Well that was certainly vague. But it really didn’t matter. I chose not to press any further. I leaned against the door jamb. “So where do you live…when you’re not working on small-town studies?”
Stowe lifted the last of the boxes. “Uh, I live in Florida.”
I stepped back into the entry area.
“How about you?” he asked, setting the box down next to me with a thud. “What brought you to Harbour Falls? Where are you from originally?”
“Oh, I live in Los Angeles. Well, most of the time,” I qualified. “But I’m originally from here.”
Stowe shot me a quick look and crossed his arms. “Is that so?”
“Yep,” I replied.
For some reason, it seemed as if none of this was news to him. And that was weird. Stowe wasn’t from this area, I’d know if he were. Wouldn’t I? Maybe not, he was a few years older than me. Perhaps he recognized me from my books. Or, more likely, from the recent news exposure that had come part and parcel with the solving of the Harbour Falls Mystery. It’s probably one of those things, I told myself.
I didn’t care to bring up the mystery—or my novels—so I wrapped things up. “Well, thank you for carrying in all these boxes.”
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, smiling a too-pretty-for-a-guy smile.
Why must my neighbor be so hot? I must have smiled back at him unintentionally as the thought crossed my mind, because he added, “If you ever want to grab a cup of coffee—”
“No,” I said, a little too sharply, judging from the taken-aback look on his face. “I mean, uh, I’m dating someone. Or I was dating someone. Um, I…” I flailed my hand around, looking for words to explain my current situation.
Stowe reached out, touched my elbow lightly. “Hey, it’s fine. I didn’t mean go out, go out, like on a date. I just meant grab a cup of coffee. I don’t know anyone here, and I thought it might be nice to have a friend, especially since we live right next door to each other.” He paused. “Well, at least for the winter.”
“Oh? Ohhh…” Now I felt like an idiot. “Friends would be great. A friend is good,” I stammered. Shut up, I thought, you’re making it worse.
But Stowe seemed not to notice my blustering. He took a piece of paper from his jacket and grabbed a pen from the little table in the area in which we were standing.
“May I?” He held up the pen and I nodded.
Stowe scribbled something on the paper, while saying, “My cell is over at the house or I’d just program you in. But here’s my number.” He placed the paper in my hand, pressed it gently to my palm. “Give me a call. It doesn’t have to be coffee. We can do whatever you feel comfortable with.” I must have blanched because he added, “As just friends, remember.”
His vivid, green eyes held mine. Okay, this could turn out to be a good thing. I needed a friend, too, right? Who did I really have now that Adam and I were no longer together? Ami? Hell, no. Helena? Sort of, but not like before. She was too close to Adam. And if Ami was telling the truth—and so far she had—then Helena was just as deeply involved as Adam in the secret I sought to uncover. I didn’t foresee she and I hanging out at the café, like old times, until this was new mystery was unraveled.
So that left me with…no one.
My eyes met Stowe’s as I held tightly to the piece of paper he’d slipped into my hand. I turned the word he’d just used over and over in my head. Friends. “Okay, I can do that,” I said at last. “Friends, it is.”
What harm could there be in that?
Chapter Six
Willow Point Asylum, now known simply as Willow Point, stood perched high atop a hill overlooking the town of Bangor. It didn’t matter what they called the place, the facility still housed the criminally insane. And that thought gave me the creeps. Always had, always would. So it was with trepidation that I pulled up to the gatehouse at the base of the steep hill that led up to the main building.
A burly guard with a neutral expression asked for my identification, so I handed over my license. “Purpose of your visit today, ma’am?” he asked robotically, while entering data from my license into a computer at his station.
“I’m here to see Ami Dubois-Hensley.”
I’d called ahead and found out visiting hours for nonfamily members were Mondays, eleven to one.
The disinterested guard handed me back my license, along with a bright, yellow visitor badge. “You’ll have to check in again up at the main building,” he droned. “Leave your purse in the car, or it’ll be subject to search. And, of course, no firearms or metal objects are allowed on the premises. We’re not as strict as some facilities, but there are still rules and you need to abide by them.”
I had to sign something, and then I slipped the lanyard attached to the badge over my head. The guard waved me along.
The winding drive was steep, so I kept the car in low gear and crept along slowly until I reached the level top.
And there was Willow Point.
Massive and foreboding, the main building was huge. Constructed primarily of limestone, it stretched across the grounds. It was an old, Gothic building, complete with pointed arches and spires, dating back to the late 1800s from what I had read. The design had been based on the once wildly popular Kirkbride plan. It was meant to be open and airy, but it just felt closed off and dark, as well as huge. Willow Point soared five levels
