Page 27 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

“All right, I have a question.” He held up a hand to stop her as he continued with a wry grin, “What in the hell is chicken bog? I’m not gonna lie. The name does not make it sound appealing.”

His good-natured teasing caught her so off guard she burst out laughing. A much-needed tension release for the pressure cooker of the past few days.

Finally, she quieted and caught her breath. “You’ve been here for months and you don’t know what chicken bog is? Not very observant, are you.”

His grin kicked up higher on one side, pushing a dimple into his tanned cheek. “I guess you’ll have to teach me—”

Skeeter cut the rest of his answer short, leaping up onto all fours and barking his fool head off. The hackles along his spine rose, and he took off running for the front door, ears flapping.

Bailey Rae gripped Martin’s arm. “He only barks at strangers.”

Martin’s shoulders braced, like a soldier on alert, poised for action. “Stay here. Bolt the lock. Call the police.”

He charged across the living room and grabbed his cap. Skeeter raced past her to catch up. The dog threaded the narrow space between Martin and the doorframe before leaping off the porch. The door slammed closed behind them.

She wanted to argue that she wasn’t completely defenseless, but he’d already disappeared into the dark and she really should call 9-1-1. Except once she did the line rang and rang, only to throw her on hold. The department was small and understaffed, with a high turnover as people either quit or moved to a bigger city with better pay.

The recording assured her that if she had to hang up, her number would stay on file and the first available operator would respond. She ground her teeth and peeked out the windowpane, watching the bobbing illumination from Martin’s flashlight move farther away.

Then swing around and bobble closer again.

She yanked open the door, cell still clutched in her hand with the inane recording cycling through for the fourth time. “What did you find?”

“Some tire tracks,” he said, his tone tight with frustration, “but whoever it was is long gone.”

The light flipped on inside the Airstream a moment before the door swung wide. Keith poked his head out, his hair sticking up. He jogged down the two steps, shirttails loose. “What’s going on?”

“We heard a noise outside, and Skeeter about lost his mind over whatever it was.”Breathe in the flowers. Blow out the candles. Breathe in the swamp fumes. Blow away the mosquitoes.“Martin found some tracks ...”

Keith scratched a hand along his neck. “Could be a deer ... or one of those wild pigs.”

Martin shook his head, aiming the flashlight beam past the sprawling oaks and toward the path leading into the pines. “Those tracks weren’t made by an animal.”

Bailey Rae walked alongside Martin, with Keith trailing them until she was close enough to see outlines in the soft earth. Footprints, one set of which appeared to be made by work boots, disappeared into the dense pine woods.

Night sounds mocked her overhead—yes, just birds and bugs, but their high pitch jarred the senses—joined by the sound of an engine cranking. Not a car. But the machinery was distinguishable all the same. A four-wheeler. The engine caught and revved, then grew softer as someone drove it farther and farther away in the direction of the river.

Keith cursed softly under his breath. “Whoever it was appears to have left.”

For now.

The unspoken two words hung in the air like mosquitoes making their presence known one bloodsucking bite at a time. In the silence that followed, Skeeter returned, panting heavily but calmer now that he’d chased off whoever had been lurking outside.

Martin adjusted his hat. “The best we can do is sit tight and wait for the police to come out so we can file a report.”

Like the reports that had been so beneficial to Gia and Cricket in the past? His words didn’t bring any more reassurance than the recorded message droning through Bailey Rae’s cell phone. And now she had two people depending on her to find answers in her short time remaining in Bent Oak.

Chapter Eight

1978

In many ways, Alabama and South Carolina were like identical twin sisters, making it easier to slide into life here in Bent Oak. Almost too much so, in ways that could lead to complacency. Over the years, I forced myself to concentrate on the differences. Mardi Gras was a big deal in Alabama. Not so much in South Carolina.

And of course, there was the coastline. Alabama only had that tiny portion around Mobile, which made my city a sort of Mecca for the region. Yes, a person could hop across the border to Florida and enjoy their sunny beaches. But that snippet of the Gulf Coast? It belonged to the people of Alabama in a way that made Mobile special. South Carolinians loved their beaches as well, but with so many more coastal miles, they didn’t treasure it the same way I did.

My father doubled his family portfolio by recognizing the worth of the Florida Panhandle’s coast so close to Mobile. He invested. Big.

Growing up with such wealth, I never imagined the satisfaction I would gain from opening my own stall at the farmers’ market to supplement my income at the paper mill. I certainly never imagined working two jobs. But I was proud of my booth, with the checkered cloth on my table rippling in the sultry breeze.

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