Hung Out to Die by Sharon Short Page B

appointment.”
    Mrs. Oglevee stood up, and the rocking chair and alarm clock disappeared. Mrs. Oglevee started fading into the mist that suddenly rolled in around her.
    I frowned. “Wait—Mrs. Oglevee—wait, I don’t understand why I should investigate Uncle Fenwick—wait—it’s a bad idea—wait—”
    But only Mrs. Oglevee’s Chesire cat–like smile remained in the fog, and then there was that shrilling sound again, and I snapped to, and realized my phone was ringing.
    Guy, I thought, suddenly wide awake. I sat up in bed, turned on my nightstand light, and stared at my digital clock: 1:16.
    I grabbed up the phone. “Toadfern’s Laundromat, I mean Toadfern residence, I mean Josie . . .”
    â€œI woke you. I’ll call tomorrow . . .”
    Owen! I sat up straighter, but still wasn’t fully awake. “No, now’s fine,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “It’s just that Mrs. Oglevee doesn’t make sense . . .” I shook my head, trying to come fully awake. I looked at the time again, then felt a little chest squeeze of panic.
    Owen’s plan was to start driving home Friday morning after Thanksgiving, so we could spend some time together over the weekend. Had he decided to leave early—real early—for some reason? Was he stranded somewhere?
    â€œOwen, are you okay?” I was wide awake by then, and straining to hear sounds of highway traffic in the background.
    There was silence for a moment on his end. Not the sound of even a single eighteen-wheeler rushing by.
    â€œI’m fine,” he said finally. “I actually had a great day—a really great day. How was yours?”
    He asked the question hastily, as if he’d suddenly remembered that I would have had a day, also. There was so much I could tell him . . . but I suddenly went cold. Something didn’t feel right. “It was fine,” I said.
    â€œOh, good,” Owen said, sounding relieved—not at the fact my day was fine, I realized, but that I wasn’t going into great detail. He, of course, had no idea how I’d spent my Thanksgiving. When he’d left the previous weekend, I’d been as vague with him about my plans as I’d been with Sally before she manipulated me into going to Mamaw Toadfern’s. He hadn’t seemed overly concerned about how I’d spend the holiday.
    â€œListen, Josie, I really am sorry to call you so late—”
    â€œWell, as long as it’s to mutter sexy sweet nothings in my ear in the middle of the night,” I joked—and immediately regretted my interruption.
    Owen cleared his throat. “I’m not going to get back until early next week. Something came up and I have a busy day tomorrow or I’d have waited to call you at a decent hour—aw, hell, Josie, I might as well just get to it.”
    I didn’t say anything. So get to it, I thought, going cold again.
    â€œI ran into Roger Muller, an old college friend—I think I’ve mentioned him to you? Anyway, he told me that one of his colleagues in the local community college’s philosophy department has to take an extended leave of absence for the rest of the school year due to illness. The college is looking for someone to take over his classes starting in January—and, well, Josie, I applied. I put in my application just a few hours after hearing about the opening—”
    â€œWhen was this?” I snapped. “A few hours ago?”
    Now there was a moment of silence on Owen’s end. Then: “What? No, of course not—”
    â€œOf course not. So why are you calling me now, past one in the morning?”
    â€œI—I couldn’t sleep and I thought you’d want to know and I didn’t think you’d mind and—”
    â€œOwen, when did you put in your application?”
    Silence, again. Finally: “Tuesday. Look, Josie, I know how that