“That’s my Isla,” Mrs.Craft says from behind me.
I jump about ten feet in the air, wondering how she snuck up on me without being heard.
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
With my hand over my racing heart, I choke out, “All good.”
Mrs.Craft leans in, taking a look at the picture I hold. “She died six years ago.”
“Who?” I ask, trying to get my breathing under control.
I’m not sure why I’m so jumpy. Maybe it’s from the realization that Ollie can get physical or the serial killer vibes I’m getting from this house. Either way, I want out.
“Isla. The girl in the picture. She’s my daughter.”
I turn to look at her. “She’s very pretty.” Mrs.Craft smiles, but it quickly fades. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to her?”
“Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Doctors believe it caused her aneurysm.”
I swallow, thinking about all this woman has endured. The death of her daughter and son... cancer. It’s too much.
“I’m so sorry.” It’s a paltry phrase, but one I mean wholeheartedly.
“She’s in a better place. They all are,” she says, holding out a stemmed glass of water.
My mouth dries, considering that Ollie is, in fact, not in a better place. He’s right here, currently glowering at me for no apparent reason.
I snap my gaze forward, focusing on the photos. Anything to avoid Ollie. I stop up short when I get to the last one. I bend down, taking in the ornate gold frame.
“Is that Nick?”
“Yes,” she says, and that same fondness I witnessed in the way she looked at him is evident. “He was Isla’s fiancé.”
That... I did not see coming.
Six of Swords
“SUCH A GOODguy, that Nick. He comes here every Sunday to check up on me. Tries to fix things around here, but as you can see, I don’t need the help.”
My hands shake, water spilling out over the top of the glass I have strangled in between my palms.
Ollie grunts and I wonder if his apparent disapproval has anything to do with the fact that Nick is in law enforcement.
“He sweet-talked his way into cleaning up my yard today, but I didn’t need him to do that. The leaves will turn into compost eventually.”
“Tell her she needs to stop fighting Nick and let him help her,” Ollie orders, seemingly changing his earlier stance on the detective.
I want to rebuff his request based on his attitude, but he’s right. She does need the encouragement.
“You should really allow Nick to help, Mrs.Craft.”
“Where should I put this, master?” Corinne drawls, box in hand.
“Could you put them in here?” Mrs.Craft says, making her way into the next room.
A large hutch sits on the center wall of the formal dining room. Its empty shelves tell of the price this woman has had to pay to survive.
This room is in a little better shape, save for the water spots on the ceiling, which lead me to believe there’s a leak somewhere.
