A soft voice broke through my panic.
“Mama?”
Henry stood near the couch, eyes wide and scared, curls mussed from sleep.
“It’s okay, baby,” I assured him. “I just thought I saw something scary. That’s all.”
I leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes once more and taking a deep, calming breath. And then another.
His bare feet padded closer. Even though I expected him, I still flinched when he touched my arm.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, as if our roles had reversed. “Don’t be scared, Mama.”
I forced a smile and smoothed his curls from his eyes.
He sat down beside me, taking my hand in his. “I’ll hold your hand,” he whispered. “That will make it better.”
My laugh came out trembly, edged with tears. “Thanks, baby.” I pulled him into my lap. “That does make it better. How about if we snuggle for a little while until you go back to sleep?”
He nodded and curled against me, warm and solid, pushing the fear back into the familiar little box where I kept it buried.
When his breathing went soft and deep, I carried him to his bed and kissed his forehead.
As I exited his room, the kitchen light flickered—just once—and my stomach tightened. But nothing else stirred.
I found my phone where it had fallen earlier and dialed a number. It rang only once before a deep voice answered.
“Ms. Dupont?”
I swallowed hard, scanning the room, searching for anything that shouldn’t be there.
“I accept your offer, Mr. Proffitt.” My voice came out hollow, flat as I fought to keep it even. “How quickly can we move in?”
Chapter two
“Is that our house?” Henry cried from the back seat when we pulled up to the curb in front of the palatial old home in Savannah two weeks later.
I frowned as I took in the towering four-story mansion then double-checked the address on my maps app and the small metal sign identifying the home as a historic landmark.
Dawes House.
This was the place, but there had to be some mistake. There was no way Whit Proffitt had invited us to move into a house likethisand only charge me the same rate I was paying for a tiny, rundown house in a dying neighborhood…right?
Mature trees surrounded the property, draped with Spanish moss that hung low, drooping in the muggy Savannah heat, giving the house an obscured, secretive air. The yellow stucco was chipping and crumbling in places and needed repair, but the edifice was still stunning.
The bottom level sat half submerged below street level behind a high wrought-iron fence, but I could see the top half of two sets of red double doors that opened onto a patio. The two main levels of the home each boasted balconies supported by thick columns that spanned the entire front of the façade, the peeling white paint giving it the appearance of a once-elegant home now softening into faded grandeur, yet still clinging to what once was even as long-hidden decay began to seep through the carefully curated exterior.
The top floor looked like it should’ve had a balcony too. A large set of doors opened inward, white curtains billowing in the breeze, but the occupant enjoyingthat breeze would’ve stepped out into nothing but air. I could picture a woman standing there, her back to the door, her hair lifting with the same breeze that rustled the curtains. In the next moment, she spread her arms and fell backward.
I gasped and shook my head, banishing the horrific scene. What the hell hadthatbeen? A glimpse of a past tragedy at Dawes House? A vision? Or just my overwrought nerves, inflamed by the stifling heat?
I decided not to explore the thought as none of the options were particularly appealing and surveyed the rest of the property.
Next to the massive house stood another building—a carriage house, if my research at the public library was accurate. Whit had told me there were eleven total apartments on the property, so one or two must’ve been in that building. Whereas the main house was imposing, the carriage house seemed…cold. Dead.
I shuddered from chilling vibe the carriage house threw off, grateful we weren’t staying there.
“Mama,” Henry said, impatient. “Can we get out yet? Is this our house?”
