Page 57 of The Haunting of Paynes Hollow
“Yes,” I say. “So let’s drop this.”
“Thank you,” Ms. Jimenez says. “Also, I must point out that if you did obtain an exception, it would only be under extreme circumstances, and even then, it would be heavily scrutinized. Not by me. I am not your enemy, Sam, however much it might feel like it right now. What I’m doing is interpreting the will for you in the strictest sense, to keep your uncle—or other relatives—from challenging it. But they will challenge any exception, so that is a last resort.”
I thank the lawyer and go into my bedroom, where I resume thesame position I’d had on the couch, sitting up with my knees pulled in, my chin on them.
After about twenty minutes, Sheriff Smits knocks. Even making the effort of speech is really too much, but I don’t want to be mistaken for rude or ungrateful, so I say, “Come in.”
He opens the door only a crack. “Just letting you know I’m leaving to continue the search. We’ll be taking boats out further down and coming back along the lake. Josie will stay here.”
I straighten my legs. “I’ll be fine. You need her searching. I can help, too.”
“We’re going to have you two search the property.”
I swallow. “Right. I can’t leave. But Josie should—”
“She should stay here to help, and in case Gail comes back.”
“Right. Okay.”
He says he’ll be in touch and starts to close the door before stopping. “Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“Don’t give up hope. We have no idea what’s happened here.”
“Okay.” I pause, and then add, “Thank you, sir.”
“Craig. Call me Craig.”
“Thank you.”
Josie and I spend the rest of the day searching the property. My gut says it’s pointless, but I can’t stop, even when she suggests I take a break.
Ben is long gone. Took off as soon as Sheriff Smits forgot about him, I’m sure, and I don’t blame him. This isn’t his responsibility.
Mrs. Smits drops off dinner. We don’t see her—we just go inside to find a cooler and reheating instructions. After we eat, I’d planned to resume searching, but all my drive has vanished, and I just want to curl up in my bed again.
“You should head home,” I say to Josie. “I’m just going to sleep.”
“Then I’ll stay here while you do.”
“You don’t need—”
“We don’t know what happened to your aunt,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Hopefully nothing, but you did see an intruder.”
I slump into the sofa. “I’m not even sure about that anymore. I was, but…” I trail off and shrug. “Who knows.”
“If you want to sleep, do that. If you want to do anything else—play cards, dig up a board game, talk—we’ll do that. Failing everything else, there’s always the treasure hunt in your grandfather’s crawl space.” She stops and winces. “And that was insensitive, wasn’t it? Sorry. I’m just trying to come up with a distraction.”
“That would actually be a good one.” I look at her. “Are you up for it?”
“I think that’s my question. If you are, I am.”
“I am.”
Seventeen
We have Josie’s cop flashlight, which is ridiculously heavy with an equally ridiculously strong beam. My best flashlight from the house looks like a candle flame beside it. I also take a couple of old beach towels, and she raises her brows at that, but high-fives me when I spread them over the windowsill with its slivers and bits of broken glass.
