"Piper, what's wrong?"
His question startled her. "What?"
"The other day when I stopped alongside the road, then before I left for Tennessee, you seemed rattled about something. I had the feeling something was wrong. I just had it again."
Something was wrong, she was rattled. But she couldn't admit it without admitting everything, and she'd promised Hannah. That was all there was to it. "It's nothing, really. I just worry about Hannah. Moving was a big change for her."
He didn't back off. "Piper, you're hiding something."
She shut her eyes, took a breath. It would be so easy to tell him. All she had lo do was start.
She could hear his soft sigh. "But you'll tell me when you're ready." He curled a lock of her damp hair around his finger, tugged on it gently to draw her forward. She had her eyes open now, pinned on him. "And I will be ready," he said, very close to her mouth. "Anytime."
She couldn't speak, could almost not breathe.
He kissed her lightly on the side of her mouth, gave her a wink, and retreated into the fog.
* * *
Chapter 6
"Bitch. I warned you."
Piper bolted upright in bed. She'd fumbled for the phone on her nightstand and was still half asleep when the venomous voice assaulted her. Muffled, yet each word distinct. "What? Who are you? Never mind. I'm calling the police."
"You're making a mistake if you do."
She slammed down the phone. She didn't want to hear more. She jumped out of bed and forced herself not to throw up. Think. You have to think.
Yesterday's rain had pushed out to sea, and the sky vibrated with streaks of pink, lavender, orange. She checked her clock. Not much after five. She was wide awake now, heart pounding, knees shaking, stomach lurching. She knotted her hands together and stifled a sob. Her father. Andrew, Benjamin. They'd come if she called.
And do what?
Make her pack her bags and go stay with one of them. And that was just for starters. Then they'd comb the streets of Frye's Cove for whoever was harassing her, drag everything about spells and treasure out of her, interrogate Hannah, put the thumbscrews to Clate Jackson. They would be thorough and relentless.
They'd never trust her again to live out on her isolated spit of land alone.
Right now, she didn't care. She was afraid, and she wanted the bastard caught. Who would know she'd been out to Clate Jackson's yesterday? It wasn't as if she'd done any digging for treasure. Hannah had dragged Piper out there in an effort to spur her to action, to see if being back at the Frye house would jog her own memory of that night eighty years ago when her parents hadn't come home.
Piper choked back a sob of frustration and fear. Who would care what she and Hannah were up to?
She picked up the phone, dialed the police.
Hung up.
Hannah cared. Hannah cared desperately. She wanted the answers to the infamous crime that had led to her parents' death, and she was out of patience, had waited eighty years already. She believed those answers lay under Clate Jackson's wisteria.
Piper sank onto the edge of her spindle-post bed. Tears clouded her eyes. It wasn't that she herself had enough doubt of her aunt's sanity that she could imagine, if never believe, that Hannah Frye was capable of making such a disgusting phone call to get her way.
It was that she didn't know what anyone else would believe.
She brushed angrily at her tears, leaped up off her bed, and stumbled down the steep stairs. Should she call Clate? What if it had been him on the other end of the line?
But that was ridiculous. He had no reason to threaten her. He didn't even know about the treasure.
The voice on the other end of the phone hadn't mentioned treasure, she reminded herself.
She flipped on the radio and made coffee, her hands shaking as she fumbled for a filter, dumped in the fragrant grounds, filled the carafe with water. Obviously she wasn't going to call the police or she already would have by now. There was nothing they could do. They would have no more idea of who had threatened her than she did. They could view the calls as simple harassment, or even random acts, rather than a specific threat toward her.
There hadn't been a specific threat, she reminded herself. Just a general air of menace.
"I warned you."
She shuddered, getting a pottery mug down from a shelf. Hands still shaking. Heart still skidding. Not good signs. She poured her coffee and went outside in her nightgown. The sun had burned off the pale colors of dawn and a gentle breeze soothed her troubled spirit. She walked through her herb garden and out to her sloping back yard, down through her meadow—basically unmowed lawn—toward the marsh. The grass was damp and cool on her bare feet. Hot coffee splashed out over her hand as she came to the narrow path.