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I couldn’t argue with that.
As we settled down on the ground next to the walkway and dug into the soil, I hesitated for a moment, then said, “Bree says you’re completely trustworthy and that I can believe you.”
“Bree’s right,” May said. “I’ve found that life is easier if you tell the truth and stick to your principles. That’s the way I brought my son up.”
I nodded. I hadn’t had a chance to meet her son yet, not in the few months I’d lived here, but I figured when it was time, I would. “Is he back yet?”
“Yes, Bran’s back. He arrived home a month ago.”
Bran had been away for a couple months traipsing around Europe, I gathered. He had gone with his girlfriend, May told me, and they had gone the backpack and hostel route.
“Did he have fun? Is he glad to be home?”
“He is. But the engagement is off.” May didn’t sound all that upset.
“What happened? It’s none of my business, but…hadn’t they been engaged for a couple years?” I couldn’t imagine leaving Rian. It had taken death to divide us, but not everybody was lucky enough to have that kind of love in their lives.
May sighed, sitting back, resting on her hands as she turned her face toward the sun. “Apparently, Gloria decided she wanted to see the world in a more expansive way. Four weeks in, she tried to convince Bran to move to Paris. But as much as he enjoyed visiting, he wasn’t interested in leaving the farm—and me—behind.”
“From what you’ve told me, I can’t imagine him agreeing to that,” I said. Every word May had said about Bran indicated that they had a healthy, loving mother–son relationship.
“He didn’t. So Gloria decided to have a Parisian fling with some guy they met in a club. Bran caught her in the back, naked with Julien. Bran divided their money and her return ticket, and set out to explore through Europe on his own. He didn’t tell me they’d broken up until he returned. He didn’t want me to worry.”
“He sounds devoted to you,” I said.
“He’s a good son. He runs our suburban farm and keeps the bees happy, and during winter, he does the odd job here and there. I hope he finds a good woman who will be happy being a farmer’s wife.” She sparkled when she talked about him.
“How old is he?” I asked, patting the dirt around another primrose.
“He’s thirty-five. How old are you, dear?”
“Thirty-three.” I wondered if she’d had him later in life. Though she didn’t look it, May appeared to be around seventy. “I was born on November first.”
“Samhain proper,” she said.
“Yeah. My mother said that’s a sure sign I’m going to make a difference in the world. But I don’t give credence to wives’ tales like that.” I tapped another primrose out of the container it was in and settled it into the new hole I’d dug. The smell of growing things made me happy—it calmed me like nothing else.
At that moment, a car pulled up my driveway. It was the sheriff’s car.
“What’s Daisy doing here?” May asked, a concerned look on her face. She stood. “Daisy Parker is our sheriff—she’s a puma shifter, so watch yourself.”
As I scrambled to my feet, a tall, lithe woman stepped out of the car. She looked good in her uniform, but one look at her expression told me she was all business.
“May! Bran said I could find you here.” The sheriff walked across the lawn to where we were standing.
“Daisy, what’s wrong?” May asked.
“It’s Olivia. She’s been murdered.”
And just like that, my home went from a safe haven to reminding me that no place was safe.
CHAPTERTHREE
May gasped. “Olivia? OlivaWorth?”
“I’m so sorry,” Sheriff Parker said. “I know she was a good friend of yours.”
“Olivia was murdered? Are you sure?” May stumbled back a step and I braced her by the shoulders. “What on earth happened?”
