I chuckled softly, massaging my exhausted eyes.
Then Morgan stated, “Head out. Yard sales, secondhand shops… wealthy folks toss out perfectly fine couches all the time.”
I glanced around the flat once more. The quietness inside the room seemed more intense with each passing day.
“Alright,” I grumbled. “But if I end up dead from purchasing a spooky sofa, I’m holding you responsible.”
“Seems fair.”
Sixty minutes later, I was strolling through a community a couple of streets away with my sweater pulled snug to block the chilly breeze. The majority of the yard sales were letdowns — chipped plates, busted lights, worn-out garments heaped in bins.
Then I spotted the sofa.
It rested under a washed-out blue cover at the border of a driveway, looking like it was out of place. Deep green fabric, rounded timber feet, and old-fashioned sewing along the sides. It appeared classy, even pricey. And somehow, the price tag was merely 40 bucks.
I paused my steps.
“No way,” I muttered.
