Page 16 of The House on Forgotten Hill

“He suggested he cook me dinner instead,” I said. “I agreed to it.”

Estelle shook her head. “When’s the dinner?”

“Tonight.”

She reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Please, don’t go. Nothing good can come of it. You need to stay far away from him.”

“Do you think he killed my father?”

“I believe he’s the sort of man who always gets what he wants. Promise me you won’t go.”

I considered her request for a moment, then said, “I need time to think about it.”

Estelle left a few minutes later, and as soon as we said goodbye I’d already made my decision. If Preston Sinclair had anything to do with my father’s death, dinner wasn’t something I wanted to avoid.

Sometimes the truth can only be found by walking straight toward the one thing you fear most.

9

By that evening, I had changed my mind about dinner with Preston Sinclair half a dozen times. Every time I considered canceling, I reminded myself why I’d agreed to go.

I needed answers.

And I needed to learn what sort of man he was for myself.

I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom, smoothing my hands over the fitted black dress I’d chosen. I hadn't worn the dress in a while, not since my mother’s health began to decline. I’d also applied makeup for the first time in longer than I cared to admit. Nothing dramatic. A little foundation, mascara, and a deep shade of lipstick that made my green eyes stand out.

My hair fell in loose waves over my shoulders, and a pair of black heels completed the look.

For a moment, I didn’t recognize myself.

Then I smiled.

There she was, the woman I had been before my mother’s health had started to decline. Before doctor appointments and pharmacy visits took the place of dinners with friends. Before my life became a routine built around caring for someone else. I had forgotten what it felt like to make an effort for no reason other than wanting to feel good.

And I did feel good.

Confident, too.

At seven o’clock, I stepped outside, my eyes coming to rest on the black sports car parked out front, the same one I’d seen Preston get out of earlier. I crossed the yard separating our properties and followed the stone walkway leading to his front door. Warm light glowed through the tall windows, and somewhere inside, slow jazz music drifted through the walls.

I lifted my hand to knock, but the door opened before I had the chance.

Preston stood on the other side wearing charcoal slacks and a black button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone.

His gaze moved over me.

“Well,” he said.

I raised a brow. “Well, what?”

“I was prepared to compliment you.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m trying to think of one that won’t get me slapped.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”