Hopper House (The Jenkins Cycle Book 3) by John L. Monk Page B

demolished her meal yesterday at the hotel.
    “You said someone knows who you are,” Rose said quietly. “Someone who isn’t drifting, like us. You said he was a pain in the ass.”
    “A minister I know. What about him?”
    She watched my face intently. “Is he a close friend?”
    A good question. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s hard to define.”
    “Tell me more about him.”
    “Why?”
    “Because I want to know more about you if we’re going to be friends.” She smiled mechanically, as if remembering to be friendly. “Personal stuff.”
    It felt odd, her sudden interest in my experiences. Until now, she’d masterfully deflected my every attempt to learn more about her and others like us. Then came that secret phone call—with me as the topic—and lo and behold, meaningful conversation was back on the table again. She didn’t seem happy about it, either. Or rather, she didn’t seem happy in general . Gone was the Devil-may-care Rose who’d taken Sam the comedian lawyer down a peg and sent him packing. Her eyes had been happy then, sparkling with bratty fun. Now it seemed as if any moment they’d spill over in tears. For the life of me, I couldn’t tell why.
    I took another bite of my pancakes, washed it down with milk, and said, “It was my strangest ride ever … hop ever. Whatever you call it.”
    Rose nodded, not smiling at my word choice. The giggle factor, it seemed, had finally worn off.
    I told her the story of my ride as Nate Cantrell, the overly good-looking lotto winner and his gold-digging fiancée, Erika.
    When I mentioned how Nate had been a good guy, Rose said, “I almost never get good ones. When that happens, I never know what to do.” A second later, she added, “But I don’t kill them.”
    “What do you do when they’re monsters?”
    “Doesn’t matter,” she said in a tight voice. “Finish what you were saying.”
    I summarized the rest: how the minister realized what I was by touching me, and how he could kick me out if he wanted to.
    “Then what happened?” Rose said, leaning forward. “With the minister, not the woman.”
    “He said he was interested in learning about me—sort of like you, right now.”
    Rose blanked her face, not giving an inch.
    “I wrote something up and sent it to him in an email. About my experiences.”
    “What, like an essay? Do you still have it? Can I see it?”
    “Bigger than an essay.”
    “I’d love to read it sometime.”
    There were so many questions I had about my strange cycle of life and death. But every time I’d tried asking her, she’d shut me down or deflected the question. How old was she? What was her Great Wherever like? Had she ever kicked herself out on purpose, the way I’d once done? And probably the most important question: had she also committed suicide? Deep down, I still harbored this idea I was being punished for that.
    “If I let you read what I sent him,” I said, “would you finally open up to me a little?”
    Rose stared at me, biting her lip.
    “Yes,” she said. A moment later, she nodded as if finalizing her decision. “Deal.”
    After breakfast, I offered to help with the dishes but she told me not to bother. Honestly, I was happy to get out. Her sudden mood shifts were weirding me out a little.
    There was paper in the computer room stacked in a drawer. The top page was yellow with age, but the ones underneath were all white. Hopefully the printer ink hadn’t dried out.
    I logged into my account and found that email I’d sent the minister all those years ago.
    Clicking the print icon, I said, “Take that, Gutenberg.”
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    T hirty minutes later , I carried the stack of freshly printed pages downstairs and listened for signs of activity. The house was quiet.
    I put the story on the kitchen counter where Rose could find it, then stepped out on the back porch for a look around. Scrub vegetation and the odd cotton plant grew behind the house for as far as I could see. In the distance, a slight rise in