Chapter 12
Sitting at home on a Sunday night is rough when you know you could be hanging out with a hot, mysterious, Irish guy. One you’ve realized you’re developing a pathetic crush on.
But my kid comes first, always. And I’m still happy to sit here on the couch with her, watching an old movie about a magical town that celebrates Halloween all year long. I’d happily move there.
The movie is nearly over and Jess is fast asleep beside me when my phone buzzes against my leg. A thrill rushes through me when I see who it is.
It’s a message from Jameson.
I’m afraid to even look, because part of me wants it to be…I don’t know what. Not business related, I guess?
Jameson: Bummed you couldn’t make it.
Why do I suddenly feel sixteen again? Jameson is a fully-fledged man who has lived what I assume is a very interesting life so far, and I’m a twenty-nine-year-old mom.
I need to calm down these hormones or something.
Maybe it has to do with the fact that I haven’t gotten laid in an embarrassingly long time that I won’t admit to.
Carly: Me too.
Jameson: I want to ski you tomorrow
I let out a quiet giggle.
Carly: Ski me?
Jameson: See
Carly: To look at houses?
Jameson: Sure, yeah. I suppose that is something we should most certainly do…
Carly: Are you okay?
Should I add a laughing emoji to that? Yeah, I think so. I add one and hit send.
I wait for several minutes as the antagonist tries to take over the town in the background.
Jameson: Sorry, yes. Liam had some VERY good Irish whiskey, and well…
Carly: You’re kind of, sort of Irish.
Jameson: Yes.
Carly: Was it the one you’re named after?
Jameson: How dare you. I wasn’t named after that.
I laugh again.
Jameson: But I guess if you like it…I could pretend…
Carly: I don’t.
Another long pause.
Jameson: Oh.
I don’t know what to say back, and he’s obviously slightly inebriated, so I leave it at that. I carry Jess to her bed and clean up the living room, then check my phone once or twice. He hasn’t said anything else.
My mind feels extremely busy, as it sometimes does, so I pull out my phone to obsessively scour the internet for more information on the alleged murder from sixty years ago.
After half an hour of reading through articles, I don’t find much more about the case.
The victim’s name was Elizabeth Mary Smith, Maiden name Elizabeth Mary Wells, and it happened in 1967.
She was only twenty-two years old. Other than that, there’s very limited information.
I do, however, come across the name of a woman who was interviewed—a local woman named Dorothy who was apparently the victim’s friend.
She basically said the husband never treated her friend right, and that she was highly suspicious of him.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll look her up and see if she still lives in town. I don’t know why it matters. What am I going to do? But for some reason my mind keeps circling back to this mystery and what happened to that woman. I can’t help it.
For tonight, though, I’m exhausted. And even though there’s a very good chance Jameson will sober up and not want to look at houses tomorrow after all, I want to get some good sleep and be up early, just in case. I’m trying to look professional, after all.