Page 31 of Night Falls on Predicament Avenue
But she hadn’t expected him to ask her outright!
“Norah?” Sebastian prodded with that sexy deep voice and those chocolate eyes. “Well? What do you know?”
“I...” she stammered. It was Murphy’s Law that Norah had just gotten her feet under her after years of processing Naomi’s murder only to have a nineteen-year-old woman with Naomi’s personality show up at the door of 322 Predicament Avenue. It was as if Naomi had returned. Only she hadn’t. Instead, it was Harper Blaine. And it wasn’t fair—nor was it healthy—to transfer her feelings about Naomi onto Harper.
“What do you know about the history of Isabelle Addington’s murder?” Sebastian clarified.
He looked at her through his rectangular black glasses. Dark brown curls flopped over his forehead, his jawline needed a shave, and he had a Spanish look about him even though he was English.
Norah grounded her emotions by studying the way Sebastian’s eyes blinked as he watched her. One. Two. Three. Four. He wasn’t asking about Harper. He didn’t know. She didn’t have to tell him. She—
“Norah?” His tone was softer now. “Are you goin’ to be a’right talkin’ about this?”
Norah nodded and reached for her ice water. The glass was cold against her palm, damp from condensation. There had been condensation on the grass the night the police had come to the door to inform them that they’d found Naomi.
“Isabelle Addington?” Sebastian’s voice brought Norah’s eyes up to meet his again.
Oh. Isabelle Addington. They were here to talk about the age-old ghost story—not about Naomi, not about Harper. Norah took a gulp of water, then set the glass down on a napkin. “Um ... as the story goes, a woman named Isabelle Addington was murderedat the house in 1901. Apparently, there was an investigation after some locals found a crime scene but not a body.”
“How did they know who the victim was?”
Norah picked up her fork and fiddled with its tongs, wishing the food would come so they could quickly eat and then leave. She dropped the fork back down on the table. “I don’t know many of the details except that she was murdered there. Some say she was buried in the graveyard behind the house, but that was never confirmed.”
“That’s suspicious.” Sebastian leaned back in the booth as the server arrived with his plate of deep-fried walleye with coleslaw on the side.
Norah smiled at the server as her plate of chicken carbonara was set in front of her. She should have opted for a salad or bowl of soup. No way would she get the chicken past the lump of anxiety in her throat.
Sebastian speared a piece of fish with his fork and waved it in the air. “I mean, think about it. I found an article online from theShepherd Chroniclearound the time of the alleged murder. In it is a request for anyone to come forward who had information about Isabelle Addington. There was an Englishman in town claimin’ she was his wife. So, from what I’ve found so far, there was evidence of a murder, no body, a stranger claimin’ his wife was missin’, and an assumption that the blood spilled at Predicament Avenue was from this Isabelle Addington—the supposed missin’ wife.”
Norah poked at a piece of pasta. He already knew more than she did. Or more than she wanted to try to remember. Naomi had always been the one fascinated by the story of Isabelle Addington from the moment they were old enough to be regaled with ghost stories. “Aunt Eleanor said that the way the story was handed down to her, Isabelle Addington was something of a mystery to everyone.”
“No one from Shepherd trulyknewIsabelle?”
Norah shook her head. “Not that’s been preserved anyway.”
“You’re not curious to learn more?” Sebastian chewed and swallowed.
“I’ve never been fond of ghost stories or ... those kinds of stories. That was Naomi’s thing.” Norah pushed her chicken to the far side of her plate.
Sebastian’s chest rose and fell. He leaned his elbows on the table and looked earnestly at her, attempting to make eye contact. Norah looked at her food instead.
“I know this isn’t goin’ to be easy, but I’m willin’ to walk through it with you if that’s what you want.”
Norah glanced up at him. “That’s kind of you.” It was a mumbled appreciation with no commitment. She got the feeling she needed to offer Sebastian something more or he’d nose his way deeper into her life, into her struggles. That wasn’t a place she was willing to share with anyone—except Naomi. And that wasn’t possible. “Part of the challenge with finding out more information about what happened back in 1901 at the house is that the records office was demolished when a tornado went through Shepherd in the late 1930s.”
“It’s not unusual for a natural disaster or other circumstances like fire to do that. It’s unfortunate, though. It leaves a lot to question.” Sebastian nodded, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I do find it interestin’ that an Englishman was in town claimin’ Isabelle Addington to be his wife.”
“Why?” Norah took a sip of her water.
“What would bring a Londoner to a small town like Shepherd? An’ if the answer is that he traced his missin’ wife here, then why would his English wife be in Shepherd?”
Norah frowned. “What’s wrong with Shepherd?”
Sebastian raised his eyebrows. “Nothin’, but back in those days, people didn’t usually cross the ocean to go to a small farm town in the middle of the States. It’d require quite a bit of travel to come all the way to Shepherd, Iowa.”
Norah stabbed at some pasta as she considered his words. “I guess that makes sense.”
“So then,” Sebastian concluded, “I wonder what else was goin’ on that isn’t in the records we do have?”
