Page 35 of Call Back

“Because nearly every person who’s been murdered in Franklin in the past four weeks had some connection to me.”

“He thinks you’re the murderer?”

“No. The opposite. He’s worried I’ll be murdered next.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “And do you think you’ll be targeted next?”

“No,” I said, holding her gaze. No, my stalker seemed content to continue toying with me.

“Then why are we wasting our time standing here talking about it? Have you finished mopping the floor?”

My face flushed with irritation over being treated like a five-year-old, but it was better than the shock and guilt I felt over Emily’s death. I’d take any distraction I could. “No, ma’am.”

“Then get busy. I still have another job for you to do.”

I spent the next half hour mopping her floors, making sure I didn’t leave any streaks, but all that alone time with my thoughts had made me an emotional mess. I kept swiping at tears as I worked, and Ava’s looks of irritation told me that she probably thought I was weak. Some poor frightened woman scared for her life. While she was partially right, I was more worried about the people around me. What was the best way to protect them?

When I declared my job completed, Ava examined my work, acting like someone had stuck a bumblebee up her butt. She crossed her arms and tilted her head. “I think I see a streak by the settee next to the fireplace.”

“I’ll take care of it.” I didn’t see it, nor was I convinced it existed, but I also didn’t feel like arguing with her.

She pursed her lips. “No. Come upstairs. Your next job is in the attic.”

I followed her up the main staircase, then up another narrow staircase to her musty attic. Flimsy boxes had been spread out everywhere, a few with their lids removed, revealing stacks of papers and newspaper clippings.

She waved her arm around the room. “This has become a fire hazard, but the task is overwhelming. You’re going to help me sort through it all.”

There had to be over a hundred boxes stacked around the attic. The sight of them instilled me with a powerful urge to spin around and run, but for some reason my stubbornness kicked in. I would do this, if for no other reason than to prove to Ava Milton that she couldn’t scare me away. “So where do we start?”

“We?” she asked in a condescending tone. “Do you have a mouse in your pocket? I will not be helping. This will be your project.”

“Okay . . .” I tried to keep my voice cheerful, refusing to give her more evidence that I was weak. “Just tell me what you’d like me to do. Throw them out?”

“Good heavens, no. I need you to sort through them and figure out what needs to be kept and what needs to be disposed of.”

My mouth dropped open. “Miss Ava, how will I know what you want to keep and destroy?”

“Use the sense in your head that God gave you, Magnolia Steele,” she said as she picked out a box that didn’t look as old as some of the ones in the back of the attic. When she saw the look of worry on my face, she sighed. “Sort them into piles, and I’ll check on you in an hour to find out how you’re doing.”

“Okay.”

She set the box down in the single empty patch on the rickety wood floor. “You can work there.” With that, she was gone.

I took the box and moved to the edge of the space, thankful I’d worn yoga pants. There had to be twenty years’ worth of dust caked over everything. I was going to have to change before I met Momma for lunch, but I couldn’t do it in my apartment. Maybe Ava would let me change in her powder room. I could use my broken front door as an excuse—I sure wasn’t telling her about the cameras hidden all around the apartment.

And I still hadn’t told Ava I was leaving early.

But I also realized I needed to warn Belinda that she might be next on the killer’s list. I couldn’t stop thinking about that photograph of Belinda he’d sent me. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure Ava was really gone, I called Belinda instead of texting.

“Magnolia,” she said in a warm voice. “I was just thinking about you.”

“You were?” I asked in surprise.

“I really enjoyed our breakfast this morning. We should try to get together more frequently.”

We’d shared at least three meals a week since my move back to Franklin. If circumstances had been different, I might have thought she was clingy, but I suspected something else was up. “That would be great,” I said.

“Mr. James,” Belinda said, her voice muffled. “Could you give me a moment to talk to my sister-in-law?”

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