Page 14 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

"Then I'm delighted to meet you. Nathan Graves." He offers his hand. His grip is strong. "I'm a historian—regional preservation, mostly. Lost mountain settlements, the towns that didn't survive the mining years. Briar Glen is something of a miracle, you know. So much of it still standing."

"Hannah Marlowe." I shake his hand. Beside me, I feel Clara's uncomfortability.

"Marlowe," Nathan repeats, as if tasting it. "You'd be Elspeth's granddaughter. She was wonderful. We never met, but I've read about her work with the school. And the house—the Victorian on the north ridge, with the original workroom off the rear hall?"

"You've done your reading," I say lightly.

"Occupational habit. I find old houses have a lot to tell if you let them. The northward wing's a later addition, isn't it? You can see it in the rooflines. And those markings around the cellar door. People assume they're decorative, but in that era they're often something else. Boundary marks. Old protective customs." He tilts his head. "Did your grandmother keep records? Notebooks, that sort of thing? Sketches, maps? Women like Elspeth usually did. They knew things others are still trying to piece together."

The clerk has wandered off to find a stapler. Clara folds a quilt very precisely acting like she's not listening.

"I haven't really gone through her things," I say. "It's all still in boxes."

"Of course. It's overwhelming, I'm sure." He produces a card from his wallet, not quite pushing it toward me. "I'd be glad to help. I can date the additions, identify markings, even put a little order to her stuff if you'd like a second pair of hands. I have contacts at the state preservation office who'd kill for a house like yours. No charge. I just like to see these things saved."

It's a generous offer, delivered easily, but it's just too coincidental, and it makes absolutely no sense.

"That's kind of you." I leave the card where it is. "But I think I want to learn myself before I let anyone else loose on it. It's how I'm getting to know her, really."

Something passes behind his eyes and is gone. "Naturally," he says. "Take all the time you need. I'm in town a while yet." He nods to Clara. "Mrs. Whitmore." And then he's gone, the door letting in a breath of cold mountain air behind him.

I exhale. "Clara."

"I don't care for him," she says quietly, smoothing the quilt that doesn't need smoothing. "He's odd. If your grandmother was still around, she'd have known him for what he is in five minutes. Trust your senses, Hannah. You've got more of hers than you think."

I exit the car, and find Alaric between our properties that afternoon, doing something to the gate hinge that he promised Lily he would. He straightens when he sees my face.

"What's wrong?"

"Some man in the records office made me feel uneasy. He knew things about the workroom and those markings I keep seeing. He named stuff in the house I never mentioned." Alaric stops moving entirely.

"Say that again," he says. "What did he ask about the records?"

"Notebooks. Maps. Whether she kept things written down." I watch him. "I didn't tell him anything. I'm not a fool. It just—he knew this place. Rooms I haven't shown anyone. It felt rehearsed."

"It does. Did he give a name for an organization? Did he mention how long he's staying?"

"A while, he said. He left a card. I didn't take it."

"Good."

I notice again Alaric isn't telling me what to feel. He's just listening as though my instincts are evidence. I don't mention it.

We both walk to my door, and he stops at the bottom step, hands in his pockets, and does not come up.

"Promise me you'll tell me if he turns up at the house," he says.

"I'll tell you if he turns up," I counter.

He considers this longer than the negotiation deserves. "All right," he says.

He stays at the bottom of the steps until the lock clicks behind me. When I glance through the side glass, he isn't watching me. He is watching the road. Whoever Nathan Graves really is, Alaric is already suspicious.

12

ALARIC

Nathan Graves keeps regular hours for a man pretending to chase old records. He leaves the motel at the same dim hour each evening, and walks the length of Briar Glen's main street as though counting the doors. Tonight I follow at a distance no human eye could keep, hanging back among the shuttered storefronts while the last light bleeds out.