She hesitates for a moment. “Oh, you know, I’m not sure he’s mentioned the exact topic…” She trails off, her brow creasing slightly.
“Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s much more important than spending time with his daughter,” I mutter, feeling a pang of resentment. My father seems to have all the time in the world for his work, but for me? Not so much.
Meredith gives me a sympathetic look. “He’s trying, Kat. In his own way. You know he’s not the best at expressing himself, but he cares about you.”
“Sure,” I say. I’m not convinced, but I don’t want to argue with Meredith. She’s just trying to help.
The conversation shifts to lighter topics as we finish preparing dinner, but the weight of our earlier discussion lingers in the back of my mind. As I set the table, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more going on in Sleepy Hollow than meets the eye.
After dinner, and directly in contradiction to Meredith’s wishes, I feel like I need to get out of the house and get some air.
It’s already dark, and knowing that Meredith would object, I slip out without her or Toby seeing me. I’m not a complete idiot, though. After this second death, it definitely seems like there’s a killer stalking Sleepy Hollow, so I leave my headphones at home and plan to stick to roads with streetlamps. Besides, I used to walk around London on my own after dark all the time. I’ve taken a self-defence class or two.
I avoid the woods and wander down the road instead. The night is cold, and I inhale the chilly air, breathing out a white fog. It seems darker than it should be, even for the countryside. It’s not long before I reach the edge of town.
Sleepy Hollow in the dark is unsettling. The large buildings loom out of the night, small rectangles of light and smoke curling away from the chimneys the only sign of life. Everything else is quiet and still.
It seemed like a clear night when I left the house, but now a low mist seems to be rolling in, and I’m finding it difficult to see across to the other side of the town square. I suddenly feel cold and vulnerable.
Maybe thiswasa bad idea.
I start to turn around, thinking I’d better head home, when I hear a high-pitched noise behind me. It reminds me of the one time I’d taken riding lessons as a kid. A horse whinny. The power and strength of those unpredictable creatures rearing up and tossing their heads had scared me, and I’d never gone back.
I glance over my shoulder, but I can’t see anything there. My footsteps speed up, and I start walking more quickly in the direction of home.
I’ve only taken a few more steps when I hear footfall behind me. At first, it sounds far away. But it doesn’t seem human. It sounds like hooves hitting the cobbled stones. I stop and check over my shoulder again, squinting into the darkness across the square, but still don’t see anything.
The sound of hooves gets louder, closer.
The air seems to shimmer as I look around me, trying to work out where the noise is coming from. I feel a chill. Spooked, I walk even quicker.
The hoofbeats pick up their pace, clattering against the cobbles until it sounds like a horse should be galloping right past me.
I swing around.
At the last second, I can almost make out a shape in the dark.
The air rushes past my face, my hair whipping around behind me as the shadow of a horse and its rider race past, inches from where I’m standing.
Knocked off balance, I take a step back, and my heel collides with the edge of the pavement. For a second, I’m falling.
But then strong hands are gripping under my arms and hauling me upright.
I turn to see Ichabod and realise he is the one who’d saved me from tripping.
I look back to find the horse, but nothing is there, and the street is quiet once more.
11
The world outside disappears in a blur of mist, adrenaline, and lingering fear as Ichabod ushers me into his flat. I’m vaguely aware that it’s small but cosy, with stacks of books and sheet music scattered everywhere. A fire is already roaring in the log burner in the corner.
“Sit,” he says gently, nodding to the worn leather sofa by the fireplace. “You’re still shaking.”
I look down at my hands and realise he’s right. They’re trembling. I press my palms together and tuck them between my knees as I sink down into the sofa.
“Thanks,” I manage.
Ichabod disappears into the small kitchen and returns a few minutes later with two steaming teacups. He hands one to me, his fingers briefly brushing against mine.
