Page 84

I’ve grown suspicious of everything and anything, so I go back to the window and look again. The man is facing forward now, hands in his pockets, no casserole.Not Noah.Probably not from the church, either.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Okay, I’m coming.” I take a minute and attempt to pat down my hair, straighten my disheveled clothing, but I’m a wreck inside and out.
He smiles when I open the door. “Hello. I’m Dennis Freeby. Are you Elizabeth?”
I nod.
He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a business card, passes it to me. “May I come in?”
I examine it, yet still hesitate. The house behind me is even worse than when I arrived. It’s a goddamn mess.
“I’ve tried calling. Left a few messages. I prepared your mother’s will and have a few things to go over with you. It won’t take too long, and then I’ll take my leave. Promise.” He smiles.
I’m still wary, but I sigh, open the door wider, and take a step back to let him in. It’s best I get this over with anyway. When I do leave Louisiana, I’m never coming back.
“Sorry for the mess,” I say. “I’ve been having a hard time lately.”
“Of course. I understand. Loss doesthat.” He peers around, and I clear off a seat covered by knickknacks at the kitchen table.
“Sorry. I’m sorting through things.”
He smiles as he sits. “No worries. You should see the piles in my office, and I don’t have an excuse.”
I take the seat opposite him and fold my hands to stop myself from fidgeting.
“So, like I said, your mother left a will, along with a few requests.”
“Requests?”
He unzips his leather briefcase and pulls out a file, flips it open, and extends a small stack of papers to me. “This is your copy of Ms. Davis’s last will and testament. You’re welcome to follow along, but I’ll list the main points.” He turns a page, settles glasses on the bridge of his nose, and begins. “Your mother left her house and car to Saint Matthew’s Church, but with specific instructions that you can use them as long as needed to grieve and clean them out.”
At least one thing in my life is reliable—my mother giving me work and leaving me with absolutely nothing in return. But that’s fine. I don’t want anything; the fewer ties to Minton Parish, the better. If I could wipe my memory clean of it all and move on, I would.
“Your mother would like any clothing in good condition donated to Christ House Thrift Shop.” He continues on, listing out the particulars of what my mother wanted after her death—people to contact, where other donations should be made, even how she would like her ashes handled. She wants them spread on a beach, the one we went to once that I have warm memories of. Memories I’d started to doubt were real. That makes my heart squeeze.
After another ten minutes, the attorney wraps up by reaching into his suit jacket and pulling out a sealed envelope. I eye it warily but extend my hand and acceptit.
“What’s this?”
“Your mother wanted me to give you this letter. I don’t know the contents. It’s just for you. She also asked me to urge you to go to confession.”
I snort-laugh. “Of course she did.”
To his credit, Mr. Freeby doesn’t react. Just gives me a polite smile, stands, thanks me for my time, and shows himself out.
I breathe a little easier once the door is locked and I’m alone again.
But his visit is a wake-up call. I take a long look around the house. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be here forever. And that’s the last thing I want. I need to get more organized. It’s time I pull my shit together. Hell, I may never know some answers—like who’s been sending the chapters. It could be it’s Noah, and he’s a very good liar, or someone else entirely. Either way, I need to let go, move on, and put the past behind me, even when others try to stop me from doing that.
I look down at the envelope still in my hand. There’s no time to start like the present. Whatever my mother had to say is the past, not my future. The last thing I need is to read a posthumous lecture on going to church and asking God for forgiveness for my sins—sins I don’t even think I committed anymore.
So I toss the envelope where it belongs: in the trash can.
CHAPTER
43
The following morning, I drag garbage cans from the garage to the end of the gravel driveway at 6 a.m. It’s still dark out, and low fog hovers just above the grass, giving the house an even more ominous feeling than usual. Headlights up the road catch my eyes, momentarily blinding me. It’s probably the garbage truck, and since there are still at least six bags to put out in addition to these metal drums that are missing lids, I hurry back up the driveway and grab two more. The rumble of the truck is close. When I’m halfway to the curb, it stops and idles. I look up and find it’s not the garbageman.