Page 20 of The House on Forgotten Hill

I gave a small shrug. “I found the binoculars in a box in the attic. Maybe they were his. This man. What was he like? I’d love to know more about the people who have lived in this neighborhood.”

“Well now, let me think. It was a long time ago, and my memory isn’t what it used to be. I do remember he had a daughter, though her name escapes me. He and his wife kept to themselves, so I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you.”

Something about the answer felt rehearsed.

Too neat.

Too easy.

He remembered the binoculars.

He remembered the man had a wife and a daughter.

But somehow he couldn’t remember much else?

I wasn’t buying it.

“I heard something interesting the other day,” I said. “Someone told me a man who lived in that house died in an accident. I heard it was a hit-and-run.”

His wine glass stopped halfway to his mouth and then he set it back down. “Where did you hear that?”

“One of the neighbors mentioned it.”

“I see.”

“I also heard there was a witness. Someone who claimed he saw the accident.”

For the first time since we’d met, the effortless confidence I’d come to expect from Preston seemed to falter, if only for a second.

His jaw tightened, and I worried about what he might say next. But then he brushed it off, dismissing the thought with a casual wave of his hand. “The witness was an elderly man. Poor fellow was confused, and everyone knew he had terrible eyesight.”

“He said he saw you, didn’t he? It must have been awful, being accused of something you didn’t do.”

“I take it you’ve heard the whole story, then.”

“I have.”

“I hate to disappoint, but the whole thing wasn’t as dramatic as people make it out to be. It was a simple misunderstanding. My attorney handled it.”

Handled.

Something about the word gave me pause.

For the briefest moment, I thought I saw satisfaction flicker behind his smile. Like a man remembering a time when he’d gotten away with something.

If he wasn’t as innocent as he wanted me to believe, then I was more than willing to play along.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” I said.

“It was nothing. I survived.”

I suppose I didn’t fault him for saying it.

He’d survived the accusations surrounding my father’s death.

But secrets have a way of resurfacing when you least expect them.

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