Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121578 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 608(@200wpm)___ 486(@250wpm)___ 405(@300wpm)
“Well, I appreciate the assist. Having you watch me get dressed has made me forget how to use my hands.” I wiggle my fingers in front of his face, and he laughs.
Gretel scurries out of the bedroom as Jigsaw and I head toward the living room. I stop and slip into my sensible, black heels while Jigsaw laces up his boots.
I close the door behind us, double-checking that it’s locked.
“Can’t be too careful on days where we’ll have a lot of people wandering around,” I explain.
Jigsaw’s face pinches into a frown but he nods.
It’s dark and quiet downstairs. I flip on the hall lights, then wind my way into the parlor to turn on the lamps. I lead Jigsaw into the viewing room and show him the closet where we keep the wooden folding chairs stacked.
“I got this,” he says. “Go ahead and make your phone calls or whatever you need to do.”
“A few deliveries might come to the back door, but I’ll hear the bell.”
“I can get those too.” He sweeps one hand in front of him. “Everything’s going in here, right?”
I quickly flip through my mental list of items. “Um, except the food. That’ll go in the kitchen.”
“Got it.” He leans down and kisses my cheek.
We part ways at the door of my father’s office. I’m used to doing the morning prep work alone, with Paul, or one of the part-time attendants. For these smaller services, my dad only comes in to do a last-minute check these days. At least he trusts me with this much. I’m not sure what he’ll think about Jigsaw helping me.
I’m almost through with my list when the front doorbell chimes, cutting through the muffled silence and occasional thump of chairs being moved around.
I flick my gaze to the small black-and-white video monitor that shows the front porch. Two men in suits are waiting by the front door. Family members arriving early to check on things? That’s always possible.
I hurry down the long corridor, my heels thudding over the hardwood.
“Want me to get it?” Jigsaw asks.
I smooth my hands over my skirt. “No, I’ve got it.”
He retreats into the viewing room to where he can still watch the front door.
My own personal bodyguard.
Laughing to myself, I twist the knob and pull the heavy door open.
“Good morning.” The young, slender man runs his gaze over me. Not in a leering manner, more like he finds me lacking in some way. “Margot Cedarwood?” His deep voice sends an ominous shiver through me for a reason I can’t name.
“Yes. Are you here for the Lewis celebration?”
“No.” He pulls a black leather wallet out of his breast pocket, flips it open and holds it out to me to inspect the badge inside. “Dan Wood with the Slater County Sheriff’s Department. We’d like to ask you a few questions, Ms. Cedarwood.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Margot
Cold fear streaks down my spine.
My heart thumps wildly.
Detectives have stopped by before. Wanting to observe a service or ask questions about a family member. We’ve certainly organized funerals for several members of law enforcement over the years.
This visit could be totally normal.
Or the end of my freedom.
An ominous cloud hovers over me. Like somehow my conversation with Jigsaw last night was overheard by the universe and it ratted me out to the sheriff.
Grabbing my professional composure by the throat, I force my lips into a gracious and welcoming smile. “How can I help you?”
“May we come in?” the short, older, pot-bellied man asks.
“Of course.” My voice settles into the soft, dulcet tone I use with clients, concealing the chaos gathering inside me.
I step back to allow them inside.
Detective Wood crosses the threshold first.
The older detective stops and hands me a business card embossed with the shiny red sheriff’s insignia and the man’s name across the top. Walt Wearmouth. Strange name.
Walt hesitates as he steps into the foyer. Maybe he’s arrived at an age where he fears the reaper.
To further unsettle him, I lead both detectives into the viewing room, instead of the cozier parlor across the hallway.
The younger detective tucks his hands in his pockets. “Do you know a Patrick Larsen?”
Holy shit.
“I know of him.” I clasp my hands in front of me and tilt my head, like I’m a good little citizen eager to help.
“He was found dead a few weeks ago.”
“Oh.” I refuse to say “that’s too bad,” or express any sort of sympathy for that monster. But I’ll happily play dumb. “Well, my father usually handles the logistics…I can call him—”
“No, no. That’s not why we’re here.” The young cop gives the old one a sideways glance. “Do you know Laurel Larsen too?”
“Yes. Is she okay?”
“How do you know her?” Detective Wearmouth asks.
They should have this information somewhere, shouldn’t they? “We took care of her daughter’s cremation after Mr. Larsen beat her so badly their baby was stillborn.” I enunciate each word clearly, hoping they understand just how little of a fuck I give about Patrick Larsen’s death.