Page 3 of A Heart So Haunted
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” My words were flat, even to my own ears. Sayer’s gaze flitted up to me, then back to his phone.
“Right.” He nodded to the floor. “I think she dropped something.”
I glanced at the entry rug. A little folded slip of paper lay half-open, like a duck bill, an inch from the doorframe. I bent down, dish balanced in one hand, and made a mental note to vacuum up the family of dust bunnies that were huddled by the baseboards later.
“What is it, a ransom note?Give me your house or I’ll get the historical society to revoke it from you?” he teased, brows scrunched.
“You watch too much true crime.”
“Blackmail and hiding a body are two completely different things.”
I unfolded the paper, expecting anotherOur condolences on your lossmessage. Instead, it read,Haven’t heard from you! But I found something! Let me know.
I frowned. “Sorry to report, but it’s not a threat.” I crumpled the paper and stuffed it in my pocket. “It was probably—”
A crash echoed from another room.
Both Sayer and I stopped breathing.
Upstairs, a set of heels paused. “Ms. Frederick?”
The realtor. At that moment, I wanted to lean against the closest wall, squeeze my eyes shut, and evaporate into thin air. Today wasn’t my day.
But todayhadto be the day she did a walk-through. Time was of the essence. And I had little enough patience as it was—with wills and deed transfers and debt payoffs running out of my ears, the last thing I needed to tack onto my list was hunting down another realtor.
Hence: The sooner the better.
Now, however, I regretted my past self’s choices.
Sayer and I stared at each other. I shook my head. Talking to anyone outside my clientele circle didn’t usually make my wrists sweat, but this woman intimidated me. “What do I say? Do you think she heard that?”
“Don’t look at me! I didn’t do anything.” He splayed both hands with wide eyes, phone face up. It did, in fact, have another realtor website pulled up.
“I didn’t either,” I whisper-hissed.
“Tell her something.”
My eyes widened. “Me? You brought her here.”
“You said you needed an experienced realtor to look at the place! My mom recommended her!”
I gestured with the casserole dish toward the stairs in a poor attempt to point, as if to say,Help me.
Sayer shook his head.
My mouth pursed. I narrowed my eyes, stepped closer, and whispered, “You owe me for this.”
“You said you need the house sold,” he said, forehead crinkled. “You oweme.”
I sighed. I inched closer to the bottom of the mahogany stairs. “Yes?” I called.
I didn’t remember the woman’s name. It was something elegant with multiple syllables that started with an E—Evanescence or Evangelina, maybe—but I had as much experience handling a realtor as I did with roofing. My clients dealt with the realtors; I dealt with the paint colors and fixtures and anything not requiring a permit.
“What was that? I thought you said there was no road noise,” she called down. Her words sounded nasally and traveled from the left side of the second-floor landing. I tried not to picture her in Aunt Cadence’s room or one of the multiple guest rooms, examining my aunt’s things, trying to get an idea of the square footage of the house and what might look marketable.
“Sayer closed a door, no worries!” I swallowed around a sandy lump in my throat.
Without a response, her steps faded away. Farther into the second floor. Deeper, peeling away at my childhood memories, marking floorboards and rooms with a price.
