Identity

Waste not, want not.

A glance at his throbbing arm showed he’d bled through, so he changed the gauze before snapping the bolt on the door in the kitchen.

He expected some sort of laundry space, but stood surprised and smiling at the locked room.

She may have lived like a hermit in a cave, but she had a lot of tech. Solid tech, and he’d make good use of it. In addition to the electronics, she had a banquet of solar tools. Fire starters; flashlights; chargers; water purifiers; some sort of mini, foldable solar oven. A spare solar generator.

Invasions, Commies, civil war, or Rapture, he thought, Prep4Jesus had it all.

Including what he thought was an AR-15, or whatever the hell those whacked-out mass shooters loved, hanging on the wall next to a picture of Jesus.

He wandered like a boy in a toy store. And spotted the safe.

“Isn’t that a nice surprise?”

He wanted a shower, wanted to change, unpack, settle in. But tossed all that aside and began to hunt for the combination.

He did find a laundry space—an ancient washer, no dryer. A bathroom that would have to do, the single bedroom.

More pictures of Jesus, a tattered DON’T TREAD ON ME flag pinned to the wall.

In the closet, in a metal box with yet another padlock, he found papers. Old letters, copies of birth certificates, marriage license, the deed to the land he stood on, and the combination for the safe.

He went back, and since they’d bolted the safe to the floor, sat on the rough wood, followed the combination.

Inside he found cash. Smiling to himself, he sat there on the floor and began to count.

“Thirty-six thousand, three hundred and sixty-two dollars.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Jane, you dead whore, thanks for the tip!”

He got his shower, then dealt with his wound again. Put on fresh clothes.

Her towels were sandpaper, and a glance at her sheets said the same.

He’d make a trip into Two Springs—it was closest and nearly twice as big as Gabbs—buy new, Egyptian cotton. Some decent soap. With her money.

He tossed her clothes into the crate, and damned if he didn’t find more cash. Just a couple hundred hidden here and there, but cash was king.

Since all the work stirred his appetite, he got a nice, fat plum from her recent shopping spree.

The goat was bleating, the chickens cackling, the pair of pigs snorting. He’d enjoy the fresh eggs, but damn if he’d milk a goat even if he knew how. And he didn’t know how the fuck to butcher a pig.

Still, if the stupid animals starved to death, he’d have to deal with it.

To ward that off, at least for now, he went back to the shed, dug up the feed for the goat. He even pumped out water for its pail.

“I’m a frigging ranch hand, so I guess I’d better rustle up some grub.”

He found eggs, and plenty of them, and in a chest freezer pig meat, chickens that would no longer lay eggs. Rounds of bread marked with the dates.

Bitch made her own bread, for God’s sake.

He didn’t know how to cook any of the meat, but that’s what Google was for. Right now, he’d settle for eggs.

A hunt through her supplies netted him plenty of canned goods, and a couple of bottles of good whiskey.

He scrambled up some eggs, a little singed, but they filled the hole, had them with what remained of his bag of chips and two fingers of good whiskey.

While he ate, he made a list on his phone of what he needed when he went to Two Springs. Sheets, towels, soap, some good wine, cheese, flatbread crackers, more chips. Maybe some dip to go with them.

After dinner, he sat on the porch and realized, despite the burning arm, he felt relaxed for the first time in weeks. Weeks and weeks.

Part of it came from the kill. He’d felt just a little of that tingle, even though he’d killed her too hard, too fast. Like the eggs, it filled the hole.

And the rest? Knowing he had a place, had the time. They’d never find him here. Why would they even look? He was sun; they were rain.

They’d still be chasing their tails when he was ready to finish with long-legged Morgan.

That time would come.

But now? He thought he’d pour another whiskey and play with the toys Dead Jane had left him.

After all, he was now home sweet home.





Chapter Twenty-seven



Since Miles had his family meeting/dinner on Sunday, Morgan slept in on Sunday morning, then spent some time in the garden with her grandmother.

It amused her when she realized they both wore floppy-brimmed straw hats, sunglasses, shorts with big pockets, and battered high-tops.

“We look like a couple of hippie farmers, Gram.”

“I come by my look naturally. You’re just a copycat.”

Morgan tossed more deadheads in the bright purple tub. “Mom always looks like a model for something you’d call Gardening in Style Magazine. That skill missed me entirely. I didn’t know she was working today.”

“Darlie woke up with a stomach bug—which I figure is a euphemism for hangover. She’s a good girl, a good summer hire, and deserves to party now and then.”

“You and Mom are good bosses.” She swiped at some of the August sweat as she looked around. “You know, I’m never going to be satisfied with a tiny yard now. I’m thoroughly spoiled between playing here and at Miles’s house. Nina started it, and we really did make our little yard pretty. But now I’m going to want rock gardens and shade gardens and cutting gardens.”

“And Zen frog fountains.”

“Absolutely. Vermont winters are long, so I want every bloom and blossom I can squeeze in for spring and summer and right through the fall.”

“You’re staying.”

Surprised, Morgan glanced back. “Where would I go?”

“Anywhere you want, my baby’s baby. I can hope it’s here, but that’s for me and your mother. You didn’t have much choice coming here, but you’ve made the best of it. Now you’ve had half a year or so to settle in and get a feel, so staying’s a choice.”

“It is.” Hunkering down, Morgan tugged up a few stray weeds. “I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got here. You made that room for me, you and Mom, and I didn’t know what to do about that. Then I got the job at the resort. It’s not what I planned, all these years. Not my own place, but it’s my place.”

She shrugged, looked up. “I’ve had all these moments, with you, with Mom, at work, alone in this wonderful house. I’ve seen how you and Mom live together, as friends as much as family. And realize I blocked myself off from that because I had something to prove.”

“And did you? Prove it?”

“I did. What happened with Gavin Rozwell was all about him and really nothing about me. I worked hard, and I made a life because I wanted to, because I could. But I was missing this, Gram, this moment right now, because I was so determined to do it all myself, for myself. I was missing really knowing you, really knowing Mom, and that means missing really knowing me, doesn’t it?”

Smiling, Olivia reached down, gripped Morgan’s chin, gave it a gentle wiggle. “You get your good sense from me.”