Read Southern Bound - A Paranormal-Mystery (Max Porter Mysteries Book 1) for Free Online

getting an official police report even though all I got was a scratch on the bumper." She ended up late to work and had to deal with a lecture from Mrs. McCarthy, the owner, that ended with a reminder, "There's lots of good people looking for work right now. People who know how to be on time."
    Max listened and did not interrupt. The more she spoke, the less he wanted to say. What could he tell her? That a ghost hired him on the side and promised him that his new employer, the one that would save them financially, was somehow associated with the spawn of evil, Stan Bowman? But he didn't want to lie to her either.
    When she finished, still huffing at unspoken thoughts, the dreaded question came out. "So, what happened with Drummond?"
    Turning the page in his book, Max saw a picture of a large building on fire in the middle of a field while numerous, well-dressed people stood at a distance and watched. The caption explained that on November 24, 1892 the Zinzendorf Hotel (named after the beloved former leader) tragically burned to the ground in about two hours. Max looked at the billowing smoke and wondered if he had started his own tragic fire.
    "Honey?" Sandra said.
    "I'm here. Things have gotten a little bit more complicated, but don't worry."
    "Just tell Drummond —"
    "Don't do that."
    "Do what?"
    "Try to solve my problems and tell me what to do. I've got it all being taken care of. And I can decide for my own career if I want to do a little work for Drummond or not. I promise you I won't be fired from my job. Okay?"
    "I guess I'm just a little worried that —"
    "We're not in Michigan anymore."
    "I know," Sandra said. With forced levity, she changed the subject, and as she chattered on, Max flipped through a few more pages.
    "It can't be," he said, staring at a picture from the 1980s. He read the caption twice.
    "What did you say?"
    "She might still be here."
    "Who?"
    "Annabelle. I've got to go. I'll see you tonight," Max said, cutting the connection without any further good-bye.
    He went to his cubicle, gathered his things, and rushed to the microtext room. With the aid of a librarian, he found several spools containing all issues of the local paper, The Winston-Salem Journal, for the year 1989. In a short time, he found the story he had sought, and the photos of several Winston-Salem residents, including an older lady attempting to hide behind harsh-looking men — but her spry eyes gave her away. Annabelle Bowman. A quick search online gave him the address.
    As he drove to the South Side home, Max considered calling Drummond. Two thoughts stopped him. First, he saw no reason he should feel obligated to make reports. Second, and far more important, Drummond was dead. How would a ghost answer the phone?
    The house appeared to be nothing special. A beaten Chevy with a layer of dust resided in the driveway and leaves dotted the walk. Fall would arrive soon, but for the moment, the warm air felt just right. As Max waited on the brick porch for the doorbell to be answered, the distinct odor of stale flowers and unwashed blankets drifted from a rocking chair at his side.
    "Yes?" a weak voice asked from behind the door.
    "Annabelle Bowman?"
    "What do you want?"
    "My name's Max Porter. I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes. I have a few questions for an article I'm researching."
    The door opened a crack. "Article?"
    Max flashed his warmest smile as he peeked in at the elderly woman. "Yes, I'm writing an article for, um, I don't know yet. It's kind of a freelance thing."
    "Freelance?"
    "It means that I don't have —"
    "I know what it means, you idiot. Sure, what the hell, I ain't had anything interesting happen in months," she said, nudging the door open and shuffling toward her living room. "Besides, I don't think I've got to worry about you raping me, and there ain't anything here worth stealing."
    Max stepped inside to find a home cramped with books, statuettes, and trinkets of all kinds. Next to a mirror, a