“I will be home soon.”

I placed the phone face down on the wooden table, hoping the silence would quiet my nerves.

Harold was watching me, his eyes gentle and patient.

“Is everything alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, trying to force a reassuring smile.

“Just David. He is checking in on me.”

Harold nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the handle of his tea mug.

“He cares about you deeply,” Harold said.

“He does,” I murmured.

But my mind was still spinning from what Harold had said just moments before.

“Harold,” I said, leaning forward.

“You said Margaret grew up in Oakhaven.”

“She did,” he said, his expression turning serious again.

“She lived on a small farm on the outskirts of the town.”

“Thomas was from the same place,” I said, the words feeling heavy in my mouth.

“He lived on the north side of the valley.”

“The Whitaker family,” Harold said, his eyes widening slightly as the connection registered.

“I remember Margaret mentioning that name once or twice.”

“Really?” I asked, my heart quickening.

“Yes,” Harold said, looking up at the ceiling as if searching his memories.