Page 65 of Slow Burn
The handwriting… close enough to his mama’s looping script. Too close. Made his gut turn.
“Cole?”
His daddy’s voice snapped his spine straight.
He shoved the note into his pocket and headed down. “Hey, Pop.”
The old man stood at the base of the stairs, sweat dripping, shirt damp. “What were you doing up there?”
His lie came easy as he made it to the bottom step. “Lookin’ for you.”
“Out for a walk,” Pop muttered, tugging his shirt.
“This time of day?”
“Best time. What’d you need?”
“Just grabbing the tables. Got it figured.”
John nodded, setting his hand on the bannister. “Your mama’ll be back from her scrapbook swap soon. Might want to wait. Say hi.”
That stopped him cold. “Scrapbook swap?”
His daddy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, bunch of ’em trade paper and stickers. Saves money, so I say what the hell? Just one more thing to get her out of the house.” He shrugged.
Book club. Scrap swap. Recipe circle. All the same crew, Cole knew. And half of them had complained about Jocelyn to his face. Edith Wetzel. Harriet Munson. Kiki Womack.
And Lydia Abbott, who hadn’t outright spoken against Jocelyn but had every reason to want her gone. Jocelyn had mentioned a comment—what was it? Some snide, backhanded thing. And that matched down to the ground with that torn piece of card stock. Not quite a threat but certainly no friendly warning.
The scrap could’ve come from any one of them.
Cole’s mind was already wandering down new avenues. “Well, gotta get those tables to the square. You goin’ tonight?”
John barely paused as he started up the stairs. “Depends on your mama. Dunno.”
“Alright. Later, Pop.”
“Son.”
He left his daddy at the stairs, chewing on things as he loaded up and drove to the square.
He parked half on the curb, knowing nobody in uniform would ticket him. Most of ’em had grown up with him or had dragged his sorry teenage ass home themselves. All of them knew he was solid now.
With tables unloaded, he set up where the dessert contest would run. The fire pit was ready in the center of the square, wood stacked high. Still too hot for it, but it would be a pretty sight.
“Speakin’ of pretty,” he muttered when Jocelyn’s car rolled in.
She pulled up behind his truck, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Didn’t matter—he felt it when her gaze landed on him, and he headed over.
“Hey, Darlin’,” he said, leaning against the car.
She smiled at him like the nickname amused her. “Hey.”
It warmed him to see she’d shaken the sadness from the other day. “Was wonderin’ where you’d been.”
Her attention shifted toward the road. “I was working.”
Wasn’t the whole story, but he didn’t need to pry. Not yet, anyway. Miz Lu’s words rang in his ears, and why not? It would give him the opportunity to dig later.
