Girl Gone Home: A Twisted, Quirky, Absolutely Gripping Psychological Thriller by Kathleen O'Donnell

Author:Kathleen O'Donnell [O'Donnell, Kathleen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Italics Publishing
Published: 2019-09-19T16:00:00+00:00

2005

Chapter Thirty

“How’d you hear about the pigs so fast?” I felt under surveillance. I knew Fran’s I don’t want to know what you’re doing oath wouldn’t last.

“Vi,” Fran huffed out the last vapor from her smoked down stub. She crushed it out on my front porch. I’d heard her pull in.

I didn’t bother to ask how Vi knew. That’s a question I needed to extinguish from my vocabulary. The highway knew it all.

Fran pulled her too short “Damn I’m Good” t-shirt down over her exposed stomach. She sniffed toward the front door. “Something smells good. I brought you these salt and pepper shakers.” She produced a small ceramic stove and refrigerator from her bottomless purse, both with holes at the top. “Got these on that shopping network. We get that now since we put in that satellite.”

“We?” I took the bribe.

“Me and Vi. In case you didn’t know I spend most my time up there.”

I didn’t know. I did know they were pretty close, and if one knew something so did the other. With Blanche and Edith gone, that left Vi. Margene would’ve never been a contender. Vi lived up the road from me, but that main dirt road sat pretty far from my property, which was set back quite a way. Plus, I spent most of my time in the back. I never even parked in the front. All the action went on in the back. Everyone had already been trained to park in front of the screened in porch. Fran could’ve driven up and down that road twenty times a day and I’d never have seen her. A lot could happen on that road and I’d never know.

“That’s nice for you, Fran,” I said and meant it. “You’re the Golden Girls.” We both laughed. “Smart to share expenses.” Fran got Hank’s monthly retirement stipend but I didn’t think it amounted to much.

“Something like that,” she said.

Fran sprang up to sit on the freezer. She weighed little to nothing. “Are you cooking something?” Fran asked, head up again.

“Yes. Stay for dinner.”

The kitchen had always been my comfort zone. Cooking for Fran felt good. No matter how nuts she drove me, or how frustrating she was in general, watching her eat food I’d made with my own hands brought me great satisfaction. Food was one of the few things she’d say I did well.

“Sure,” Fran fished out a Marlboro. We both watched the pig bonfire in the distance. “Who do you think would poison those poor pigs?” Genuine alarm flashed over her features.

“Poisoned?” I felt the blood leave my face. “What on earth? Jefferson Davis never mentioned anything about poison.”

Fran stopped mid-light. “Doc told us.”

“Us? How? He’s been here the last few hours.” As soon as I said that I noticed his truck was gone. How long ago, I didn’t know. Jesus, had I slipped into some sort of coma? “You’d think he’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

Fran pulled out her lighter from her magic bra that apparently held everything she needed.

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