Her smug look when I confronted her was almost infuriatingly calm, like she had all the time in the world to outlast me.
“Oh, is something wrong?” she asked, feigning innocence as she sipped her tea.
“The water doesn’t just stop on its own,” I snapped. “You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”
She shrugged, not even bothering to hide the glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “Old pipes. This house has its quirks. You’d know that if you actually belonged here.”
Her words hit harder than I expected.
“I do belong here,” I shot back, though my voice wavered slightly. “My father left this house to me.”
Deborah’s expression flickered—just for a second—but I caught it. Something unreadable. Something… almost like guilt.
“Your father,” she repeated quietly, setting her cup down. “Funny man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She stood up slowly, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. “It means,” she said, her voice losing that sharp edge for the first time, “that things aren’t always what they seem. Especially when it comes to him.”
