The Southern Book Club's Guide to Slaying Vampires - Grady Hendrix Page 0,57

a license? Or had he lied to her about not having any ID? She wondered why someone wouldn’t use their identification to open a bank or a utility account. She thought about that bag of cash. The only reason she thought it belonged to Ann Savage was because he said so.

They had read too many books about mafia hit men moving to the suburbs under assumed names and drug dealers living quietly among their unsuspecting neighbors for Patricia not to start connecting dots. You kept your name off public records if you were wanted for something by the government. You had a bag of money because that was how you had been paid, and people who got paid in cash were either hit men, drug dealers, bank robbers—or waiters, she supposed. But James Harris didn’t seem like a waiter.

Then again, he was their friend and neighbor. He talked about Nazis with Blue and drew her son out of his shell. He ate with them when Carter wasn’t home and made her feel safe. He had come around the house to check on them that night someone got on the roof.

“I don’t know what to think,” she repeated to Grace, who dipped a serving platter in the soapy water and tilted it from side to side. “Mrs. Greene told us that a Caucasian male is coming into Six Mile and doing something to the children that makes them sick. She thinks he might be driving a white van. And it’s only been happening since May. That’s right after James Harris moved here.”

“You’re under the influence of this month’s book,” Grace said, lifting the platter out of the soapy water and rinsing it in the tub of clean. “James Harris is our neighbor. He is Ann Savage’s grandnephew. He is not driving out to Six Mile and doing something to their children.”

“Of course not,” Patricia said. “But you read about drug dealers living around normal people, or sex abusers bothering children and getting away with it for so long, and you start to wonder what we really know about anyone. I mean, James Harris says he grew up all around, but then says he grew up in South Dakota. He says he lived in Vermont, but his van had Texas plates.”

“You have suffered two terrible blows this summer,” Grace said, lifting the platter and gently drying it. “Your ear has barely healed. You are still grieving for Miss Mary. This man is not a criminal based on when he moved here and the license plate of a passing car.”

“Isn’t that how every serial killer gets away with it for so long?” Patricia asked. “Everyone ignores the little things and Ted Bundy keeps killing women until finally someone does what they should have done in the first place and connects the little things that didn’t add up, but by then it’s too late.”

Grace set the gleaming platter on the table. Creamy white, it featured brightly colored butterflies and a pair of birds on a branch, all picked out in delicate, near-invisible brushstrokes.

“This is real,” Grace said, running one finger along its rim. “It’s solid, and it’s whole, and my grandmother received it as a wedding gift, and she gave it to my mother, and she passed it down to me, and when the time comes, if I deem her appropriate, I’ll hand it down to whomever Ben marries. Focus on the real things in your life and I promise you’ll feel better.”

“I didn’t tell you this,” Patricia said, “but when I met him he showed me a bag of money. Grace, he had over eighty thousand dollars in there. In cash. Who has that just lying around?”

“What did he say?” Grace asked, dipping a tureen lid in the soapy water.

“He told me he’d found it in the crawl space. That it was Ann Savage’s nest egg.”

“She never struck me as the kind of woman who’d trust a bank,” Grace said, rinsing the tureen lid in clean water.

“Grace, it doesn’t add up!” Patricia said. “Stop cleaning and listen to me. At what point do we get concerned?”

“Never,” Grace said, drying the tureen lid. “Because you are spinning a fantasy out of coincidences to distract yourself from reality. I understand