That answer was a little weird, but so was drinking root beer in the back of a luxury car on my way to a stranger’s house. I tried to make polite conversation. “So, the few people I’ve met since I’ve been here have lived in Rhinebeck their whole lives. Is that how it is for you and Marie? Are y’all from here, too?”

“Not me,” Nyx said. “I came here from California years ago. But Miss Morris has lived here in Rhinebeck since it was Beek-man’s land.”

“Who’s Beekman?” The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d heard it.

I thought I saw Nyx bristle in the rearview mirror. “An old man. But let me stop talking before I say too much. I fear I may have already.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m new here. I don’t know the town gossip.”

“That’s probably good. This town is full of nosy people, and now that you’re in that house, I’m sure you’ll be the talk of the town.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to understand that.”

We drove through town and crossed over Market Street. The hustle and bustle of Rhinebeck village faded as we drove south. Twenty minutes later, Nyx navigated a steep, narrow driveway. I peered out the window, but it was hard to see through the tinted windows.

“We’re here,” Nyx said.

She hopped out and came around to open the door. I found myself in the driveway of a very large, very expensive-looking house. The immaculately kept lawn looked like a sea of green carpet. Statues dotted the landscape and I was creeped out by the way they loomed in the encroaching blackness, their marble skin reflecting the soft light from the house. Beyond the driveway was a void, but I could hear rushing water.

“The mighty Hudson is beyond the bluff,” Nyx said.

“So, Marie is rich? Or her parents are rich? Because this place looks crazy expensive.”

Nyx laughed and gestured toward the door, but she didn’t answer my question.

As I followed her up the wide steps to the front of the house, I heard something beyond the muffled rush of the river. Pausing, I looked in the direction of the bluff, squinting against the darkness. A rhythmic rush of air, like bird wings beating.

“This way,” Nyx said, ushering me inside.

The inside of the house was just as impressive as the exterior. A floor of mottled gray marble, inlaid with hexagonal patterns of ebony tile, was polished to a glass-like shine. A painting of a regal-looking woman in a long, patterned dress hung in the foyer alongside watercolors of lush landscapes. An iron chandelier affixed to the exposed crossbeams drenched the entire entryway in a warm, undulating glow.

Nyx led me down a long hall and into a small library.

A library.

Inside a house.