Old folklore.
But Grandma Evelyn always says that rumors don’t grow from nothing. There’s usually a seed of truth buried somewhere underneath them.
And Grandma has lived long enough to know a thing or two about people and gossip.
So, now my curiosity is officially activated.
Which means I’m about to do something that would probably make Mr. Garrison’s head explode.
I’m going to investigate.
Saturday afternoon, once the conventions wrap up and the hotel finally returns to normal, I plan to drive into Wildhaven and visit the town library, which has a massive archive of old local newspapers.
If a mysterious young woman really fell—or worse, was murdered—at the hotel, there might be a record somewhere.
Maybe not officially naming the Belicourt or the gentleman’s name, but surely, a death—a missing woman—had to be noticed by someone.
I close the book and turn off my lamp.
I have a feeling Porter is about to get even more annoyed with me.
Iwave at a few guests as I make my way to my vehicle, Granddad’s dinner tucked under my arm.
The late afternoon sky is turning that soft honey color. The air is cooling as the sun dips toward the mountains.
I take a deep breath. Nothing beats a Saturday evening.
I turn the corner toward the back of the hotel, and that’s when I see her.
Harleigh is standing on the sidewalk just outside the employee parking lot.
She’s holding her phone in one hand and pacing slightly, her shoulders tight.
Even from a distance, I can tell she looks tired.
And irritated.
I slow instinctively.
For a second, I consider just continuing to my ride. It would probably be easier. Less complicated.
But then she lifts her hand, runs it through her hair, and lets out a silent scream before tossing her phone onto the leather bag resting at her feet.
And just like that, my decision is made.
I walk over to her. Approaching cautiously.
“Miss Storm.”
She startles slightly, turning toward the sound of my voice.
When she sees me, she straightens. “Oh. Hi, Porter.”
Porter.
Not Mr. Garrison.
I guess that’s progress. But there’s a faint hint of frustration lingering beneath the greeting.
