Lynda sat in the quiet room of the police station, her fingers gripping her phone tightly. The questioning was over, but her mind was still racing. She took a deep breath before dialing Stella’s number.
“Lynda? Where are you?” Stella’s voice was sharp with concern the moment she picked up.
“At the police station,” Lynda admitted, exhaling shakily. “I—I had to give a statement.”
There was a beat of silence, then a startled, “What?!”
“I’ll explain everything later. Can you pick me up when I’m done?”
“Of course! Are you okay? What happened?”
Lynda closed her eyes, rubbing her temple. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in person.
“Alright. Just—just stay put, okay? I’ll be there soon.”
Lynda ended the call just as Isaac appeared in the doorway. He nodded toward her. “You’re free to go.”
She stood up, still feeling slightly lightheaded. As she followed him out of the building, the afternoon sun hit her face, making her squint. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed inside that cold interrogation room.
Isaac walked with her to the steps outside the station. He stopped, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Thanks for cooperating.”
Lynda glanced at him. “I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
Isaac’s lips twitched slightly. “Maybe not. But it still means something.”
She studied him, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that he had been a detective all along. It explained a lot—his watchful eyes, his protectiveness, the way he seemed to know things before she did.
Isaac shifted slightly. “It’s still early. Have you eaten?”
Lynda hesitated. “Are you asking me to lunch?”
He shrugged. “We could talk more.”
She offered him a small, tired smile. “Not today.”
Isaac didn’t push. He simply nodded. “Alright. Take care, Lynda.”
As she turned away, she could feel his gaze lingering on her. Something about it unsettled her, but she wasn’t sure why.
A few minutes later, Stella’s car pulled up. Lynda wasted no time getting in, sighing as she buckled her seatbelt.
Stella didn’t even wait to get back on the road before demanding, “What the hell happened?”
Lynda ran a hand through her hair. “Mrs. Patterson was murdered.”
Stella gasped. “Wait—the old lady who rented you the house?”
Lynda nodded grimly. “And guess who’s been investigating the house this whole time?”
Stella raised an eyebrow. “Who?”
“Isaac.”
“Isaac?”
“He’s a detective.”
Stella almost slammed the brakes in shock. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
Silence filled the car as Stella processed everything. Then, she shook her head. “Okay, so what now? What are you going to do?”
Lynda stared out the window. “I don’t know, Stella. A part of me thinks I should move out.”
Stella shot her a sideways glance. “But?”
Lynda sighed. “But I’m not sure. If I leave, I’ll always wonder what’s really going on in that house.”
Stella frowned. “Lynda, you’re not an investigator. You’re a journalist.”
“Exactly,” Lynda murmured. “And journalists chase the truth.”
Stella groaned. “Please don’t say that. That’s how people in horror movies get killed.”
Lynda let out a dry chuckle, but deep down, she knew this wasn’t just some movie.
Something was wrong with that house. And the more she tried to ignore it, the more it pulled her in.
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