“I’ll just call you again.”

“Macon . . .”

He makes a noise, almost a laugh but something drier. “No one calls me Macon like that. As if it’s a curse or a bad taste in your mouth. Only you.”

Back when we were kids, his mama called him Little Saint, which was just weird in my book. His daddy called him “boy.” Everyone else simply called him Saint. A less deserved title, I cannot recall. But it isn’t a surprise people still refer to him as Saint; he spent enough time cultivating that image.

“Why are you harassing me, Macon?”

He huffs out a breath. “Firstly, I called Samantha’s number.” He rattles off her number, and I’m left frowning—not that he can see that. He continues on in an officious tone. “Secondly, I addressed my messages to Sam, not you. Why you seemed to think I was pretending to be Sam makes absolutely no sense.”

“It’s April Fools’ Day,” I mutter. “I thought it was a poorly executed joke on Sam’s part.”

He laughs without humor. “I wish.”

Yeah, me too.

If I am to believe he was texting Sam—and why would he bother texting me?—then I have to believe the rest. Unfortunately, I’m remembering the time Sam forwarded her messages to me when she dumped a particularly clingy guy named Dave. I had to deal with an alternately crying and raging Dave for a week before he finally stopped calling me.

Which means Macon isn’t lying.

Shit on a platter.

“Well,” I say, desperately reaching for calm. “Clearly, I am not Sam. Nor is this her number. I suspect she forwarded her messages to me, for which she and I will have words. However—”

“You’re talking like your grandma again, Tot.”

“Do not call me that.”

A slow chuckle rumbles in my ear. “But you don’t object to sounding like your grandma?”

I shift my feet and scowl. I was talking like Grandma Maeve, damn it. I tend to get wordy and overly formal when nervous. The fact that he knows I do chafes. “You’re veering off course. The fact remains that I am not Sam.”

“Do you know where she is?” He’s harder now, the anger back.

“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

I can almost hear him grinding his teeth. Which is satisfying.

“Then I guess I’ll have to call the police,” he says.

All at once, I remember his first texts. He demanded she bring back a watch. Gripping the phone, I pace the length of my kitchen. “What did she do?”

I could have phrased it differently, but having dealt with Sam’s shenanigans over the years, I’m not going to waste time making excuses until I hear Macon’s side of the story. I’ll talk to Sam afterward.

“She took my mother’s watch.”

I suck in a sharp breath. Holy shit.

Though I didn’t know much about Mrs. Saint as a person, everyone knew about her watch. It was the envy of the entire town. It wasn’t so much a watch but a piece of jewelry, rose gold and covered in glittering diamonds. It was beautiful, though not one I’d wear every day as Mrs. Saint did.