When Devils Sing(80)

“Ajay was good like that,” Neera said softly. It was weird to speak of her uncle’s memory with a stranger, but it felt easier somehow. Less weighted.

“Yeah, he was.” Grant glanced around the gazebo. “What’s your plan then, kid? Camp out here? I’m afraid these Clearwater folks wouldn’t take too kindly to that.”

“I really am waiting on a friend,” Neera said, fumbling with her phone. Still no word from Isaiah. “I just don’t know how long it’ll be.”

“How about this?” Grant looked contemplative. “I have a fully furnished pool house that I never use just sitting in my backyard. You are more than welcome to hang out there while you’re waitin’. And if you need more time, that’s fine by me.”

“Grant, I—” Neera began, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t want your charity. Or your pity. None of it.”

“I understand that, I do,” Grant said, his gaze turning sympathetic. “But think of it like this: From one musician to another, I’m just payin’ my dues. And one day, you’ll pay it forward to some struggling artist out there, too.”

Struggling artist? Was that how Grant really saw her? Neera looked away, considering his offer. She checked her phone again, but still, no Isaiah. Hesitantly, she said, “Okay, I guess just for a little while. Until my friend comes and gets me.”

“Just for a little while,” Grant repeated as he offered his hand to help her from the swinging bench.

With the Yamaha still slung across her chest, Neera hesitated before she took Grant Langley’s hand in her own.





CHAPTER 32SAM




52 HOURS


That afternoon, Sam tagged along with Bailey and Clayton on a trip to Dollar General, though shopping was the furthest thing from her mind.

It was only minnows. Beside the discount store, and across from a cotton field, was Gator’s Bait & Tackle, an old gas station that specialized in selling fishing equipment, with one barely working gas pump. Her gaze lingered on a tank of minnows visible through the gas station’s window, the water a familiar shade of brownish green. It was once a place she’d loved as a kid, when she and her daddy spent most weekends fishing.

Wiley Calhoun had always been a bad man, but there was a time, years ago, when he was better. She wasn’t sure what had caused the shift in him or if he simply grew tired of pretending.

“Hey, Gator,” Sam greeted.

Gator, the store’s owner, sat beside the front door on a wooden stool, shielded from the rain. He was in the middle of winding fishing line through a pole when recognition crossed his old, leathered face. “Oh, hell,” he said with a toothy grin. “Trouble’s found me.”

Sam let out a breathy laugh. “No, sir. Not today.”

Trouble was a nickname given to her by Gator back in the day.

Gator’s shop was the best place in town to pick up live bait and snacks for long days spent at the pond. But every time they’d pick up fresh crickets or worms, Sam would wander to the minnow tank, content to watch them swim for hours. She used to beg, with tears in her eyes, for Gator to let all the critters go, to free them from their tiny cages and crowded tanks. The old man had always found it amusing, promising that one day he would. But her daddy found it humiliating—telling her, only once, to never ask that of Gator again.

“You headin’ out to the pond today?” Gator peered up at her from beneath his sun-faded trucker hat. She’d never seen him wear another, not in all the years she’d known him. “The weather’s right for it.”

“Afraid not,” Sam said, glancing around the building, finding everything as it had always been.

There was the rusted ice machine that sputtered and groaned depending on the heat of the day. The crate of peaches outside the doorway, through some kind of magic, were the juiciest peaches in a fifty-mile radius. In the window, the hand-painted sign with crooked letters advertising fresh bait. The price had never changed, even when the land next door was bought and clear-cut to make way for Carrion’s first Dollar General.

“Best get out there before long,” Gator said as he sipped from a Coke bottle. “Pond’s gonna dry up and disappear by the time I’m six feet under.”

There were dozens of ponds around Carrion, some worthy of names while others were not. But the pond in question was Gator’s pond, a secret spot he shared with a handful of folks, Sam and her daddy included. No matter the weather or time of year, when you fished in Gator’s pond, the catch was always plentiful.

“I hear you,” Sam said with a nod. “I’d like to take Ben out there again sometime. You should’ve seen him last we went…” Her sentence trailed off as Gator’s silver eyebrows furrowed at the mention of her brother. Sleep still clung to Sam and, somehow, she’d briefly forgotten where Ben was, and where she stood in relation to him. As it was, there would be no fishing trips in either of their futures.

“I heard about the accident at church.” Gator stopped winding the fishing line. “How’s the boy holdin’ up?”

Sam shrugged, unsure of what to say because she didn’t know herself. “As good as expected.”

Gator grunted. “The whole town’s prayin’ for him. I hope he knows that.”