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fundraiser for the Belles, but I’ll be back later. Let me know if Roman needs to go to the doctor.”
    I didn’t reply, and she didn’t expect me to. I wasn’t her ward anymore. I’d quit being her responsibility the moment I’d moved to Cambridge for school.
    Marissa left, the front door clicking closed behind her, leaving the house in silence. I hated this house. I’d loved it once, loved the old Southern charm, its secret nooks and crannies. Adored its Magnolia-filled backyard and rose-choked gardens. But now, all I saw was death, grief, and violence.
    A room to the side of the foyer beckoned me, its closed door a challenge. I tried to ignore it. I knew what I’d see if I opened it. My father’s study was empty now, full of ghostly laughter and dust-covered books. No one entered it; not even the maid. Too many memories rested there.
    Somehow, I found myself moving toward the door, my hand going to the wood, my forehead resting next to my palm. Braydens didn’t cry.

 
     
    Chapter 7
     
    Haven
     
    I spent all day Saturday with Mr. Nelson, mowing his grass before helping him work in his garden, my heart full of excitement. I’d switched a few shifts with Poppy and Beth at work so I could be off through Wednesday, and the sudden feeling of freedom was exhilarating.
    Mr. Nelson couldn’t help but notice. “You look like you got ants crawlin’ all over yer skin,” he chuckled.
    I grinned. “It’s going to be a great week, Mr. Nelson. I can feel it.”
    The old man stooped to tug a couple of ripe tomatoes from the vine. “There sure is somethin’ in the air,” he mumbled.
    I swiped sweat from my forehead, my bare toes digging into the soil. I’d grown up barely wearing shoes. Mom said I was half wood sprite, that I never looked happier than when I was outside, my feet in the grass, my face toward the sky. She was wrong, of course. I felt the same way when I had a book in my hands or a notebook splayed out in front of me. There was something about the smell of books. I often visited the library when things were slow and there wasn’t any work to be done, and I’d sit, knees to chest, in between the back shelves, and sniff. Smell can tell as many stories as speech.
    “I’ve heard of that old river legend,” Mr. Nelson said. “Such a sad tale.”
    “Tragedy breeds legends,” I replied.
    Mr. Nelson handed me a bucket, and I started filling it with purple hull peas. My fingers would be a mess by the end of summer, raw from sitting on Mr. Nelson’s porch helping him shell and put up vegetables for the fall. Luckily, he always sent a portion home with me, which helped with the grocery bill.
    “When does your mama start work?” Mr. Nelson asked.
    I dropped peas into the bucket. “On Monday. She’s excited. Seems to be a right good job.” Sitting back on my heels, I stared at the old man. “But I worry about her.”
    He wiped his hands down the side of his coveralls. “Your mama?”
    I nodded. “She’s been through a lot. I think if this job falls through, she won’t be able to handle it.”
    Mr. Nelson’s brown gaze met mine. “She’s gonna be fine, Haven. There ain’t been no time for you to be young, and it’s time you be that. Your mom is gonna be all taken care of.”
    He looked up at the sky, his eyes watching the sun. “Come on, girl. It’s hot, and we’ll need to be eating something. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
    I finished filling the bucket and stood, following Mr. Nelson into the back door of his house. The screened-off porch we stepped onto leaned some, the screen peeling down in places, but it was charming. Mrs. Nelson had loved potted plants and there were at least ten lining the sides, all full and green. After she died, Mr. Nelson kept them alive for her, talking to them, murmuring things I think only Mrs. Nelson would ever understand.
    “It’s crazy how green you keep everything,” I told Thomas when we entered his kitchen. It was a small room with a scarred wooden