Chapter 13
Leonard finished loading the last of his tools into the back of his truck just before four o’clock.
“I’ll be back Monday morning,” he said, closing the tailgate.
“Sounds good.”
“By the way … what was inside the box?”
“Nothing as exciting as I hoped.”
“No pirate treasure?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What was it then?”
“A few old newspaper articles and a notebook.”
He nodded, though he looked a little disappointed. Then he climbed into his truck and rolled down the window. “Have a good weekend, Miss Nightingale.”
“You too.”
I stood in the driveway until his truck disappeared down the hill and then I went back inside, gathering the newspaper clippings, my father’s notebook, and the roll of film. I slipped everything into my leather handbag and headed for the door.
I pulled the front door shut behind me, and heard someone say, “Going somewhere?”
Preston stood beside the walkway, one hand tucked into his jeans pocket.
I hadn’t heard him approach.
Hadn’t seen him either.
For a brief second, I wondered how long he’d been standing there.
I forced a smile. “Oh, hey. You startled me.”
“I’m sorry. I texted you this morning.”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Why didn’t you text me back?”
“I … ahh, I was busy all day, dealing with the contractor. How did you get my number?”
“I have my ways.” His eyes drifted toward my handbag before returning to my face. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve spent most of the day cooped up in the house. I thought I’d go for a walk.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke, the uncomfortable silence hanging between us.
“I’ve been thinking about you today and about how much fun we had last night.”
“I have too.”
He narrowed his eyes, eyeing me like he was unconvinced. “How are the renovations going?”
“Slow, but I’m making progress.”
“I suppose old houses like yours are full of surprises.”
My fingers tightened around the strap of my handbag. “Sometimes.”
“Do you always take a purse with you when you go on a walk?”
“I like having it with me.”
“Guess it just seems a little odd to me.”
“I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.”
“I’m only making conversation.”
A sudden wave of unease washed over me. “I should go.”
“I was thinking about taking a walk myself. Mind if I join you?”
Every instinct I had screamed no.
“I’m meeting a friend,” I said.
“Who?” He tilted his head toward Estelle’s house. “The same friend that bakes you bread?”
I nodded.
“Seems the two of you are getting close,” he said.
“We’re neighbors. Why not get to know each other?”
“I could say the same about us.”
Today, he wasn’t flirting.
He was studying me.
Waiting.
Watching.
“You seem nervous and jumpy,” he said. “Is something going on?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
He took a step toward me. “I have a habit of noticing things, like when someone stops making eye contact, for example, or answers questions differently than they did the day before.” He studied my face. “Am I wrong? Because you seem eager to end our conversation.”
“I told you, I’ve had a busy day.”
“Did something happen? Is there something you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Just now, you hesitated.”
“I don’t know what you're talking about.”
“I think you do.”
I glanced around the neighborhood, noticing how quiet it had been. There were no passing cars, or children playing outside. Only the distant rustling of leaves overhead, and I suddenly became aware of how alone we were.
“I hope that whatever’s bothering you doesn’t have anything to do with me. You’d tell me if it did, right, neighbor?”
Before I could answer, movement farther up the street caught my attention.
Estelle was headed straight for me.
The moment Preston noticed her, his expression soured, and he stepped back. “Seems you have other places to be. I won’t keep you.”
Without another word, he turned and made his way toward his own house.
Estelle reached my driveway and said, “Are you all right, dear?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Something feels wrong, and I can’t shake it.”