Hastings House was closing down for the day. The tourists were gone. Jeff Green was there, doffing his wig, looking around, making sure Melissa was nowhere to be seen. He lit up a cigarette, inhaled deeply, still keeping an eye out. From his pocket, he drew a flask and took a long swig.
The cigarette suddenly flew from his hand. Jeff stared at the flask, then at the cigarette. He stared around the room, then, in a panic, swooped down to pick up the cigarette. He put it out at the sink, still looking around, and then he fled. Matt could hear the front door slam behind him.
And there she was. The Colonial woman who was always cooking over the fire. She smiled at him.
He smiled back.
“I was betrayed,” she said.
“I know, but…”
“They never knew. They said I walked away. That I left everything…but I didn’t. He killed me. Shot me in the back. And they never knew. They never knew.” Her face contorted. “How could they believe I would have left my child?” She looked hopelessly at him. “He bricked up my body.”
“What?”
“I was working here in the kitchen, cooking. He was weary of me, you see, in love with another. My dowry made him rich, but he never really loved me. He killed me as I stood here, with a single shot. And then he told everyone I had left him, run away with another man. His mistress came to live here then, but she was not happy, either. He had betrayed me, and soon enough he betrayed her. But she caught the consumption. She died, but at least before she did she passed it to him, and he died, as well, choking on his own blood. But it was too late. It didn’t change what he did to me, what he told everyone I did. I saw it all, and yet…”
“Yet you remain here.”
“Yes…because I don’t know how to clear my name.”
“Where did he hide your body?”
“The basement. Beneath the pantry. The butler helped him. So I must stay.”
She turned away from him.
Once again she began to work over the hearth. And then she began to fade, until she finally disappeared.
Just like the missing prostitutes, this woman had vanished two hundred years ago. Women continued to vanish. Life didn’t change. Men didn’t change. Cruelty could not be halted by time.
And now the danger was threatening Leslie. He knew it. Had it been his own determination to write about the disappearances, to make the public aware, that had led to his death? And now Joe was searching for a missing woman, and he and Leslie were determined to find the truth behind the explosion. Was that what was putting her into danger, too?
So many sins could be hidden and buried.
He found himself drawn to the dead room and simply stood there, wondering why. Why he had died there.
He found himself thinking about the secret door beneath the braided rug that led to the basement and the bones that lay bricked up down there.
He felt the impotent rage of his helplessness, and wondered if this was hell. The powerlessness, the watching…the fear.
He decided suddenly that if he couldn’t help himself, at least maybe he could help the woman in the kitchen. For that, at least, there was a way.
As to Leslie…
How he loved her. But he had to let go, had to let her live. Perhaps he needed the answers in order to let go, in order to let her live. Maybe he was trapped here so he could protect her, and yet…
How?
10
There was glass and chrome everywhere. Leslie, though she loved old buildings, was thrilled to be in an atmosphere of the completely new.
She wasn’t surprised to see Brad there, nor to see that he was in the company of Ken Dryer—out of uniform—and that they were engaged in conversation at the bar with a number of extremely attractive women. They didn’t see her enter with Joe, and she was glad though not surprised, since the place was crowded, having recently been listed as one of Downtown’s newest hot spots.
Joe looked amused as he caught her arm and whispered, “You’re sure you want to be here?”
She grinned. “It’s good to shake things up once in a while. It’s like…well, you know. You get too involved in what you’re doing and you can’t see the forest for the trees.”
“Good point. I guess.”
They made their way to the back of the bar. There was one bar stool; Joe let her sit and stood by her side. “What will it be? Sparkling soda?”
“No good beers on tap here?” she asked.
“You were conked on the head today, remember?”
“And the doctor said I’m fine.”
“Not exactly. The doctor said you were conked on the head,” he corrected.
She liked his smile so much. Of course she did. It reminded her of Matt’s.
They both had the same way about them. A bit rueful, as if they had learned early on not to take themselves too seriously. Not that they couldn’t be serious, because they could. They both cared about the world around them, both had a quiet strength that demanded respect. But there was one crucial difference.
Matt was dead.
And it was wrong for her to spend her time comparing Joe to him.
“What?” he asked.
“What about what?”
“You’re smiling.”