I took vacation days without overthinking it, packed a bag, and decided to drive back to the coastal town I had avoided since the funeral because grief made it feel both sacred and unbearable.
The drive took an entire day, and somewhere along the highway I cried because memories of Isabelle always returned strongest when I was moving forward against my will.
When I arrived, the town looked smaller and more faded than I remembered, but nothing about it seemed sinister until I reached the house on Las Palmas Street.
The house was freshly painted and filled with signs of a new life, and I stood there wondering if I had the wrong address until I checked the number again.
A stranger opened the door when I knocked, and when I asked for Eleanor Whitaker, he looked at me with a strange expression before saying, “You are too late, she passed away almost three years ago.”
The words made no sense at first, because three days ago I had sent her money and three months ago she had texted me a simple thank you.
“I have been sending her money,” I said, and he replied carefully that he knew nothing about that and had bought the house after her death.