Free Deadly Patterns by Melissa Bourbon

what Hattie was thinking. It would be the same thing half of Bliss would ponder when they found out I was at the scene of another death. Either I was cursed . . . or I was involved.
    Maybe both.
    There was nothing to do but pretend I didn’t see the doubt and suspicion on her face. “Hattie,” I said, “are you sure Arnie tightened the bolts?” Maybe it was an accident after all.
    She nodded. “Positive.” Her forehead puckered. “We came to do a few last-minute chores the other night. I—I came up to the widow’s walk to look at the Christmas lights. It’s got a great view of the square. The railing was a little loose, so I called him up there. He tightened them right in front of me, said they’d hold till he could switch ’em out, and that was it!”
    After a few seconds, Raylene raised her gaze to me. “I’m awfully sorry for your loss,” I said, squeezing her hand. I’d lost Meemaw not that long ago, and the fact that her spirit hung around the old farmhouse didn’t wipe away the empty feeling of knowing I would never see her again.
    Will came back inside, slowly closing the door behind him, cutting short any more offerings of comfort. His face was grim as he met my gaze and flicked his eyes to the side. I got the message. He wanted to talk to me—privately.
    “If I can do anything to help, you just let me know,” I said, my heart going out to Raylene. “I’ll be right back, y’all.” Gracie, Hattie, and Raylene headed downstairs, a stark contrast to one another. Gracie held her head up high, her graceful neck and easy posture making me think of a model on a runway. Hattie had pushed away her worries about her husband being targeted for the loose screws and stood straight, shoulders back and chin up. She seemed to know that Raylene needed her, and she held her sister by the arm, walking by her side with each and every step. And then there was Raylene, bless her heart. Her shoulders slumped and her legs looked like they’d buckle any second.
    “Harlow.”
    The sharpness in Will’s tone, not to mention the fact that he’d used my given name instead of my last name, made me turn away from the stairs and hurry over to him. “What’s wrong?” I said, but from the hard line of his lips and the darkness in his eyes, I almost didn’t want to know the answer. I backed away, waving my hands in front of me, fingers spread. “Oh no . . .”
    “I’m pretty sure Hoss and Gavin are right. That railing didn’t just give,” he said, his voice low.
    “What are you saying, Will Flores?” I heard my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth, with her Southern indignation and her use of a person’s first and last names. I gathered up my gumption, not daring to believe he could be saying what I feared he was saying, but I jammed my hands on my hips and looked him straight in the eyes. “It had to have been an accident!”
    His look told me he felt sure it wasn’t.
    I gave it one last-ditch effort. “Will, it’s an old house.”
    “I want to show you something,” he said, and he took me by the arm, steering me back to the widow’s walk.
    I shook my arm loose, but followed him out onto the porch, stepping slowly and gingerly, and steering clear of the edge. He pointed to the bracket that had attached the railing to the house. It barely hung on by two loose screws.
    “What about it?” I said, hoping against hope that the screws had pulled out of the wall from the force of Dan Lee’s fall against the railing.
    As Will crouched down, pointing, my nerves tingled from being in the exact same spot I’d been in the day before when I’d fallen. My bravado evaporated into the wintery afternoon, and I clamped my hand down on his shoulder as I moved behind him.
    He tilted his head back to look up at me. “You okay, Cassidy?”
    “Yup,” I said, realizing that my hand had tightened, the cloth of his shirt clenched between my fingers. I released it, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. “What