Page 29 of The House on Forgotten Hill

I glanced around the neighborhood, noticing how quiet it had been. There were no passing cars, or children playing outside. Only the distant rustling of leaves overhead, and I suddenly became aware of how alone we were.

“I hope that whatever’s bothering you doesn’t have anything to do with me. You’d tell me if it did, right, neighbor?”

Before I could answer, movement farther up the street caught my attention.

Estelle was headed straight for me.

The moment Preston noticed her, his expression soured, and he stepped back. “Seems you have other places to be. I won’t keep you.”

Without another word, he turned and made his way toward his own house.

Estelle reached my driveway and said, “Are you all right, dear?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Something feels wrong, and I can’t shake it.”

14

I walked back to Estelle’s house with her, and as we stepped into the kitchen, she said, “I just put a pot of tea on. Chamomile all right?”

“That sounds nice.”

I set my handbag on the table.

“When I saw you talking to Preston, you looked shaken up,” she said, turning toward me. “What happened?”

I let out a slow breath. “I owe you an apology.”

Her brow furrowed. “For what?”

“You asked me not to go to Preston’s house last night for dinner, and I did.”

She stared at me for a moment before pulling out a chair and sitting down. “Tell me.”

So I did.

I told her about dinner.

About the wine.

The conversation.

The questions about the accident that killed my father.

How Preston acted as if he didn’t remember Lara’s name.

The strange way he’d looked away when I mentioned her.

The kiss.

Then this morning.

The text message.

How he’d somehow gotten my phone number.

How he’d appeared outside my house just as I was leaving.

How he seemed fixated on my handbag.