By the time she followed him and leaned a hip against his doorframe, he already had his phone in hand and was texting someone. When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he aggressively swiped and tapped a few times, then set the cell on his desk.
The sound of a ringing phone emerged from the speaker.
“Who—” she began, but he stabbed his finger in the air in a request for silence.
A faint click. “Karl. Is something the matter? Because I was in the middle of a conversation with—”
“Spite House still for sale?”
Her eyebrows rose. He was calling someone about the town’s infamous Spite House? Because she’d rambled down that street yesterday, and there was a real estate agent’s sign—Fawn Something-or-other—planted in the home’s tiny patch of front yard.
The place looked a lot less abandoned than when she’d left Harlot’s Bay, with pretty curtains and a flower box at every window. The brick row house was still as ridiculously narrow as ever, though. Ten feet wide, at most.
“Hold on a minute.” The other man sounded resigned to the interruption. “I’m sorry, Hector, but could we possibly postpone—”
The line went silent, presumably as Karl’s mysterious contact muted his phone.
Matthew, Karl’s screen informed her. And while that was hardly the world’s most uncommon name, she suspected she knew exactly who was making his excuses on the other end of the call.
She pointed to the display. “You’re still friends with Matthew Vine?”
Karl and his closest high school companion had been an odd duo in certain ways. Matthew had been very reserved for a teenager, but also polite and kind. Karl had been simultaneously uncommunicative and loud, his own kindness hidden by cranky bluster.
But neither boy socialized much, and both were fundamentally good kids who worked hard for their families. She’d understood how the two of them could have become close, and apparently they’d stayed that way for two decades. Which said good things about both men’s steadfastness and reliability.
Karl dipped his chin in confirmation just as Matthew came back on the line.
“Okay.” He sounded breathless. “The Spite House is more a curiosity than a viable residence for most people, so yes, it’s still for sale. Athena got an offer last week, but it was insultingly low, so she turned it d—”
“She open to a month’s rental?” Karl interrupted. Again.
Let him finish a sentence,Molly mouthed, ignoring his scowl.
In a testament to Matthew’s good nature and tolerance, his response was amused rather than irritated. “I’d be happy to check with her and tell you, assuming you let me finish a sentence in the near future.”
She arched a single eyebrow and directed a pointed look at Karl.
“If you’d get to the goddamn point more quickly, I wouldn’t—” As her stare became an incredulous glare, Karl shifted his weight and directed his own gaze to the floor. “Sorry, man. Running behind on my bakes and prep. Not an excuse. Just a reason.”
“It’s fine.” Matthew’s voice remained warm and sincere. “Before I call her, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? If you don’t have time for that now, we can talk later.”
Karl hunched forward over the phone, his meaty fists on the desk supporting his weight. “Molly needs a place to stay.”
A moment’s silence. “Has something else happened since you texted me yesterday? Because last I heard, you were upset that she—”
“You’re on speaker, dude. Molly’s right here.” His nostrils flared as he exhaled heavily. “Interrupted again, I know, but that’s on her. One hundred percent her fault.”
She sighed too. “Really, Karl?”
“Um... hi, Molly.” Matthew’s tone had become significantly more cautious, although he still sounded friendly enough. “Welcome back to Harlot’s Bay. I’m sorry you returned under such unusual circumstances, but I hope you’ve had a good visit thus far.”
Unusual circumstanceswas a considerable understatement. Sometime soon, she really needed to hear the full story of how that mistaken obituary had even happened.
“Hey, Matthew. Luckily, the reports of Karl’s death were greatly exaggerated, so this trip has been much better than I’d anticipated. I hope you’re doing well?”
“I’m fantastic. Thank you for asking,” he told her, sounding firm and sure and happy. “Since Karl is most likely on the verge of spontaneous human combustion—”
“Not a real thing,” she said under her breath, and Karl screwed up his face in exaggerated shock and dismay at her near-silent interruption.
