Page 30 of The Torment of Two

Blasting my favorite playlist, I make a pit stop at the coffee shop and then follow my navigation to the address I’d found for Hemingford Hall.

The lake where the building is located sparkles in the afternoon sun. Despite being January, it looks deceptively warm out. I sip my warm coffee and attempt to release the tension in my shoulders. By the time I reach Hemingford Hall, I’m feeling more like myself.

“Wow,” I mutter, looking through the windshield at the ancient, dilapidated property.

It’s huge, bigger than all the houses on our property combined, but looks as though it might get blown over the next time the wind rushes down the mountain. The location, though, is gorgeous. It’s a shame the owners haven’t done anything with the place.

I pull up next to an old truck and turn off my car. I’m feeling both inspired and overwhelmed as I take in the state of Hemingford Hall. Me and Two really have our work cut out for us.

Were the two best friends who built this place secret lovers? Ever since Two mentioned it, I keep wondering, eager to learn more about them.

I eventually climb out of the vehicle and make my way up to the massive mahogany door with inlaid stained glass. So beautiful. I bet this place was quite a stunner back in the day.

After knocking, I attempt to peek inside through the colored glass but can’t make out anything more than a few dark shapes.

“Hello?” I call out. “Anyone here?”

Nothing.

Well, Two did warn me I’d need an appointment.

I hate that he’s right.

It won’t hurt to take a quick look around, though, right? I start past the vehicles and begin peeking in windows. In some windows, the shades are drawn, but others reveal dusty rooms with sheet-covered furniture. Nothing too exciting or revealing. When I reach one end of the building, I turn the corner and walk along the shaded area. The wind whips along the side, biting into me through my stylish, but not exactly warm, leather jacket.

I should go home.

Another window reveals an office with ancient-looking books on shelves. I wonder if this was Alexander Heming’s office? Maybe it was Edgar Ford’s? Nothing from my vantage point discloses anything, so I keep making my way along the side until I reach the back of the building.

An older man with salt-and-pepper hair is chopping wood near a stump, his flannel-covered back to me.

I’m about to turn around and hurry back the way I came, but I’m busted when he looks over his shoulder, locking eyes with me.

“Oh, hi,” I squeak out, waving at him. “Are you the owner of this place?”

The man frowns at me, holding the ax at his side. I’m assaulted with images of that movie Dempsey made me watch when we were younger where Ryan Reynolds chased after his family with an ax just like that one. I had nightmares for a week.

“Sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “I can go.”

“Come here, girl. Speak up. I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying.”

He’s no more than thirty feet away. Why can’t he hear me? Slowly, I approach him, nerves zinging through me. Maybe it’s just a ploy to chop me up and I’m falling for it.

“Hi, uh, I’m Gemma Park. I’m a student over at PMU.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “What do you want?”

“I’m doing a project on this property. Mr. Pederson said—”

“I don’t know a Mr. Pederson,” the man says, cutting me off.

“Well, uh, he said that this project was cleared by the owners. I’m sorry,” I say, taking a step back. “I can leave.”

The man huffs and tosses the ax to the ground. Thank God. “I just don’t know anything that goes on around here,” he mutters. “My wife gets us into some shenanigans we have no business being in.” He gestures at the building. “Hence this shithole.”

“Oh.” I give him a shaky smile. “I can come back another time.”

“She’ll be back here in just a few if you want to wait.” The man skims his gaze over my body before stopping at my face. “You’re freezing out here. We could wait inside together. I could give you a tour.”

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