It feels like everyone stops whatever they’re doing to stare at us—or me—as soon as we enter. Nervous because of the attention, I shove my hands inside my hoodie pocket, trying to appear unconcerned.
A gentle hand cups my elbow, and I turn to look at Lizzie. “This is our assisted living facility. I come here every Wednesday to volunteer and spend time with everyone. They’re lovely people.”
I smile when I realize she’s worried about how I’d react. Not that I blame her; I do have a track record of being unpredictable. I’d assume my rather volatile encounters with Kade don’t help that view of me.
“That’s amazing. Do we just sit with them?” For some reason, I’m excited to help but try my hardest not to show it. I’ve never done something like this before but being around Lizzie makes me want to be a better person.
“Yes, just keep them company. Many of them don’t have family in the area, or they’re too busy with calving season to come for a visit.”
Just when I‘m about to answer, an older lady shuffles over to us with her walker and stops to stare at me for what feels like an eternity. Her gaze is scrutinizing and to be honest a bit scary, like she sees past every single defense I’ve put in place straight into my soul, unearthing my deepest and darkest secrets. “You’re Wayne’s girl, Montana, aren’t you?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am,” I mumble, fighting hard to hold her gaze, instinctively knowing not to look away.
“Haven’t seen you around here in a while. What gives?” Her bluntness takes me aback, even though she has that aura about her. One that says don’t mess with me.
Not sure what to say, but knowing I’m not ready to tell the truth, especially to someone I just met and scares the shit out of me, I try to make excuses. “Ah, I’ve just been busy.”
“Every day for the last fourteen years?” Her scoff tells me exactly what she thinks of my lie. “I’ll let it go for now. You’ll tell me the truth once you’re ready.” With that she turns around, leaving me stunned and unsure what to do, when she suddenly yells, “Follow me, girl. Before someone else takes control of the remote, and I am stuck watching something boring like the news again.”
Looking at Lizzie for help, all I see is her silently laughing but not offering any help. Instead, she motions for me to follow the crazy lady toward one of the armchairs in the corner close to the TV.
I take a seat next to her, awkward and unsure what to say to someone who so blatantly called me out on my lie without giving me the feeling she’s judging me. I’ve never encountered anyone like her.
“Everyone calls me Gram. But you can call me Margaret for now.”
“Okay. I’m Montana,” I say.
“I know who you are, girl.”
I watch her scroll through Netflix, bypassing everything I expected her to watch. She stops on a documentary I’ve saved to my own queue.
“You ever heard of this?” she asks me, but doesn’t hesitate before she hits play and continues to hide the remote in her baggy sweater.
I stare at her for a moment, trying to figure out why she’d hide it, when she answers my unspoken question. “Otherwise one of these cronies will steal it, and I’ll have to watch something stupid.” She shrugs, unconcerned with basically insulting every other person in this place.
I smile, already liking her despite being kind of rude. “Gotcha. And yes, I’ve wanted to see Dirty John for a while now, just never had the chance. From what I’ve read it’s one crazy story.”
“Oh, you like true crime?” she asks, the shock clear to read on her face.
I laugh lightly, used to this reaction by now. I don’t know why everyone seems so surprised every time I mention my fascination with true crime. “Yes, some might say I’m obsessed with it. I usually listen to podcasts whenever I’m on the road though. Don’t have a lot of time to watch TV. I’m especially intrigued by all the unsolved cases. Like where is Maura Murray? Or who killed JonBenet Ramsey?”
Her snort is quick and unapologetic. “With those two? Who can know for sure? But I wouldn’t be surprised if a family member killed the little girl and they all covered it up. The whole intruder theme is just so farfetched. And that note? Who writes a three-page ransom note?” She shakes her head in disbelief, and I can’t help but agree. “It makes absolutely no sense.”
“Yeah, I’d be surprised if we ever learn the truth.”
“You’re probably right. Those are usually the most fascinating ones though. All the speculating. At least with this psycho”—she nods toward the TV—“we have closure and justice for those poor women.”
I watch as Dirty John’s latest victim starts to tell her story. I marvel at the events unfolding on screen. I’ve never tried online dating, but stories like this one sure make me hesitant for fear of meeting a predator. At least this will give me another excuse to say no next time Dakota brings it up and tries to get me to meet someone online. I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than be chopped into pieces and stored in a freezer.
Gram suddenly leans over to me to grab my attention from the screen and whispers conspiratorially, “I couldn’t help myself but read up on this whole case once I saw the trailer.”
I laugh out loud at this, unable to keep quiet because I’ve done the same thing. I was never good at the
