Page 11 of The Dead Come to Stay

It still wasn’t bacon, in Jo’s opinion. And it didn’t compare with Tula’s sausage rolls. But it was hard not to enjoy something warm

and buttery, especially when you were walking on your own through damp, open country.

Jo parted with Gwilym at the branch between Upper and Lower Lane; he was headed back to the Red Lion—she just wanted to put

her feet up at home. The first time she’d taken the right to roam train from cottage to town, it seemed endlessly long. Now

she did it regularly, sometimes once a week in the warmer months. Lone walks gave her brain a chance to unspool—no conversation

to keep up with, no one asking for explanations. Just her own thoughts. And a bacon butty, which would have benefited from

fresher bread.

The disappearing hiker had been walking alone, too. Nothing strange about that, though mostly the hill hikers came in pairs

or groups. The Pennines could be surprisingly tricky.

One hill looked a lot like the next hill, cell service was spotty, fog rolling in unexpectedly.

People did get lost. A woman and her dog got lost on the peak of Ingleborough in the late fall; freezing weather moved in, and a rescue team had to track them down.

Then there was the runner who fell; they didn’t find him until it was too late.

Granted, Abington hugged a corner in the southeast, where the geography happened to be a lot more

forgiving.

Still, watching a hiker disappear almost before your eyes...

Jo stopped walking and spit out a bit of unchewable back-bacon fat. That more or less ruined the experience. She rewrapped

the sandwich in the least-greasy bit of paper and shoved it into a pocket. The wind had picked up a bit; it smelled fresh

and green. A friendly sign stood prominently near the road proclaiming Jekyll Gardens. She wasn’t far from home now. And there

was that word again.

Home . Jo rolled it around in her mouth, repeated it and held the last mmm until her lips tickled.

Dwelling, domicile, residence, room ..

. even house just didn’t have the same feeling.

And that was it; home felt like something, didn’t it?

Her nose twitched and she rubbed it absently. Where did she feel at home?

She picked up her pace, hurrying up the lane until she could see the trees that backed Netherleigh Cottage and catch the first

glimpse of the chimney. There, in the stomach, she felt the tug. When had that begun? It had been the scene of one murder

and was the last place Ronan Foley ever stayed the night ( if he stayed the night). But for Jo, it was definitely home. She was practically running now, fast as she could in rubber boots

on slippery grass. Her hearth, her little reading nook, her books and books and books—

Buzz buzz.

And her cell phone signal. Back from the dead zone, she would have catching up to do. Gwilym telling her he’d got back, and

what Tula made for Sunday dinner, probably. She unlocked the dead bolt and dropped the keys in the dish by the door. The bacon

butty went into the garbage; the cell phone she scooped out of her jeans pocket while slipping out of her raincoat.

It wasn’t Gwilym. An email had arrived. Jo opened the app, one arm still ensleeved. Sender: “Arthur Alston . ” Subject: “Are you the niece of Aiden Jones?”

Jo stopped breathing for twenty-three seconds, the time it took for the message to load.

Dear Ms. Jones,

I read about you and the gardens in the Newcastle Times. I apologize for dropping you a line out of the blue, but I knew Aiden

Jones very well. I would like to meet you. If ever you’re in town, I’m at Loft 8, Hadrian Hall, Quayside, in Newcastle.

Yours sincerely,

Arthur

Jo put her coat back on. She also checked the train app.

Dear Arthur, she wrote. I’ll be there in one hour and forty-seven minutes. Which gave her exactly three minutes to pack and eleven to drive to Abington Station. She charged the ticket fare on her way

out the door.