Chapter Three
Robin drove to The Hill as if she was going home, an all too familiar feeling she had to shake. It was a mystery to her that she could remember it so well even after ten years. But then Felicia’s face would often cross her mind, vivid and unambiguous. That had to be the impression everyone had of Miss Felicia Roman; good or bad, it was always vivid.
The house stood as a monument to Victorian bric-a-brac: turrets, front porches, and dank musty smells. Pulling out of her car, Robin looked up at the tower room imagining what Felicia had looked like lying dead in her bed. It was only appropriate that the woman die there on top of her satin covers, between the four posters of her massive antique mahogany bed, inside a room that would be infused with her distinctive aura. Eve
