Page 18 of Ardently Yours

Sincerely, Charlotte I-Don’t-Look-Good-In-Orange Miller

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November 9, 1996 (Same Day)

Dear Charlotte,

I’m on my way. The drive is five and a half hours. I assume you’re referring to the theater located near the Rosalind Estate. If you’re able, please meet me there at 4:30 p.m.

In the future, never put anything in an email that you wouldn’t be comfortable hearing read aloud in a court of law.

Arden

Whatta Man

Charlotte

November 9, 1996

Ipull into thegravel parking lot of the old barn theater located at the edge of the Rosalind Estate, shift my blue Ford Escort into Park, and take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

I put myself into this situation, and now Arden is going to be hereinpersonto, hopefully, deal with it.

As my legal counsel, he’ll probably ask me to go over every single detail ad nauseum. The thought of looking into the man’s eyes and explaining everything out loud makes me want to vomit. I need to focus on the demolition, not the body in the basement.

If I end up having to tell him about Polford, there’s no going back. Will he make me turn myself in, then sort it out in the courts? Somehow, I suspect that’s exactly what he’d do.

By next week, RealFreedom will have razed the building, and Bronnie will grow up without either one of her parents.

The Rosalind Theater should have stood as an untouched landmark for at least a hundred years, not been on the radar for “property development.”

Of all the things that Sheriff Marsh could use to put me back on his “list,” chaining myself to this building or putting sugar in some gas tanks has to be the least likely, and dumbest, thing I could possibly have dreamed up.

But if we don’t get this demo off the table, one way or the other, Rochelle and I are both going to end up in handcuffs.

It’s been nearly two years since I met Arden at the funeral, and the man in my memory doesn’t match the person I’ve gotten to know online. I hoped he’d help me come up with some ideas. I didn’t expect him to drive straight here.

His last email sounded like Scary Funeral Arden, not my Email Arden.

When a black Cadillac, windows tinted darker than I’ve seen on any car, pulls in beside my vehicle, I force myself to open my door and step into the blustery November wind.

A man with olive-toned skin wearing a black suit, an earpiece coiled in his ear, emerges from the driver’s side. Dark-haired, stocky but fit, he walks around the hood toward me.

I glance around in confusion. Arden’s email didn’t say anything about sending someone else.

Another Cadillac pulls into the lot, a perfect match for the first. Another driver, a Black man with sharp eyes and an earpiece emerges. He scans the lot and building, then immediately sets off in the general direction of the theater.

A different kind of nervousness twangs inside me, and I take a step backward.Who are these people?

The first man gives me a smile. “My name is Reese, Ms. Miller. I work for Mr. McRae. Nice to meet you.”

I lift my hand in a weak wave. “Hi.”

Reese raises two fingers to his earpiece, then opens the back door of the first car.

Arden unfolds from the backseat.

For long seconds, all I can do is gawk as he emerges.

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