Haunting Jordan Read Online Free PDF

outward from a central intersection of two arterial streets. As always, she was struck by the clash of old and new—well-cared-for homes that made her feel as though she’d stepped back a hundred years in time juxtaposed with the jarring presence of modern businesses, telephone poles, and parked cars.
    A block down, a young man sat on a sagging couch on the front porch of a small cottage, playing jazz on his guitar—a song that combined elements of blues and fusion. A young girl wearing a vintage dress sat at his feet, softly humming her own tune while she played with an antique doll.
    Just beyond the cottage stood a lovingly tended old home, painted lemon yellow with aubergine accents andsurrounded by a white picket fence smothered in pink climbing roses. Jordan smiled and waved at the elderly couple sitting in the gently swaying porch swing, holding hands. The man put out his foot to halt the swing, surprise showing on his face, but his wife returned Jordan’s smile with a nod.
    The grocery was one block up and two over, and it seemed to be a neighborhood hub of sorts. She’d discovered the small business district when she’d stayed at a bed-and-breakfast down the block, on her trip to town the prior summer. Between jazz performances at the local taverns, she’d sat outside the bakery and had coffee, then wandered down the quiet back streets, exchanging greetings with friendly locals who’d been out watering their lawns or walking their dogs. She remembered thinking at the time that she’d possibly found a community that could be her salvation. Her impression hadn’t changed.
    The dog sat down to wait outside the grocery, his leash still in his mouth. She didn’t even attempt to tie him to the bicycle stand.
    Though the building was new, the grocery fit into the neighborhood with its homey atmosphere, appealing displays of organic produce, and quaint hand-lettered signs. Leaded-glass windows of abstract design flooded the interior with light, and customers sat in a loft over the deli, reading the newspaper while they ate their sandwiches.
    The aisles were stocked with standard fare plus an impressive selection of gourmet and organic foods that promised to do serious damage to Jordan’s monthly budget. She dumped canned organic dog food, a box ofwhole-grain cereal, milk, and a bag of coffee into her basket, plus a deli-packed serving of vegetarian lasagna for dinner. Snagging a bottle of Pinot Noir, she headed for the checkout.
    Halfway there she halted and backtracked to add a wedge of imported French triple-cream Brie, fancy crackers, and more sliced chicken breast, muttering to herself the entire time about a lack of self-discipline. After a chat with the checkout clerk about the fire a few years back that had destroyed the original historic building, she and the dog headed back home.
    Pulling paper plates from one of the boxes on the kitchen counter, Jordan fixed a sandwich, dividing the chicken breast heavily in favor of the dog. Opening a can of dog food that looked more appealing than her own recipe for beef stew, she added its contents to the plate, placing it on the floor. The food disappeared with alarming speed.
    While she munched on her sandwich, she rifled through the stack of papers left by Nora and Delia. The ladies had provided a mix of old newspaper articles about the murder and what appeared to be pages from a diary. She wedged the papers under one elbow, picked up a book on Port Chatham’s history she’d bought at a local bookstore during her last trip to town, and headed outside to sit on the front stoop. Though she felt more exposed than she liked—as if someone were still watching her—she’d be damned if anyone would stop her from enjoying her own porch.
    According to the clerk at the grocery, fire had played animportant role in the town’s history. Torn over what to read first, she finally set aside the ladies’ papers and propped the book on her knees, flipping through until she