Jackson’s P.O.V.
“So this here’s the laundry room, though frankly, I don’t trust those pipes. Last couple who lived here probably washed their sins in there, too—Lord rest ’em.”
I nodded politely, trailing a few steps behind the realtor who, based on her stride, hair helmet, and perfume that could knock a bull flat, had definitely been selling homes since the Lincoln administration. Her name was Margaret, though she preferred Miss Margaret, and she was dressed as if she were about to auction cattle and attend church in the same afternoon.
“This house’s been on the market for two years,” she was saying as she pointed at a sagging cabinet like it had personally offended her.
“But I keep telling people, it’s got potential. You just gotta look past the… character.”
“Mm,” I grunted, looki
