Page 1 of Where Roads Lead

Chapter One

Elsie

I’d gotten as far as the bakery.

An improvement from yesterday, when I had made it only to the end of my street before I’d been stopped and interrogated.

Apparently, in a town as small as Colbridge, blending in was not in the realm of possibility. The Wikipedia page failed to mention that tiny detail. Though, to be fair, I should’ve figured it out on my own when I read the population was a measly two thousand three hundred and four souls.

I made a mental note to add it myself—thank you, Wikipedia, for the community edit option—prepare any future temporary residents for the predicament I’d faced for the entire thirty-six hours I’d been here.

How could I word it?

Warning: Be prepared for cross-examination upon arrival. And then again, when you meet the next person. And then again when you meet the next. And so on and so forth.

I bit my lip to keep from smiling, trying to reengage in whatever the matronly woman in front of me was saying.

“And they told me, no one would ever move into Mr. Briggs’s old place, what with the murder business and all—”

“The what?” My eyes widened, the topic becoming interesting enough to finally lock me into the conversation.

“—but I told them: these young people, they don’t care about that stuff anymore. They aren’t superstitious the way we old folks can be. I told them how you young folks watch true crime for fun now, isn’t that right?” She chuckled, clearly not aware that I—despite being one of those ‘young people’—was very much unnerved by the possibility of murder in the house I was currently residing in.

“Wait, sorry—can we rewind to the part about the murder?” I tried to cut in, thinking that Wikipedia wasn’t the only one to fail to prepare me for this town, but the Zillow listing as well, which certainly didn’t mention anything about the house I was renting being a crime scene!

“Oh, you didn’t hear yet? I thought someone would’ve told you by now,” she babbled. “Honestly, I’m shocked it hasn’t come up yet. It’s one of our best town stories. Who’s come over to visit with you so far, anyway?” She narrowed her impossibly wide eyes at me.

I blinked.

Truth be told, there had been more than a dozen knocks at my door since I’d arrived. All of which went unanswered as I wallowed in the bedroom with the blinds drawn, trying to reconcile the fact that my life had fallen apart and I’d been self-exiled to some strange, land, that was perhaps only forty-five minutes South of my former life, but foreign all the same—all in the span of a week.

But when I finally emerged from the cocoon of isolation and ventured out the front door, I’d met no less than three people on my walk down the street before I decided to promptly turn around and go back into hiding.

This town was…strange. I noticed that immediately. It was almost as if I’d been transported back in time. People here talked to each other. They sat on their porches with neighbors. Every shop was a mom-and-pop type of establishment, and there were more people walking and riding bikes than I’d seen anywhere except maybe in an eighties film.

All together, it gave me the eerie feeling of being stuck in a Truman Show type of situation.

“I, um, met a few people. I’m bad with names,” I said sheepishly, knowing quite well I had fully spaced out during all the conversations the same way I was doing with this poor woman. What had she said her name was? Debra something?

It wasn’t their fault. Everyone had been lovely…if a little overbearing. I just wasn’t in the headspace to make connections right now. Even trivial ones to sustain me for the next three months.

Debra something apparently didn’t care that talking to me was probably less of an interactive experience than she was hoping. She seemed happy enough to stand there and talk at me, which I let her do gladly.

I didn’t want to recap the ugly little whys regarding the reason a young, twenty-six-year-old would pack up her life and move to a town like Colbridge for three months. But I knew I’d need some type of explanation fast. One that didn’t leave room for questions.

“Oh, look!” Debra cut herself off in the midst of some drawn out monologue about her neighbor. “Here comes Cathy! Yoo-hoo.” She waved. “Cathy! Come meet our new friend, Elsie!”

I fought the urge to groan and run from yet another awkward encounter with someone I didn’t know. For a town so small, there never seemed to be a lack of people willing to make conversation.

To my dismay, the woman came barrelling over at a frightening speed. I wondered if she’d spent her mornings power-walking in practice for this very moment. If so, she’d take the gold.

“Well, well, well,” the woman said, striding up to us with a Cheshire cat grin. “What do we have here?”

I raised my hand, opening my mouth with a greeting prepared when Debra beat me to it.

“This is Elsie Cameron. She’s just moved here from Boston and she’s staying in old Mr. Briggs’s house,” she said, perfectly reciting every detail I’d told her in the first minute of our conversation.

“Oh, Mr. Briggs.” The newcomer tsked in dismay. “Shame about that murdering business, God rest his soul.”