“It’s all so silly. Lately I’ve just felt like somebody is watching me. Today I ran into town because Taber’s was supposed to receive a new shipment of yarn, and I could swear I saw somebody take my picture across the street. There was a flash.”

Laurel stopped completely. “Are you sure?”

“No.”

“Has anything else happened? Any phone calls or anything like that?”

Deidre sighed. “No. Nothing. It’s just a feeling, really. The flash could’ve been anything, but again, it seemed like somebody was watching me in the store and then again later when I grabbed a sandwich from the new deli down the street. I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Laurel searched for soothing words. Her mother’s perennial anxiety was so much better lately, but there was a killer stalking the women of Genesis Valley. Deidre didn’t fit the profile, though. “Feelings like that are often intuition based on experience. Let’s pay attention, okay?”

“Okay.”

Laurel made a mental note to keep an eye on the farm. Her phone dinged and she dropped the knitting needles to read the screen.

Her mom started again to knit a light yellow baby’s hat. “Anything interesting?”

“Yes.” Laurel scrolled through. “Haylee Johnson sent me a contract and requested a retainer. Seems a reasonable amount.”

Deidre’s needles clacked together rhythmically. “I love the idea of living in an old barn. What a marvelous concept. Plus, if you stay here, you’ll be close to me.” Her eyes were gentle in the evening light.

Laurel quickly read the contract, which was fairly standard, then signed it with DocuSign. “I’m looking forward to the process. Uncle Blake said he’d help with construction, and I’d like to do some of the work myself.” She would take the retainer check by the architectural office after school the following day and perhaps get a chance to talk to the younger Bearing boy again.

Deidre nodded. “That’s lovely. Actually creating a home for yourself. I mean, if you stay. Or even if you just use it when you visit.” She kicked out her legs and crossed them at the ankles. Her thick blue socks looked fuzzy and warm. “I bet Kate and her girls would love to help with the demolition. Sometimes it’s fun to plow a sledgehammer into a wall.”

Laurel resumed knitting. That was true. She looked once again at her calm and gentle mother, whose voice was soft even when she was nervous. Who would Laurel be if she’d been raised by somebody else? Somebody cold and unaccepting. Would she be like Abigail? Were her still-fledgling interpersonal skills as developed as they were because of her mother’s love? Most likely. “That reminds me.” She hit a preprogramed number.