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He laughed. “I am not about to ruin the surprise, but I promise you will thank me. Do not be late, or there will be blood on your hands.”
The call ended.
The funeral was just as miserable as I’d imagined, filled with enough tears to fill our local swimming hole. There were touching photos of Deedee’s first steps and school dances, and cherished memories shared by everyone who knew her. Most of the stories centered around how Deedee had been there for people at one time or another, never judging, never saying things like “Well, whaddya expect? You’re an idiot.” She’d helped people in their times of need without expecting anything in return.
All the while, I kept thinking how lucky I’d be if that many people showed up after the good Lord tapped me on the shoulder to rejoin his bowling team. Yes, that was how I imagined heaven. Bowling, outdoor movie night, sack races, and pink lemonade—all the good stuff.
Anyway, it wasn’t that I didn’t have friends or family. But did I truly let people in like Deedee had? Did I show them I cared?
Truth was, I didn’t.
Sure, I was polite and kind. I treated people with respect except when they didn’t deserve it. I was trustworthy and responsible. Still, at the end of the day, I kept my heart just out of reach from the entire world.
Maybe because my daddy died when I was at such a vulnerable age. Maybe because everyone in town immediately identified me as that “poor new girl from Kentucky” who’d just lost a parent, and they pitied me. In response, I buried my feelings and pasted on a sweet smile. I let them see the person I wanted to be. Strong.
After a while, I just got used to pretending.
Not that I wasn’t strong for real—no one survived my kind of grief and didn’t come out the other side with a certain preparedness for the world. Still, my need to survive emotionally had pushed me inside myself.
Sad how it took a funeral to learn all that. Sweet little Deedee had been a bona fide superwoman. I was not.
After the burial, I went home and locked up the house tight. I wasn’t going to the cemetery tonight. No way in Sam Hill was I ready to see Deedee’s grave again so soon, and I was much safer here with Betsy and her bucks.
I placed my box of extra buckshot on the nightstand and gave it a pat. “We got this, boys. Don’t we.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Just past one in the morning, my vibrating cell began line dancing across the nightstand. I was in bed with the lights off, Betsy tucked under the covers by my side. I hoped that the crazy man wouldn’t come to my house once he realized I was a no-show, but I had to be prepared, which was why I wore black sweatpants and a black T-shirt instead of my favorite pink flannel PJs. I wasn’t about to confront him looking like I was going to a pajama party.
I looked at the number on my cell. This time there was a name attached to it.Ronnie Foreman?
My heart skipped a beat, and I answered. “Hello?”
“You think I am playing a game?” the gravelly-voiced man asked.
“How are you callin’ from this number?”
“If you had bothered to show up, you would know,” he said.
“Didn’t you say you admired my lack of trust? Well, here’s me. Not trusting.”
“You are a wicked little thing.” He snickered. “But you have a valid point.”
“What do you want?” I growled.
“I want you to receive your gift; however, seeing as you do not wish to come and get it, I have brought it to you.”
There was a loud knock at the front door.
I jumped from bed, nearly peeing myself.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Masie.” The call ended.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!I dialed Sheriff Idiot, slid on my tennies, and bolted to my front door with Betsy.
I checked the peephole and stumbled back. “That’s not possible.” I looked again.
Standing on my porch was Ronnie Foreman, the man who’d murdered Deedee.
