Page 2 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
Until Harris Payne murdered a thirteen-year-old boy and was caught red-handed—literally—by his own daughter.
That’s how the story goes.
But is it the truth?
I don’t doubt young Samantha Payne saw something that day, but I believe, in that shadowy place, where nothing is what it seems, what she really witnessed wasn’t her father, but the Grim Reaper of Paynes Hollow.
My shaking finger jabs the X to close the tab and keeps jabbing long after it’s gone.
I know what I saw. I wish to God I could say otherwise, but I can’t.
I take a deep breath. This is why my grandfather exiled Mom and me from his life. Because he believed there was another explanation. Our father wasn’t the monster. We were, for thinking Dad could do that.
The last time I saw my grandfather, I’d been sixteen. He’d invited me to visit, and Mom wanted to seize the olive branch. I’d endured a week of my grandfather trying to convince me that I was wrong about Dad, until I broke down, shouting at him, my voice raw.
“Do you think Iwantto believe he did that? Do you think I wouldn’t giveeverythingto be wrong? I loved my father. Iadoredmy father. If I had any chance of getting him back—even just getting back the good memories—don’t you think I’d jump on it?”
I sit on the bed, fists clenched. When my phone buzzes, I almost pitch it aside, as if it’s my grandfather reaching out from the beyond. Then I see the text.
Gail: Pick you up in an hour? Grab a fortifying breakfast before the service?
The thought of breakfast sets my stomach roiling.
Gail: And by “fortifying” I mean so leisurely that, whoops, looks like we’ll barely make it to the service on time
I have to smile at that.
Sam: Sounds good. See you in an hour.
Gail zips into the funeral-home lot and snags the last spot reserved for family. We jump out, and we’re moving fast when a couple catches up. They look familiar, but I can’t place them in any context related to my grandfather.
The man is in his fifties, rawboned and angular with silvering blondhair and a tanned face. He reminds me of a cowboy, and that nudges a memory, as if I’ve thought it before.
His wife is about the same age, with close-cropped curls, smooth dark skin, and wide-set brown eyes that radiate kindness.
I’ve thought that before, too.
“You probably don’t remember us,” the woman says, extending a hand and a tentative smile. “Liz Smits. This is my husband, Craig.”
“Oh!” I shake her hand. “Mrs. Smits. Sheriff Smits. From Paynes Hollow. Of course.”
“I was hoping to see your mother again,” Mrs. Smits says. “It’s been far too long.”
“Uh, yes. She… isn’t well.” I swallow. “Dementia. She’s in a home.”
She blinks. “Already? I know she has early-onset dementia but.…”
An awkward silence, broken as a young woman hurries up, her heels clicking. “Found it.” She passes the older woman a pack of tissues. Then she looks at me. “Sam?”
When I hesitate, she thrusts out her hand. “Josie Smits. I was that tagalong brat always following you and the other summer kids.”
“Josie. Right. Of course.”
I do remember Josie, not as a brat but as an adorable little girl who’d done her damnedest to keep up with the big kids. It just takes a moment to reconcile that little girl with the woman in front of me, tall and willowy, light brown skin, her short hair styled in a gorgeous twist-out.
I quickly introduce Gail, who shakes hands and murmurs, “We really do need to get inside, Sam.”
“Right. Yes. We’re already running late.”
