Reckoning and Ruin by Tina Whittle

I almost went back up. Almost. But eventually I made myself get into my own car and drive myself back to Kennesaw.

Chapter Seventeen
    I sat in my car for a long time before I went in, sucking down the weakest cigarette I’d ever put between my lips. It was the best I could find at the corner store, and it was like smoking a dust bunny, but it eased the jitters and soothed the pounding in my head. I’d kicked the habit once, I would kick it again. Tomorrow. Not today. Today the sky was brilliant blue, the sunlight tart as lemonade, and since I didn’t have a blanket I could crawl under, a haze of smoke would have to do.
    My phone still hadn’t rung. Normally Trey called within five minutes of an argument, sometimes before I’d even exited the lobby. Suddenly going to Savannah felt like a desertion. A necessary one perhaps, but a desertion nonetheless. Rationally, I knew he was better off in Atlanta, that Marisa would keep him in line at least from nine to five, and that he had the apartment and the Ferrari and the suits.
    And Gabriella.
    I took another drag and thumbed him a quick text: I’m sorry. And then I waited. And waited some more. Trey never took more than a minute to text me back—he kept his phone in hand all the time. Unless he was showering or sleeping or…
    I checked the phone again. Still nothing. I jammed the pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment, shoved open the car door. I took one final hit, letting the smoke linger in my mouth, then dropped it to the asphalt.
    Inside the shop, the only sounds were the humming of the fluorescents and the quiet chirp of the security system. The square was deserted except for Raymond Junior’s barbecue joint. He was hosting a birthday celebration for someone in his reenactment group, and I could hear laughter and country music. He’d invited me to come, and I’d declined, but suddenly wandering over and grabbing a beer or two, maybe something stronger, seemed like a fine idea. I opened the front door….
    And an envelope fluttered to the mat.
    It was cream-colored, rectangular and innocent, my name written on the front in a flowing feminine hand. My heart skipped a beat. It was the same kind of envelope I’d gotten in February at the History Museum. I looked left, then right. The square was empty. I listened hard and heard nothing except the sound of Waylon Jennings across the grass. No retreating footsteps. No car screeching away with squealing tires.
    I tore open the envelope. Like before, there was a photograph, only this time it wasn’t of me—it was Hope. She looked nervous, her shoulders hunched. Another person was speaking with her, back to the camera, blurred and out of frame. Short brown hair streaked with sunlight, a brown leather jacket. Male? Female? Hard to tell from the half-shoulder. One thing was clear—neither Hope nor the person with her knew they were being photographed.
    A single line was written on the back: She liked what ’ ere she looked on, and her looks went everywhere .
    â€œWhat in the double hell?” I whispered.
    The last envelope had been handed to me by a woman, her black hair cut in a sleek bob. She’d disappeared before Trey could pull to the curb, so I was the only one who’d seen her. And now this, also anonymous…unless.
    I scurried behind the counter, sparing a look at the deer head with its covert camera. Its glass-eyed gaze was dull and lifeless. No red light. I suppressed a surge of disappointment and snatched at the keyboard. I typed in my password and logged into the system, then pulled up the archived footage. I scrolled backward until I saw a figure at my door. Someone I recognized, all right, but not from the History Center.
    I grabbed my phone. “Raymond, you came over here and stuck an envelope in my front door.”
    â€œYeah?”
    I could barely hear him for the noise. I raised my voice. “Who gave it to