I frown. “How did you get online? Were you getting cell service?”
“After you were asleep, I drove to the village and parked outside the restaurant. They have free Wi-Fi.”
“Oh.” For some reason, I’m not liking that revelation. “I had no idea you’d left.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Decided I might as well be productive.”
We walk in silence for a bit, but the nagging feeling near my brain stem won’t go away. Something’s off, but I can’t put my finger on it.
We cross over the bridge that leads down to the lakefront path, where joggers and families on bicycles fight for space against the strolling tourists. For the next kilometer, I’m too busy avoiding eye contact with people I recognize from the market to unravel the knot of uneasiness gathering in my gut.
It isn’t until we climb the wooden steps leading to the marina district that something clicks.
Jeffrey hasn’t looked at his phone since we left the hotel.
Not once.
I’ve been with him the entire time, and I’d been thinking while we ate how nice it was that he kept his phone in his pocket and his focus on the conversation. I don’t have many friends aside from my sisters and Chamomile, but I’ve seen the way most people act in public these days. Every time Sabrina drags me out to a pub or restaurant to escape the madness at home, we’re inevitably the only people not staring at our phones for most of the meal.
But Jeffrey didn’t seem the least bit tempted by his restored connectivity. His focus was on our conversation, meaning he must have mapped out the route to the tea shop last night.
If Jeffrey were a tea aficionado, that might not be that strange—even though we’re here on business, not pleasure—but I know Jeffrey’s tastes by now. He’s a coffee man. If given a choice between a double espresso and a smoky cup of lapsang souchong, he’ll choose the espresso every time. I had to twist his arm to get him to share that pot of mint tea with me.
Which means this little wander might not be as innocent as it appears to be.
He knows you love tea, psycho. He’s probably just being thoughtful and nice.
I want to believe that, I really do. But when Jeffrey turns left at the first side street leading away from the marina proper, headed into an older part of the village where there are more private residences than businesses, the suspicion humming in my bones buzzes louder.
“Are you sure this is the way?” I point to a low, tiny-windowed cottage with a battered wooden sign creaking in front of it. “It’s mostly massage parlors and daycare centers around here. And not the upscale ones. This area isn’t known for being particularly safe. I mean, we’re fine now, but you wouldn’t want to walk alone here after dark.”
Jeffrey frowns. “Which is strange. You’d think historic property so close to the water would have gentrified faster than the rest of the village.”
“It probably would have, but…” I trail off, scanning either side of the narrow road. The sun is shining, and music and laughter drift from the gardens behind the cottages, accompanied by the fragrant smell of Rindish slow-cook stew simmering in a pot somewhere.
There’s a warm, almost cozy energy to the neighborhood, despite the potholes marking the road and the graffiti scrawled on the sidewalk. But I still can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. The sense that something dangerous lies in wait, ready to pounce as soon as I let down my guard.
Trying my best to act like a sane person instead of a paranoid weirdo, I tell Jeffrey, “My grandfather tried to have this area demolished so he could build a hotel on the water. The historical society got an injunction from the court seconds before the bulldozers were set to roll in. He ended up losing face in front of his investors, not to mention thousands of dollars. In revenge, he cut all state-sponsored funding for the restoration of this part of Old Town. It’s been deteriorating ever since.”
“Even with the transition in power?’ Jeffrey asks.
I nod. “Unfortunately, yes. People hoped things would change with the new government in charge, but there never seems to be enough money to fund projects like this. The castles and tourist-friendly historic properties gobble up all the money first.”
“Is this common knowledge?” Jeffrey asks, slowing his pace.
“Yes.” I shrug. “At least in Rue. We all know we have a historical site we’re obligated by law to protect, but no money for restoration. And the people who live here aren’t the kind most tourists want to run into on holiday. They’re poor and likely to stay that way without help. And sadly, that help doesn’t seem to be coming anytime soon.”
“I’m sure some people blame your family for that.”