Page 87 of Property of Bob

My eyes snapped back to him. Ashland looked entirely too pleased with himself. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

“I know.”

“I meant breakfast. Maybe coffee. Possibly seeing if Piney managed to get my RV running.”

“All after.”

“After what?”

“You tell me what happened at the campground.”

I sighed. There was clearly no easing into the morning with this man. “You’ve been awake for what? Ten minutes?”

“Long enough.”

“Maybe you should conserve your voice.”

“Talk.”

I stared at him. He stared right back.

“It’s probably nothing,” I said.

His expression didn’t change.

“Really,” I tried to convince him.

“Ramona.”

“What?”

“You drove three days to Skull Island in an RV that barely made it across the bridge because of probably nothing?” he asked.

“When you say it like that, it sounds dramatic.”

“It is dramatic.”

“I didn’t know my RV was going to die.”

“Not the important part.”

I sighed and pulled one leg onto the mattress so I could turn toward him. “I worked at a campground.”

“I know that part.”

“For six months.”

He nodded.

“I worked in the office. Reservations, payments, deposits, basic bookkeeping. Whatever needed to be done.”

“Clint said you were doing the books.”

“Some of them.”

Ash waited.

I picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “After I’d been there a few months, I started noticing things.”