Page 23 of Where Roads Lead

“So why did that woman make such a big deal of it? Why refer to it as ‘the murder business?’”

“She thinks the disorderly conduct between neighbors left some type of negative energy in the house or whatever, and that’s why no one’s moved in.” Will shrugged. “I can’t pretend to know how any of these people’s minds work.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Well, my condolences for Mr. Briggs…but at least I’ll be able to sleep tonight,” I chirped happily.

“Fantastic,” he retorted dryly. “Glad to be of service.”

At that, I frowned, remembering his vow to do the opposite of service me at any cost.

“Well, for the record, I didn’t ask you to dispel my fears. You offered it up yourself.”

“So?” he said, clearly not following.

“So, you made a big deal about how I shouldn’t ask you for help with anything, so I’m just clarifying that detail before you claim I’m indebted to you forever.”

He shook his head. “You have a flair for the dramatic, you know that?”

“Thanks.” I grinned cheekily. “I channel it into my writing.”

“Writing?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer,” I told him, feeling the biggest case of imposter syndrome at the admission.

Was I actually a writer if I hadn’t yet written anything I was proud of? If all that I had under my name were a couple dozen measly news articles read only by a local community near Boston?

“That’s what I’m doing here,” I further explained. “I’m on sort of a writing retreat. Just for a few months.”

“Writer, huh?” he said, looking me up and down. “That makes sense.”

I furrowed my brows. “Is that an insult?”

“No, I just meant you seemed a little free spirited, is all. Writer makes sense for you.”

Free spirited? Coming from a guy like Will Hughes, the term was no better than being referred to as some nomadic hippie, barefoot and smoking pot at Woodstock.

It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t have a permanent home anymore. It wasn’t my fault I had to run off to hide in this stupid town. And it wasn’t my fault that my ex-fiance blew up my life without so much as a hint of warning—

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What? Nothing.”

“Then why are you making that face?”

I tried to compose myself, attempting to force my features back into the polite smile I’d never quite perfected for the family dinners and date nights for which it would’ve been useful.

“Maybe we should just fix the lock. I know you probably have a thousand other things you’d love to be doing right now, right?”

He fixed his eyes on me for another moment, as if I might cave under the pressure of his gaze and spill everything. When I didn’t falter, he lifted a shoulder and said, “Fine.”

Without another word, he brought in his toolbag he’d left outside and got to work fixing the lock. Unscrewing the old one and replacing it with a new and highly improved one.

A relatively simple process that I never thought would be interesting to watch, but somehow I couldn’t look away.

“All set,” he told me, tossing the discarded materials into my kitchen trash.

“How much do I owe you?”