Chapter 5
Opinion: Nice people don’t have to be nice to everyone.
—Delilah Dune, opinion writer
T he rain had been coming down for over an hour. After showering and eating half a bag of chips, crunching away her frustration, Lyla had opened the diary, slipping back in time and remembering things long forgotten.
Her younger self had been so excited about the future. Sorry to tell you, past Lyla. We haven’t lived up to our potential. At least not yet.
As Lyla continued to read, a blurry water spot interrupted the next line with a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the smudged ink.
The roof is leaking. Dad is going to lose his mind. Lately, he’s been calling our house the money pit because everything is breaking all at once.
After the Blue Hair Gel incident, the kitchen ceiling sprang a leak and a hurricane plowed through Echo Cove, ripping off half the roof. Then Bailey had bailed on the wedding of the summer, and Sonny, the little ankle-biter, died. God rest his tiny soul. Lyla was supposed to meet Travis to finish checking off their bucket list, but something inside her panicked. It was go-time. She’d texted Travis that she’d be back to finish the list next weekend. Then she’d tossed her bags in her car, got in, and headed off with barely a backward glance.
Travis had deserved more. They’d been best friends since third grade. She should have kept in contact, even if falling for him was a very real threat to her real-life bucket list. The one with items like moving to a big city, becoming an established writer, and making a name for herself.
Her phone buzzed from her pocket, pulling her from her memories and laundry list of regrets. Setting her diary down, Lyla pulled her phone out and read her mom’s name on the screen. She didn’t want to talk to her mother right now, but not answering the call could be problematic.
Tapping the screen, she answered. “Hey, Mom,”—she put on her I’m-happy-everything-is-just-fine voice—“how’s the trip so far?”
Her mom’s sigh was long and drawn out. “We’ve barely gotten started. There’s not much to say just yet, except last night’s takeout upset your father’s stomach. He knows better than to eat eel rolls. He learned his lesson years ago, remember?”
Lyla’s father protested in the background. Her mom always had a habit of oversharing. “Dad ate the eel rolls again?” Her father had spent the last decade cursing those eel rolls. His upset stomach was the very reason there was a 7-Up bottle in the house that summer. Her mom had gone to the store looking for ginger ale, and she’d returned with 7-Up, swearing it was the same thing.
Opinion: Even though it looks the same, doesn’t mean it tastes the same.
“Enough about your father’s bad stomach. I’d rather hear about you. Why are you digging holes in the backyard, Lyla? And where did you find a shovel?”
Lyla pulled back from the phone for a moment. “How . . . ?”
“Ms. Hadley has always been good about watching the house for your father and me.”
Lyla’s mouth dropped open. “You asked me to watch the house.”
“Two is better than one. Plus, Ms. Hadley takes such pride in being part of the Neighborhood Watch. So where did you get the shovel, and why are you digging holes?”
Lyla cleared her throat. “I went to Mr. Tibbs’s hardware store. I needed to dig up something I buried back there a long time ago.”
“What on earth did you bury in our backyard?” her mom asked.
The past. At least she’d thought so. “It’s not important.”
“Important enough to go out and purchase a shovel.”
Lyla leaned over the kitchen counter, resting on her elbows. “Don’t worry. I covered the hole back up. And I’ve made some headway packing up my room.”
The truth was, she’d made zilch progress with packing her room, but she had every intention of getting started as soon as she calmed down from her earlier run-in with Travis.
“I’m glad you’re handling everything,” her mom said. “Your father and I need the house to sell if we want to fund the rest of our trip.”
“You don’t have enough money for your travels?” Lyla had assumed they did. Why on earth would they leave town without enough income to cover their trip? That seemed irresponsible, and her parents had preached responsibility to Lyla every chance they got.
“We will, once the house sells. And it will sell. Why wouldn’t it?” Her mom’s laugh sounded nervous and unsure.
Lyla wasn’t sure what to say right now. This was so unlike her parents.
“No more digging holes in the backyard, okay?” her mom asked.
“Sure. Unless you have a coffee brewer buried in the backyard. Then maybe,” Lyla said sarcastically.
“Oh, honey. You should give up coffee,” her mother advised. “It gave your Aunt Evie fibroids, you know. I just think—”
Lyla cut her mom off. “You’re wasting your breath.” Because coffee was her best friend these days. The kind she’d failed to be for Travis. The kind who never lied and promised to keep in touch, knowing it wasn’t true.
Opinion: Coffee is a true writer’s best friend.
“I’m glad you and Dad are doing okay,” Lyla said.
“We are. Has Allison stopped by to see you yet?” her mom asked.
“Just like you told her to.”
“She’s such a nice woman. I don’t know why you two weren’t closer in school. Oh, I have to go. Your father’s in the restroom again and he’s out of TP.”
TMI. “Okay. Love you. Tell Dad I love him too.”
“We love you to the top of Mount Everest and back.” She giggled quietly. “One day I’ll say that and it’ll actually be true. Assuming the house sells so we can afford to go . . .”
No pressure.
“Bye, honey.”
“Bye, Mom.” Lyla disconnected the call and looked around the room, which suddenly felt too quiet. If she had known her parents’ trip relied solely on her ability to sell the house, she might not have agreed. What if she couldn’t sell it? What if there was some freak accident? What if . . . ?
She stopped herself. The truth was, if her parents had stayed, they’d be driving her nuts and she’d be wishing for a little peace and quiet. Turning, she glanced at the old 7-Up bottle lying on the kitchen counter and the unfolded bucket list beside it. As she looked at the list, a drop of water splashed the paper. Lyla looked up where there was a dark wet spot forming on the ceiling.
“No!” She swiped the bucket list before another water drop could ruin it. Instead of landing on the paper this time, when she looked back up, the next water droplet hit her right between the eyes. “Ew.” She wiped her face and tried to see past the sting of dirty water.
More drops came down in quickening speed. She needed a bucket. “Looks like I’ll be taking another trip to Mr. Tibbs’s hardware store,” she muttered.
This day was turning out to be a complete wash. Literally.
“You’re back,” Mr. Tibbs mumbled thirty minutes later as she walked into his store.
Weren’t independent business owners supposed to be appreciative of their customers? Lyla had tried to make nice conversation with the store owner earlier, and all she’d gotten for her effort were little jabs, the kind Joe used to put out. “I have a problem at my parents’ house,” Lyla said matter-of-factly. “A leak in the kitchen ceiling.”
“Leak?” Mr. Tibbs repeated, showing slight interest in her now. “That’s not good. It’s supposed to rain all afternoon and into the night.”
Lyla didn’t need a forecast. “I need a bucket.”
With a huff, Mr. Tibbs pointed to a space against the wall where there was a stack of gray buckets. “Grab one of those. Five dollars each.”
Lyla headed in that direction and pulled one off the top. “How do I get the leak to stop? The house is for sale. I can’t have showings with a leaky ceiling and a bucket full of rainwater on the counter.”
“You’ll need to climb onto the roof and patch the hole. Could be from a missing shingle. Shingles are on aisle two.”
Lyla took a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose. What had she gotten herself into? She didn’t know a thing about home repairs. “I don’t have a ladder.”
“Aisle seven.” Mr. Tibbs pointed across the store. “But if I were you, I’d just get myself a handyman. Wouldn’t want you to chip one of those pretty nails.” He made a show of checking her left hand, then grunted. “Never mind.”
It was something Joe would’ve done, an insult with barely a word. Those tiny insults from Joe had stuck to Lyla’s confidence like barbs from a cactus, over time creating a callused exterior. Insults were the same as opinions, so she couldn’t fault Joe for his beliefs. That’s what she used to tell herself.
“A single woman like yourself should probably just call someone,” Mr. Tibbs grumbled, reaching behind him to pull a business card from where it was pinned to a small bulletin board. He slid it across the counter. “This guy might be able to help. Give him a call.”
Lyla read the name aloud. “The Handyman.” There was a cartoon of a guy wearing a tool belt with an oversized hammer. A cell phone number was on the bottom of the card followed by instructions to call or text anytime. “Who is he?”
“A person with a ladder who can fix your roof. Beggars can’t be choosers, now can they?” Mr. Tibbs and Ms. Hadley should hang out. They were perfect for each other.
“Thank you. How much do I owe you?” Lyla asked.
Mr. Tibbs tapped a few keys on his register and rang her up. “Five dollars and thirty-five cents.”
Lyla paid, took the bucket and business card, and stepped back out into the pouring rain. She didn’t want to think about how much water was standing on her parents’ kitchen floor right now. One of the only things in the house that wasn’t packed was a stack of towels her mom left in the bathroom for Lyla to use during her stay. Lyla would need all of them just to soak up the mess.
By the time she reached her car in the parking lot, she was drenched head to toe. Before setting off, she texted the number for The Handyman.
Lyla : Hi. I got your business card from the hardware store. I have a leak in my roof that needs attention asap. Can you help me?
A reply quickly popped on her screen.
Private: Sure. Text me your address. I’ll head your way now.
She wasn’t sure she could rely on Mr. Tibbs not to recommend some creep. For all she knew, The Handyman could be a serial killer. Echo Cove had never had one, but there was a first for everything, right? And most towns didn’t have more than one serial killer if they ever had one at all.
Private: Do you want me to come?
Lyla looked out the front windshield as rain came down harder. She didn’t have much choice, and the worst-case scenario of her overactive imagination probably wouldn’t be the case.
She texted back.
Lyla: Yes, please. My address is: 214 Briar Lilly Road .
Private: Be there in fifteen .
Lyla: Perfect. See you soon.
Lyla was about ten minutes out. With a little luck, she’d beat The Handyman to her parents’ home with five minutes to spare. She could use that time to devise an escape plan in the case that he was Echo Cove’s first-ever serial killer.