But real friends were so much work. And her followers and subscribers, well, they were happy with a like or a response. Something that only took a second. What kind of friendship could survive on that?

She parked the truck on the side of the house, wishing she had remembered to leave a light on. Or at least check the bulbs in the exterior lamps. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the dark. It was more that few things cemented loneliness like coming home to a dark house. Knowing that there was no one there waiting, excited to talk.

Was it odd that she was thirty-four years old and, besides that brief attempt at marriage over a decade ago, she didn’t know what it was like to come home to someone? To swap stories about the day, to fight over who cooked or who ordered out.

Maybe I should get a dog, she mused, getting out of the truck. She thought of Kevin and his couch-crashing affection. Then again, maybe not.

The night air was crisp. The wind was stronger up here on the bluff, making the trees creak. Maybe she was lonely. Or maybe she was happy. Either way, she didn’t really have time to delve into her psyche. Lonely or happy didn’t matter when up against deadlines.

She thought about Silas and his talk of fate and signs. Was she here because of fate?

Maggie snorted at the thought and let herself in the front door. She was here because she’d been fascinated by the big house on the hill and had wondered what kind of people would live there. If she could ever be one of those people.

That wasn’t fate. That was drive. There was a distinct difference.

Phone in hand, she made a note to replace the bulbs in the exterior lights on the porch. After a night out with Silas, of interesting conversations and being surrounded by people, the three empty stories felt particularly tomb-like. So she cued up a playlist and went upstairs to change into her comfiest pajamas.

Okay, fine. Her only pajamas. They had hammers and saws on them and had been a gift from a viewer.

Deciding to squeeze in an hour of work before calling it a night, she headed back downstairs. She grabbed a tall glass of water and turned on the desk lamp in her office. It was a heavy thing with a huge stained-glass shade that cast an unnatural red and green glow around the room.

She had a power washer scheduled for drop-off in the morning, and Jim would be swinging by to do a few hours of wiring while the house was quieter. Maybe she could set aside a half hour or so to dig into the Campbell family research again.

Her phone vibrated on the table next to her, and she peeked at the screen.