Chapter 6
A stranger stands next to the blackwood tree. He rests his head on the fissured trunk like it’s an old friend comforting him. His back is to me, and he’s not moving. Not even when I speed up my driveway without bothering to go slowly over the echidna holes.
My mouth is bone dry, and for a second I wonder if I should turn and drive away. Maybe head into town and ring Joe.There’s a stranger in our front yard,I’ll tell him.And I don’t know why, but I’ve got a bad feeling about him.
But my husband is useless with confrontations, so I shake my head. Bugga it, I’ll handle this myself. I come to an abrupt stop, shove the car into park, and leap out. I position my keys in my fist, jutting one of them between my middle and ring finger. If this man makes any trouble, I’ll…
What, Sarah? Stab him in the eye with your house key?
I hover there at my car door and watch him. The man’s barely moved. He’s still gazing up at my house, hands thrust into his pockets like he’s staring at a horrible painting. There’s something so intense about it that I actually feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.
I clear my throat, and his back stiffens. “Can I help you?”
Finally, the man turns around and fixes his eyes on me. The first thing I notice is that they’re red-rimmed and wet. Two fresh tears roll down his weathered face, and he makes no attempt to wipe them away. There’s something intensely sad about him. But as he stands there looking me over, there’s a spark of something in his watery blue eyes. Fear.
Mr. Whitman. I recognize his face from a magazine article, something like, “Neighbor Tells His Harrowing Tale on the Fortieth Anniversary of the Black Wood Murder.”
“So, you’re the new owner?” he asks quietly.
“Yes, I am,” I tell him lightly. “You must be Mr. Whitman.”
You’re the one who gave the interview withHome Beautifulmagazine. The one who said, “I hope nobody ever buys the Black Wood House. It’d be such an insult to Susan’s memory. God, she didn’t deserve to die like that.”
I breathe in sharply.Such an insult to Susan’s memory…
I’m taken back to that damn comment on my website this afternoon.You are an absolute insult to the memory of the poor Campbells.
It was him.
I grip my keys nervously, running my thumb over the pointed tip of the house key. I want to go inside, lock the door, and get away from this man.
I open my mouth to spin some bullshit. Something polite with a firm undercurrent like, “It was nice to meet you, but I have to get dinner started…”
“My wife and I were friends with Susan,” he says in an aching voice.
I didn’t know that. I nod sympathetically and peek longingly at my front door. Silence. A cockatoo lands softly in the blackwood tree and peers at us with unblinking eyes. A cool breeze sweeps over the tree, rattles the dead branches, and leaves me cold. I wrap my arms around myself, and the key pokes into my side.
“Did you know Bill Campbell?”You know, the murderer?It’s out of my mouth before I even realize I’ve said it.
Mr. Whitman’s eyes drop to the patchy ground.
“He kept to himself. Susan was the friendly one, and Janet, of course. The girls were like sunny afternoons.” He frowns. “Bill was a cold morning.”
He shuffles unsteadily, and I wonder if he’s been drinking. I don’t want to call the police on a harmless old man. It’d be terrible for publicity. But the thought surges unwelcome into my head: Unless he’s not harmless…
“Susan said Bill started changing when he moved here.” He speaks again in his rusty-old-can voice.
I raise my eyebrows. “How?”
“This house…” He shakes his head, and again something flashes in his old blue eyes. He glances warily at Black Wood House. “It made him crazy.”
I remember Joe’s words from the night we moved in.Do you think the house wants us here?
“It’s just a house,” I say gently. “Houses don’t make people crazy. People make themselves crazy.” To soften the mood and get the hell out of here, I force a jovial tone. “And I should know. I’m a therapist.”
He eyes me warily like I’ve told an inappropriate joke. I clear my throat in the awkward silence, and he continues staring like I haven’t even spoken, looking me right in the eye like I’m a silly woman in distress and he’s trying to get through to me.
He takes a shaky step toward me, and I step back. He’s making me really nervous, and my voice comes out harsher than intended, “Why are you here?”
