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Her brows shot up, delighted. “A job?”

“Yeah, I need money. And something to do besides wander around thinking dark thoughts and contemplating my dramatic collapse into small-town madness.”

Hattie beamed before clapping her hands. “Excellent. Let’s get you gainfully employed before you start haunting the sidewalks.”

“It will probably be hard to find one,” I muttered. “Since I only need it for a month.”

“Of course, dear,” Hattie said, in the indulgent tone of someone humoring me. “We could see if Dot needs a waitress,” she mused, consulting the schedule. “But people get territorial about their coffee refills. And there was that one time with the syrup and the squirrel.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Rightfully so.” She tapped the page. “Oh! You’d make a great tour guide for the Serial Killer Church Walk. You have a sad voice. That sells tickets.”

“That’s not the compliment you think it is,” I told her. “But also, I’m not sure I want to say things like ‘this is where the Blackwood Butcher hid his third wife’ for money.”

“Second wife,” she corrected. “The third one was in the grain silo. But fair, it’s not for everyone.” She flipped the page, nodding. “How do you feel about bingo?”

“Morally neutral.”

“Mayor Barrett needs a junior bingo caller on Thursdays,” she said. “Sometimes the old ladies throw their daubers. It’s a great way to build reflexes.”

“Hmm. Pelted with plastic by septuagenarians.”

“Could be fun,” she said. “Last week Daphne clocked the youth pastor. He still has the mark.”

I sank back into the rickety chair, holding my tea with both hands like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. “Those are…options.”

“We’re not done!” she said brightly. “There’s also the Historical Society. You could be an assistant archivist.”

“Archivist?” I repeated.

“It’s filing cabinets,” she admitted. “And a shoebox of Polaroids. But it’s a very important shoebox.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Is there anything normal? Like retail? Or a coffee shop? Maybe I could sell overpriced magnets to tourists who think they’re edgy for buying Serial Killer Museum merch?”

“That’s Peggy’s territory,” Hattie said. “She runs the museum gift shop with an iron fist and a barcode scanner. She’d eat you alive.”

I sighed. This was going to be harder than I thought.

Hattie set her laminated schedule down and looked at me for a long moment, her smile softening around the edges.

“Listen,” she said gently. “I know this is probably nothing like what you had in Boston. And I’m not saying you need to build a whole life here. But you asked for a job, and you deserve one that makes you feel like an important member of Blackwood society and not just…the poor soul who lost a duel with our steer.”

Heat flushed up my neck. “No one is ever going to forget that, are they?”

“Honey,” she said. “This town still talks about the time Reverend Dempsey slipped on ice in ’02 and said ‘shit’ into a hot mic. You launching Big Hank into the stratosphere is going to be in our grandchildren’s history curriculum.”

I groaned. “Attention is literally the last thing I was looking for on this road trip.”

“You say that,” Hattie replied. “But really, you just hate being seen. And with a face like yours? People are going to look, honey. Boston, Blackwood, or the moon. Might as well get paid while you endure it.”

I wasn’t sure about that, but there were worse things than being paid to endure people looking at me.

I knew that firsthand.

“I’ll…keep looking,” I said finally. “See what’s out there.”

Hattie’s face lit up. “Atta girl. I knew you had some fight in you. You’ve got that walk.”