It’s not a bad drive to Mrs. Mar’s place, maybe thirty minutes if a normal person is driving. Since Holly’s behind the wheel, we make it easily within twenty, and only nearly die twice.
“Oh, please,” Holly tells me as we make the final turn. She hits a pothole and the Bronco leaps. “We only nearly died once—and that wasn’t my fault. That guy didn’t check his blind spot.”
“He probably did, but he wasn’t expecting someone flying up on his left side doing ninety.”
“At best, I was doing eighty-five.”
“Ninety.”
“Seventy-five.”
I can’t stop laughing. It’s gotta be nerves because Twelve Oaks’ huge, front gate has loomed up in front of us. We’re here. This is happening. The stone wall on either side of the gate stretches on and on, bits of dark green ivy climbing over the top. Holly presses
