The Worst Best Friend: A Small Town Romance

She sold most of the stuff overloading her garage at the bazaar.

I hope that means her garage sale days are behind her with winter coming.

Her house is on a large lot at the end of the street, a good quarter mile from the closest neighbor, which makes it hard for anyone to keep an open eye on her. Moving in with Thelma Simon would be better for her spirit than senior living.

She was happier at Amelia’s. She always is when she feels useful, but whether or not that lasts depends on Thelma.

I pull into the driveway, kill my engine, and catch a quick glimpse of a calico cat skittering away from the back porch. The elusive Mr. Whiskers, no doubt.

It’s hard not to think about the day we spent here, fucking Shel in the back of my truck.

Still, I force myself not to dwell on it as I climb out and make my way to the back door.

With a couple familiar knocks, I open the door at the same time.

“Aunt Faye? You home? I’m here to set up the new system.”

Silence. The kitchen is empty, dark, and I walk toward the back staircase to shout up to the second floor.

“Hello! Aunt Faye?”

Nothing.

I walk through the kitchen again, the dining room, shouting her name the entire way as my steps slow.

My gut steams, my instincts piqued like a wolf sensing footsteps in the night.

The moment I enter the living room, that inner wolf springs up with a growl.

Her feet are sticking out from behind the sofa, dressed in those candy corn fall socks I know she loves. The rest of her isn’t visible.

“Aunt Faye!” I stumble around the furniture, my heart in my throat before I even see the pool of blood under her head.

Oh, shit.

Shit!

I drop to the floor next to her, casting a wary eye around the room for the dead man walking who did this, if it wasn’t a hideous accident. But any asshole perpetrator is already gone.

“Aunt Faye,” I whisper over and over, asking if she can hear me

My fingers reach for her throat, feeling for a pulse. I find one—thank God—before I pull out my phone, dial 911, and demand an ambulance.

After a quick assessment, I notice all the blood’s coming from her head. So I collect a towel from the kitchen and carefully ease it under her as gently as possible to stall the bleeding.

It’s fresh blood. She hasn’t been lying here long.

Thank God Marty told me she was home. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have stopped by till tomorrow.

What if she was here like this all night?

Fuck.

“Don’t quit on me now, lovely lady,” I whisper when she stirs. “You’ve come too far to leave like this...”

Vicious memories claw at my brain, triggered by the blood smeared across my hands.

Hellfire. Screaming. Smoke. Blood.