The third makes it worse.
“They just bought the note on Miller’s,” the voice on the phone says.
“Through a secondary.”
“And the others?” I ask.
“Options,” he replies. “Quiet ones.”
I look down Main Street.
At the burned skeleton of the hardware store.
At the café across the street.
At the bakery where the windows are still fogged from fresh bread.
At the small town that believes the danger has passed.
“She’s not coming for people,” I murmur.
“She’s coming for ownership.”
I pull out my phone and call Saint.
He answers immediately.
“She’s here,” I say.
A pause.
“I know,” he replies quietly.
“I can feel it.”
“She just hasn’t shown her face yet.”
41
Laney
We only go into town because we need diapers.
And because the doctor insists sunlight will do both of us good.
Saint insists on coming.
He always does.
We park along Main Street.
The hardware store is still a blackened shell.
Charred beams.
Boarded windows.
Smoke stains climbing the brick like scars.
