Yeah well, she’s not the only one.
“How does she know him so well?” I ask.
“Oh, she doesn’t. I don’t think anyone reallyknowshim. Not personally, anyway. But she’s in all of Ashwick’s social circles, and she runs the local paper.” She shrugs. “A full time job in a town as small as this one.”
“Hmm.” I turn left when we reach the top level and jiggle my key in the door.
Claire continues, “He’s more of a recluse than I thought.” Her lips turn down in a frown, and her eyes drop toward the ground as she follows me into my room. “My mom says he moved to Ashwick over twenty years ago, but she’s never seen anyone visit. No family, no friends.”
That has my attention, but I’m struggling not to pry, so I just mumble an acknowledgement. If he only moved here twenty years ago, he couldn’t have known Grams. She left this town long before then.
I grab a comfy pair of leggings and a long-sleeved top from the duffel bag I have yet to unpack and amble into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As I peel the wet clothes off my body, I think her words over and feel a pang of sadness in my chest. I’m trying not to feel sympathetic because I know it’s the last thing Mr. Blackwood would want. But when I think of how hard these past few weeks have been on me, how lonely I’ve felt—to imagine him feeling that way for years?
Whatever the reason he’s so alone, it has to hurt.
“Do you, um, need help settling in?” Claire’s voice calls from behind the door. She must be looking around the generic room, seeing nothing but a single duffel bag on a rocking chair to give away that a guest might be staying here, and wondering why I’m such a weirdo.
I hold back a chuckle when I answer, “I was going to unpack tomorrow, actually. Probably go pick up a few more things, too.”
“Oh, good,” Claire breathes. I can hear the relief in her voice. “That’s good. Are you thinking you’ll find an apartment or house to rent now that you’re staying for a while?”
I shrug a shoulder even though she can’t see me and adjust the leggings on my hips. “I don’t know. I’m kind of liking it here.”
“Yeah, lots of people stay long-term. Most of our guests are locals that rent it out like an apartment, since the nearest actual apartment complex is in the city. Helps that we’re so cheap, too.”
That it does. But that’s not why I like it here. “Grams would have loved this place.”
The second it slips, I regret it.
“Grams?” Claire presses.
Opening the bathroom door, I step out and offer a small smile. “Yeah, Grams. So where did Mr. Blackwood move here from?”
Thankfully, the question does enough to divert Claire’s attention. “I don’t know. Not too far from here, I don’t think.” Her eyebrows knit as she plops down on the loveseat. “I’ve always wondered what he does all day, never leaving his house.”
“What do you mean? He works.”
“Works? He was rich enough to retire ages ago.” She withdraws her pink phone from her pocket and types something, her lips curving back into the friendly smile I’m growing used to. “So, I was thinking we could order a pizza? There aren’t many places that deliver around here, sadly, but you can never go wrong with a good cheesy pizza, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Pizza’s fine,” I mutter, still thinking of Mr. Blackwood. If he retired so long ago, what has he been researching? “Do you know what he did? Before he retired?” So much for not butting in . . .
“He ran some investigative business. PI type stuff. But it’s his books that made all his money.”
“Books? He’s an author?”
“Yup. They pretty much killed his credibility as a PI, but at least he made bank.” I’m about to ask how his books could ruin his credibility when she continues, “He doesn’t publish anymore, though. Not in years. He’s kept to himself ever since I’ve known him, and Mom says he totally lost it before he ever came out here. Like, to the point where people used to hear him talking to himself. Even out in public.”
God, the poor man. The hard exterior, the barking and cursing, the endless whiskey.
Instead of digging deeper, like I want to, I force myself to drop it. I’ve already stepped too far into his business, and now I can’t stop asking myself . . .
Who is Mr. Blackwood?
Chapter 10
Sunday. What used to be my favorite day of the week has quickly turned into the monster under my bed—you can only ignore it for so long before it claws its way back into your mind.
It wasn’t that Grams and I did anything particularly special on Sundays, but it was always just sort of ‘our’ day. It was a lounge-around-in-jammies, have-breakfast-for-dinner, watch-classics-till-we-pass-out kind of day. We’d argue over Carey Grant versus James Dean and throw popcorn across the sofa at each other like college roommates. Even when Bobby and I were together, he knew Sundays were reserved for Grams, and when I was younger, Jamie and I only ever did sleepovers on Friday nights, so they wouldn’t interfere.
