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“My apologies,” he says, doing a half bow of attrition. “I heard you were back in town, so I decided to drive out here and see for myself. When I saw the front gate open, I realized the rumors were true. Hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
I grab a grocery bag from the truck and carry it to the porch. “Will you leave if I say yes?”
“Grudgingly,” he says. “But I do intend to come back, so you might as well get it over with now.”
“Get what over with?”
“Our interview, of course,” he says.
I return to the truck and grab two more bags. “I’m afraid I’m not very newsworthy, Mr. Prince.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I think the community would be very interested to know that a member of the Holt family has moved back to Baneberry Hall.”
“I’m not moving in,” I say. “In fact, I’m moving out. There’s your article in two sentences.”
“What are your plans for the house?”
“Fix it up, sell it, hopefully walk away with a profit,” I say, nodding toward the equipment on the lawn as I make my way to the porch. First the table saw. Then the electric sander. Then the sledgehammer.
“The fact that Baneberry Hall will soon be back on the market is newsworthy in itself,” Brian says.
Deep down, I know Brian Prince is blameless. He heard a juicy story about a haunted house, interviewed my father, and wrote down what he said. He had simply done his job, just like Tess Alcott had done hers. The only two people responsible are my parents, and even they had no idea the story of Baneberry Hall would grow into the unruly phenomenon it became. That still doesn’t keep me from wanting to grab the sledgehammer and chase Brian Prince off my property.
“Newsworthy or not, I don’twantto talk to you,” I say.
“Your father did,” he says. “Sadly, he never got the chance.”
I lower the bags on the porch, my legs wobbly with surprise. “You communicated with my father?”
“Not often,” Brian says. “But we continued to correspond on and off over the years. And one of the things we discussed shortly before his illness took a turn for the worse was him coming back here to do an interview with me.”
“Your idea, I suppose.”
“Actually, it was your father who suggested it. He pitched it as an exclusive interview. Him and me talking inside this house, twenty-five years later.”
It’s yet another thing my father never mentioned, probably because he knew I would have tried to talk him out of it.
“Did he tell you what the gist of this conversation would have been?” I say, toying with the possibility it might have been an attempt to finally come clean after all these years. A confession, of sorts, taking place at the scene of the crime.
That idea is immediately shot down by Brian Prince.
“Your father said he wanted to reaffirm what he had written in his book.”
“And you were just going to go along with it?” I say, my opinion of Brian Prince swiftly changing. Maybe he’s not as blameless as I first thought. “Listen to my father tell a bunch of lies and write it down as fact?”
“I wasn’t planning on going easy on him,” Brian says as he fussily adjusts his bow tie. “I was going to ask some tough questions. Try to get at the truth of the matter.”
“The truth is that he made it all up,” I say. “Everyone knows that.”
“I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” he says.
Because Brian Prince shows no sign of leaving anytime soon, I take a seat on the porch steps. When Brian sits next to me, I’m tootired to shoo him away. Not to mention a tad curious about what he thinks is the real reason we abandoned Baneberry Hall.
“Did you investigate his claims?” I ask.
“Not back then,” Brian admits. “I didn’t have access to this house, for one thing. Plus there was other news to deal with.”
I roll my eyes. “It must not have been too important. TheGazetteput my father’s bullshit story on the front page.”