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“Did the two of you have a falling out or something?” I ask gently.

It’s hard to tell in the fading light, but I think his eyes are misting over.

“Or something—yes,” he finally says. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much now, with both of them gone, but it still feels wrong to speak ill of the dead.” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “I’ll preface this by saying I know my opinions are clouded by how I felt about Cecilia. Still, facts are facts.”

I wait, pulse quickening, while he sits in silence—cracking his knuckles, shifting on the bench, dragging slowly from the cigar. Just as I begin to wonder if he’s changed his mind, he speaks again.

“I was in love with Cecilia Doyle from the moment I met her as a boy. She was kind and gentle, patient and smart. She never said a bad word about anyone. She saw the good in everything and everyone. Unfortunately for me, that included George Hawthorn.”

He glances at me, then continues.

“George had a darker side. I knew it even then. He was older, loud, rich—always the center of attention. But Cece liked him. I believe it’s because she saw that darkness and thought she could fix it. She fell in with the ‘cool kids’—those Bugs—and our friendship slowly faded. It never ended outright, just faded. Which, in my opinion, hurt more than any big blow-up ever could.”

Tears slip down his face now, catching the last light of the sun like falling orbs of sorrow. He doesn’t wipe them away. He just lets them fall.

“Losing a friend hurts. Being replaced hurts. But losing the person you love—to someone cruel and secretive—breaks you.”

My heart aches for him. But the moment he mentions secrets, sympathy turns to curiosity. I draw a breath, ready to push for more, but he speaks again unprompted.

“Again, I won’t speak ill of the dead. But truth persists, even after death—Cecilia always wanted children, but they struggled. My assumption, as George’s doctor, was that he was infertile. We never tested it, but it was my prevailing theory. Until…”

He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Until what, Doctor?” I prompt.

He straightens and stands, brushing ash from his lap. “I can confirm to you that George fathered a child outside his marriage. But it feels wrong to say more.”

I rise, instinctively ready to protest, but he lifts a hand gently—wordlessly asking me to let it go.

“Regarding your question about the oddities in your home... you should have it checked. Mold, asbestos, radon. Sometimes things in the air make people sick. Headaches, dizziness, hallucinations—even paranoia. Have you experienced any of that since arriving?”

I swallow hard. Every single symptom he listed... I’ve been dealing with all of them. The realization hits like a stone: a mix of relief and embarrassment.

“Honestly, yes. All of it.” Nate said the house had been inspected before we moved in, but I don’t actually know what that covered. “Yeah, I’m feeling pretty sheepish for not thinking of that explanation myself, Doctor.”

He nods firmly. “No need to feel that way at all. I’m a doctor. It’s how I’m trained to think.” He pats my shoulder kindly and turns to walk away—but then stops, draws a breath, and turns back.

“About what I said earlier, Margot—the mother and child are unimportant. What matters is that you understand George Hawthorn was not the golden boy most of this town makes him out to be. It doesn’t change anything now, not after all this time, but it’s important to me thatsomeoneknows the truth. George had a cold, selfish side that few ever saw. Now go home and get some rest.”

He smiles—a faint, gentle expression—but I don’t catch it. My eyes snag on something else, something across the street, barely visible in the fading light. A figure moves with purpose, his head turned away, but I know that silhouette. That messy, pushed-back hair—the way he walks, I’d know it anywhere.

“Nate?” The name slips out, barely a whisper, my heart suddenly thrumming against my ribs. I shoot to my feet. “Nate!” I call, louder this time, my voice cracking in the cold air.

But he’s gone. Just like that—around the corner, swallowed by shadows before I can even think to run.

“Margot?” Dr. Whitfield’s voice snaps me back. I flinch, realizing he stands just a few steps away, his brow creased in concern. “Are you alright?”

I force a smile, brittle and hollow. “I’m fine. Just… tired.”

His eyes linger on me, skeptical. “If you’re sure. And please remember what I said, get the house tested.” There’s a softness in his tone, almost fatherly, but it slides right off me. I’m too restless, too rattled.

“Tested, yeah,” I mutter, already watching him walk away.

Then I bolt.

I cross the street fast, my boots slapping against the pavement, heading straight for the corner where I saw him vanish. My pulse roars in my ears.

I round the corner, chest tight with hope—and then it caves in.