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“Classy. I can work with that.”
“John.” Isabella looked pointedly at him. “Hear me? Now, tell me how much you doled out for these wheels.”
“It was a steal. Zach at the paper factory bought it on a whim, and his wife was not happy about it. He asked if I was interested. Wanted fifty thousand. It has real leather seats, barely five months old. I threw down the cash, and this baby was mine.”
Fifty thousand? “I don’t know much about buying cars,” Cameron said, “but isn’t that expensive?”
“Less than its retail price by two thousand dollars! I might have found it cheaper, but I hate bargaining, and Zach needed the cash.”
“Oh. Well, nice of you to help him out.”
John stood tall, face lighting. “Yes, of course. I always help out my friends.”
Isabella grinned and slunk toward Knightly’s front door. “You two keep bonding while I grab the wine.”
Oh. God. They had to converse all evening . . .
Cameron gulped and pushed up his glasses. “So, um. Do you like mysteries as much as Isabella?”
John snorted. “Bella’s are dreadfully boring. The murderers are always so obvious.”
Heat prickled Cameron’s cheeks, and he folded his arms. “You’ve read some, then?”
“God, no. I give up a third of the way through.”
Presumptuous to assume he knew the endings. “I like them. Romances, too.”
“But you’re . . .” He gave a blustering laugh. “I suppose we can’t all have good taste.”
“Taste is very subjective, I think.”
“You’re a cute one, aren’t you?”
Cute?
John approached, spiffy shoes smacking against the driveway. Cameron ducked past him, rounding the car until its body buffered them. “I’m not, and that is objective.” He jerked his focus to the car, blurting, “Have you chosen a pet name yet?”
“For my new ride? I like . . . honey.”
The orange paintwork blurred as Cameron’s glasses slid down. “It sure is honey-like.”
“Definitely sweet.”
A nervous laugh tripped out of Cameron. “Oh no, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“My brother’s calling me. Probably needs help pulling pork.” He skedaddled toward the footpath with a hurried wave. “Later.”
“I love pulling pork.” John trotted after him. “Can I help?”
Cameron bit his lip. No wouldn’t pass his lips. John was only offering help, and he’d be there with Isabella shortly anyway.
He sighed inwardly and slowed his step. “Be my guest.”
His new neighbors stayed until late Saturday and spent most of the unusually warm Sunday in Cameron’s pool. Isabella’s encyclopedia of wild “this-one-time-I” stories made Cameron sigh with envy. Now she was a real hero.
John shared stories about cars. Which ones he’d buy if he ever won the lottery. How he’d upgrade his newest purchase once they sold their mum’s place. He also shared stories about the glories of parking with descriptions that both intrigued Cameron and scared him. But not as much as the mystery of Henry and the Tilney manse intrigued and scared him.
Every other hour his thoughts wandered there.
Maybe he should take a peek? See if it was occupied? Return those socks?
At the end of his Wednesday work meeting with Brandon, Isabella appeared at the office door toting a large picnic basket and an even larger smile. “Dinner service.”
Brandon gestured her in, cheeks pinking.
She winked at Cameron. “My brother’s around here somewhere. He wanted a look at the studios. And you, I think.”
“I’ll be off then.” He snuck downstairs holding his breath.
Olivia was also exiting the studios and he scurried alongside her, ignoring the call of his name from the balcony. She eyed him questioningly.
“Have a lovely evening?”
She paused, side-eying him. “All right, I won’t ask.”
“You’re the best. Oh, and if I don’t show up tomorrow, make sure the police search the Tilney grounds for my body.”
She shook her head, laughing. “It’s just an old house, Cameron.”
His legs burned as he climbed the road that wound through the trees to the Tilney manse. The evening light made pine tree shadows loom along the dark, foreboding road. Not a single car passed.
Breezes groaned through branches, and a sharp cry came from the bushes behind him. His step quickened in time with his racing heart and he hoofed around the last bend—
Just a house indeed.
Wrought-iron gates rose into an arch. Beyond them, surrounded by thick stone walls, rose a magnificent decaying beast. Parapets sat between castle-like towers, and arched windows oversaw everything, knowing.
This was a stupid mistake. He should turn back. A pair of socks wasn’t worth—
The socks! He’d left them in his office, which he hadn’t dared to enter because . . . John. Even less reason to be alone in the middle of the woods, tempting the supernatural.
A bell tolled, echoing morbidly off rotting stone.
A call to awaken the spirits? Inform them an easy target was approaching?
God, his imagination had to stop!
Just a house. Level-headed Ms. Collins knew what she was talking about.
Trembling, he took the last dozen steps, curled his hands around the cold bars of the gate and felt a pulse.
