Page 99 of Book and Ladder
My fingers tighten on the book. I’m tempted to wave it over my head. But no—I told him where I’d be. He’ll come.
Still, my eyes keep searching—landing on the carousel horses with chipped paint, the Ferris wheel, groaning as it turns. Every shadow, every movement sparks hope that fizzles into nothing.
The Tennessee hills wrap around me like a cocoon, but myheart still pounds against my rib cage, a mix of anxiety and anticipation thrumming through me.
On the bandstand, fiddlers tune their instruments, sharp notes cutting through the festival noise.
I glance up at the wooden arch over the corn maze entrance. A pack of teens barrels past me, laughter spilling out behind them as they disappear into the stalks.
Winona approaches me. “Are you the keeper of the cornfield?”
“No.” A note of disappointment seeps into my clipped response.
“Then come enjoy the festival.” Her face is etched with concern.
“I need to stay here.”
“And read?” Winona eyes the book in my hand with skepticism.
I release a heavy sigh.
“You’re not very good at keeping secrets,” I say, thoughtlessly.
Her head rears back slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I backpedal. “It’s just … I’ve got something going on. Something big …”
She crosses her heart like she used to do in elementary school. Then she pretends to stick a needle in her eye. “Hope to die,” she says softly. “I’ll keep your secret, Daisy. I know I get overly excited. It’s just how I am. But if you want me to keep something private, I’ll take it to my grave.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.”
“Did you get mixed up with the mob?” Her face is dead serious.
“In Waterford?” I laugh despite the cloud of unease that’s settled around me the longer I’ve stood here waiting for BTTP to show.
“Maybe.” The sincerity in her tone makes me smile. “It’spossible you took out a hit on Mr. O’Connell. And I mostly wouldn’t blame you. Murder’s probably extreme, but I get it.”
“Probably?” I laugh again. “I’m not having Mr. O’Connell killed. For Pete’s sake, Winona.”
“Well?” She stands there, daring me to trust her.
I clamp my lips shut. The last thing I need is Winona broadcasting my secret throughout Waterford before sundown. But her expectant silence is louder than the festival surrounding us.
Our eyes lock. And that’s all it takes for me to blurt, “There’s this podcast …”
“A true crime podcast?”
“No crime. Okay. No one committed a crime and no one is about to.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a bookish podcast.Burning Through the Pages.”
“I’ve listened to it. I love that guy.”
An unexpected rush of jealousy flashes through me. I should not want to strangle my best friend for liking a podcast host she doesn’t even know.
“He’s pretty amazing,” I agree. “Anyway, a while back, I sent him an email telling him how much I enjoyed the show.”
