NOVEL NEXT Chapter 306: Lincoln Heights Gossips
Evening had draped Lincoln Heights in that lazy, sticky kind of calm like the neighborhood itself is exhaling. The usual crowd was assembled at Elm and Third like it was the town's unofficial meeting of the bored and curious. Porches sagged under the weight of old men, kids were still running around pretending streetlights were lava, and everyone was somewhere between nosy and dangerously opinionated.
The folding chairs formed a crooked circle under the flickering streetlight, which probably doubled as some sort of unofficial haunted signal. Ray the taxi driver was doing his usual thing—gesturing while holding a coffee cup like it contained the meaning of life.
Tommy perched on the curb, laptop on knees, trying to look like a normal teenager who just happened to be casually hacking the social dynamics of the block. Inside, though? He was internally high-fiving himself—finally, an audience for his Vampire House theories.
"I'm telling you," Ray bellowed, voice bouncing off the cracked sidewalks, "two weeks. Two fucking weeks of trucks. Non-stop. Heading up to the Vampire Estate."
Tommy tilted his laptop to the side. 'This is my moment.'
"What kind of trucks?" asked one of the elderly ladies, leaning forward like she expected him to have diagrams and charts.
"All kinds," Ray said, waving his coffee cup like it was a conductor's baton. "Quantum Tech logos, moving trucks, even some unmarked black ones. Whatever's going up there? Big money. Or big blood. Could go either way."
Tommy's ears perked. 'Blood. Nice.'
"Quantum Tech?" an older man muttered, scratching his beard. "Isn't that the company all over the news? That fraud thing?"
'Bingo,' Tommy thought, swiveling his laptop for dramatic flair. "Well, technically," he said, trying to sound like a casual genius instead of a freak on the curb, "I've been doing… observational research on the renovations."
Heads turned. Like, actual breaking news levels of attention.
"Research?" Ray's grin was almost theatrical. "Kid, you got a theory?"
Tommy raised a finger like a professor about to drop knowledge bombs. "Absolutely. Based on my preliminary data, I propose two possibilities: one, we're witnessing a high-tech vampire modernization project, or two, the mansion's finally being turned into a haunted Airbnb for billionaires with trust issues."
Several chuckles, which Tommy counted as minor victories. He pressed on, voice dripping with faux gravitas.
"Think about it. Decades-old mansion, sudden massive renovation, cutting-edge tech, workers who appear out of nowhere and vanish like ghosts… Classic vampire modernization. Climate-controlled blood storage, automated garlic sensors, smart mirrors to reflect… eternal youth vibes."
"Vampire modernization?" a skeptical teen muttered, arms crossed like he was the panel judge at a teen debate show.
"Absolutely," Tommy said, nodding as if he'd just explained quantum mechanics in three sentences. "Drafty castles are so last millennium. Smart homes, AI butlers, self-cleaning coffins… the works."
The older folks were eating it up, nodding like Tommy was the keynote speaker at an Expo.
"Or," he continued, pacing his words like a street-corner professor, "it's just a tech billionaire being secretly creepy. But honestly, where's the fun in that explanation?"
Ray leaned closer, voice dropping to full gossip mode. "Speaking of rich people, did anyone notice the Carters moved out? Big fancy place, gates, the whole live-like-royalty package."
'Oh no, neighborhood drama incoming.'
"Linda Carter?" one of the old ladies perked up. "Nurse lady? Three kids?"
"That's the one," Ray said, smug as if he'd just delivered a headline to the group's collective consciousness.
"And didn't some man visit them right before?" someone else chimed in.
A kid on a bike, maybe fourteen, piped up like the universe had just handed him a megaphone. "I saw him!"
The circle went quiet. The kid had a scoop.
"Saw who?" Ray asked.
"The man who visited the Carters," the kid said, chest puffed like he was auditioning for Best Kid in a Mystery Story. "Sterling. One of the Sterlings. You know—the hotel family."
"Sterling?" Mrs. Patterson practically spat her tea out. "The Sterling family? Fancy hotels?"
"Yeah! I recognized him from the news." His dad made him watch business channels with him - a torture really, but it finally paid off for something other than putting him go to sleep.
The kid grinned like a fool who'd finally gained a ticket to being the center of attention. "This Sterling guy was all over the news a few months ago. Something about establishing more chain boutique hotels in Boston. The press was talking about how he was using his share of money from some dead Sterling old man - his inheritance or whatever." The group was hanging on every word now.
"So this Sterling guy," the kid on the bike continued, grinning like he'd just discovered the world's juiciest secret, "maybe he inherited a fortune and apparently decided some of it should go to the Carter family." His dad would probably have a stroke if he knew all those hours of forced business-channel torture were being used for neighborhood gossip instead of grooming a future CEO.
The group went quiet, like someone had just dropped a bomb in the middle of Lincoln Heights instead of Elm and Third Street.
Linda's past hung in the air like a cloud of strong perfume and bad decisions. An elderly woman nodded slowly. "Linda's mother, God rest her soul, told me years ago that Linda was married once… rich guy. Had twins, divorced him."
"Hold on now," Mrs. Pat piped up, sharp as her late husband's morning scolding. "I remember when Linda moved here. Skin and bones, crying herself to sleep every night. I could hear it through the walls when I walked Mr. Baxter."
"Exactly," Mr. Gutierrez added, tapping his cane for emphasis. "And she never talked about him. Not once. Anyone asked, she just said, 'he's not in the picture,' and poof—gone like smoke."
Mrs. Pat leaned in, lowering her voice like she was revealing the secrets of the universe. "My sister worked at the courthouse back then. Linda came in asking about name changes, custody papers, the whole disappearing act. Like she was trying to vanish from someone."
"Disappear or hide?" Ray's voice turned indignant. "You're telling me this rich asshole was so bad she had to run?"
"Men like that," Mrs. Pat said, shaking her head like decades of wisdom were weighing on her words, "money makes them think they own everything. People, kids, feelings—doesn't matter. Everything belongs to them."
Gutierrez nodded sagely. "But convenience rules their world. Easier to cut her out completely than deal with pesky child support and visitation. Seventeen years of effort gone for her, and probably a lifetime of boredom and smugness for him."
"Seventeen years," muttered the elderly woman again, voice like gravel. "Seventeen years of Linda working herself to the bone while he lounged in luxury. Who does that to their own kids?"
"The kind who shows up only when it suits them," Pat said, bitterness practically dripping. "Not guilt. Not love. Convenience."
"Or fear," Gutierrez suggested, stroking his chin. "Old rich men get scared. Legacy, taxes, family laws. Maybe he realized he needs those kids for… something."
The younger adults in the crowd were starting to squirm under the weight of this cold, analytical roast, but the older crew? They were just getting started, eyes gleaming with glee satisfaction.
"Could be inheritance rules," Pat continued. "Some trust fund nonsense. He might need the twins legit to access his own money."
"Or second wife finally kicked the bucket," added another voice. "Never knew about the babies. Now she's gone, he can acknowledge them without repercussions."
Ray shook his head like he'd swallowed a lemon. "All that still doesn't make it right. Leaving them to scrape by while he lounged like a king."
"Oh, it gets worse," Pat said, leaning back like she was about to deliver the coup de grâce. "Linda's mother told me the divorce wasn't even finalized when she moved here. She was still married. He could've been paying support all along… just chose not to."
The group went silent, absorbing the weight of seventeen years of deliberate neglect.
"Seventeen years," someone whispered. "Seventeen years of making kids feel abandoned."
The kid on the bike perked up again, hope in his voice. "Maybe he came back. Maybe he's trying to make up for it. Mansion, all that fancy stuff—he's finally doing the right thing."
The elders exchanged looks. Slow, knowing, heavy with decades of watching humans screw up over and over. Fairy tale reunions?
Not in Lincoln Heights.
Understanding slowly dawned on several faces, like the gears in their heads were finally catching up. The pieces clicked together in perfect gossip logic. Then, inevitably, all eyes landed on Tommy—the suspiciously quiet one during the big revelations.
"Tommy," Ray said, slow and deliberate, like he was about to reveal the final twist in a true-crime docuseries, "didn't you help the Carter family move?"
Tommy's stomach did a full-on somersault. Shit.
"And aren't you best friends with Peter Carter?" another voice chimed in. "Linda's adopted son?"
Double shit. Triple panic if we count the silent screaming in his brain.
Tommy could practically feel the weight of a hundred neighborhood stares pressing down on him. These people had connected dots faster than any FBI profiler—and the trail led straight to his very inconvenient silence.
"I, uh…" Tommy flailed mentally, searching for an escape hatch. "I just helped them pack boxes. That's all. Family stuff… uh… private business. Totally private."
The group did not buy it. Not one bit. Ray in particular had that I've-just-uncovered-the-story-of-the-year glee in his eye, and Tommy knew it was the kind of gleam that didn't go away until someone broke.
"Look," Tommy said, closing his laptop like a dramatic finale and springing to his feet, "I just remembered—I promised my mom I'd help with dinner! Gotta run!"
Already moving before anyone could protest, he left behind a circle of neighbors who would almost certainly spend the next three hours dissecting every possible Carter-family connection, each hypothesis more terrifyingly plausible than the last.
Tommy quickened his pace, mentally noting that he'd need to warn Peter that Lincoln Heights' unofficial intelligence network was getting dangerously close to connecting some very inconvenient dots.
Behind him, he could hear Ray's voice starting up again: "Now that I think about it, that boy knows more than he's letting on..." Yeah, Tommy thought, breaking into a jog. Way more than they could ever imagine.
Tommy grinned, ignoring the panic threatening to rise in his throat. Oh yeah. Way more. Way more than any of these nosy, porch-sitting detectives could even imagine.