Page 2 of Where Roads Lead

“Yes, about that—” I tried again, demanding to know what on God’s green earth happened in the house I was laying my head down in each night. “Can you elaborate on what exactly—”

“Oh! You’re a darling!” the woman—Cathy?—cooed, looking me up and down like a proud grandmother. “And look at that hair. Beautiful.”

I tugged at my braid self-consciously. I never considered the coppery hues to be anything special, but one thing was for sure—every woman over the age of fifty certainly did.

“Thank you, but see, the problem is—now I’m kind of freaked out about sleeping in the murder-house tonight.” I grinned uneasily, feeling a stream of nervous laughter bubble out of me.

“Oh, don’t you worry.” Cathy smiled warmly, as if she didn’t just make me second guess (or, if I’m being honest, quadruple guess) my choice to stay here. “We’ll get you Will’s number, and if you have any issues, you can just give him a call. That’s what we all do.”

“Will?” I shook my head, feeling dazed, but Cathy and Debra were already deep in a conversation about the local grocer’s personal life that I felt like I had no business overhearing.

“—and his wife doesn’t even know,” Cathy quipped with a disapproving click of her tongue.

“Well, did we really expect anything less from Tommy’s boy?” Debra shrugged, resigned to accept the deterioration of character of the man she got her produce from. “It’s just a shame that poor Abbigail is stuck with him. She could’ve had her pick of the lot, but she chose him.”

I debated the likelihood of fleeing while they were hyper-focused on the town gossip, but as if sensing her prey escaping, Debra turned to me at that moment with renewed interest in her eyes.

“Have you met Abbigail yet? I think the two of you would be a pair.”

“Uh, no,” I said, shuffling my feet. “I only got here yesterday afternoon. I haven’t met anyone yet.”

“And how are you liking it?” she asked intently.

“It’s…” I thought of a suitable word for a place I had no particular interest in being and couldn’t wait to leave. “Perfect for what I need.”

AKA a temporary reprieve from the absolute hellscape that my former life had turned into.

The truth was, I didn’t know a thing about Colbridge before stepping foot here. I found a listing for a month-to-month house rental that was decently affordable and jumped at it.

All I could think was: out. I need to get out. I can figure out the rest later.

And a week later, here I was. I wasn’t pretending that Colbridge offered anything more than a decent deal on housing and the convenience of a speedy move-in date.

And the truth was, it was quaint. Adorably picturesque. Trees lining each cobblestone road, streams under bridges, gazebos in parks, and the type of old-school architecture that didn’t make your soul crumple under the weight of brash modernity.

But the thing was—I wasn’t going to be happy anywhere. I just had to work on putting the pieces of my crumpled self back together and deciding what the hell I needed to do with the rest of my life now that everything I’d ever planned went out the window in one single night.

Nope. I chastised that hellish inner voice determined to keep my brain on a feedback loop of that godawful night. Not doing that right now.

They stared at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to elaborate. I wasn’t going to cave, I really wasn’t. But something about those watchful, unblinking eyes honed in on me made me feel like I had to offer up something to appease these women and their undying curiosity about the newcomer to their town.

“I’m a writer.” I offered the bare minimum of the truth. “I’m staying here for a few months as a sort of…retreat. To clear my head.”

And figure out where the hell to go next. Preferably out of the country. Maybe even the continent.

“Oh, wonderful! A writer!” Debra smiled.

“Well, you’ll just be our local celebrity, won’t you?” Cathy added. “What have you written?”

Ah, there’s the question.

How could I admit that I was a writer who hadn’t even finished a novel yet? I’d made a few fair attempts, sure. But around the 80% mark, I always scrapped the work completely in favor of starting over.

“Well, actually, I used to write for my local paper,” I said lamely. “And some freelance work. But I came here to start my first novel.”

Why did I feel so pathetic every time I tried to talk about my writing? Maybe because it was a pipe-dream, and I knew it. How many people out there tried their hand at writing only to end up some poor vagabond with too many maxed out credit cards and nothing to show for the last ten years of their life?

Still, the women didn’t seem to discriminate, finding my career choice charming rather than the disapproving glances I was used to getting back home.