This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
For Mrs. Speight. When you told me I’d better dedicate a book to you someday, it was just what people say. But I remembered. Sorry about all the sex, violence, demons, and profanity. You weren’t super specific in your request.
The house on Cranberry Lane breathed and had a soul. Black shutters glared ominously down at Anna, watching her like fresh prey as she regarded it from the front yard with a mixture of fear and fascination.
It was a white two-story monstrosity with plantation-style columns and rocking chairs that beckoned from the expansive front porch. She imagined the porch had hosted many a lemonade drinker as they’d fanned themselves, praying for relief from the sweltering Georgia sun. The generous lawn was shaded by peach trees that lined the drive like sentinels.
A realtor stood before Anna, her hand outstretched, a vision of professionalism in a powder blue suit and gray pumps. She smiled broadly as if she hadn’t kept Anna waiting for the past twenty minutes.
“Ms. Worthington. Hi, I’m Cathy Lindley.”
“Please, call me Anna,” she said, her eyes never leaving the house.