Page 25 of Serenity Falls

I never saw Mrs Dawson again, and their house (number 11) fell to the Conservators to look after. The grass was cut, the mail diverted and, as with all things, people began to forget the tragedy. Except me. Something about what Mrs Dawson said, or maybe the way she said it, had burrowed into my head. Occasionally, I’d find myself pausing outside their house and staring up at the roof, thinking about poor Mr Dawson and his freak accident. He was always careful, Cash. Always.

Maybe that’s why, eight or nine months later, when Garth told me about Carrie Sanderson, I took more notice than I otherwise would have.

Carrie was a pretty lady in her mid-forties. She worked for the local newspaper and lived on her own with a furry grey cat in one of Serenity’s smaller town houses. I often used to see her jogging around the neighbourhood. She was usually out and about when I was doing my rounds, and she’d always wave and say a cheery, ‘Hi!’ I didn’t know an awful lot more about her, but one thing I did know was that she was friends with Mrs Dawson. I’d see them walking across the town square together, or sometimes sharing a coffee or sandwich outside a café at lunchtime.

‘Real sad news,’ Garth said when I came in that day.

‘What is?’ I asked, because obviously he wanted me to ask.

‘You’ve not heard?’

‘I guess not,’ I said, but I already had that feeling. You know, like a sixth sense that something bad had happened.

‘Carrie Sanderson.’ He paused for effect. ‘Dead.’

I felt a dull punch in my gut. ‘Carrie? No.’

He nodded, face grim but eyes dancing with glee. ‘Yeah, found her last night.’

‘Where? What happened?’

‘Slipped in the shower and cracked her skull.’ Garth made a Bam! gesture with his hands. ‘Blood everywhere. Nasty.’

I stared at him. I’m not a violent man. Not like my dad. But just then, I had this urge, this real primal urge, to punch Garth in his big, red face. A woman was dead, and here he was, taking ghoulish pleasure in it. I forced the anger down.

‘How?’ I asked. ‘How could that happen?’

Garth shrugged. ‘Lotta people fall in the shower.’ He shrugged. ‘Freak accident.’

And there it was again. That phrase. Freak accident.

Garth had already turned away, reaching for his coat. ‘I got to head out to a meeting with the big bosses, and I’m running late.’ He paused and turned. ‘Could you mark off Carrie’s house on the log and send out the rotas for next week?’

I stared at him. ‘Are you sure, sir?’

The log contained all the houses, all the occupants, all the routes. When someone moved or died and there was no one living there it got marked down as unoccupied. The mail went to the Conservators instead. Saved us delivering, and saved someone dealing with a heap of junk mail. Each delivery person had their own rota of houses, and the master log was stored on computer. Normally, Garth took care of that. It was password-protected, and he didn’t like anyone else messing with it.

He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘You love your job, don’t you, Cash?’

‘Yes, sir. More than anything.’

He nodded. ‘You’ve impressed me, Cash. One day, I’ll be retiring, and the town will need a new postmaster. I’m going to recommend you, Cash. But I got to know I can trust you, right?’

I beamed. ‘You can trust me, sir. A hundred per cent.’

He smiled and patted my shoulder. ‘Good. Password is “Serenity” spelled backwards.’

‘Got it. Thank you, sir.’

He smiled again, but it looked a little odd. Then he turned and hurried out of the door.

I sat down at his desk, swollen with pride (and also feeling a little bad that I was angry at him earlier). It took me a couple of attempts to log in – my spelling has never been good – but then the file opened, and I stared at the list of houses. All the houses in Serenity. Not just those on my route. They were separated into areas. Each area had a number, and the houses were colour-coded. Green for occupied. Amber for pending a sale, and red for unoccupied (owner absent or deceased). I scrolled down the list, street by street, looking for Carrie’s house.

And that’s when I got the first inkling that something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

8

Principal Lockhart is punctual. Worse than punctual. He’s early.