He’s maybe early forties with an olive complexion and angular, handsome features.
“Hi,” I say, easing the door slightly open. “Can I help you?”
“Afternoon, ma’am. Sheriff Colin Paloma. Figured I should stop by and introduce myself, seeing as you’ll be staying up here while Mr. Taylor’s gone.”
“Oh… yeah. That’s me. Ivy Davis.” I extend my hand to shake his freezing cold one.
“Pleasure to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were settling in alright. Storms up here get nasty fast, and newcomerscan easily get overwhelmed. If you need any help or have any questions, feel free to call me.”
“That actually makes me feel better,” I admit, giving a small laugh. “I’ve only been here an hour, and this place already feels like a national park lodge swallowed by snow.”
He smiles. “It’s a lot of house for one person. But I’m sure Mr. Taylor wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were up for the job.”
The wind whistles beyond the front steps, the snow falling down so fast now the flakes blur. Sheriff Paloma glances over his shoulder, then back at me, flashing an even wider smile.
“That’s my cue to head back before these roads get any icier. Here’s my business card with my office number and cell in case you need it. You have yourself a good evening.”
I nod gratefully, then wave goodbye as he turns to go.
But when I close the door and lean my back against it, the silence folds around me again—even heavier and louder than before, as though the house listened to every word we exchanged and is determined to make the place feel even more isolating.
At least I have Mr. Taylor’s number—and now Sheriff Paloma’s as well. Mark is available should I need him to drive me into town.
If I focus on tastefully decorating Mr. Taylor’s home, the time should go by fast. I’ve done jobs in huge houses like this before.
There’s nothing to worry about. Yet even as I tell myself this and step away from the door, I’m not sure I believe it…
CHAPTER THREE
The house feelsdifferent after dark.
Once the sun drops behind the ridge and the last streaks of light fade across the snow, the mountain terrain is plunged into absolute darkness. The silence stretches on in a seemingly never-ending loop, to the point the thud of my heartbeat is loud.
I turn on Spotify on my phone and blast some music just to drown out the lack of sound. I make a modest dinner of chicken alfredo, mindful not to make a mess and be as clean as possible. Brewing myself a cup of tea, I grab my sketchbook and head to the living room to set to work.
Work issafe. Work ispredictable.
If I focus hard enough, maybe I won’t notice how the windows darken into black mirrors and the wind outside pounds against the house walls like an invisible monster trying to get in.
Somehow the weather has gotten even worse since sunset.
I study the vaulted ceiling, tracing possible garland placements with my pencil, imagining how the light will sit on evergreen branches and gold ribbon.
The fire crackles low in the stone hearth, spreading much-needed warmth through the cavernous room.
I force myself to keep sketching, letting the lines take shape on the page even as small sounds reach my ears.
It’s not the music or the wind. It’s noises like a faint creak from upstairs or a distant thud from down the ground floor hallway.
Old house. As nice and fancy as it is, this is an older house.
Timber breathes. Wind bends wood and makes it groan. Logic helps for a moment, but it’s still not enough.
I leave my sketchbook open when I pad over to the main hallway. It’s to make sure the coast is clear and nobody’s around. Nothing but a sanity check.
The overhead lights flicker for the third time tonight, earning a glance from me as my eyes flit upward.
That’s normal too for times like these. As bad as the snow is tonight, of course the electricity might flicker.
