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A LETTER FROM
JULIETTE CARLTON

Greensville, NC

September

I could tell you a story about how my uncle Grey Alexander left me Magnolia Hall because I was his favorite niece. About how on the day he died I found out he made sure I, Juliette Carlton, a forty-year-old, three-time divorced blackjack dealer, his beloved niece and misplaced Southern belle, inherited all he had, including the memories of a loving Southern family.

But none of it would be true.

And before all this happened, I believed money would make my life better, different, worth living. What I didn’t know was that no amount of money could help me. It took something so strange to make me see what’s really important.

Mary Schramski

Mary Schramski began writing when she was about ten. The first story she wrote took place at a junior high school. Her mother told her it was good, so she immediately threw it away. She read F. Scott Fitzgerald at eleven, fell in love with storytelling and decided to teach English. She holds a Ph.D in creative writing and enjoys teaching and encouraging other writers. She lives in Nevada with her husband, and her daughter who lives close by. Visit Mary’s Web site at www.maryschramski.com.

What to Keep
Mary Schramski

www.millsandboon.co.uk

From the Author

Dear Reader,

You and I have a connection. I’m a reader, too. When I hold a book in my hands, an excitement begins because, with just the turn of the page, the possibilities are endless. And I believe novels polish hearts and souls to a lovely brilliance.

I wrote What To Keep because I want you to experience a Southern town and live in an old Southern mansion. I want you to become acquainted with a woman who inherits her family’s home and all the memories that go along with it. Most of all, I want you to breathe Southern air, taste a bit of Southern food and hear the singsong cadence of a Southern accent.

Come on, take my hand, let’s go together.

Mary

www.maryschramski.com

To my editor, Gail Chasan, who has been my guide

and the ultimate professional.

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

PROLOGUE

Greensville, NC

September 2000

I could tell you a story about how my uncle Grey Alexander left me Magnolia Hall because I was his favorite niece. Then you might think I visited him every summer to attend reunions, and our family was close and very loving. That’s when I’d explain that Uncle Grey always sent me beautiful birthday cards, telephoned me on Christmas morning to wish me a happy, peaceful holiday. And at the end of our conversation he’d go on and on about how he wished I were home instead of in dusty Las Vegas.

I’d also tell you on the day he died I found out he made sure I, Juliette Carlton, a forty-year-old, three-times-divorced blackjack dealer, his beloved niece and misplaced Southern belle, inherited all he had, including the memories of a loving Southern family.

But none of it would be true.

Someone once told me the reason people lie is because it sounds better. They were right. And life, as my mother used to remind me over and over, is raw and ugly. Part of that is true. Life is raw and ugly if a person makes it that way. Maybe that’s why my mother lied so much.

I’ve decided not to fabricate anything, especially to myself. At one time I was big on that. I’d tell myself I was happy when I wasn’t, tell myself a man cared when he didn’t.

So the truth is I inherited an old Southern house from a man who just happened to be my uncle. I barely had a few faded memories of him. I became the owner of his house because I’m the only family member left. And that one little mistake of Grey Alexander not making a will changed my life forever. Because before all this happened I believed money would make my life better, different, worth living. What I didn’t know was that no amount of money could help me. It took something so strange, like inheriting an old Southern mansion that shouldn’t have belonged to me, to make me see what’s really important.

CHAPTER 1

Las Vegas, NV

June 2000

Barbara, the only other female blackjack dealer on day shift, just tapped me on the shoulder for my break. I’ve been dealing blackjack to two deadbeat guys for the past forty minutes. Dealers deal for forty minutes, then break for twenty, over and over until their eight-hour shifts are finished, just like in a factory—in this case, a big, smoky money machine.

I clap my hands to show I’m not stealing chips, and I’m halfway down the middle of the pit when the pit boss motions me over to the center podium.

“Message for you,” Joe says. He adds, “Casino policy says no personal phone calls.” Even so, he hands me the yellow Post-it note he’s holding between his thumb and forefinger. Joe, as always, is wearing plenty of gold jewelry. And I just know his navy suit must have cost him at least a thousand. Joe makes two thousand a month before taxes watching people deal cards. Most pit bosses try to pretend they own the casino, probably just to make their lives bearable.

“Thanks,” I force myself to say. I’ve worked at the Golden Nugget for three years. Joe has only been here six months, and he’s been on my ass since the first day he walked into the pit. He’s asked me to go out and have a drink but of course he doesn’t talk about his wife when he suggests we walk across the street to the Horseshoe after work. He’s just trying to get laid. Casino bosses think they have a right to the help, but even if I found him attractive, I’m totally through with men, especially men like Joe who pretend they have more than they do, or that they’re single, or both.

I fold the Post-it note in half, smile and walk back to the break room. A moment later I unfold the yellow square. Joe printed “Ron Tanner,” a name I don’t recognize. And now I’m thinking Bill, my ex, might be in a jam. And this scares me, how easily he can pop into my mind. I’ve been working extra hard to forget. Guess I’ve got to try harder.

I walk over to the table by the pay phone, pick up the phone book and check the area code. Whoever Ron Tanner is, he’s calling from the western half of North Carolina. And he probably doesn’t have anything to do with Bill. That man, I am sure, has never been east of the Arizona border.

However, my father was born and buried in North Carolina, and he, my mother and I lived there for a brief time. I have one uncle who lives there, but we haven’t seen each other or spoken in thirty-five years. I ball up the tiny piece of paper and walk to the trash. Before I can pitch it, my curiosity gets the best of me. A moment later I dial the number using the last bit of credit on my phone card.

The voice on the other end announces law offices. I tell myself to hang up. With Bill, I found out law offices can only mean trouble with a capital pain in the ass, but instead I identify myself and ask to speak to Ron Tanner.

A minute later, in a strong Southern accent, Ron Tanner announces that he’s acting as the court-appointed executor for Grey Alexander’s estate. I hear him take a deep breath then, at a quick pace, he explains he’s sorry to have to tell me, but my uncle passed away three weeks ago, and I have inherited his estate because I’m his only living relative.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes. What happened to my uncle?” I ask, confused.

“He had cancer. From what I understand he fought it for quite a while. I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a long silence while my mind tries to wrap around what I’ve just been told.

“I’m sure you have a few questions,” Ron says.

A little sound like “oh” bounces out of my mouth.

“No?”

“Sorry. What exactly do you mean by estate?”

“It consists of your uncle’s house and his belongings, which aren’t much.”

My uncle. I hadn’t thought of him in years, and now all of a sudden I have his house.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his smooth, deep accent getting deeper.

“Yeah, I’m okay, just surprised.” I shake my head—feel dizzy. When was the last time I saw my uncle? Then I remember. My dad, mother and I were driving away from my uncle’s house. Grey Alexander, a tall man with blond hair, in a navy jacket and cream pants, was standing on the front porch of his large house, his arms crossed, staring at our car. I waved a five-year-old goodbye—he never lifted his hand.

“I certainly had difficulty locating you,” Ron Tanner breaks in. “Do you know your phone’s disconnected?”

Did I know? I’ve been without a phone for a month, hoofing it down to the 7-Eleven on Sunset and Green Valley Parkway to make calls in an attempt to straighten out the mess Bill left me in. But I don’t tell Ron Tanner this. He probably doesn’t want to hear my sad story.

“What exactly is in Grey Alexander’s estate?” I ask, and then remember I’ve already asked this.

“A house. A car. Not much else.”

“What’s the house like?” I wonder if it is the same one, the one I stared at through the back window of our family car, the same one where I ran down the hallway to a roomy kitchen.

Ron explains it’s very old and pretty run-down.

“How do I sell it?” I ask, thinking about the extra money I so desperately need.

“You might consider coming back to Greensville. The house has to be inspected. Then you could talk to a Realtor.”

I think about how Joe hates me ’cause I won’t go out with him; he would never let me off, even for a few days.

“I can’t. I have to work. No vacation left. Can I get in touch with a Realtor from here? Have her take care of the inspection?”

“You can,” Ron says. “I can get you a few names.”

Moments later, still dazed and wondering if this is all a big joke, I cradle the phone and lean against the wall. Leanne, the break-room waitress, walks up to me, glances at her watch and asks if I want anything to eat. I look up.

“Are you okay?”

I shake my head, blurt out I’ve just inherited a house in North Carolina.

“You’re lying!”

“No, it’s true, or at least I think it is. I just spoke with the attorney.”

“I’m so sorry about your loss.”

“I really didn’t know the person.”

Leanne pats my shoulder then steps back a little. “Well, now there’s no excuse not to get out of this hellhole.”

My mother, when I’d talked about moving away from Vegas, always placed her hand on her chest, right in the middle and whispered how alone she was in the world, how she needed me. Which now, years later, I know was total bullshit. But her drama gave me a good excuse for not moving—this glittering desert town sucks people into its dreams.

Leanne’s brown eyes grow larger. “When are you going to see your house?”

I shake my head. “I’m not. I’ve got to work, and I don’t have any extra money.”

She stuffs her hands in her pockets and looks hard at me. “Are you kidding? Someone loves you enough to leave you a house, all their things, and you aren’t going to go and look at them? You’re crazy.”

I think about telling her that my getting the house doesn’t have anything to do with love, but what’s the point? Grey Alexander didn’t leave me his house; some probate judge flung it to me because I’m from a small family.

“I don’t have the money to go,” I say again, and this is so true. Bill left me in debt, took almost everything good we owned. “Besides, Joe isn’t going to let me off for a week. The lawyer said he’d give me the name of a Realtor who would handle everything.”

Leanne sighs. “What’s a Supersaver cost? I never saw a house sell for anything without the owner being there. We sold our house up in Salt Lake after we moved down here and got screwed. You’d better get back there and take care of business.”

I stand, wish I hadn’t told her about the call. “I’d better get back to the pit before I get the ax.”

Leanne shakes her head, clucks her tongue and heads toward the kitchen.

I slip my time card in the clock, and the deep thunk clocks me out at 8:01 p.m. The Golden Nugget time office pulses with boredom, greasy concrete floors, and bright fluorescent lighting that shows too much reality. Up front the casino, restaurant, and lounge are all gold, red and satin under soft lighting. Back here, this is the truth. The timekeeper nods and I walk down the stairs into the parking lot. Furnacelike air engulfs me. Eight o’clock at night and it is still eighty-five degrees. For the next three months the desert heat will cook everyone slowly, in our own sweaty skins, like poached eggs. I open my car, go around and roll down all four windows, curse the air conditioner that gave out two months ago.

Twenty minutes later I’m sitting on the garage-sale couch I bought a week ago to replace the Ethan Allen one my ex-husband stole, along with all my underwear that he forgot to take out of the top dresser drawer and put on the floor when he was cleaning out our house.

Just for the hell of it, I remind myself I own a house in North Carolina. Christ, life can turn on a dime! On the drive home, I tried not to think about the house, the extra money, but I couldn’t help myself and decided as soon as I can sell the house, I’m going to move to a better apartment, or maybe even buy another home and get my car air-conditioning fixed.

I dig in my purse and find the orange tip envelope I picked up right before I left work. It feels fatter than normal and for one brief moment I feel joy. A big tip day, the phone call to Ron Tanner. What more could a girl want?

A twenty, a ten and two ones are wrapped around a pink paper. I unfold it. It’s one of those weak-ass carbon copies of a layoff notice—Reduction In Staff—signed by Joe Gamino, the dickhead.

Great! Stunned, yet not surprised since I’ve known he’s been after me for months, I go to the fridge and grab a Coors Light, twist off the top, listen to it sigh then take a big swig.

Over at the window, I pull back the thin drapes and rest the cool amber beer bottle against my cheek. Fired! Crap.

To make myself feel better, I think about the house in Greensville, how maybe it will sell quickly. It’s just got to.

When I was five my parents moved back to Greensville for two weeks, and we stayed at Magnolia Hall until our apartment was ready. I remember the house was white with bricks, really big and filled with antiques. At night my mother, father and I, along with my uncle, would sit on the porch that wrapped around the front. I played on the steps with my doll or ran out into the grass, trying to catch fireflies while the grown-ups’ whispers floated through the air.

After we moved into an apartment, and as my mother was unpacking the last box, she started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. Two days later my father announced we were going back to California, where it was cool in the summer, warm in winter, and maybe it would be a place where my mother might get her sanity back.

I never understood this two-week, six-thousand-mile trek; it is one of those mythical family stories that children aren’t allowed to enter, just watch from the outside and wonder about.

Most of all I remember the cool morning air feathering my face, touching the trees as the three of us walked to our car, me in between my mother, who was crying softly, and Dad, his hand wrapped around mine. I felt wounded for them that day, like now, aching and not knowing why, afraid of the unknown.

I let the drape fall, take another sip of beer and, for the first time in many months, I admit my life has turned to pure crap.

CHAPTER 2

Magnolia Hally

Greensville, NC

June 2000

Ron Tanner and I are in his black BMW headed down a magnolia-lined, gravel driveway. It’s been three days since I got fired from the Golden Nugget. That night I ended up drinking the last four beers in the fridge, sitting on the couch, in a beer-hazed stupor for, I guess, about an hour thinking about how my life had not just turned to crap, but how it had always been crap and I needed to do something about it. Leanne’s words kept thumping through my mind. How I’d get ripped off if I didn’t go back to sell the house. And I’m tired of people pissing on me.

I nodded off on the couch, then stumbled to bed, didn’t bother to take off my black pants and white dealer’s shirt until twelve the next day. When I got up, I walked down to the 7-Eleven and called the Golden Nugget, asked to speak to the blackjack pit boss and when Joe answered, I whispered, “You asshole,” then hung up, my hand shaking a little. I knew it was stupid and immature, but I did feel better.

I went home, brushed my teeth then sat on the couch wondering how I was going to pay the rent and feed myself. I dug in my purse and found my checkbook, thumbed through the register. Ten minutes later, and a hundred-and-eighteen dollars overdrawn from a subtraction error I’d made standing in line at Walgreen’s, I put my checkbook back in my purse.

I had one credit card that wasn’t maxed out and the thirty-two dollars I’d left on the coffee table. Without changing clothes, I slung my purse over my shoulder, walked back to the pay phone, called the Delta eight-hundred number, got a flight for $694.50, leaving at six-thirty the next morning, with a two-hour layover in Des Moines. Then I called Ron, the lawyer. I told him I’d be in Greensville tomorrow and could he pick me up from the airport? He put me on hold, came back and said he would, and that it was a good idea I was coming.

Now Magnolia Hall, a two-story brick house with white-trimmed porch and dull green shutters, sits at the end of the lane, looking much smaller than I remember.

I glance over at Ron. He doesn’t look like I thought he would, either. His black hair is cut short—I expected longer blond, for some reason. I guess because the last man I saw in Greensville had blond hair. It’s funny what our memories become and what they do to our perceptions.

Ron stops in the circle driveway, in front of the house. Closer, I can see someone has painted the bricks to make it look like the house still has green shutters. He shuts down the engine. The digital clock stays on—it’s three-thirty.

I stare through the tinted window, try to remember more about this house, but can’t. Ron gets out, comes around and opens my door.

“Thanks.” He’s parked in the shade of a huge magnolia and it’s relatively cool. There’s no breeze, no noise.

“This is it,” I say, glancing around. The yard is overgrown.

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty run-down.”

“I talked to the housekeeper. She said Mr. Alexander fell on hard times before he died. You never heard from him?”

“No.” I leave out that I might not have recognized the man if he had a sign around his neck on a deserted street. I’m sure Ron has heard too many stories, him being an attorney and all. I cross the yard to the porch, climb the stairs, turn around. Huge trees surround the house, cut the ground from the cloudless sky. The air smells green—unfamiliar, and I wish I could dig up more memories to take me back to the last time I was here, but it’s impossible. I was too little and it’s been so long. Besides, thirty-five years in a desert town has imprinted dust and cement on my soul.

Ron pulls my black carry-on out of the trunk.

“I’ll get that,” I say, feeling embarrassed I forgot my suitcase. He shakes his head, carries it up to the front door.

“Want me to put it inside?” He nods toward the door.

“No, thanks. It’s not heavy.”

Ron’s face is tan. I’d guess he’s about forty-five. Really mainstream America, clean-cut. Father and mother probably still play golf at some expensive country club, his two brothers, maybe a sister, all have families, dogs, the works.

He’s loosened his tie enough so he could undo the top button on his white-and-blue oxford shirt, but he hasn’t. I bet his wife picks up his shirts from the cleaners every Wednesday. She’s probably someone he met in college, who put him through law school by teaching third grade and is now in good standing with the Greensville Junior League. But there’s no ring on his left hand, not even a tan line.

“I have the key to the house,” he says, and digs in his pocket.

“Thanks for picking me up at the airport.”

Ron takes his hand out of his pocket. He walks to the edge of the steps, stands across from me. A tiny breeze brings his aftershave to me. It’s one of those citrusy, clean kinds. I imagine him splashing it on this morning, standing in front of his bathroom mirror, naked from the waist up, a towel wrapped around his somewhat slim, forty-five-year-old waist.

“This happens every once in a while,” he says.

“What?” I look at him. He’s staring at me, then he smiles.

“Houses dumped on unsuspecting, long-lost relatives.”

I shake my head. “No way.”

“I specialize in wills, probate, estate tax. Believe me, this happens. Sometimes there’s no immediate family. If the deceased hasn’t left a will, then it all goes to the closest relative or the state. Your uncle was lucky he had you.”

“I’m not sure how lucky, since he’s dead.”

We laugh at the same time, and then all of a sudden for some odd reason I think about my mother and when she died two years ago. How I had to sort through her underwear, wonder if I should put her Hanes size-seven briefs in the Goodwill bag. I decided that her underwear being worn by a homeless woman who lived one block off Main Street in a cardboard box was too sad. So through guilty feelings, I threw the crotch-stained nylon panties in the kitchen trash.

“One relative is better than none. But too many can make for big problems,” Ron says.

I smile. “Never had that problem. As you know my family’s pretty small—really nonexistent.” I look up and notice the white trim under the porch roof is flaking badly. On the airplane I let myself daydream of what I’d find, all the while telling myself that doing it was dangerous. Yet I let my imagination dredge up an out-of-focus, black-and-white photograph—a large house—breathtaking, like in one of those happy movies, easy to sell, a cash deal.

Ron’s voice cuts in. “I did a complete search. There was your uncle’s sister, who passed away years ago, and your father. That’s it.”

My mother’s monotone voice had always told me thin stories about strange ex-in-laws. She had acted as if I wasn’t related to them, as if I’d only been issued from her.

Ron’s cell phone, in his slacks pocket, rings. Bill and I both had cell phones when we first got married. We’d call each other all the time until we couldn’t pay the bill.

“Your pocket’s ringing,” I say, and then wonder why I said something so stupid.

He laughs, checks the caller ID then looks at me. “Mind if I take this?”

“No, go ahead.” It’s probably his wife, the one who doesn’t make him wear a ring, checking in, seeing if he’ll be home for dinner.

He walks to the other side of the battered porch, clicks a button and begins talking. And I’m glad I don’t have to say anything for a few minutes.

I push my hair back. My face is sweaty. I look out into the yard. There are no houses close, just magnolias and overgrown bushes, dirty brown with dead spring blooms. This land has to be worth something.

“Sorry about that,” Ron says as he walks back. “Major problem with a client. I should get back to the office.”

“Thanks for bringing me out here.” I glance around. “You said there was a car?”

“Carport is at the back of the house. I never gave you the house keys.” He digs into his other pocket, finds a set of keys. “Buick Riviera, 1977. Eighty thousand miles. A cream puff. I came over after you called and started it. Even has air. Drove it to charge the battery. If you want to sell it, I’m sure you’ll find a buyer.”

“I want to sell it.” I take the keys. They swing, glint, hit my palm.

“House key’s the one with the red yarn tied in a bow. I think your uncle’s housekeeper did that.”

I pick it out while Ron walks down the steps. He turns around. “I had my secretary arrange for a county inspection late this afternoon. Every house over a hundred years old in Guilford County has to be inspected before it’s put on the market.”

“Do you think it’ll pass?”

“I don’t know. They’re pretty stringent these days.”

“I hashed out a plan on the airplane—sell the house or at least sign with a Realtor that I trust and get back to Vegas.”

“Sounds like a workable plan. The county wants to save the historical homes, so the owner is responsible for repairs. That way when it’s sold, the buyer knows what they’re getting into. You have my card. Call if you have any questions, problems. I’ll need you to sign the probate papers when they’re finished, which should be in the next couple of days.”

“What about your fee?” I just finished paying six hundred dollars for my latest divorce. God only knows what a probate attorney costs.

“My billing clerk will get in touch with you when everything is assessed.”

“Great.” I watch as he walks to his car, climbs in. He’s tall, well built and moves with confidence. I go to the front door, try again to remember standing on this porch but can’t. I slide the key in the lock, turn it the wrong way then back again. The dead bolt clunks open, and I seize the knob and open the door.

“This wall has to be fixed.”

“Fixed! Why? It looks fine to me,” I say.

Clay, the Guilford County inspector, is running his finger down the bedroom wall. I’ve been following him for the past thirty minutes, hoping—no, wishing—the house passes inspection. And now, it looks like I’m not going to get what I want.

“See this green line? Mildew. Happens all the time. Rain seeps in and mildew takes over just like that.” Clay snaps his fingers.

I squint, barely able to see the mossy green line. “Are you sure? Maybe it’s just a stain.”

He looks at me and grunts. “Lady, I’ve been doing this kind of work for a very long time. This is mildew.”

Half-moon sweat stains are rising on his blue work shirt. The house is hot, stuffy. I didn’t have time to open windows, if they’ll open. And Clay has informed me of many other things. Greensville is experiencing a heat wave, the likes of which the folks here haven’t seen in fifty years. Some have dropped over from the heat. I expect Clay to be one of them any minute. He’s also told me outsiders, mostly Northerners, are coming down in droves—with this information, he gave me a sidelong look—building in the area has exploded, and more important, Magnolia Hall is a dump.

Clay thumbs through papers on his clipboard then searches in his back pocket, finds a white handkerchief and mops his forehead.

“If you plan on selling your house anytime soon you can forget it.”

“Look, can’t you just sign off? The green line is barely there.” I move closer to the wall. “I swear it’s so small you—”

“Underneath there’s trouble. Doesn’t seem like much from the outside. Can’t give you the okay until the wall’s cleaned up. You’re darned fortunate that’s all that’s wrong, the way this place has been let go.”

Resolved, I step back. “How do you fix something like that?”

“The way the town’s growing, it’ll take you a month of Sundays to get someone out here. Does that air conditioner work?” Clay nods to the old unit clinging to the windowsill.

“I don’t know.” I walk over, find the On switch and push it in. Nothing. I look at Clay. His lips press together.

“Preventative maintenance, that’s the key to these old houses.”

“I inherited this place. That wall,” I say, “sounds like a major expense. I have less than zero money.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this, for God’s sake. What does he care?

Clay taps the checklist. “Depends on what you consider major. Some of those new construction companies charge a lot. First thing with mildew is you gotta get to the problem. From what I can tell, it’s coming from the window.” He walks over to the window, three feet from the mildew, runs his hand over the sill. “I’m surprised the one with the air-conditioning unit isn’t leaking. Best thing to do is seal all the way around, that’ll stop more damage, then when the wall’s replaced make sure they seal it up real tight.”

“Wall replaced?”

“Gotta take down part of the plasterboard.” Clay taps one of the dull white-and-green magnolias that make up the wallpaper.

“Christ! I don’t have the time or money for this.”

“You aren’t a Southern gal, are you?”

“No.”

Clay looks at me like he’s about to take pity on me. “You can buy caulk at Home Depot. Probably only take half a tube.” He shakes his head. “After the drywall’s taken down, they’ll wash the wood to get rid of the mildew then put up new drywall, tape, paint or wallpaper.”

“Right,” I say, but feel overwhelmed. “How much do you think this is gonna cost?”

“’Bout eight hundred dollars.”

“Oh, God!”

A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead into my right eye, and I blink, wipe at it, know I’m smearing my mascara.

“Plaster dust gets into everything and there’s nothing you can do about that. Make sure whoever does the job puts Visqueen up.”

“Are you sure I can’t buy some Lysol and wipe down the wall? I’ll seal the window.”

“No. When it’s gone this far, you can’t. It’s like the silent killer of walls.”

“Shit. The silent killer, ha-ha.”

“Just sign on the line.”

I take the blue pen and clipboard that says Guilford County and look at the small-print form. It’s smudged with Clay’s sweat, now mine. “There’s no other way?”