And Mr. Whitman, who lives next door. He never told me there was a previous owner.
Why?
Uneasily, I slide my hands into my pockets and stare at my cracked face in the mirror. Why the hell is everyone so secretive about everything in this town?
I head slowly down the stairs, wincing at the sound of the builders talking too loudly in the kitchen. Joe’s huddled among them, clapping backs and laughing. You’d think he was back in his football locker room. I hesitate at the final stair, watching my shiny-black-haired husband with his Tom Ford glasses and chinos among the barrel-chested builders and paint-stained work boots.
I feel a bit sorry for Joe. He’s desperate to be “just one of the guys” again.
Quietly, I slip past them and disappear out the front door into the breezy morning. I stuff my hands into my pockets as the wind funnels down my thin cardigan. A rosella chirps in the blackwood tree as I walk down our driveway. I look out for Reaper, but I don’t see him anywhere.
I reach the end of our driveway, and there’s Black Wood Forest to my right. A great dark mess of creaking branches, rustling leaves, chattering birds, and awfulness. I shiver, turning my back on it, and stroll up the road to Kay’s house. It’s a terrible morning for a walk, all gray clouds and weak sunlight. I rub my arms to warm them as raindrops drip from the sky, splattering my shoulders and perfect hair.
I didn’t notice Kay’s house last time we met. She must have rattled me, because it’s absolutely stunning. An impressive Greek revival with four creamy columns and a close-cropped lawn you could play golf on. But as I walk past the sprawling garden, I notice the roses are wilting and the orange tree in the front yard is heavy with rotting fruit.
I knock at the door, and instantly a dog starts barking. I wait there long enough to think she’s not home. Or she is but she’s not going to answer the door. I knock again, louder this time, and from behind the door I hear the frantic click of the dog’s nails on floorboards.
Finally, the door opens a crack. “Yes?”
I peer through it, smiling. I can’t see her face, only her bony hand on the doorframe. “Ms. Potts?” The damn dog gives two throaty barks, and she nudges it with her foot to stop it escaping outside.
“Hi there! It’s me again, Sarah, your new neighbor!”
The dog keeps barking, and I keep smiling, fighting hard not to flinch. She remains hidden behind the door, so I raise my voice over the dog and half yell, “We met last week.”
You know, when you thought I was the missing girl and nearly had a heart attack.
She bends down, and even through the small crack, I can tell it’s painful for her. She moves too slowly, her head disappearing for a fraction too long as she scoops the dog up. A sigh of pain escapes her lips as she straightens up, and I feel guilty about disturbing her.
But I have to know.
The dog nudges the door open with its graying muzzle, and there’s Kay in a messy bun and house slippers, eyeing me uncertainly.
I bend forward, clasping my hands between my knees. “Who’s a handsome boy there!”
I don’t want to touch it. But it’s the only way to get her to open the door wider. The dog thrusts its bulky head at me. I make a fuss of it and try not to grimace when it sticks its tongue between the cracks of my fingers.
“What’s your name, deary?” I coo.
“Tobias.” Her voice is clipped, guarded.
“Lovely boy!” I remain there on her welcome mat, scratching the dog under its chin as if I have all the time in the world to chat.
She says nothing. Doesn’t even nod. I peer behind her at a winding amber staircase and wilting bouquet of yellow tulips. The inside of her house smells like burnt toast.
I clear my throat, not sure what to say, and out pop the words, “Care for a scone, de—”
Shit.
“Last week when I met you,” I say, recovering quickly, “you called me Amanda?”
Silence. I wait, watching the dog try to wriggle out of her arms. She holds him tighter as if he’s her only shield against the world. Against me.
I catch her eye, finally, and my smile freezes. She stands limply at her door, looking at me with such genuine sadness it makes me jittery. She reminds me of a woman who’s seen too much, heard too much. Lost too much.
Nervously, her eyes flick to the door as if she’s debating whether to shut it or not. Quickly, I step forward and add, “I live at Black Wood House. Just bought it last month.”
“I know,” she says sadly.
