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Miriam’s big brown eyes go wide with excitement. “Oh, dear. Yes, yes. I do have a book. In fact, it’s one your grandma donated a few months ago.”
Why would Grandma Rain do that? Judging from the family library, clearly her preference was to hoard every single book she owned and let them disintegrate. The exception was for the books in her personal library, but most of those were about gardening. “Did she donate anything else?” I ask.
“No. Just the one. She said she wanted a record of the property’s history for future generations.”
Grandma didn’t give a crap about anyone except me, Master, and Bard, of course. It doesn’t sound like her to leave a book behind for the town. Unless the book says: I hope you all die in a fiery collision with a comet.
“Thanks, Miriam. I’d love to check it out.”
“Oh, I can put you on the wait list. Someone just checked it out today.”
“Who?”
“Actually, your handyman Bard.” She chuckles. “Silly me. I bet he heard you wanted it and got it for you.”
I frown in confusion. I didn’t even know this book existed. “Um, yeah. Probably. You know Bard, Mr. Thoughtful.”
“True,” she says with a dreamy tone and bats her eyelashes. Michael, her assistant, flashes a disapproving look her way, and she snaps to. “I mean—he has been known to help others.” Her tone is all business.
My gaze bounces back and forth between the two. According to the town gossip, Miriam and Michael have a thing going, even though she’s a little older than him.
I don’t see the problem. As long as they’re adults, age is just a number.
“Thanks, Miriam. I’ll head home and see if Bard can loan it to me.”
“See you later, Lake. Oh, and I’m sorry about not attending Rain’s funeral. I didn’t think she’d want me there.”
Oh, she wanted you there. To tell you to fuck yourself. “It’s fine. I know she rubbed people the wrong way.”
Miriam leans in. “She was wrong about us, Lake. We were always on her side. Rain turned her back on us. Not the other way around.”
That’s not my understanding, but then again, everything I know came through Grandma Rain’s tainted glasses. “Thank you, Miriam. It’s good to know she wasn’t completely hated.”
Michael chuckles quietly from his table, his nose buried in his magazine. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“You be quiet,” Miriam scolds. “We know better than to speak ill of the dead.”
He nods compliantly.
I offer my best version of a polite smile, but something about this conversation has left a strange taste in my mouth. Also, what the hell is up with this book? Why’s Bard checking it out?
I take my leave and speed home.
Something is going on, and now I’m convinced of it. If Bard won’t tell me what it is, then I’m going to find out, starting with the truth about what’s in that master bedroom.
When I return to the estate, I check on Master first. He found my favorite jeans and left me a message. Three pounds’ worth.
I just don’t get how he opened my dresser drawer, laid the pants out flat, and aimed his ass so accurately. “Out! You bad dog! Get out!” I run Master from my house and throw my jeans in the trash.
After that, I stomp over to Bard’s, but he’s either ignoring me again or out working somewhere on the property.
Fine. Screw it. I’m done tiptoeing around all this bullshit. Secrets. Voices. Diamonds that appear from thin air.
I am a rational woman. I am an educated person. I know what’s real and what’s not.
I go to the barn just behind Bard’s place. It’s filled with a million different pieces of old farm equipment, two tractors, and tools. I grab a sledgehammer and head up to the house.
“Who needs a key?” Not me.
I go into the house, bodychecking any thoughts related to fear or the bogeyman. I march upstairs to the second floor and walk confidently to the master. My hand is sweating, but I’ve still got a death grip on this sledgehammer. I’m going to knock down that damned door and prove nothing’s inside. Nothing at all.
“Relationship with the house!” Isn’t that what Bard said? That my relationship was my own business. How stupid. People live in homes. They don’t have relationships with them.
I get to the door and am about to swing when something on the floor catches my eye. It’s a gray cloth-covered book. On the spine are Dewey decimal numbers.
I pick it up and open it. On the first page is a sticky note with Bard’s handwriting.
This book was meant for you. And I’ll give you the key if that is what you truly want.
I step away, hearing the deep moaning sound of a man in pain on the other side of the door.
The slick, sweaty handle of the sledgehammer slides from my hand. Shit! Someone’s in there.
