Page 35 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“Well. Welcome to Cedar Street. If you need recommendations for contractors?—”
“I’ve got it handled.”
She blinks. “Of course. Although, some of these older houses can be quite challenging. My husband and I recently had our kitchen renovated, and?—”
“Thanks for stopping by.” I start to close the door.
“The neighborhood association meets on Thursdays. We’d love to have you?—”
The door clicks shut before she finishes the sentence. Through the window, I watch her lips purse, then she walks away, back straight, heels clicking sharply against the sidewalk. Everything about her screams money and old power. The kind of person who’s never had to wonder where their next meal is going to come from.
I’m back upstairs in one of the front bedrooms when I’m next disturbed.
“Hey! In the house!”
Jesus Fucking Christ.
I lean out of the upstairs window. A man is standing in the driveway next door.
“Saw you moving in,” he calls when he sees me. “You doing work on the old place?”
“Yeah.”
“Quite the project you’re taking on. Place needs a lot of?—”
“I know what it needs.”
He raises an eyebrow at my tone. “Just trying to be neighborly. Name’s Tom, by the way.”
I don’t offer mine. Just nod once and duck back inside. He can make his own assumptions along with everyone else.
The afternoon continues to pass in a mix of inspection, planning, and note taking. Every room holds a new surprise. Windows stick in their frames, painted shut years ago by someone who clearly didn’t know any better. Doors need rehanging, carpets need ripping out and replacing, and I’m trying very hard not to even look at the wallpaper.
I’m examining a crack in the living room window frame when Tom’s voice drifts in through the open window.
“Getting dark in there. You’re going to need better lightning if you’re planning to work late.”
I move to the window. He’s watering his lawn. Maybe the grass grows better with adult supervision.
“Got it covered.”
“Listen.” He turns off the hose. “Some of us are having drinks on Friday. You should stop by and meet some of the neighbors.”
If they’re anything like Beverly Walsh, that’s going to be a hard pass. “Thanks, but I’ve got work to do.”
His expression says he expected that answer. “Well, the offer is there. We’re not all as uptight as Beverly.” He pauses, studying me. “Harris used to talk about you, you know. When he’d spend time here.”
Cold fingers slide down my spine. “What?”
“Nothing bad. Just that you were smart, and good with your hands. He said you’d do something with yourself if you got the chance.” He starts coiling the hose. “Guess he was right.”
I step back from the window.
Edwards talked about me?
I lean against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool plaster. My throat is tight, and there’s an odd burning sensation behind my eyes that I don’t want to acknowledge.
Night creeps over the house while I’m still processing Tom’s words. The house settles around me, each creak and groan a reminder of work waiting to be done. I head back down to the kitchen and make coffee. While the machine heats up, I pick up Edwards’ letter again.
