Page 14 of Twisted Paths

I make a small sound in my throat. “Noted.”

We walk a little further, the silence settling again, comfortable enough that she doesn’t seem to feel the need to fill it.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye.

There’s something about her.

She’s… interesting.

There’s an ease to the way she moves, a quiet confidence. She doesn’t seem to need constant conversation, but she also doesn’t let silence linger too long. It’s a strange balance—one I don’t think I’ve come across in a while. In my experience, people always feel the need to fill every second of silence with irrelevant chatter, and that’s just not me.

I’ve spent years carving out my own space, settling into my own ways, building walls that keep everything at arm’s length.

That’s how I like it. That’s how I work.

And yet—

Nancy glances at me again, her expression unreadable.

I shift my gaze forward, ignoring the flicker of intrigue in my chest.

No.

I’m not getting comfortable here.

This is just a walk. A morning of forced socialisation to appease Philip.

And then I’ll go back to my usual routine, maybe with my writing block broken.

That’s the plan.

And I always stick to the plan.

Chapter 4

Nancy

Thehillisn’tmuch,just a small incline that adds a bit of variety to the otherwise mostly flat walk. Still, as we reach the top, I’m glad for the excuse to stop.

The bench sits slightly off the path, a perfect resting spot overlooking the Dales. Below, St Claire nestles into the landscape, rooftops and chimneys poking through a patchwork of fields. It’s a view I’ve seen a hundred times but never get tired of.

Mrs Higgins lowers herself onto the bench with a satisfied sigh. Bernard collapses dramatically at her feet, looking like he’s just completed an Olympic-level trek instead of a casual stroll.

Luke hesitates before sitting at the far end of the bench, as if maintaining a safe buffer zone.

I drop onto the middle section, relieved to rest my legs for a minute, and start rummaging in my bag for my sandwich. A quick glance at the others tells me I’m in for some judgement.

Mrs Higgins, ever the traditionalist, unwraps a foil-covered sandwich, revealing thick slices of white bread with a slab of cheese and a generous helping of pickles stuffed between them.

I retrieve my shop-bought BLT, the plastic crinkling as I peel it open. Immediately, I feel a pair of disapproving eyes on me.

Mrs Higgins tuts. “Shop-bought?”

I scowl. “I was busy.”

She gives me a look. “Too busy to make a sandwich?”

“Yes, actually,” I mutter, taking an aggressive bite.

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