“What’s wrong, Alicia? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just . . .” She walked toward the front entry, its charming beadboard paneling buckling in the center, and led the way out to the deep wraparound porch. Thick wooden boards had been laid over rotten sections of the porch floor to allow safe passage to the steps. “I think I’m just spooked.”
“Did you see something . . . ghostly?” I asked, surprised. Alicia had never mentioned being sensitive to the supernatural.
“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s— Well, I’m a little jumpy. I received a letter not long ago.”
“And?”
“It was from Thorn.”
“Thorn?”
“Thorn Walker. He’s . . . he was my husband. Thorn’s my ex-husband.”
“How did he find you? I thought you changed your name, covered your tracks.”
“I did,” Alicia said with a humorless laugh. “Ellis hired a lawyer and a skip tracer, and they helped me to create a new identity. But . . . it’s all my fault. I haven’t been as careful as I needed to be, and have let my guard down lately. When Ellis bought this island and announced plans to renovate the buildings and open an inn, I was photographed next to him. The photo appeared in several news outlets—it seems everyone loves stories about historic lighthouses! What was I thinking? Thorn’s not stupid. I should know better than anyone that when he puts his mind to something, he can be quite determined.”
“What did Ellis’s security team suggest?”
She didn’t answer.
“Alicia? Did you show Ellis the letter?”
She remained silent, heading down the shored-up porch steps, past an old NO TRESPASSING sign, and into a cement courtyard that had been built on a slight incline to funnel rainwater into the underground cistern. Back when these buildings were constructed, access to freshwater would have been a priority. Living on a virtually barren rock wasn’t easy, and similar challenges had ultimately closed down Alcatraz, the famous federal penitentiary that still held pride of place on another island in the bay, much closer to San Francisco. When everything had to be brought in by supply boat, priorities shifted.
There would be no pizza delivery while on this job.
In fact, any and all construction supplies—lumber and concrete, nails and screws, equipment and tools—would have to be brought to the dock by boat and hoisted up with a winch.
The prospect was daunting, but exciting. I had been running Turner Construction for a few years now, and while I still enjoyed bringing historic San Francisco homes back from the brink, I had been itching for a new challenge. For something different.
And this was a lighthouse.
Still, one aspect of this renovation gave me pause: The lighthouse tower was several stories high, and ever since an altercation on the roof of a mansion high atop Pacific Heights, I had found myself dreading heights. Where once I wouldn’t have given a second thought to scrambling up a tall ladder or hopping out an attic window to repair loose shingles, now the very idea made me quail. I told myself I was being silly, and that these feelings would dissipate as the memory of the attack faded. I would not let fear stop me.
If only my vertigo were subject to my stern general’s voice.
Because this was a lighthouse. What was it about lighthouses that evoked such an aura of romance and mystery? Was it simply the idea of the keeper out here all alone, polishing the old lamps by day, keeping the fires burning at night, responsible for the lives of the equally lonely sailors passing by on the dark, vast waters?
“Alicia, I—”
My words were cut short when I realized she had frozen, a stricken look on her face.
A man stood in the greenery just past the edge of the courtyard. Smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes.
At least it isn’t a ghost, was my first thought. My second: Aw, crap. Is this Alicia’s ex? And he tracked her here, to a secluded island?
A ghost would have been a better bet.
About the Author
Juliet Blackwell is the pseudonym for the New York Times bestselling author who writes the Witchcraft Mystery series and the Haunted Home Renovation series. She is also the author of Letters from Paris and The Paris Key. Together with her sister, Juliet wrote the Art Lover's Mystery series. The first in that series, Feint of Art, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel.
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