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Owen fumbled with the phone in the booth, dropped his change, then scrambled on his hands and knees while curses poured from his mouth. He dialed information first for Mary Adams in Georgia, only to discover there were 20 of them. He’d left the guest book at the house and couldn’t remember the street address, if she’d even written one. His anger peaked until his head was pounding as he dialed number after number without any luck. Finally, on the final number, a woman answered. “Yes, this is Mary Adams. How may I help you?”
With his final thread of self-control wearing thin, he throttled his voice down to a hoarse murmur, doing his best to sound the part of the grieving husband. “This is Owen Granville. Are you the Mary Adams that was friends with my wife, Laura?” His fingers tapped on the wall of the booth. So help him, he’d send his fist through the glass if she wasn’t the one.
“Why yes, Mr. Granville. I know we already spoke at the funeral but I truly am sorry for your loss. Laura was such a sweet woman. I have many fond memories of her. What can I do for you?”
Careful, he couldn’t make her suspicious. “I...found some things that had belonged to Laura’s grandmother and I thought there might be someone in her old, home town that might want them. You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the town so I can get some information? I just…I’m so upset since Laura…I can’t keep my thoughts straight.” His voice shook, a convincing touch. He held his breath and waited.
“Oh, that’s no problem. I spent a lot of time with Laura in Gerrardstown, West Virginia. But I really don’t think there’s anyone left, Mr. Granville. Mr. Granville? Are you still there? Mr. Granville?” There was no answer except for the bang of the dropped receiver against the booth.
Owen jogged back home, mud splashing on his clothes, shivering from the rain and wind that continued to intensify. He finally reached his steps, planning to wrap up in some blankets, find a change of clothes that were dry even if they were dirty, only to find a paper on the door. It was an eviction notice with a padlock barring his entry. He backed away, hands to his head, dumbfounded. How long had it been since he paid the rent? Laura always took care of the bills because he couldn’t keep them straight. He couldn’t even remember how much time had gone by since Laura died.
It didn’t matter. If he couldn’t live there, no one would. He grabbed the gas tank from the dilapidated garage and started liberally splashing fuel all over the house and garage as well. Once doused, he lit a match then dropped to the ground. The laughter of a lunatic rang out while the flames grew higher. Owen wasn’t cold anymore! As for a place to live, the girl would have to put him up for a change. The question—how would to get there? The fire of his anger blazed higher. How much damn harder was she going to make this on him? He’d take it out of her hide, teach her a lesson to never leave again. It would be over his dead body.
Deep in the Heart of Dixie Page 16