Purgatory, West Virginia
December 17
Finn found Maybelle refilling the birdfeeder in the backyard. “You didn’t think it was important to tell me Philomena Guilford is dead?” he asked.
“Not really.” Maybelle poured the seed into the freestanding feeder then moved to the one at the back of the yard hanging from a limb of a red oak.
“And why’s that?”
“You’re not a particularly receptive individual,” she said.
Finn paced across the yard. “I have a fucking concussion. That has to be it.” He tugged on his sandy hair. “I passed that fucking house driving in, and your house too.” He stopped and snapped his fingers. “I read her name on that statue in town, saw her picture at the diner. Yes, that’s it. I had some sort of fucking hallucination, conjured her up.”
“She did say dainty,” Maybelle interjected. “Is that a common part of your vernacular?”
“I’ve used it,” Finn grumbled.
“If I were you, I think I’d prefer a benevolent spirit over listening to what your subconscious is trying to tell you.” May pulled a weed and tossed it to the side.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
“That you need help.”
“Or I needed a place to stay and a job. My subconscious just took over while my brain rebooted.”
“That’s one explanation,” she said.
“What? You think your sister’s ghost dropped down from whatever ethereal plane she’s living on to pay me a visit?”
“Well, when you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous.” She scattered some feed on the grass. “Philomena hates strangers. So, I agree it’s highly unlikely.”
“That’s why it’s unlikely? Because I’m a stranger?” Finn threw his hands out to the side.
“And a particularly unpleasant one at that.” She clapped the seeds off her gloves and turned toward the house. “Whatever the reason, you’re here, and I could use the help, so come on. Kitchen sink’s backed up.”
Finn watched May walk into the house, then turned in a slow circle as if searching for a witness to confirm the insanity. Finding no ally, corporeal or otherwise, he let out a breath and followed.