Page 82 of Our Darkest Summer
“Are we going somewhere?” he asked, stretching as Thomas unlocked the car.
I nodded. “To our new possible lead.”
???
Maple Lane cut off just before Main Street, nestled between a crumbling old post office and a bakery that smelled perpetually of cinnamon. Number 34 was a narrow three-story townhouse, thick red-brick walls and wide corner windows watching the street below.
The front door was propped open, the summer air drifting in and out. The narrow hallway echoed with our steps as we climbed up the old stone stairs. I scanned the doors until I saw it. The gilded letters on pale blue paint:
Evelyn Marsh.
Connor elbowed me gently. “So youdidlisten when I said we should talk to people.”
I rolled my eyes, nudging him back.
“Give me a little space,” I whispered, then added, “Of course I listened, dummy.”
What I didn’t do was tell Evelyn I wasn’t coming alone. I could only hope showing up with two men wouldn’t scare her into silence. Thomas lingered at the landing behind us, his usual unreadable mask in place, his arms folded over his chest.
I blew out a breath and knocked. A high-pitched meow came from the other side, followed by the shuffle of slippers. Then the door swung open.
An older woman stood there in a lavender cardigan, her silver hair swept back in soft waves.
“You must be Kinsley,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes flicked to the boys behind me. “And you brought friends. How wonderful! I don’t get many visitors.”
“This is Connor, and that’s Thomas,” I said. “Their mother is the woman from the flyers.”
Her expression softened. “I see. Well. Come in, then. Please.”
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of lavender and something faintly musty. A long-haired gray cat jumped from a cabinet, landing at my feet like a pillow with legs.
“Flannel,” Miss Marsh said with a sigh. “Always wants attention.”
I bent to scratch behind its ears, then followed her into the living room, a time capsule of careful comfort. Floral wallpaper curled at the edges, a mismatched collection of armchairs, and lace doilies under everything. The space glowed softly, lit by the sun through sheer curtains and the pale flicker of an old TV.
Evelyn eased into her pale-yellow chair beside the window, folding her hands into her lap. I took the armchair across from her, and Connor leaned casually against it, while Thomas stood back, watching.
“As I said,” Evelyn began without prompting. “It was around eight when I heard a car pass on the street. I remember because that’s when my kettle usually goes off, you see. My last tea of the night.” She explained. “I was just here, watching my show, but the noise made me look.” Her voice lowered, her eyes flicking toward the window. “I didn’t think much of it until later, when it came back. No lights. Just… sliding down the street, real slow. Like it was trying not to be seen.”
“And this was on July 6?” I asked.
Evelyn nodded. “Yes. Well, between the 6 and the 7. It came back well after midnight.”
“Do you remember what kind of car?” Thomas asked from where he was standing.
She furrowed her silver brow, thinking hard.
“Color might help too,” I added after a second.
Her features brightened. “Oh, yes, that I know. It was gray. Like Flannel.”
Connor leaned forward. “Did you see where it stopped?” he asked, brushing a hand over the cat curling up on the back of the armchair.
“Probably the square. It both went and came from that direction. But I couldn’t see it. My window doesn’t angle that way.”
“Could you see who was inside?” I asked.
She shook her head slowly. “I couldn’t. It was too dark, and I didn’t even give it much thought then. But now… maybe it’s something you know. Even the small things can matter, can’t they?” Her tone was almost hopeful.
