“Oh, my necklace. My husband gave it to me.”
He reached forward, pausing for her nod, then turned it over. Engraved in delicate script were the words, “Hillary Foster, 48, Oak Hill Drive, Rosebridge.”
Lionel let out a slow breath.
It was a long climb, but at least now he knew exactly where to go.
He helped her back onto the bike, and they kept going, turning off the main road and onto the long drive that wound its way through the trees toward the hills.
The incline was brutal. Lionel stood on the pedals to keep the momentum, legs burning, hands numb, shoulders aching from holding the bike steady.
By the time the wrought-iron gates of Oak Hill came into view, he could barely feel his fingers.
The gates were tall and old, paint chipping along the edges, wrapped with ivy that had long since died for the season. A small keypad glowed faintly beside a call button.
Lionel stopped and stared at it. He didn’t have a code. He didn’t even know if this was the right house.
But before he could ask, the woman behind him lifted her necklace, a thin silver chain with a small oval pendant, and pressed it gently to the call button.
A soft tone sounded, followed by a pause. Then a sharp voice crackled from the speaker.
“This is Farley. Who is this?”
The woman didn’t answer right away.
Lionel leaned forward.
“She’s Hillary Foster,” he said loud and clear. “She was lost at the bus stop. I brought her home.”
There was another pause. Then the gates creaked and began to swing open slowly.
Lionel pushed the bike forward. The path curved up a final hill lined with old trees whose shadows loomed tall and still. The house came into view. Three stories. Whitewashed brick. Windows glowing warmly against the cold night. It looked like something from a movie.
Lionel had never been this close to a house like that. Not once.
As they reached the front steps, a tall man in a housecoat stepped outside. His hair was silver, neatly combed, and his posture was rigid. He looked straight past Lionel and focused on the woman.
“Miss Foster,” he said, his voice tight. “Are you all right?”
She nodded slowly, blinking like she was just now waking from a dream.
“I went for a walk, or a ride, I suppose.”
The man moved quickly to her side.
“You’ve had us worried sick. We called the police, the hospitals. I’ll notify Mr. Charles immediately.”
He turned to Lionel, then his eyes cooled.
“Thank you for bringing her. You can leave now.”
Lionel hesitated. He wasn’t expecting a reward. He wasn’t even sure what he’d expected, but the way the man looked at him, measured and dismissive, made his jaw tighten.
“I just wanted to make sure she got home safe,” he said, voice low but steady.
Farley gave a single nod.
“She’s safe. Good night.”
Lionel helped Mrs. Foster off the bike. She turned to him, reaching out and squeezing his hand.
“You’re good, Lionel,” she said softly. “I hope someone tells you that more often.”