Page 24 of The House on Forgotten Hill

I woke Saturday morning thinking about the dinner I’d had with Preston the night before. I thought about his words and expressions and the moments when his confidence had slipped just enough to make me question some of the things he’d said.

I walked to the kitchen and began brewing a cup of coffee. As I waited for it to cool, I glanced out the window. The black sports car I saw in Preston’s driveway the night before was no longer there.

As I stood there, wondering where men like him went on a Saturday morning, my phone vibrated. I grabbed it from the counter and saw a text message from an unknown number.

One of the first things I’d done after returning home was to change my number. Only a handful of friends and family had it, which made the message all the more unsettling.

I opened the message and began to read.

I had a wonderful time last night. Thank you for making an otherwise ordinary Friday night much more interesting. I hope we can do it again soon. — Preston

I stared at the screen, wondering where he’d gotten my number.

I hadn’t given it to him.

Then again, men like Preston always seemed to find a way to get what they wanted.

For a moment I considered texting back to ask.

Then I stopped myself.

It wasn’t the text itself that disturbed me.

It was what it represented.

He had the advantage.

An advantage I knew he enjoyed.

I slipped my phone into my pocket and went upstairs to shower and get ready for the day.

A short time later, the doorbell rang.

A man in his early sixties wearing faded jeans, work boots, and a baseball cap embroidered with the logo of a local construction company smiled and extended his hand.

“Hello. You must be Olivia.”

“I am.”

“I’m Leonard.”

We shook hands.

He followed me inside, and I explained the projects I’d hired him to work on, starting with him fixing some section of warped wood flooring in my father’s former office.

For the next hour, I stayed out of his way while the sounds of construction echoed through the house.

A hammer.

A pry bar.

The whine of a saw.

And then it all stopped, and the house went silent.

I thought perhaps he’d decided to take a break. A few seconds later, I heard footsteps in the hallway, and then Leonard approached me with a look of concern on his face. “Miss Nightingale?”

“Is everything okay?”