As if he can read my thoughts, he finally speaks. “I don’t think my work is who I am, not entirely.”
The seconds crawl by while I wait, hoping he’ll elaborate.
“Lately, everything has been a little bit tedious, and I’m not sure why. I have a diverse portfolio. I invest in a variety of endeavors, I’m constantly pursuing innovative ideas, engaging in new pursuits, and making money off all of it, and that used to be enough to motivate me. I’m busy, and yet, I’m bored.”
I stay quiet, thinking. For Oliver, this was practically a monologue. Staying busy and never having a moment of stillness is a good way to avoid dealing with any troubling thoughts or emotions.
“Lately, it hasn’t been the same. It’s like I’m…” He glances out the window and then back at me. “Uninspired.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I remove my foot from the gas, slowing down the vehicle as we approach Whitby proper, population 1,803.
My gaze trails past the familiar buildings—the barn-shaped hardware store, Sweet Cheeks Bakery, the Whitby Grill, and the one and only grocery store. On the other side of town, the buildings thin out, and towering pines line the road. We pass Veronica’s bar, where only a few vehicles are parked in the lot. From here it’s only a couple miles to Fox Cottages. Although I suppose it isn’t called Fox Cottages anymore since Oliver bought it.
“What drew you to Whitby, to this area, for your camp?”
He closes his laptop and slides it into his briefcase. “I’d had my eye on this area for a long time.”
He isn’t really answering the question. Interesting.
“How long?”
He hesitates. “Eight years.”
Eight years. He bought my first sculpture eight years ago. Around the same time, he started creeping around little old Whitby middle of nowhere for his camp. A camp he fought for, purchased multiple parcels of property around, then begged, pleaded, threatened, and cajoled. He eventually sent in Archer as his henchman to convince Finley to sell to him.
Quite a coincidence. The thought, once it wiggles into my mind, digs in with hooks and won’t leave until I know the truth. “Was it because of me?”
I turn off the main road, following the hard-packed-dirt drive up into the area formerly known as Fox Cottages. Heavy equipment rests silently off to the side. Piles of dirt and material sit where there used to be a road to the rental cabins. I guide the vehicle in the other direction, pull up and stop in front of the main house then put the car in park.
“Not entirely,” he finally answers.
Before I can formulate any follow-up questions, an excited shriek grabs my attention. Finley bolts down the porch steps, Archer behind her.