I Faked My Death, and the Alpha at My Grave Has Lost His Wolf novel · Chapter 21 of 24

Chapter 21: The Route

The post office found me a secondhand right-hand-drive Jeep, white, with a dent in the tailgate.

A dead-woman form was still stapled in the glove box.

I put the form in the trash.

By the last week of March I was back on Route 3, thirty-seven weeks along.

The seat was pushed all the way back, and the steering wheel still touched my stomach.

I had forgotten that a route is a conversation.

Every box had a person behind it, and every person had been waiting four months to tell me what they thought of my death.

At the first house the old gin hand was on his porch with the beagle.

"Morning, Zora," he said. "I've got a bone to pick."

"With me?"

"With whoever's been fixing my roof."

He pointed at it.

A new row of shingles ran along the north edge, still bright orange against the old gray ones.

"Somebody was up there Saturday at six," he said. "Didn't knock. Didn't wait for coffee."

"Who was it?"

"I came out in my drawers with the shotgun, and it was the Vrana boy, hammering, with a sack of nails on his belt."

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