Chapter Twenty One
~After~
Dr. Watson's home reminds me of something out of a fairy-tale book.
The widespread mansion is tucked behind a row of evergreens that almost touch the sky and the house is at least two miles back from the road. The giant trees conceal the structure almost making one believe that there is nothing beyond the trees except for more trees.
As we travel up the winding drive, I stare out the window in awe. There is green green grass that rolls on as far as the eye can see and positioned in the corner of the property is a barn. Horses graze in the fenced in area surrounding the brown, wooden building.
But it's the house itself that's truly spectacular.
The large yellow brick mansion has to be at least twenty thousand square feet. It's complete with white columns that support balconies off of what I assume is a few bedrooms. There is a black, cast iron lantern light dangling in the center of the wrap around porch. And there's even a matching black cast iron porch swing. The windows are wide and stained glass. A few of the larger ones even have little colorful designs on top.
Dr. Watson parks
the car in the circular concrete driveway and I step out, taking in the beauty of this place. There's a fountain behind me encased by some shrubbery cut into different shapes. Triangles. Circles. And there's an ivory statue in the center of a cherub on its toes with water trickling down from the flute in his mouth. The sound of the water soothes me and puts a calming vibe over the entire area. I can't even fathom that I'm really here. That I'm really going to live in a house like this. Even if it’s only for a short time.
This feels like a dream.
A cruel one where in a second everything will fade to black and I'll wake up screaming.
I close my eyes and pinch my arm. Then I open my eyes abruptly.
Nope. I'm still here.
I am not dreaming.
Dr. Watson gets out of the car and walks around the side, standing next to me. He leans back against the shiny, black paint job and watches me. I turn my head toward him and my eyes sweep over his casual pose, admiring the way the muscles bulge in his biceps when his arms are crossed. Heat blazes in my cheeks and I look away, as my excitement and nerves jumble together. I walk in front of him and gaze up at the house. “I can't believe you live here,” I say. “I didn't know doctors made this much money.” I assume to live in a house—no—a castle like this he has to make an exemplary living.
I hear him chuckle behind me, but keep my eyes on the house. “Doctors don't make this much money,” he replies. “And besides, I'm not even a doctor yet. I'm still in my residency.”
I peek at him over my shoulder. “Residency?”
He gives me a soft smile. “It's like training, well, in a way. Almost like hands-on school. You have to do a certain number of years before you actually become a doctor.”
“Oh.” I walk up the porch steps, trailing my fingers over the rough bricks and sit down on the porch swing. Dr. Watson doesn't move from his spot. He's still propped up against the car, watching me. “So if you don't make money, how are you able to afford this place?”
He pushes off the car and joins me on the porch. “It was my parents’ house.”
“Was?”
“They're both deceased.”
“I'm sorry,” I say with sincerity. “I know how it feels to lose your parents.” Well, technically, I've only lost one parent, but after Daddy's trial I swore from that moment on he'd be dead in my eyes.
“I know you do.” He takes the empty seat next to me on the swing then uses his feet to push off and we start swinging. My legs aren't long enough. They remain suspended in the air.
“I find it funny that you know so much about me and I know hardly anything about you,” I mention with a roll of my eyes. It's true though and part of me wonders how he knows so much about me. “Are you a detective too?”
My comment earns me a throaty laugh and I smile in return, watching the dimples rise in Dr. Watson's cheeks. He really does have an infectious laugh. Every time I hear it I either smile or laugh as well. “I am not a detective,” he answers. “But I did make some phone calls to find out the things I needed to know about you.”
“What things?” In a way it bothers me that he called around to find out what he needed to know instead of asking me himself.
“Medical history. Home life. School. Those sort of things.” My limbs stiffen and I swear my heart stops beating when he says home life. I wonder what Oakhill told him. The last thing I want is for him to bring up why I was brought to Oakhill in the first place. Without another word he stands and offers me his hand.
I hesitate, glancing back and forth between his hand and his face. “What?”
“Don't you want to see where you'll be staying?”