Page 23 of The House That Held Her

I catch her glancing into the rearview mirror, her gaudy rings glinting as she adjusts it. She scans behind her like she expects someone—or something—to show up.

"Where exactly do you live, Phyllis?" I ask, the question sliding out before I can second-guess it.

Her jaw twitches, a tiny tell, before she answers, "Oh, just down the way."

Vague. Deliberately vague.

"Well, maybe I'll swing by sometime. You know, neighborly and all."

Her laugh is too loud, too forced. "Of course, darling. Anytime."

Patrick still hasn't spoken. His gaze hasn't shifted.

"Alright then, we really must be going," Phyllis declares, hitting the gas. "Ta-ta!"

The PT Cruiser lurches away, dust billowing in its wake. I stand there for a beat, watching the taillights flicker into the distance, my mind racing.

Shaking my head in disbelief, I start toward the house, my steps slow and uneven, the throbbing in my foot fading beneath the swirl of questions buzzing in my head. Phyllis and Patrick. What are they doing here before I arrive? They couldn't have just been sitting in the car waiting. Have they been snooping around the grounds? The thought itches at me, refusing to settle. And that look Patrick gave me—too intent, too knowing. There's something more there, something off. Phyllis seems to be circling Hawthorn Manor with a kind of desperation. Why does she keep showing up?

"Evenin', Mrs. Bennett."

I nearly jump out of my skin. Chief Miller's voice slices through my thoughts, yanking me harshly back to reality.

I haven't even seen him—but there he is, sitting against his cruiser, arms folded, watching me with a steady, patient stare. How long has he been there, waiting?

"Chief, hi," I reply, forcing calm. "What...uh, what's wrong?"

"Just checkin' in." His eyes drop to my limp. "What happened there?"

"Renovation injury," I mumble. "Stepped on a nail."

"Yikes. Hope you got a tetanus shot."

I give a weak smile.

He hesitates. "Margot… about last time I was here. The, uh, skulls."

I stiffen.

"I don't want to press," he continues, "but you know how things are around here. Folks talk. And it seems like?—"

I stare at him, waiting

"Seems like you're asking a lot of questions." He kicks at the gravel with the toe of his boot. "Which in itself is fine, but I'm worried it may alarm some of the residents here."

"Alarm them how exactly?"

He runs a hand through his hair, searching for the right words. "What happened to the Hawthorns was tragic. I knew Cecilia and George well—better than most. The town still misses them dearly. And while I understand your curiosity about the history of your home, dredging up Cecilia's death and George's disappearance only drags the town back to one of its darkest times. Things are... stable now. Tourism keeps the town's income steady, and we've weathered the past few hurricanes just fine. Everything is... good. I don't want folks getting restless over old ghost stories."

"Ah, so you talked to Dr. Whitfield, I see. Well, I appreciate your concern and I'll take your request into consideration," I say coldly.

His eyes acknowledge the hint. "That's all I'm asking." He turns to return to his cruiser but pops his head over the door. "One more bit of advice, not that you want it—steer clear of Phyllis Brendamore. That family's… complicated."

"Understood."

He climbs into his cruiser, the engine sputtering as it rolls away.

The quiet that follows is more solemn somehow, my frustrations bubbling.

---