Far Gone (Badlands Thriller) by Danielle Girard

Author:Danielle Girard [Girard, Danielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2021-06-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 30

LILY

The T. Milton Horchow Funeral Home was a large clapboard house on a corner at the east end of Main Street. The original Milton had chosen his location well, the house kitty corner from the Lutheran church. As far as Lily knew, Horchow’s was the only funeral home in town, but its superior location would have made it difficult for competitors to get a foothold.

She parked on the side street and walked around the rear, where she buzzed down to the morgue. There was a bell that rang when someone entered the mortuary, a way of telling Milt he had customers, but that was at the front. Lily had only been through the front door once—on the day of her mother’s service. And she never intended to do it again.

“Hello?” Milt’s voice was scratchy through the intercom, like it was being pushed through several layers of empty potato chip bags.

“It’s Lily,” she said. And then when a beat had passed, “Lily Baker.”

“Lord, girl, you think I don’t recognize my own goddaughter? I’m old and fat, not senile,” Milt responded. “I just had my hands full.”

She tried not to imagine what he had in his hands. The buzzer went and the door released.

“Go into the kitchen and make yourself at home. I’ll be up in a few.”

Lily opened the screen and let herself in through the back door. The building housed both Horchow’s work and his home, and the appearance of the kitchen always varied by whether or not there was a showing coming up. Today, though, the kitchen was tidy and bare. Faded yellow checked curtains hung on the windows, the lace fringe tattered. Lily thought she could remember when the yellow was marigold bright, the lace stiff and new, but she couldn’t think of who would have made Milt new curtains when she was a child. He’d never been married, never even had a girlfriend that she’d heard. He’d grown up with her father, the two of them neighbors. Her father’s house had been a block up, a two-bedroom bungalow, close enough that her grandfather could walk to the church where he was an assistant pastor and, later, the church’s youth pastor.

The stairs from the basement groaned under Milt’s weight, his own grunting louder than it used to be. A few seconds later, he emerged from the stairwell, red faced and sweating. “There’s some iced tea in the fridge. Be a doll and pour some, would you?”

Lily got up and found two glasses in the cupboard, their surfaces dull and foggy from decades of wear and washing. Only Milt’s wineglasses were regularly replaced. Milt loved his red wine, had installed a small cellar off the downstairs prep rooms. Now, she lifted a plastic pitcher from the refrigerator and poured two glasses of iced tea, the Lipton smell a reminder of all the years Milt and her father had sat together and talked. Before her mother had died and her father started adding something stronger to his tea.

Milt stood at the sink and washed his hands, humming the alphabet song.

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