Chapter 4 #2
Her eyes flick toward the window, toward the pasture where Sherlock struts like a general, tail high. “Anyway. Today’s agenda: figure out why Inspector keeps sneaking into my sock drawer.”
She laughs at her own line, light, practiced. But I can still hear the crack beneath it.
I take a sip of coffee that’s stronger than regulation jet fuel. Her brew is uneven and messy—but not bad.
She’s not fragile. But she is unguarded. And unguarded things are easy to break.
After breakfast, Milly disappears into the yard again, notebook clutched to her chest like it’s her lifeline and battle plan. Through the window, I watch her crouch to write something down while Sherlock circles her like a satellite, the chickens weaving in and out of orbit.
I return to the study. Papers wait in ordered stacks, my laptop humming quietly. On the desk is a flyer Browne must have included from Sue Carter with the estate documents, cream-colored, hand-lettered:
Welcome Social – Friday Evening
Pie Contest. Barn Dance. Newcomers Introduced. Neighbors listed as “helping hosts”: Sue Carter, Sarah Baldwin, Carl Simmons.
A perfect opportunity for introductions and surveillance.
I sketch the barn layout in my notebook, marking vantage points and exits. Crowd control, sight lines, weak spots near the side doors. Old instincts, old training, repurposed for small-town festivity. It feels absurd and necessary.
Names to note:
– Sue Carter: Town matriarch, influential. If someone sneezes, she knows before they finish.
– Sarah Baldwin: Librarian. Book clubs can be more dangerous than boardrooms when it comes to gossip.
– Carl Simmons: Hardware store. The man who knows where everyone was when the storm took out power.
These are Penny’s allies.
But threats, those are easier to identify. Harold, who’s never seen a corner he wouldn’t cut. Arnie, with his slick smile, never caught with his hand in the jar. If they show up, I’ll be ready.
I transfer the notes into my ledger, one column for finance, another for security. A folder labeled Property Finances grows with innocuous documents, budget summaries, property upkeep, supply lists. She doesn’t need to see the rest.
The piano catches my eye again. The photo tucked inside, the unfinished lullaby. Penny’s scrawl burns behind my eyes. Watch for what’s not said.
Through the glass, Milly laughs, bright, unpracticed this time, as Sherlock tries and fails to climb onto a stump. The sound slips through the walls, warm and inviting.
I close the notebook with more force than necessary. I had a feeling this wasn’t just going to be a job. And that’s a problem.
By midafternoon, I’m in town picking up supplies. The hardware store is cluttered but well-stocked, a place where duct tape comes in six colors, nails are measured by the pound, and it has everything from out-of-season Christmas decorations to plumbing fittings. It reminds me of Snoopy’s Doghouse.
Carl Simmons leans against the counter, easy grin under a cap that’s seen better days. “You must be Penny’s kin.”
“Accountant,” I answer simply.
He chuckles. “Accountant for goats and chickens, huh? That’ll be new.”
I don’t correct him. Let him think what he likes.
I leave with new locks, a coil of wire, and a toolkit. Small reinforcements that will go unnoticed until needed.
Back at the ranch, I install them quietly. Milly doesn’t ask what I bought. She’s too busy wrestling Sherlock out of the barn doorway, laughing when he tries to outmaneuver her.
She has no idea the new locks slide into place smoother than the old ones. No idea I’ve already mapped sight lines for Friday’s social. And that’s exactly how Penny wanted it.
As dusk arrives, I find myself at the window again. Milly sits on the porch swing, notebook balanced on her knees, Pumpernickel’s carrier beside her. The glow from the house spills across her face, catching the copper in her hair and the stubborn tilt of her chin.
She’s not fragile. But she’s unguarded. And unguarded things, I shut the thought down.
Sherlock bleats from the yard, Inspector slinks across the porch rail, and for a moment, we are all watchmen of a sort, each in our place.
I jot one final note in my journal: Penny was right. She needs someone in her corner. I just have to make sure it’s as invisible as she wants.
The evening is quieter than I’m used to. I do my last circuit of the house. Locks tested. Windows secured. The new deadbolts click smoothly into place. I walk the length of the hallway, boots muted against the old rugs Penny left behind.
In the study, I send a brief encrypted update to Browne: Arrival secure. Assets in place. Watch continues.
Simple. Nothing more than he needs to know.
Still, I linger over the keyboard, resisting the urge to add more.
About the tracks by the road. But my fingers itch to add what’s on my mind, the way Milly laughs easily, the unfinished lullaby waiting in the piano bench, the way the sun pulls copper from her hair.
But that doesn’t belong in a report. Those are thoughts that need to stay hidden.
I close the laptop.
Upstairs, her voice carries faintly through the floorboards, low, conversational. She must be talking to Pumpernickel again. The sound blends with the faint thump of his wheel. It’s ridiculous, domestic, but in a way, strangely comforting.
I pause outside her door, listening for any note of distress. There isn’t one. Just her voice and the steady turn of the wheel.
Back in my room, I pull Penny’s letter from my ledger. Her bold scrawl catches me all over again: Watch for what’s not said.
This morning, Milly laughed and told me no one ever protects her for long. She said it like a joke.
I know better.
I set the letter aside, unlace my boots, and sit for a long moment in the quiet. Through the window, Sherlock patrols the yard, his stance oddly vigilant, ears pricked at every sound.
He’ll be my eyes tonight.