“Do that. And Adams—don’t overplay it. Just ask questions.”
“Wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.”
“Liar,” he said, and hung up.
The drive into Everwood took twenty minutes. White-tailed deer lifted their heads from the ditch as I passed, ears twitching, tails flashing white. The sky flirted with blue but couldn’t hold it.
Carl’s Hardware was already open, its windows bright against a mostly dark street. The bell over the door jingled when I stepped in, heat wrapping around me like a handshake. The place smelled of dust, pine, and machine oil—comforting in a rough-cut way.
Carl looked up from the counter, pencil behind his ear. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite security nut.”
“Morning, Carl. You got a minute?”
“For you, maybe two or three. What’re we hunting today—locks, nails, or trouble?”
“Paper trail.” I set my phone on the counter, photo open. “Recognize this?”
He squinted. “Old pad. Haven’t used that logo since spring.” He ducked under the counter. “I keep a few around just to mess with my accountant.” He came back with a fat bundle of carbon copies bound by a rubber band. The stove crackled behind us; dust motes drifted through the warm air. He flipped pages with the care of a man turning memories.
“Here—late August. Cash sale. Tape, sealer, a couple of bits. Buyer told me the name Thomas when I asked for bookkeeping. My handwriting, not his.”
“Harold?”
Carl nodded slowly. “Yeah. Penny’s brother. Didn’t know he was an issue yet. Haven’t seen him in years. He looked rough—jumpy eyes, thin as a post. Hollow does that to people. Bought fast, didn’t talk much. You think he’s the one making trouble?”
“I’m starting to.”
He tore off the yellow duplicate and handed it over. “You keep that. I’ll hang on to the original.”
“Appreciate it.”
Carl leaned on the counter, his voice dropping. “Be careful, son. Penny used to say she was done feeding the Hollow wolves. Looks like they’re hungry again. If Harold’s stirring ghosts, they’ll come looking for a place to haunt.”
I nodded, the phrase digging in deep. “Thanks, Carl.”
“Anytime. And Austin, watch your six.” He waved me off, but his eyes followed me until the door shut.
Outside, the sun had broken through, throwing gold across Main Street. I crossed to the post office, the paper crackling in my jacket pocket.
Inside, it smelled of old paper and dust. Agnes looked up from her desk. “Morning, Austin. Picking up for Doc Thomas?”
“Yeah. And wanted to thank you for holding our mail. Saves us some headaches.”
She smiled, stacking the envelopes into two piles. “Oh, it’s no bother. Though, funny thing—about two weeks ago, a woman came asking if any of Penny Thomas’s mail ever got forwarded here. Old stuff. Legal-looking. Said it was family business.”
“She leave a name?”
“Nope. Just said she was ‘handling outstanding family matters.’ Wore a long gray coat, city type. Had one of those leather, legal-looking notebooks.”
“Accent?”
“Not from here. Eastern maybe. Polite, though. Said she might check back before the snow hits.”
I forced my voice steady. “If she does, call me or Sheriff Palmer.”
“Already on my sticky note,” she said with a wink, tapping a pink sticky note shaped like a heart.
I thanked her and stepped into the sunlight, a contrast to the crisp air making its way under my collar. In my pocket, the carbon copy and Palmer’s warning pressed together like puzzle pieces waiting for a fit.
