Chapter 3

Trish tilted her chin up, looking pleased with herself. "She's a crook! Don't let her get away with it."

I was shaking with anger. "Trish, if you keep this up, I'm calling the police."

Trish looked completely unbothered and straightened her spine.

I pulled out my phone and dialed. "Someone is causing a disturbance outside my shop. I need someone here right away."

The police arrived quickly. After hearing both sides, they dispersed the crowd.

"Trish, if you have a complaint, you can file one through the proper channels. But standing out here and blocking her business is not acceptable."

Trish pursed her lips and said nothing.

"This isn't really something we can settle for you. But since you're all neighbors, I would say try to keep things civil. Just give them the refund."

Trish raised her eyebrows smugly. "That's right! Refund!"

I had no choice. I transferred 16 dollars to Doug.

Trish's brows furrowed. "You shorted him. A third of 50 dollars is 16.67. You still owe him another dollar."

I nearly laughed from the sheer absurdity. On top of having to cover the cost of labor and materials myself, I was also expected to pay an extra 33 cents too?

I could not be bothered to argue. I sent another dollar and closed up shop.

I had barely sat down to catch my breath when the door was pushed open again. A man I had never seen before stood in the entrance. He did not look like he was from town.

"Are you Bridget Oakes? My name is Neil Compton." He held out a business card. "I run a full-service funeral company across from the city hospital. A friend told me your woodworking is excellent and that you make all kinds of urns. I'd like to talk about a partnership, if now is a good time."

I was hesitant, but I invited him to sit.

He did not waste time. "I'll get straight to the point. I've seen your work. It's better than anything else on the market. I want to partner up. I put up the capital, you bring the craft. Or if you prefer, you can be my supplier and I'll buy exclusively from you. The arrangement is up to you."

I turned it over in my mind. When I was five, I was separated from my family. I drifted from place to place, begging for food, until I ended up in Millbrook. The only carpenter in town took me in and taught me everything he knew over the course of decades.

He had asked only one thing of me when he was on his deathbed. "The people of Millbrook are good, honest folk. Whenever someone passes, you make the urn for them and only charge for materials."

Between that promise and the fact that the townspeople had watched me grow up, I was willing to take the loss without complaint.

I rubbed my fingertips together absently. "I need some time to think it over."

After Neil left, I thought I might finally get a moment of peace. However, the neighborhood group chat was blowing up.

Trish had sent a voice message. "Everyone, Bridget Oakes is a real piece of work. She passed off plywood as ebony and scammed Doug. A crook like her shouldn't be allowed to keep her doors open."

Someone replied with a string of question marks: [That can't be right. She's always seemed so decent.]

Gail jumped right in: [I can vouch for Trish. I was there.]

Hank had typed out a message of his own: [It's all an act. She's rotten underneath.]

[Those urns are thin as paper. They wouldn't last a year.]

[She'd better pray the dead don't come back to haunt her.]

The rest of the neighbors piled on.

It felt like a fire was burning inside my chest. I ran out to the yard, took photos of the ebony wood, and posted them to the chat: [This is all handmade. Here's the proof.]

Gail replied with a laughing emoji as well as a message: [Don't fall for it, everyone. She set that up ahead of time to cover her tracks. I live right next door to her. You think I wouldn't know?]