Page 63 of You Found Me
The Ward she knew had started here, in this room.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, so after a quick glimpse at the attached bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom across the hall. This one didn’t have a bed or an attached bathroom. There was a carved wood table along one wall filled with pottery jars and paint supplies. An easel stood near the window with a half-finished painting of the stream outside. Itwas as if the artist had been interrupted and never came back. A layer of dust covered everything. It was the only room that didn’t appear to have been cleaned.
She didn’t have to look for a signature to know who the artist was. The brilliant colors and dreamy style were the same as the painting downstairs.
Ward’s mother was the painter.
The idea that her last work had been sitting here unfinished all this time tugged at the tiny broken pieces that she’d buried deep in her heart. The ones she never mentioned to anyone. Ever.
Dejected, she passed another bathroom, another small bedroom, and then ended at a large suite at the end of the hall, farthest from the stairs. Her bag waited for her on the bed.
It was clearly the primary bedroom. It had a large attached bathroom with a clawfoot tub and walk-in shower. The closet was empty, but the bed was made with a blue patchwork quilt, and the nightstands featured wood lamps carved with ivy.
This had to be his parents’ room when he was growing up. She was a little surprised he’d put her here and not in a guest room—or in a closet.
It was actually really nice of him.
No. Most likely, he’d put her back here to keep her out of the way. That made more sense.
She went back downstairs, wandering through all the rooms: Formal dining. Living room. Kitchen. Office.
The covered back porch featured chairs that would have been cozy if all the cushions hadn’t been removed. It overlooked a lawn big enough for a pool, but it was just grass, a pile of wood next to a chopping block, and a brick patio that contained a barbecue setup big enough to feed a crowd.
Her mouth watered as she looked at it. "How long does it take to pick up groceries?”
As if in answer to her question, lights streamed through the front windows.
She hurried to the front door and opened it with anticipation of a man carrying grocery bags. “About time, I’m starving!”
Two surprised women carrying large platters covered with pink plastic wrap blinked back at her. One was a petite pep squad brunette with an uncertain smile and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. The other was prom-queen blonde, a color not too far from Della’s usual shade before she became a redhead, with a full face of makeup and a tray of brownies.
“Oh shit,” Della blurted.
The blonde gaped at her.
The brunette glanced at her friend, then back at Della. Her expression froze somewhere between shock and complete panic.
Had they recognized her? Was that why they stared at her like that?
“Uh…hi.” Della’s heartbeat kicked up a notch.
She shouldn’t have opened the door. She should have pretended nobody was home.
The lights were on, though. Obviously, someone was here.
Ward’s words echoed through her head.You stay in this house with the doors and windows locked.
He was going to kill her.
She had to get a grip. They were just neighbors, not stalkers. They were friendly neighbors with plates of cookies. Stalkers didn’t bring cookies. Did they?
She had a feeling the answer wouldn’t matter to Ward.
The awkward pause while Della scrambled to figure out what to do was turning into an uncomfortable, sweaty silence. She could handle this. She was used to interacting with strangers. She put on her best greet-the-fans smile. “Can I, um, help you?”
The blonde straightened her shoulders in an obvious effort to regain her own composure, then a broad crocodile smile lifted her cheeks. “Hi. I’m Rachel Parry.”
She announced herself like she expected applause.