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Nothing. The street stretches out, empty and quiet. A streetlamp buzzes overhead, its pale light casting long, lonely shadows. No sign of him. No hurried footsteps. No fading silhouette.

“Nate?” My voice cracks this time, softer, desperate.

Silence answers.

I push forward, scanning the alleys, the doorways, every darkened corner. But there’s nothing. No one.

By the time I hit the end of the block, the truth is obvious. It wasn’t him. Or worse—maybe there was never a man there at all.

Frustration claws at me. I drag my fingers through my hair, tugging hard, trying to snap myself back to reality. But what is reality anymore? Since Hawthorn Manor, nothing feels solid. Every answer unravels into more questions, and now—now I’m seeing ghosts in the dark, thanks to what… mold?

I turn back the way I came, my shoulders sinking. And the question claws at me again, sharper this time, impossible to ignore:What the hell is happening to me?

12

The humid Florida night clings to my skin, and the stars above cast long, deep shadows across my path. My foot throbs with every step—a dull, persistent ache radiating from the wound where that damn nail punctured it. It's worse than I want to admit. What was sharp, searing pain the day it happened has now sunk deeper, dragging at my energy, turning every movement into a significant effort.

My mind twists and turns, replaying the conversation I just had with Doctor Whitfield. Two things stand out, both unsettling in different ways. The first is straightforward—if George had a child with someone else, who was she, and where is she now? Could she still be in Mount Dora, or did she leave long ago?

The second detail is more troubling. Whitfield spoke with confidence—certainty, even—about George being dead. But most people in Mount Dora say George disappeared, at least entertaining the possibility he could still be alive somewhere, leaving Mount Dora and it’s tragedies behind. Why is Doctor Whitfield so sure he’s dead? And isn’t it more than a little disturbing that the man so sure of George Hawthorn’s death also happened to be in love with George’s wife?

I’m no detective, but I’ve watched enough crime documentaries to know that when someone talks about a missing person in the past tense—and has a motive as powerful as love—there’s a pretty good chance they’re involved.

I think back on my two interactions with Doctor Whitfield. He was pleasant, even charming. He seems sweet and knowledgeable. But my judgment of character hasn’t exactly been flawless the past few years. Which leaves me worrying– is it possible Doctor Whitfield had something to do with George’s disappearance?

Before I can continue my thought process, headlights swing wildly across the yard, jolting me to a stop. A car rumbles over the gravel, moving with careless, jerky swerves that kick up clouds of dust. My pulse quickens. Whoever is driving doesn't seem to care about the narrow path—or anything in their way.

I tense, preparing to dive out of the path if I have to. But the car slows as it nears, its engine growling before settling into a purr.

A metallic purple PT Cruiser.

It coughs to a stop beside me, its headlights cutting sharp lines through the dark. The driver's window rolls down with a whine, revealing a cigarette jutting from lipsticked lips.

"Evening, darling!" Phyllis Brendamore coos, smoke curling into the night air.

She is all chaos and color—oversized round sunglasses at night, a polka-dot headscarf flapping in the breeze, and an offensive floral perfume battling the cigarette smoke. Her lipstick is a violent shade of pink, clashing spectacularly with the deep purple of her car.

"Phyllis," I say flatly, my patience already fraying.

Then I notice him. The man in the passenger seat. Late forties, maybe, with a heavy beard and olive skin. His dark shirt clings to broad shoulders, but it's his eyes that pin me—deep, intent, and unsettlingly hungry.

"Ah! Where are my manners?" Phyllis chirps, following my gaze. "This is my son, Patrick."

Patrick doesn't speak. He just watches me, head tilted slightly as if trying to read something I'm not saying. His eyes linger, too long, too deep.

I force a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."

He nods once, the barest acknowledgment.

Phyllis waves her cigarette in a wide, smoke-trailing arc. "I was just popping by, dear, thought maybe you'd changed your mind about hosting the Winter Gala at Hawthorn Manor. It'd be perfect!"

"No, Phyllis. I haven't."

"Oh, Margot, come on. You're sitting on a goldmine of local history! The town would love it."

"No, and I don't appreciate these unannounced visits," I snap before I can stop myself.

Phyllis's smile flickers, then rebounds even brighter. "Well, excuse me! Mount Dora's always been a pop-in kind of place. We're neighbors, after all."