Because he’d heard her.
That night, he’d heard Leslie whisper to him, trying to make sure he knew Debbie wasn’t a criminal, that he didn’t shoot her.
But he couldn’t escape the sense that she’d been trying to tell him something else, as well.
He gritted his teeth. Hard. “Security system,” he repeated.
Debbie looked at him. “The house saved me,” she said somberly. “It really did.”
Hastings House, he thought. The place where Matt had died. The entry to the tunnel and the room where Leslie had died, where Genevieve had been kept prisoner.
The place was damned, he decided.
But not, he insisted to himself, haunted.
A moment later Genevieve came back and slipped into the booth next to him.
“Just how old is she?” Joe asked, indicating Debbie, who had finished her burger and gotten up to play darts again.
“Fifteen.”
“Such a kid,” he said.
Genevieve arched a brow at him. “You’ve had to look for enough missing kids. Debbie is lucky, and you know it. Most of the time, a kid of fifteen, she’s already on drugs. Then she’s hooking.”
“Then she’s Candy Cane,” Joe said.
“Yeah.” Genevieve said, studying him. “Have you heard from her yet?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go back over tomorrow,” he told her.
A few hours later, Debbie’s parents walked in. There were a lot of tears as they embraced their daughter, then thanked Joe and Genevieve.
A few minutes later, when it was time to leave, Debbie gave Genevieve a long hug. After that, she walked over to Joe and looked at him solemnly. “Thank you,” she said simply.
“Stick with the folks, huh?” he said. “They seem like nice people.”
“I guess.” She hesitated, then whispered, “He’s not my father. He married my mom. They have a new baby.”
“They still love you.”
She squared her shoulders. “Look, I know I was a jerk. I just thought it would be cool to see New York. And…I know this is gonna sound weird, but I think that house used me to get to you.”
He shook his head. “Debbie, it’s just a house.”
She stared back at him gravely. “No. It’s not just a house. That house…it breathes. It’s like it has a heartbeat. Honest. It’s not evil, though. I’m telling you, it saved me. But it wanted you.”
He felt a slight tremor shoot through him. There was a kid in front of him—a kid—telling him that Hastings House was…alive.
Ridiculous.
She had been scared, traumatized, that was all, and she was seeing things as spooky and chilling, when there was undoubtedly a perfectly logical explanation.
As soon Debbie had left with her parents, Joe decided that he needed a beer.
Later, he drove back to Genevieve’s.
He pretended exhaustion. He couldn’t help it. There was a whisper in his ear, and that whisper was Leslie.
But when he fell asleep, he dreamed again. And in his dream, Genevieve was walking toward him. They were on a beach, or maybe they were in the clouds. She was wearing something light that trailed behind her in the breeze. She was smiling, her expression radiant. Her hair whipped behind her like auburn silk.
And her eyes…
Her eyes were that endless blue.
She smiled, excited, as if she were expecting something…something good.
Then the bruises began to appear on her throat, and her eyes widened and began to bulge as she stared at him, choking, gasping for breath.
He heard her whisper, Help me. Please, help me, and he woke with a start, bolting upright in the bed.
He didn’t wake her, though. Genevieve was asleep at his side in a soft yellow tank top and ladies’ boxers, breathing easily. The light filtering in from beyond the drawn curtains played brilliant fire tricks with her hair.
He lay back down, convinced he really was losing his mind, then jerked into a sitting position again.
Debbie had claimed that Hastings House seemed to breathe. That it had a heartbeat. That it had tried to save her.
And the house—or someone in it—had whispered to him.
Dead people whispered to him.
He stared up at the ceiling, teeth clenched. No. He didn’t want to talk to ghosts. He didn’t want to listen to dead people and he damned well didn’t want to believe that a house could be haunted, much less alive.
Suddenly he was afraid, but not for himself. For Genevieve.
Afraid that his dreams meant something, that she was in danger.
He perched on one elbow and watched her sleep, wanting to touch her, not wanting to awaken her.
But her eyelids fluttered suddenly, as if she sensed him, sensed his concern, even in the depths of her sleep.
Her eyes opened, and she caught him studying her.
“What?” she asked, and started to sit up.
“Nothing,” he said softly.
“Then…?”