Chapter 8 - The Poisoned Well
By Saturday, the poison Evelyn had brewed began seeping into our small town.
I went to Miller’s Hardware to pick up some weatherstripping and heavy-duty deadbolts. When I walked up to the counter, Jimmy Miller—a boy I’d coached in Little League twenty-five years ago—avoided my eyes. Two women from Louise’s old gardening auxiliary stopped talking as soon as my boots hit the linoleum, grabbing their purses and hurrying down the plumbing aisle.
"Morning, Jimmy," I said, setting the brass locks on the counter.
"Morning, Mr. Ward," Jimmy muttered, scanning the barcodes without looking up. "Heard you had some... excitement out at the place."
"Excitement is one word for it," I replied evenly. "What are people saying, Jimmy?"
Jimmy hesitated, his face turning red. He glanced around before leaning over the counter. "My sister showed me a post on the county community Facebook board last night, Artie. Over two thousand shares already. A woman posted a video of your back porch, crying her eyes out. Said you kept her locked in the guest bedroom without heat, that you threatened her with a firearm, and that Miles is an enabler who covers up domestic abuse to protect your inheritance."
My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice stayed calm. "You've known me my whole life, Jimmy. Does that sound like me?"
"No, sir," Jimmy said honestly. "Not in a million years. But people on the internet don't know you. Some activist group from the city already started tagging the sheriff's department. They're calling for a boycott of Miles’s landscape design business."
The blow hit me harder than any physical punch could have. Miles had built that business from a beat-up pickup truck and a rusty push mower. If she destroyed his commercial clients, he wouldn't have the funds to pay rent, let alone fight off a frivolous lawsuit.
When I stepped out of the hardware store, two people were standing near my truck, taking pictures of my license plate with their phones. When I looked at them, they scurried off toward a sedan with rental plates.
I drove straight to the sheriff’s substation. Sheriff Dale Cooper had known me since we were teenagers, but when I walked into his office, his expression was weary and guarded.
"Sit down, Artie," Dale sighed, tossing a manila folder onto his desk. "I was just about to send a deputy out to your place."
"Save the gas, Dale. I'm right here."
"I have four separate complaints sitting on my desk, Artie. Two from protective services, one anonymous tip about unregistered firearms, and a formal complaint from an attorney alleging unlawful eviction and grand larceny of personal property." Dale rubbed his temples. "Who the hell is this girl?"
"She's a predator, Dale," I said, pulling the spiral notebook from my pocket and sliding it across the desk. "Read that. Then tell me who the victim is."
Dale opened the notebook, skimming the pages. As he read the calculated notes about my routine, the fake elder abuse strategy, and the notes on my property lines, his posture straightened. His tired eyes turned hard as flint.
"Where did you find this?"
"In my house. Hidden behind the vanity." I leaned forward. "She didn't just target us, Dale. Frank Callahan says her name is an alias. Check her fingerprints from the digital lock she left on my pantry. Her prints are all over that keypad."
May you like
Dale picked up his desk phone. "Artie, you leave this to me. But go home, lock your gates, and keep Miles inside. If she’s running an operation this sophisticated, she’s not working alone."
***
