to hear me if I screamed.
I’d certainly need different shoes if I was to run from a serial killer.
“You’re absolutely certain you can’t take me up the drive?” I asked, still eyeing the mouth of the forest.
“Sign says no tresspassin’, and you don’t happen to have a key to that gate, do you?” he asked in a big-voweled Tennessee accent. When I shook my head, he added, “Well, I reckon you’re all right, since you’re invited and all. I’d just rather not get shot at today if it’s all right by you.”
“Shot?”
He snorted a laugh. “Well, yeah. Everybody ‘round here has a shotgun by the door for such occasions. Guess they don’t have a lot of that in jolly old England, do they?”
“They do not,” I answered. My words were flat and stuffy next to his melodic lilt. “You’re not giving me much confidence, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t worry. They’ll give you a chance to tell ‘em who you are before they shoot.”
My head whipped around to find him stifling a smile.
I gave him a look. “I believed you, you know.”
“If you hadn’t, it wouldna been funny.” When I sighed, he patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Just head on down there—I’m sure it’s not too far.”
I took a breath and starched my spine, gripping my suitcase and overnight bag. “All right, then. Off I go.”
“Want me to wait a minute? Just in case?”
Another sigh, this one melting into relief. “Would you?”
“Sure. I’ll listen out for gunshots,” he said, leaning against the side of his taxi with a sardonic smile on his face.
“A true gentleman.”
“Good luck.”
I offered him a tilted smile of my own. “Thank you. I’ll take all the luck I can get.”
And up the path to homicide I went.
When I say I’d been anticipating my best friend’s wedding for a decade, it was no exaggeration. They’d met when we were all at Oxford, and within two dates, Cass had declared she would marry Davis, and we’d been waiting ten years for it to come to fruition. It was a knack of hers, telling the future. She followed her gut, which was decidedly psychic, and could be trusted under any circumstance.
You see, Cass was my roommate, and Davis I knew through my childhood crush, Henry—they’d gone to Eton together. My family and Henry’s were the best of friends, and as such, we’d spent nearly every holiday together since we were born.
As Cass predicted, here we were in her hometown for their wedding where I was the maid of honor, Henry was the best man, and we were both single.
Everyone knew what that meant.
My childhood crush and I were finally going to happen.
That thought fueled my cheerful smile, even though the probability of breaking an ankle on the uneven road was astronomic. To get around the gate, I had to venture into a ditch of knee-high grass. By the time I rounded the other side, I was in a full sweat and regretting my decision to wear heels and trousers. Cass had told me about Tennessee loads of times, but it’d become clear the information I possessed wasn’t enough to prepare me for the oppressive heat or wild nature walling me in as I hobbled up the drive like a newborn giraffe.
I was a mess, really. Sweat rolled down the valley of my spine and raced down the length of my legs. Slid down my neck and into my hair, which was regrettably loose and draped over my shoulders, sticking to my skin in branches. If I hadn’t been exerting all my energy wrestling my suitcase, I’d have been worried about my appearance, which must have edged monstrous. But as it stood—or rolled—all I wanted was to reach the end of the never-ending lane where I could abandon the fight.
