Page 83 of The Clifftop Cottage

Her grip tightened on the phone.

“Small communities remember things. Patterns. Departures.”

He let that hang.

“I understand your mother left rather abruptly,” he said gently. “That must have been unsettling.”

“That is none of your⁠—”

“I’d hate,” he cut in, “for people to draw parallels where none are intended.”

“I’m not my mother,” she said, but her voice lacked force.

“Of course not,” he replied. “And I’m not your enemy, Ms Hayes. I’m simply protecting our town’s interests.” A pause. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.”

The line went dead.

She stood there, phone still pressed to her ear.

The cottage felt temporary. Unstable.

Patterns.

Parallels.

His words pulled her inwards. She wasn’t shaking. Not yet. But something inside her had shifted, a hairline crack widening quietly.

He’d been polite.

That was the worst part.

No shouting. No threat. Just the suggestion that she did not belong.

That she was a disturbance and carried instability with her like scent.

She dropped into the chair and stared at the dark window.

I’m not my mother.

The words sounded childish now.

Her phone felt heavy in her hand, and yet she scrolled.

Leah.

For a moment she hesitated.

Then she pressed call.

Leah answered on the fourth ring.

“What?”

Not hello.

Erica swallowed. “Hi.”

A pause. “Are you okay?”