Page 20 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
Sebastian expelled a sigh. “Because it’s interestin’! Most towns these days can’t say their crime rate is so low that there’s only been two killin’s in a hundred years. It was a statement of fact, not an outin’ of your sister’s circumstances.”
“You don’t owe me my privacy.” Norah stated the thought that raced through her mind, as much as she hated it. “But slander—”
“There’s no slander in a fact, Norah.” Sebastian stood, probably sensing the urgency in Norah and maybe catching on to her veiled threat. Not that she would have the guts to do anything about it, but Sebastian had run away with Naomi’s story on his podcast, which was what frightened Norah the most. Naomi’s story wasn’t just her story. It was part of the public record. If done properly, Sebastian could cover it with little threat of recourse from Norah. And it was a story that oddly paralleled Isabelle Addington’s murder from 1901...
“Norah?” Sebastian’s deep voice soothed her nerves, though she didn’t exactly want it to. That was probably why his podcast was such a hit. A sultry male voice with a Lancashire accent?
“What?” She eyed him, guarded.
“Sit down, would ya? Let’s chat for a bit. Get it out in the open before this becomes a problem.”
Instead of sitting down, Norah moved to the porch rail that Otto had repainted white just last summer. She looked out at the backyard, to the edge of the woods beyond and the gravestones that tipped and sank into the earth, burdened by time. One grave stood out among the rest. A new stone with roses carved in each corner. It was front and center in the small cemetery, its date boasting a new century compared to the graves behind it. Old graves. Old ghosts. Forgotten people.
And then there was Naomi.
Norah sensed Sebastian’s presence beside her as he joined her at the rail. He followed her gaze.
“Your sister?”
Norah nodded.
“It’s nice to have her so close.” Sebastian’s words were rife with understanding that took Norah aback for a second.
She gave him a sideways glance. “I can’t have people coming here to fawn over her grave because she’s some true-crime celebrity victim.”
“I’ve no intention of doin’ that to your sister,” Sebastian promised. He shifted, and Norah caught a whiff of his cologne. Pine mixed with something fresh. Maybe it was just his deodorant. Either way, he smelled good. He smelled safe. Which was not at all what Norah wanted him to smell like.
“It’s been almost thirteen years, and we have no answers,” Norah stated, her vision caressing her sister’s name etched into the gravestone:Naomi Elizabeth Richman. “She had so many dreams. This place, it was her dream.”
“The house?” Sebastian clarified.
Norah nodded. “Naomi loved the lore and the whispers in the night. The ghost stories of Isabelle Addington. The tales of her murder, the disappearance of Isabelle’s body, and all the unanswered questions about what actually happened at 322 Predicament Avenue in 1901.”
Sebastian gave a small laugh. “I think your sister and I would’ve gotten along quite well.”
Norah sighed. “Probably.” She turned to Sebastian. “Please don’t hurt Naomi by making her story popular.”
Sebastian looked down at her, his eyes soft behind the lenses of his chic glasses. “You mean don’t hurt you?”
Norah didn’t answer. It felt too selfish to admit that he was right. That it was herself she was trying to protect. She’d come this far, and to have Naomi’s murder revisited now and be aired publicly?
“I won’t hurt you.”
Norah heard the man’s promise. She just didn’t believe him.
Norah didn’t trust anyone who just showed up on her doorstep without a reservation. She was instantly suspicious of such people. Not to mention she was still shaken from her interaction an hour ago with Sebastian Blaine. So much so that she’d considered the idea of putting the house on Predicament Avenue up for sale and finding a small nondescript apartment somewhere where she could hide for the rest of her life.
A young woman wearing a green chunky stocking cap, long dark hair hanging over her shoulders, perched on the porch. A smile wreathed her friendly face and was eerily familiar, though Norah couldn’t place it. She wore ripped blue jeans, a cropped vintage T-shirt, and an oversized cardigan to ward off the chill of the morning spring air.
“Hey! I just arrived in the area, and someone recommended staying here. You wouldn’t happen to have a room available, would you?” The perky girl’s voice was equally cheerful.
Norah assessed the girl warily, even as she realized she really was becoming a suspicious, prematurely old lady of Predicament Avenue. She did have a spare room. Three, in fact. She needn’t put the young woman in thedeath room, as Norah had begun to think of Mr. Miller’s room. Instead, her new guest could stay in bedroom number two. A room with no history of sightings of Isabelle Addington...
Norah couldn’t afford another death-by-ghost situation.
“Come inside.” She stepped aside, feeling utterly inept at greeting guests with warmth and hospitality. It was everything Norah could do not to ask for a full criminal background check, references, and a search on the dark web to make certain her guests were who they said they were. It was an extreme reaction—exaggerated and ridiculous—but that was whathappened when your sister was abducted, assaulted, murdered, and left to decay in the woods.
Norah fought back the hovering familiarity of her PTSD. People didn’t help. The new guest wouldn’t help.
