10. Kristin
KRISTIN
I entered the living room with Henry pressed against my chest and found Patrick holding the two covered casserole dishes like he’d won them in a raffle.
Hailey reacted first, groaning as though she were being personally attacked. “Are you trying to make me throw up again, Dad?”
“Put them back outside,” I said.
He blinked. “Nice to see you both too.”
“Patrick, I’m not getting woken up at eleven o’clock again when Judi Vee decides she needs her dishes back. And I don’t want bugs in the house or whatever else might come bursting out of those.”
Patrick huffed a laugh. “Fine. Fine.” He backed up, opened the door, and set the casseroles on the porch.
When he came back in, I met him halfway, giving him a quick kiss before handing over Henry.
“Here. Take your son.”
Patrick’s expression softened. “Hey, buddy,” he said, brushing his nose against Henry’s cheek. “I missed you today.” Then his eyes lifted to mine. “Are you all right? You seem . . . a little on edge.”
“I’m fine,” I said quickly. “I just—I thought you were home earlier. So when you actually came in, it startled me is all.”
He raised a brow. “I startled you by coming home from work at my normal time?”
“No, I mean . . .” I rubbed my forehead, already regretting opening my mouth. “I don’t know. But yes. I’m fine. The car’s not, though.”
Patrick straightened. “Wait—what? What happened to the car?”
“Some asshole hit me at an intersection.”
His face drained. “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Henry’s fine.”
“And I’m fine too, Dad,” Hailey chimed in, her head halfway inside a cupboard. She emerged with a box of cereal and poured a handful into her palm. “Thanks for checking.”
“Good. I’m glad everyone’s fine.” His eyes bounced between us like he needed visual confirmation before his body could stand down. “Did you get the asshole’s insurance info so we can get the damage covered?”
“We exchanged information, yup.”
I did not tell him about the citation or the so-called witnesses, and how quickly the narrative had shifted once I opened my mouth.
Patrick believed in logic and authority—had always believed that if you explained something clearly enough, someone would listen.
I’d learned back in Chicago that sometimes saying more only made things worse.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“It’s drivable, but there’s a big dent in the passenger door.”
“Drivable is good. I’ll call around tomorrow and get some quotes.” He glanced at Hailey. “Feeling better?”
“Yep. Miraculous recovery,” she said, crunching cereal. “How was school without me?”
“I could’ve used your protection,” he joked.
“For what?”
Patrick shifted Henry’s weight on his arm. “Some of my students started bullying me.”
I raised a brow. “About what?”
“They found out I live in Tillington. Apparently only one house in the whole town ever goes on the market, so they knew exactly which one it was.”
“That’s . . . really odd,” I said, exchanging a look with Hailey. She seemed to clock it too.
“What is?” he asked.
“That only one house ever goes on the market.”
“Not really. That just shows how great this town is. No one ever wants to leave.”
“Right,” I murmured. “That’s definitely one interpretation.”
He either didn’t catch my tone or chose not to. “And,” he added, “there’s some sort of nursery rhyme about our house. The kids think it’s hilarious.”
“A nursery rhyme?” I echoed. “About this house?”
“It’s kind of catchy,” he said.
“What is it?” Hailey asked, setting the cereal down, suddenly interested.
Patrick cleared his throat and sang in a cheerful, off-key tone:
“Tillington locks its borders tight.
New folks vanish overnight.
The Nightmare House keeps every name,
and all who enter leave the same.”
Hailey stared at him. “Dad. That is super creepy.”
“Nah, they’re just messing around. Kids do that kind of stuff all the time.”
“That sounds like foreshadowing,” I said.
He waved us off, kissing Henry’s forehead. “It’s fine. You two worry too much.”
I stepped closer. “I worry just enough, and speaking of just enough worries, I want to start locking the gate at night.”
“What?” He frowned. “Why? We’re in the middle of nowhere. Who would we be locking out?”
“Well, there’s a lock on that gate for a reason,” I snapped, then immediately wished I’d phrased it differently.
He softened. “Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll lock it tomorrow morning on my way to work.”
“No, I want it locked tonight.”
He studied me for a long moment, the humor draining from his face. I braced myself for logic, for reassurance, for the careful tone he’d used back then when I’d started insisting things weren’t safe.
Instead, he nodded. “Okay, I’ll do it now before it gets dark.”
He handed Henry over and headed for the entryway, slipping on his boots. “I’ll be back,” he said, opening the front door. Then he paused. “What’s this?”
A flyer was taped to the doorframe, flapping in the cold draft as he peeled it off and read.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“Uh . . . it’s an invite. To a welcome party at the Tillington Town Hall this Friday night.” He squinted. “It says, Mandatory Attendance Encouraged.”
“Mandatory attendance encouraged?” I repeated. “That’s not even a real phrase.”
“I think we should go,” he said, already stepping back inside, the gate forgotten. “It’ll be nice to meet all the neighbors.”
I took the flyer from him before he could add anything else and walked it into the kitchen, balling it up and tossing it into the trash. “I think we’ve met enough of the neighbors.”
Patrick laughed, assuming I was joking. I wasn’t. Something was wrong here, and whatever it was, it was getting closer.