Page 127

So I call Clarissa. The Sprite answers on the second ring.

“If this is about Belinda, I know nothing. But yes, she's still mad at you. And yes, she cried all day.”

“She cried? Fuck. I know she’s mad.”

“Good. It’s your fault, loser,” she snaps.

“Wait! Clarissa, I need your help.”

Silence.

Then—she sighs.

“How much help?”

“As much as I can get done without her throwing me off the property.”

“Ohhh.”

I can practically hear her wings flutter.

“What are we doing?”

“Anything she needs. Everything I can.”

Then the Sprite starts laughing. And she promises to text me Belinda’s things-to-do-sometime-this-century list.

She does.

And it is long.

I start with the cobblestones.

The path leading from the front gate to Bell's Books, Bed & Breakfast is beautiful. It's also old as fuck.

Half the stones are cracked, three are missing, and one near the garden is raised high enough to kill an unsuspecting honeymooner.

I don't hire someone. I fix them myself.

Clarissa supervises. Loudly.

“A little to the left.”

I shift the stone.

“Your other left.”

“There is only one fucking left.”

“No, there isn't.”

I stare at her. She grins.

Belinda watches us from the porch. She doesn't speak to me. But she also doesn't tell me to leave.

Progress.

Next comes the bats in the belfry.