give him away.”
“But I thought you were moving on, that moving on is what keeps you safe.”
He turned to frown at his packed bags. This latest move wasn’t about that. This move was more about what he’d done last night. He didn’t want to fall back into bed with Eve Whoever She Was—well, actually, he did want to fall back into bed with her. That was the problem. What he didn’t want was to get her hopes up, make her think they might have a future together. Considering his limitations, he knew that wasn’t fair.
But if he moved out of the B and B and into a house or some other situation with his client—a client he enjoyed as a friend—surely he’d be able to avoid Eve, maybe forget about her, too. His work had always been enough for him before.
Meeting with Ted was awkward. After their failed attempt at romance, Eve had grown accustomed to coping with the strain in their relationship when she saw him and the rest of their friends on Fridays at Black Gold Coffee. She just directed her comments to the group in general, when she could, and avoided sitting too close to him and Sophia. But there was no getting around a direct confrontation now. He’d asked if he could come over. He wanted to write a book about the mysterious murder of the child who had died in the basement in 1871.
But he was already a successful suspense writer. Eve couldn’t understand why he didn’t stick with fiction and leave her alone.
“I’m not sure a book about Mary will be worth your time,” she said as she sat across from him in the parlor where she’d spoken to her parents earlier.
He’d been fiddling with his phone, trying to find the record app. “Why not?” he asked, glancing up. “I’ve been intrigued by it since I was a kid.”
“Because you’re doing so well with your fiction,” she explained. “Wouldn’t it make more sense to put out another serial-killer book or something in the time it would take you to write this?”
“I’m not doing it for pay. The proceeds will go to the historical society so they can preserve more buildings like this one.”
He was donating the money?
Damn, she couldn’t even feel justified in remaining mad at him. That was always the problem. He was too nice.
He gave her a look that told her he was suspicious of her resistance. “Don’t tell me you’re still holding a grudge.”
“You say that as if I’d have no right to.”
“You’re not the kind of person who hangs on to resentment.”
That was true. And he’d already apologized several times. He’d also tried very hard to maintain their friendship. But she couldn’t help feeling like an old shoe that had been cast aside. Maybe if she’d been able to move on like he had, or if the guy she’d been with last night hadn’t treated her the same way, it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Of course. I’m happy for you and Sophia.” Part of her really was. She’d known Ted since childhood. And she had to take partial responsibility for getting romantically involved with him. On some level, she’d realized he still had a thing for Sophia. She’d just chosen to ignore her instincts hoping that she would indeed find a good husband.
“When I walked in and hugged you, you were stiff as a board,” he pointed out.
“So I’m having a bad day.”
Some of the suspicion disappeared, replaced by concern. “Is there something serious going on?”
“Not really.” She tried to wave his question away. “I’m always under a lot of pressure around the holidays.”
“You love the holidays.”
She said nothing. She wasn’t enjoying them this year.
“Do you want me to come back in January?” he asked.
Why? Why not get this out of the way? He’d already explained that he’d turned in his latest book and didn’t need to start the next one until January. It was the fact that he had time during the Christmas period that made him want to get moving with this—and it was all for charity. His gift to the town they both loved. “No. I’m sorry. I’ll give you what you need.”
“Suffer through it, huh?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that even Unsolved Mysteries, and all the crime analysts they brought to town, couldn’t figure out who murdered Little Mary, so I’m not sure what more you’ll be able to do.”
“This isn’t so much about solving the crime as chronicling the mystery and suggesting possible scenarios.” He tilted his head as he studied her. “It should be good publicity for the B and B,” he said by way of enticement.
But he’d been talking about doing a book on Little Mary for several years. Did he really have to come and talk to her right now? The day after she’d slept with a total stranger? Make her worry that he might have heard the news? Make her wonder if he found what she’d done as pathetic as she did?
Mr. Taylor had returned earlier. Eve had watched him come in. But he didn’t look at her or acknowledge her. He’d walked right past her and marched up the stairs. Then he’d gone out again shortly after—without his bags. Since checkout was at noon and it was after two, she could only assume that he planned on staying another night.
She wasn’t quite sure how she felt about that, whether she should do anything to enforce her request that he leave or just pretend, like he seemed to be doing, that last night had never happened. Their encounter was probably so meaningless to him that he didn’t care whether he ran into her every time he passed through the lobby.
“The B and B is doing better these days,” she told Ted. “The tea I’m offering is generating some interest. We’re getting groups of Red Hat Society ladies, and we’ve had an increase in couples ever since we started advertising in bridal magazines.”
“I’m glad to hear it, but advertising is expensive, and this will be free. If this book takes off, you could get a steady stream of visitors, curious to see whether this place really is haunted. That’s how it worked after Unsolved Mysteries aired, didn’t it?”
“For a while.” She supposed she should be grateful to him for taking an interest—on behalf of her and the town. She would have been if she didn’t already have so much on her mind.
“So...shall we get started?” he asked.
She sat back. “Of course. Ask away.”
“Why don’t we go over the basics, just to make sure I’ve got them straight?”
“You should know the basics. The whole town does.”
“I’m aware that Mary Hatfield was six when she was found strangled in the basement in December of 1871. Her birth and death are engraved on her headstone in the cemetery next door. But you lived here when you were little, too. I’m actually hoping you’ll tell me what
