It didn’t take as long as I expected to figure out which closet kept the cleaning products. Mr. Blackwood had no trouble at all ignoring me while I worked around him. He spent most of the day in the living room, his head buried behind books one minute and scribbling over old notepads the next. I felt like an intruder snooping around a stranger’s house, walking on eggshells and going from room to room.

The Blackwood house is oddly fascinating. It’s two stories, with five bedrooms situated on the second level, but most of the place looks entirely untouched. Three of the bedrooms aren’t even furnished, with nothing but coarse, grey carpets, cobwebbed closets, and windows that look like they’ve never been cracked. But they looked ready to be shown in an open house by the time I was done with them.

What struck me most, though, was I didn’t spot a single photograph in the house. And I was looking. No signs of the man’s history or family were to be found.

Back home, Grams and I had framed photos everywhere—sitting on bookshelves, hanging on walls, topping dressers and nightstands, decorating hallways. I never met my mother, Talli, but it was those pictures that allowed me to see her dance as a teenager in our living room, smile shyly at the camera in her blue high school graduation cap and gown, and wrap her slim arms around her pregnant tummy with a gleam in her brown eyes that told me she loved me.

It was those eyes I ran to crying when Frankie Stuller lied and told everyone in school I let him feel me up beneath the bleachers, and it was to those eyes I boasted about socking Frankie Stuller the next day. Photographs might not be the real thing, but they still offered just enough truth to steady me when I was about to fall.

Now, as I lean into the living room closet and return the last of Mr. Blackwood’s cleaning supplies, I find myself peeking at him with even more curiosity than I had when I’d first met him yesterday.

He’s hunched over the coffee table with a pair of scissors, carefully cutting into a newspaper article, and I can’t help but notice how frail he looks when he’s not grunting, drinking, or barking. His bones are thin, poking out around the edges of his frame.

I didn’t know it was possible, but he hasn’t taken a single swig of liquor in six hours—ever since he dove into whatever he’s been so focused on.

I shut the closet door with more force than necessary, hoping it’ll get his attention. Of course, it doesn’t. He didn’t even speak to go over the new contract he’d typed out for me over an hour ago. Instead he set the papers on the corner of the table with a grunt and returned to his research as I read through it all and signed at the dotted line. I didn’t mind it at the time, but now that my work for today is done, I don’t know if I’m supposed to announce that I’m leaving or if he’d prefer not to be interrupted. Eventually I decide on the latter and tiptoe toward the front door, slipping it open with the care of a mother trying not to wake her sleeping newborn.

He doesn’t look up before I close it behind me, and I don’t say a word.

The second I step out from the shelter of his porch, I’m attacked by pouring rain. It’s strong and mean, and I’m cursing myself for wearing such an ill-fitting sweatshirt. No hoodie, no umbrella.

So I hit the dirt running.

As I pass beneath a familiar line of trees, a part of me wonders if I’ll see him again. Feel his warmth, hear his voice. But it’s the same part of me that doesn’t know if I even want to see him or not. Really, how great of an omen could it be if Death decides to follow you around?

My thighs are burning, but my hair and clothes are drenched, so I pick up the pace. It’s times like these I wish I were a runner like Jamie. We did a 5K together once, one of those races to raise breast cancer awareness. She crossed the finish line with her head held high, part glistening goddess and part swimsuit model when she poured a light stream of water into her hair to cool down. I crossed the finish line with my skin red and blotchy, my knees wobbling, and my lungs convulsing, knocking people out of my goddamn way like a bulldozer so I could collapse in peace on the nearest bench.

I’m shivering and heaving when I arrive at the inn, leaving a trail of water with every step I take across the small lobby.

“Oh my gosh! Lou!” Claire’s mouth drops open.

“Whoa . . .” The male voice behind me is drawn out and lazy, reminding me of Dexter Freiman—a likable kid, who also happened to be the biggest pothead in my high school. He strolls into view, a young guy with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and a half-asleep look in his eyes. He closes his black umbrella as he takes me in with an expression of pure wonder. “You must really dig the rain, huh?”

“Yup,” I answer through chattering teeth. “Decided to go for a run, dressed like this, because I love it so much.”

He gives a slow and thoughtful nod, as if I’ve just stated something profound. “Nice.”

“Oh my gosh, Lou,” Claire repeats, quieter this time. She jots something down on a rectangular sheet of paper that looks like a timecard and says, “You don’t need to be catching a cold. Let’s order in for tonight.” She turns to the guy beside me. “Paul, would you hate me if I asked you to start your shift now?”

He gives another easy nod and ambles toward the desk. “Nah, that’s why I’m here, right? You go ahead. I got this.”

I’m already walking up the stairs, each step weighed down and uncomfortable with the soaked clothes sticking to my body, when Claire pops up beside me and matches my pace. “So,” she whispers, as though she’s got a secret, “I asked my mom about Mr. Blackwood today.”

I glance at her, saying nothing. I can’t deny I’m curious about what she has to say—the old man is like a puzzle, one from eBay that’s missing half its pieces. But I also feel like I’ve invaded enough of his privacy for one day.

“Well,” she continues, either not noticing my hesitation or choosing to ignore it, “she was pretty surprised he even hired you.”

Yeah well, she’s not the only one.

“How does she know him so well?” I ask.

“Oh, she doesn’t. I don’t think anyone really knows him. Not personally, anyway. But she’s in all of Ashwick’s social circles, and she runs the local paper.” She shrugs. “A full time job in a town as small as this one.”

“Hmm.” I turn left when we reach the top level and jiggle my key in the door.

Claire continues, “He’s more of a recluse than I thought.” Her lips turn down in a frown, and her eyes drop toward the ground as she follows me into my room. “My mom says he moved to Ashwick over twenty years ago, but she’s never seen anyone visit. No family, no friends.”

That has my attention, but I’m struggling not to pry, so I just mumble an acknowledgement. If he only moved here twenty years ago, he couldn’t have known Grams. She left this town long before then.

I grab a comfy pair of leggings and a long-sleeved top from the duffel bag I have yet to unpack and amble into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As I peel the wet clothes off my body, I think her words over and feel a pang of sadness in my chest. I’m trying not to feel sympathetic because I know it’s the last thing Mr. Blackwood would want. But when I think of how hard these past few weeks have been on me, how lonely I’ve felt—to imagine him feeling that way for years?

Whatever the reason he’s so alone, it has to hurt.

“Do you, um, need help settling in?” Claire’s voice calls from behind the door. She must be looking around the generic room, seeing nothing but a single duffel bag on a rocking chair to give away that a guest might be staying here, and wondering why I’m such a weirdo.

I hold back a chuckle when I answer, “I was going to unpack tomorrow, actually. Probably go pick up a few more things, too.”

“Oh, good,” Claire breathes. I can hear the relief in her voice. “That’s good. Are you thinking you’ll find an apartment or house to rent now that you’re staying for a while?”

I shrug a shoulder even though she can’t see me and adjust the leggings on my hips. “I don’t know. I’m kind of liking it here.”

“Yeah, lots of people stay long-term. Most of our guests are locals that rent it out like an apartment, since the nearest actual apartment complex is in the city. Helps that we’re so cheap, too.”

That it does. But that’s not why I like it here. “Grams would have loved this place.”

The second it slips, I regret it.

“Grams?” Claire presses.

Opening the bathroom door, I step out and offer a small smile. “Yeah, Grams. So where did Mr. Blackwood move here from?”

Thankfully, the question does enough to divert Claire’s attention. “I don’t know. Not too far from here, I don’t think.” Her eyebrows knit as she plops down on the loveseat. “I’ve always wondered what he does all day, never leaving his house.”

“What do you mean? He works.”

“Works? He was rich enough to retire ages ago.” She withdraws her pink phone from her pocket and types something, her lips curving back into the friendly smile I’m growing used to. “So, I was thinking we could order a pizza? There aren’t many places that deliver around here, sadly, but you can never go wrong with a good cheesy pizza, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Pizza’s fine,” I mutter, still thinking of Mr. Blackwood. If he retired so long ago, what has he been researching? “Do you know what he did? Before he retired?” So much for not butting in . . .

“He ran some investigative business. PI type stuff. But it’s his books that made all his money.”

“Books? He’s an author?”

“Yup. They pretty much killed his credibility as a PI, but at least he made bank.” I’m about to ask how his books could ruin his credibility when she continues, “He doesn’t publish anymore, though. Not in years. He’s kept to himself ever since I’ve known him, and Mom says he totally lost it before he ever came out here. Like, to the point where people used to hear him talking to himself. Even out in public.”

God, the poor man. The hard exterior, the barking and cursing, the endless whiskey.

Instead of digging deeper, like I want to, I force myself to drop it. I’ve already stepped too far into his business, and now I can’t stop asking myself . . .

Who is Mr. Blackwood?