🔴 MR. HENDERSON KEPT TOUCHING MY HAIR AFTER THE READING OF THE WILL
I was sweating and shaking, trying to understand why everyone was staring at me.
The air in the room was thick with the cloying scent of old roses, like Grandma had just arranged her favorite bouquet, even though she’d been gone for months. My uncle cleared his throat, his voice raspy, and said, “She left *everything* to you, Amelia.” I could feel Mr. Henderson’s gaze on my neck, his breath warm on my skin, and it was making me so uncomfortable.
“But…but why?” I stammered, my voice cracking. My sister scoffed, crossing her arms. Mr. Henderson patted my shoulder — then let his hand linger in my hair. I brushed him off, a shiver running down my spine. It wasn’t right.
He smiled, a flash of teeth in the dim light filtering through the dusty curtains, and said, “She always thought you were special, dear. A true visionary.” The way he said *visionary*…it felt like he was mocking me.
My phone buzzed, a number I didn’t recognize. I glanced down. “I know what you did.”
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I fumbled with my phone, my fingers clumsy. Before I could even think, I shoved it back in my pocket, the message searing itself into my brain. I looked up at Mr. Henderson, his eyes gleaming, and the room seemed to tilt.
“I… I need some air,” I mumbled, pushing away from the heavy mahogany table. I had to get out of there.
Outside, the air was cool and clean, a blessed relief from the suffocating atmosphere of the house. I leaned against the weathered brick of the house, drawing in deep breaths. The scent of old roses still clung to me, a phantom smell. My hands trembled as I replayed the scene in my head. The whispers, the lingering touch, the unsettling smile. Something was terribly wrong.
I checked my phone again, the unknown number still flashing in my mind. Curiosity, and a creeping dread, finally won. I clicked on the message: “Check the roses.”
Confused, I turned back towards the house, the old roses’ perfume heavy on the breeze. My gaze fell on the side of the house, where a sprawling rose bush, the source of the scent, was in full bloom. I approached it, the thorns catching at my clothes.
A small, ornate box lay nestled at the base of the bush. Inside, wrapped in faded velvet, was a collection of photographs. Each one featured my grandmother, smiling, and Mr. Henderson, looking much younger, but with the same unsettling smile. In one, they were embracing. In another, they were laughing together.
Then I saw it. A photograph of me, taken when I was a child, playing in the garden. Mr. Henderson was in the background, watching me with a predatory gleam in his eyes.
The pieces clicked into place. My grandmother, protecting me. The will, a final act of defiance. The unknown message, a warning. Mr. Henderson, not a friend, but a threat.
I heard footsteps behind me. He was there.
“Looking for something, Amelia?” Mr. Henderson’s voice, smooth as silk, sent a fresh wave of fear through me.
I stood my ground, clutching the photographs. “Why?” I managed to whisper.
He chuckled, the sound sending a chill down my spine. “Your grandmother was a fool. I should have had it all a long time ago.”
He lunged.
I didn’t hesitate. I threw the box and the photographs in his face, and spun away from the old man. I saw the look on his face. He was caught off guard.
I ran to my car, barely getting in before Mr. Henderson lunged for the car and started slamming on the hood.
I knew I couldn’t stay. I didn’t know what happened next, but knew what I had to do.
I drove away, the roses’ cloying scent finally fading, replaced by the salty tang of the ocean and the growing dawn. I had a long road ahead. But I was free.