“Thanks. Maybe. See you both on Saturday.”
Owen watched Trey watch her walk away. He took a sip of his beer. “She might not know your poker face, but I do. There wasn’t a painting in that closet, was there?”
“Not as of a few weeks ago, and I’d remember if there’d been a wedding portrait of Johanna Poole in the inventory.”
“Well, somebody wants her to have it.”
“Apparently.”
Idly sipping his beer, Owen watched her leave with her takeout bag.
“Do you figure she’ll last up there for the three years?”
“I wouldn’t bet against her.”
“She’s your type.”
Surprised, amused, Trey swiveled back. “Since when do I have a type?”
“Since she walked in.”
“Huh. Maybe. Still need to keep it light.”
“Because?”
“Not only because she’s dealing with a lot right now, but she was engaged—weeks from the wedding—just last summer.”
“Huh back. She didn’t strike me as the flighty type.”
“Don’t think she is.”
“Could be she has bad taste in men. That gives you a shot.”
Trey met Owen’s smirk with one of his own. “Let’s order some nachos and another brew.”
“I’m for it.”
* * *
When she got home, Sonya carried half the flowers and half the groceries into the kitchen, then went out for the rest. She’d bought too much, obviously. But maybe it wouldn’t be too much if she talked Cleo into staying a couple extra days.
She hauled in the last, shut the door.
The tablet she’d left on the desk upstairs started up with Ariana Grande’s “Thinking Bout You.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” she muttered.
And when she walked into the kitchen, all the cupboard doors stood open.
She dumped the flowers and groceries on the island.
“Fine! I surrender. The place is haunted. Happy now?” After yanking off her coat, she tossed it on a stool. Pulled off her hat, tossed that, then dragged her hands through her hair.
“Losing my mind,” she muttered. “Just losing my mind.”
She put the groceries away, closing doors as she went.
“Okay, vases.”
She heard it, the little creak from the butler’s pantry. She eased that way, saw the pair of upper doors over the sink open.
“I’ll deal with it.” She snagged the flowers, marched in. “I’m not going anywhere, so you deal with that.”
After choosing vases, she focused on arranging flowers.
She’d live her life, she told herself. Her normal, productive, reasonably sane life. In the big haunted manor.
To prove it, she’d warm up the shrimp scampi takeout, eat dinner, have a glass of wine. She’d take the flowers upstairs that went upstairs, make sure the room she’d earmarked for Cleo had everything ready for her.
Put in an hour, maybe two on work. Then settle in for the night with her book.
Normal.
“This is my house now,” she said as she poured the wine. “So get used to it.”
* * *
Late in the night, pounding woke her. She pulled herself out of sleep, tossed the covers aside. Someone pounded on the door, the front door, she thought. She heard it still, over the howling wind, the thrash of the sea.
As she rolled out of bed, she saw the snow—fast, thick, whirling—outside the windows.
A storm had come up, and someone needed help.
She rushed out, grateful for the night-lights she’d plugged in down the hallway.
Someone stuck in the blizzard. An accident, a breakdown.
As she hurried down the stairs, she thought she heard them cry out for help. But the noise—the wind, the waves—stormed through the air.
Breathless, she twisted the dead bolt, pulled the door open.
To a cold, calm, clear night.
No storm raged; no desperate traveler stood calling for help.
Shocked, she nearly stepped out. But remembering the stuck (locked?) door on her first walk, she pulled back.
Not a raging blizzard, but bitterly cold. She wouldn’t risk getting locked out of her own house in the middle of the night.
Shuddering, she shut the door. Maybe by morning she’d convince herself she’d dreamed it all. But now, it was all too real.
Had Collin heard pounding at the door? Had he rushed to help and fallen on the stairs? Fallen to his death?
That leaped a long way, a hell of a long way, from playing music, opening doors, making up the bed.
Now, as she stood alone in the foyer, the house stayed silent around her. As if it waited.
“I’m pretty steady on my feet. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Her voice seemed to echo back to her as she walked to the staircase. As she climbed, the clock struck three.
Chapter Twelve
In the morning, it remained real. She knew she hadn’t dreamed it all.
She’d seen what she’d seen, heard what she’d heard.
And she’d handle it.
Because she wanted to live here. She wanted to work in the library, and wake to sunrises over the sea. She wanted to watch whales sound and spot a deer coming out of the woods.
She toasted a bagel, made coffee, and with her tablet sat at the table answering emails and texts.
A check on her weather app told her they’d likely see snow—two to four inches—by midafternoon.
Hopefully, Cleo would arrive about noon, as planned.
After filling her water bottle, Sonya went back up. She’d shower, put on actual clothes, then work until Cleo got there.
The made-up bed and fluffed pillows barely gave her a jolt this time. Ignoring it, she went into the bathroom, firmly closed the door.
She needed to talk to Cleo, she thought as she showered. If anyone stood wide open to … ghosts, spirits, poltergeists—whatever the hell—it was Cleopatra Fabares.
Or maybe just having someone else in the house for a few days would … disburse things.
Somehow.
She hooked a towel on, started to reach for another to clear the steam from the mirror. And stared at the message written in it.
7 lost
“Seven what?” Annoyed as much as shaken, she wiped it away. “I don’t do cryptic.”
Since the patchy sleep after three a.m. showed, she used makeup to disguise it. She dressed in jeans, a sweater, even added earrings.
And decided she looked fine. Cheerful and sane.
In the library, she set her tablet on the desk, walked over to start the fire.
The tablet greeted her with Steve Holy’s “Good Morning Beautiful.”
“That doesn’t win you points after last night.”
The fire caught with a crackle. Snow might come later, but for now, the sun beamed.
After yesterday’s tests on Anna’s website and social media, she wanted to make a few minor adjustments before she ran another round.
Then she wanted Cleo’s eye on the project.
She lost herself in it, working straight through the morning.
When the doorbell sounded, she jumped, cursed herself, then shoved out of the chair. She rushed downstairs, swung the door open.
And locked her arms around her friend.
“You’re here! I’m so glad you’re here.”
“It took me about ten minutes to shove my eyes back in my head after I saw this house, but I’m here. You okay, Son?”
“Yes, yes. Just really glad to see you.”
Sonya pulled her, her suitcase, and her shoulder bag inside.
“Well, oh my God, wow.”