Chapter 8: Aunt Fern

Floyd's POV

I had heard every word through the carriage house door.

I came out onto the porch with my bandaged hand and walked down the steps.

"Gerald," I said. "Which firm?"

He turned. "I beg your pardon?"

"My lawyer. You said he called. Which firm does he work for?"

Gerald's eyes went to Meredith and back to me.

"He didn't leave a firm. He left a number."

"A lawyer called you and didn't say what office he's in," Meredith said slowly.

"Merry, I'm not going to argue this on the lawn."

"I'm not arguing, Dad. I'm asking."

"Then I'll check my messages and let you know." He put the phone in his pocket. "You're upset, and he's good at making people upset."

"Take your own advice," I said.

He gave me a long look that wasn't friendly.

Then he got in his car and left, and Meredith stood on the grass with her arms wrapped around herself.

"I don't believe him," she said, so quietly I almost missed it. "I don't know if I'm allowed to say that yet."

"You're allowed."

"Good night, Floyd."

She went into the main house. I went back to the carriage house, and neither of us slept.

At eight the next morning, a truck I didn't recognize rolled up to the gate.

It was a dented green pickup with a camper shell and Pennsylvania plates, and it sounded sick.

I knew the sound.

The driver's door opened, and a boot came down on the gravel.

Fern Brannigan stepped out, sixty-six years old, in a leather vest, with an iron-gray braid down her back and a cigarette between two fingers.

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