Page 36 of Call Back

His voice was faint in the background. “Of course. Tell her I’m waiting for her call.”

“Will do,” Belinda said. Several seconds passed before she spoke into the receiver again, and when she did, her voice was much quieter. “Magnolia, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. In fact, I was calling to check on you.”

“Me?” she asked in surprise. “Whatever for?”

“Belinda, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Emily Johnson is dead.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“What? How?”

“It doesn’t matter. Your safety is what matters.”

“Why would you think I’m unsafe?”

She hesitated. “Because Emily was your attorney, and people around you are dying,” she gushed out. “It makes me nervous for you.”

Why did she sound so flustered?

“I’m fine. I’m at Ava Milton’s house, which is probably safer than being locked up at the South Pole. I’m more worried about you.” I decided to borrow her own reasoning. “If people around me are dying, then you’re at risk.”

“Me? I’m fine. Please don’t worry about me.”

Why did she sound so certain? Now I was being totally paranoid. Most people never thought they’d become a killer’s target. After all, a regular person had a greater chance of getting struck by lightning or getting killed falling out of bed.

“I’m sorry, Magnolia, but I have to get back to this meeting. Can we talk later?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Be careful,” she said. Then she hung up.

When had Belinda started taking meetings with Bill James?

But if Brady had warned me to stay away from Bill James, should I be worried about my sister-in-law? Or was she safe because she was married to Roy?

I needed to get back on task.

Releasing a massive sigh, I lifted the lid off the box and took out the first piece of paper, a newspaper article about the opening of a strip mall on Highway 96. The article was dated twenty years before. Why in heaven’s name would she need to keep a newspaper clipping about a strip mall? I set it to the side, my new discard pile.

I shuffled through multiple clippings about society events before dropping them all into the discard pile. A photo caught my eye, and I retrieved the page and took a closer look. While it was a picture of a Franklin doctor and his wife at a heart disease fundraiser, the photographer had captured a clear image of my father behind them, talking to a man I didn’t recognize. I set the paper down next to me, the lone keep item so far.

I continued sorting through the clippings, scanning the photos more carefully. There were several other photos with my father in the background. But I’d started looking for other familiar faces too—and found them. There were several shots of Walter Frey and Steve Morrissey. I even found a photo of Steve and his first wife, the woman he’d left to marry Shannon. I was halfway through the box when I realized I was piecing together my father’s life twenty years ago—when he had been part of the Jackson Project. There wasn’t any mention of the land scheme. Instead, with the exception of the occasional article about a store opening, most of the clippings covered the social scene in Franklin and Nashville. But I could see a pattern. My father had attended every major fundraiser the year I turned eight.

And so had Bill James.

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