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I raise a hand in the air, because seriously, who does this woman think she is? Also, I’m done with people being assholes today. “I’m not answering any of your questions until you answer mine. Who are you, and how did you get in here?”
“I’m Bee’s neighbor, and I used a key.” She dangles one from her ring finger. It’s hooked onto a tiny needlepoint chain, which is definitely something Bee would’ve used to keep track of her keys.
“First of all, ‘Bee’s neighbor’ is not a name. And secondly, that could be any key. Maybe you picked the lock. Maybe it should be me threatening to call the cops on you, since you’re the one breaking into my grandmother’s house.” Hell, she could be the reason I’m in so much trouble. The only reason I’m not calling the cops is because I already have enough going on without getting local law enforcement involved.
“Bee called me Lynnie. And you can call the cops if you want, but they’re probably on break, since there are only three in the whole of Pearl Lake and they’re friends of my family. I live over there.” She thumbs over her shoulder. “I’ve known Bee my whole life. Knew her,” she says, correcting herself, and then looks away, rubbing at her lips with her thumb. “So which grandson are you?”
Well, that explains why she’s so familiar. I used to see her all the time, but usually from a distance, through the barrier of trees that separates her property from my grandmother’s. She worked at the food truck one summer. They served the worst hot dogs. “I’m Van.”
“Van?”
“Donovan,” I say in frustration. My grandmother only shortened my name when she was talking to family.
Her eyes flare, and this time not because I’m flashing her. “Donovan? Firestone?”
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“Oh.” She blinks a few times, and her expression goes stony. Or stonier than it already was, anyway. “We’ve been emailing.” She motions between us.
“Huh?” Today has been a cluster, and I’m about ready to throw in the towel.
Her lip curls up in a half sneer. “About Bee’s estate. We’ve been emailing back and forth for months.”
I give my head a shake and drag my gaze away from her mouth. “Nope. I’ve been emailing with some dude named Dillion.”
“Not some dude—me. I’m Dillion. Dillion Stitch.” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed in distrust.
“I thought you said your name was Lynnie.” I rub my temple; my brain hurts from the crap I’ve been through over the past couple of hours, and this sure isn’t helping.
“No. I said Bee called me Lynnie. My actual name is Dillion.” She pokes at her cheek with her tongue, gaze flitting from my mouth to my eyes and back again.
I rub my lip self-consciously. “Do you have any other names you go by that I should know about?”
“Nope, that covers it.”
“Why did Bee call you Lynnie?” I don’t know why I’m entertaining this. For all I know she’s lying about who she is. I hate how paranoid I suddenly am.
“Because Bee thought Dillion was a boy’s name, so she dropped the first half. I don’t know why she added the i-e to the end, though. I never asked, and she never offered.” She blows out a breath and looks around the cabin, eyes suddenly soft. “Not that that matters. Anyway, I’m guessing you’re here to put the will into probate. You must be here to have the place appraised so you can sell it to developers or whatever. Good luck on getting the lot divided, by the way. Parceling off the land will never happen. Besides, the zoning laws on this side are different, so whatever plan you’re probably hatching isn’t going to work. You might get a fair price for the land, but I’m not sure whoever buys it is gonna get much love from their neighbors.”
“Right. Okay.” I have no idea what she’s talking about, or why she’s so damn hostile. “I can’t sell right now anyway, so chill out.” As of this moment, this is the only place I have to go while I’m figuring out what my next steps will be. And I love this place, so I have no plans to sell—not that it’s any of her business.
She frowns, her eyes narrowing. “But you’ll sell eventually.”
“What’s it to you if I do?” I’ve had it with people today.
“You might be able to sell, but you’ll never get them to agree to subdivide the lot.”
“Good to know.” And I’m about done with this conversation.
“I’m keeping an eye on you.” She points her index and middle fingers at her own eyes and then jabs them in my direction. “Both of them, actually.”
And with that she storms out.
The screen door hits the side of the cottage and bangs shut but then bounces open again. I watch as she nearly loses her footing on a loose board. “You should have that fixed before someone breaks an ankle!” she shouts as she stalks across the gravel driveway.
