“C’mon now. I don’t have all day. We have a lot of territory to cover,” the lady said, a metal watering can in her hand. She shot Allie a quick once-over and frowned. “And a lot of work to do on you.”
Allie had always wondered what it would be like to own new clothes. Instead, once or twice a year, her mother would come home with black lawn bags filled with clothes from the Salvation Army. They were always full of faded hand-me-downs that never fit quite right.
“I need you looking presentable if you’re going to live here with me,” the woman said. “You’re showing way too much skin for sixteen.”
“Says you. I like how I dress.”
“Well, you shouldn’t, so get up. You’ve been in bed for three days. I need you in the kitchen in an hour.”
Allie wasn’t sure how to feel about the old woman barking orders. She’d never had anyone tell her what to do or care what she did. She would have expected to be furious, but for some reason she wasn’t. She was only curious.
When she was younger, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to go several days without even seeing her mother. Allie would hang around the house, hoping to tag along with her brother as he went on with his days. On those rare occasions when she did get stuck at home with her mother, Allie would hole up quietly in her bedroom as strange men came and went, or she would walk the woods alone with one of her brother’s books in hand.
He’d had so many.
Toward the end of his life most of them had been true crime: books on Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, the Hillside Strangler, and more. It seemed as though he had some sick fascination with the way their minds worked. Either that or he was just trying to understand his own. Unlike her brother or mother, Allie had never had the desire to kill, and she hoped to God that she never would.
Allie studied Miss Bitty as she walked around the room watering the plants. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup, but she was still very beautiful for her age. Her thick gray hair was piled messily in a mound on top of her head, but it looked nice on her. Fitting. Her skin was smooth and her green eyes were bright and intense.
Her beauty is effortless. It’s so unfair.
Allie felt a twinge of jealousy. If only she could look that good without all her war paint, without all the effort and strategies, life would be much, much easier.
From what she’d witnessed so far—the clean, comfortable house, the good food, the confident way the woman carried herself—Miss Bitty really had her shit together. Allie had never met a woman like her before. She found her fascinating.
With a start, Allie realized that Miss Bitty was finished with the plants and was now staring back at her, her old, bright eyes twinkling. Most people found it insulting to be scrutinized so openly; this woman obviously didn’t. Allie narrowed her eyes. “I’ll go with you, but don’t think for a second that I trust you.”
The lady didn’t bat an eyelash. She actually looked amused. It made Allie uncomfortable, so she shot the old woman one of her fiercest looks.
“Be in the kitchen in one hour,” Miss Bitty repeated, and left the room.
CHAPTER 11
MISS BITTY STOOD at the center island of the kitchen, trying to shove certain memories to the back of her mind.
She kept many horrible secrets. Secrets that ate away at her on a daily basis. Secrets that had eventually forced her to assume a new identity and become a new person entirely.
In the early ’90s, her life took a devastating turn—and for a while she lost faith in God. She also lost all faith in herself and her values.
But a decade later she decided to turn her life around. She switched careers and became a wellness coach. She made sure that her home environment was in alignment with her health goals. She ate only high-nutrient foods to nourish her body and she was mindful about only thinking positive thoughts . . . although the negative had an insidious way of creeping in.
She practiced meditation, yoga, and energy work and was nothing but positive and helpful when interacting with others. She’d also been caring for foster children for almost sixteen years.
It was part of her repentance for all the devastation she’d once caused—and the only way she could manage to sleep at night.
Now she had three big projects to focus on. Three special callings. One of which, a little less than a year ago, required her to pack up her business and personal life and move from Southern California, where she was born and raised, to southern Louisiana: a place where people were far more likely to own an AR-15 assault rifle than a high-powered blender.
Her colleagues thought she’d lost her mind, but she’d managed to keep over 80 percent of her clients via phone sessions. On top of that, within months she found herself also overwhelmed with local clients through word of mouth alone. People were dealing with health issues everywhere, especially in places like Louisiana.
Now she stood in front of the big island in her kitchen, slicing a pineapple. Her newest traveling client was reading something on an iPad at the kitchen table.
She studied him.
Joe Hicks was a middle-aged, overweight businessman from Southern California. They’d known each other in California for years, so it hadn’t really surprised her when he called and asked for her help. He’d been in need of it for a long while. He just hadn’t known.
Miss Bitty wasn’t a personal fan of the man. He was known for shady business dealings in the California area and had been ostracized by much of the entertainment community, but she’d decided to take him on as a client anyway. Everyone deserved help, especially people who seemed as lost as he was.
Joe was going to be a tough client. She had already noticed that he liked to hide contraband in his room: cigarettes, candy bars, and soda pop. He was a sneaky one, that Joe.
But that was okay . . . she was sneakier.