Page 22 of Where Roads Lead

“Yes,” he said definitively.

I threw my hands up in defeat. I’d let him win this one, if only because of that intense look in his eyes. I knew how to pick my battles.

“Okay, then can we get back to the door?” I tried to distract him from the alarm situation he was so fixated on. “Because that’s definitely the biggest safety concern here.”

“Colbridge is the safest town in New England,” he responded. “The lock is an unnecessary precaution.”

“That seems hard to believe considering I’m living in a house where someone got murdered.” I scoffed.

“What?” His face scrunched up.

“Yeah, I heard all about the crime that was committed in my house, so don’t even try to cover it up for the sake of tourism!”

“And what did you hear?” he deadpanned.

“About the fact that there was a murder here,” I started off confidently, “…and pretty much nothing else.”

I deflated.

“They got to you already?” Will rolled his eyes more dramatically than a Shakespearean actor would’ve been capable of. “How’d they spin it this time?”

“I mean, no one really elaborated,” I admitted. “But I’ve come to the conclusion I’d rather not know the details.”

Each gruesome scenario I’d imagined was worse than the last. My mind was too wild for its own good. I guess that’s why I became a writer.

“Well, the real story is—” he started, and I nearly jumped forward to cover his mouth with my hand.

“I said I don’t want to know!” I told him, feeling the coarse stubble of his facial hair beneath my palm. His eyes widened in surprise before I yanked my hand away.

“Sorry,” I told him, feeling my cheeks flame. “But if you tell me, I’ll have nightmares for the rest of my life and be forced to sleep outside for the remainder of my time here.”

“You’re not going to have nightmares,” he said, irritated. “And you’re not going to sleep outside, because there was no murder.”

“What?” I gasped. “Are you kidding?”

“I mean, unless you count Mr. Briggs accusing Mrs. Sanders of murdering his cat after it went missing for six hours and he found rat poison in her trash.”

His cat? Damn, that could explain the orange tabby that had been persistently scratching at the door for the last few days.

“Why was he going through her trash?” I asked.

“Because people in this town have no concept of the term ‘boundaries.’”

“If there was no murder, then where is Mr. Briggs now?!”

“Dead.”

I yelped.

“Of old age,” he emphasized. “The man was ninety-four years old.”

“Please don’t tell me he died peacefully in bed.” I recoiled, feeling awful as the words came out of my mouth.

I couldn’t help it. What if his ghost was still lingering in that same room where I was supposed to sleep at night?

“Died in the nursing home, actually, but nice job with the compassion.” He gave me a thumbs up.

I rolled my eyes.