She was gone.
“Damn, she walked fast,” I said to no one but myself, my gaze drawn to the hills beyond the Embarcadero. I realized I could see the front of Dexter Manor from where I stood. I shivered a little, though I wasn’t particularly cold.
If the old woman’s story was true, then Dexter’s life really had been incredibly tragic.
And I needed to get back to the house. To whatever awaited me there. I was no longer completely convinced I had dreamed Dexter and our lovemaking. Maybe I had never been convinced as much as I thought I was.
But I decided to stop fighting the pull to the house. Back to Dexter.
I went to my car and made it to the manor in less than ten minutes. I closed the gate behind me, then parked and locked my car.
For a moment, I stood looking at the English Tudor-style home.
I didn’t believe in ghosts, haunted houses, any of that. But exactly what explanation did I have for what was happening to me?