Free Morgan James - Promise McNeal 02 - Quiet Killing by Morgan James

I’m a psychologist. I have experience with religious fanaticism, delusions, and schizophrenia—just not in my own family. First I’d learned Reba was descended from a West Indian slave, and now I find out January’s reality was marginally on this side of a Stephen King plot. I flipped the visor mirror down and stared at the slightly freckled face and pale green eyes. The person looking back from the mirror was somehow different. Did Reba give me my wavy hair? Whose eyes are those? Where did the seeds of January’s twisted logic grow in my soul?
    My mind jumped to wondering what my son Luke would think if he knew about January and Reba. Of course, he has his secrets, too. Going blithely about the world masquerading as an employee of Acadian Oil, when I’m almost certain he works for some government agency, maybe even the CIA—God forbid. Still, I couldn’t envision introducing our McNeal ancestor tohim. I expect Luke would be embarrassed. Or, in his young and flippant way, he would be amused and tell his dad, my ex-husband—the super jock, know-it-all, Atlanta cop, R.B. Barnes— who’d say he always knew my whole family, including yours truly, was nuts. No, I certainly didn’t want to share anything I’d learned about January McNeal with Luke, or R.B. Barnes.
    Then there was Fletcher Enloe. My heart began another wild tap dance. I was angry enough with him to spit nails. That old troublemaker had known about January all along. Why didn’t he tell me the whole story about my great grandfather and save me the humiliation of hearing the tale from a total stranger? You better believe I’d be asking him that question before the day was out. At the moment, I needed a friend, and chocolate, so I pulled my car out of the church parking lot and headed for Granny’s Store.
    Just driving up in front of Granny’s made me feel better. Former owners who converted the barn to a general store left the wide, rough sawn siding when they remodeled, painting it a warm brown, reminiscent of the tobacco that once cured there. They added a porch and two large store front windows across the front, but left the chunky, speckled gray, native rock pillars elevating the four corners, giving the barn a big-eyed, russet chicken roosting in-the-dirt, kind of look. I liked it. Shushing sounds of the Little Tennessee River as it washed across sand and rocks met me as I crossed the gravel parking lot.
    Too bad my foray into being a country shopkeeper wasn’t profitable because the comfort factor alone was worth thousands toward making me a happierperson. Just then, the Shoulda-Woulda-Coulda Girls Committee in my head reminded me I could not write checks to pay bills out of a comfort account. Sad, but true. For good luck, I gave the ancient, metal Nehi Orange sign hanging by the front door, a tap as I passed. The squeaking complaint from its rusty metal chain was a friendly and reassuring hello. I told the Girls Committee to take a hike down by the river and stepped inside Granny’s Store.
    Other than Susan leaning over her laptop behind the checkout counter, the place was deserted. That was fine with me. I needed to talk in private. She smiled at me when I came in, and I felt better. “Hey there. You come to keep me company? Get yourself a cup of coffee. I just made it.”
    I poured myself a cup, added extra cream, and took a giant sized Hershey’s bar from the shelf. “You want a chocolate?”
    “No, too near lunch. Hey, did you see the Goddard twins driving in?”
    “I bit into the sweet, melt in your mouth chocolate. Umm, good. “Lord no. I know you saw them recently at McDonald’s, but what were they doing in here? Did they bother you?”
    Susan frowned. “Not likely. They know I keep a sawed off baseball bat under the counter. They were sweet as can be, which tells me they are up to no good. Bought all the D cell flashlight batteries, though.”
    Over my coffee and the remainder of the chocolate bar, I recounted my visit with