The house was already looking at me when I pulled into the driveway.
It sat at the end of a cul-de-sac like a dare, three stories of dark wood and steep gables, its windows turned toward the trees instead of the street. Every other house in Black Hollow had lights on, porch pumpkins, kids’ bikes slung on lawns. My aunt Evelyn’s place was just…shadow and silence.
I killed the engine. The quiet pressed in, thick, like sound had weight here.
Dogs were barking somewhere deeper in town, wild and high and oddly…synchronized. I told myself it was just a coincidence that their howls rose right when I stepped out of the car.
“This is fine,” I muttered, grabbing the first box from the backseat. “It’s a house, not a horror movie. People inherit property all the time and don’t get murdered by—”
Headlights swept across the drive, cutting me off. A sheriff’s SUV rolled up behind my car, gravel popping under its tires.
The door opened and a tall man stepped out, all broad shoulders and navy uniform and the kind of controlled tension that made you straighten up without knowing why. His badge caught the last smear of sunset. His eyes, when they landed on me, were an unreadable gray-green. Like storm water.
“Hailey Pierce?” His voice was low, even. The kind of even that made you think of leashes.
“That depends,” I said, shifting the box higher. “Are you here to arrest me or welcome me to the neighborhood with a fruit basket?”
One corner of his mouth tugged, not quite a smile. “No basket.” He came closer, boots crunching. “Sheriff Owen Marsh. We spoke on the phone.”
Right. The call last week. The polite condolences, the offer to swing by when I got in. I hadn’t expected him to actually follow through.
Up close, he smelled faintly of pine and something warmer beneath it, like skin heated by a long run. It slid under my defenses before I could name it.
“Sorry,” I said. “Long drive. I’m a little fried.” I shifted the box again. My arms were already complaining. “You, uh, patrol the cul-de-sac personally, Sheriff?”
His gaze flicked past me to the house, and everything in him went subtly, absolutely still. The loose-casual posture I’d half believed in vanished.
“I patrol this property personally,” he said. “Especially after dark.”
An odd chill threaded my spine. “Is that supposed to make me feel safe or freaked out?”
“Both would be smart,” he replied. Then, like he’d heard himself, he exhaled. “Look. I just want to make sure you get settled. Place has…history.”
I followed his stare up to the third-floor windows. In the fading light they were flat black, reflecting only the bare branches of the woods behind the house. I felt the weight of them on my skin, like being measured.
“Is this where you tell me my aunt didn’t just leave me a house, she left me a murder scene?” I tried for lightness. My voice came out thinner than I liked.
His jaw flexed, then smoothed. “There were deaths here. A long time ago.”
“Plural. Cool.” I forced a laugh. “You really missed your calling in real estate.”
His gaze dropped back to me, narrowing slightly. “You read the disclosures from the estate lawyer?”
