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“Do you need a ride back to the house?”
My knee said yes. Emphatically.
I stared up at her. “No.”
She stared right back down at me. I didn’t like it when Charlotte was taller, so I pushed myself up off the bench, and when it felt like someone was stabbing me in the kneecap, I damn well bit down on the edge of my tongue.
“Fine,” I said grudgingly.
Her lips curled into a smile. “Need anything while we’re here?”
I shook my head. Someone across the street looked in my direction, a teenage boy whispering to his friend and pointing.
I kept my head down and waited until Charlotte unlocked the car door before sliding into the passenger seat. If my PT lived there, she would’ve beaten my ass for doing what I had just done.
In the console of Charlotte’s car, there were about eighteen hair ties, and I plucked one out, studying it in the light coming through the window. “You know you leave these all over the house.”
“I’m sure I do.”
“I pulled a red hair out of my tube of toothpaste this morning.”
She laughed. “You did not.”
I had, but I decided it wasn’t worth the argument. Absently, she handed me a bag. “Hold these for me. I don’t want to toss them in the back.”
“Plan on taking the corners too fast on the drive home?”
Charlotte sighed. “Only if the cops are chasing me.”
I pulled open the top of the bag, sliding out the first of two books.Modern American Homes. The book was battered and torn, the edges ragged from use. The pages were yellowed, and the smell emanating from the bag was musty.
“I hope you didn’t pay a lot for this.”
She glanced at me. “About a hundred.”
I whistled. “Someone ripped you off.”
“That one”—she tapped the cover—“is from 1932. Open it up.”
Begrudgingly, I did. It was full of pictures of architectural features, of home and building layouts.
I found a big, boxy house design similar to the Campbell House’s.
Colonial Revival, it read. I studied the plans on the next few pages and hummed.
“What?”
My eyes tracked over some more pictures, a few more drawings. “Nothing.”
I should’ve known that showing any interest in one of these falling-apart books and not explaining why was the meanest possible thing I could’ve done to Charlotte Cunningham.
“Well, it’s something,” she said.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I amended.
She shifted in the driver’s seat, glancing quickly at which page I was studying. Her eyes narrowed, and the car drifted slightly onto the shoulder.
“Road’s straight ahead,” I told her, keeping my eyes on the book. “I’d like to stay on it, please.”
