by Jenna Ryan
“What I want, Isabella, is a thing only you can give me. And I’ll have it back, because no one takes what’s mine.” The voice lost its eerie edge and deepened to a growl. “Do you hear me? No one ever takes what’s mine.”
Movement erupted within the shadows, a flash of arm followed by a glint of black metal.
Something struck the floor. A muffled cry was immediately superseded by the hiss of an angry cat.
Her desperate hand finally located the door. Yanking it open, she ran across the threshold, through the kitchen and into the pantry.
“Donovan!”
She still had her flashlight and, whirling, searched the room. The shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling leaned menacingly toward her. She swore she could hear the man breathing, could still hear his voice, a silky whisper of sound.
Fear pulsed through her like a thousand squirming snakes.
“Black?” she tried again.
She spotted his flashlight, lying on the broken floor tiles not twelve inches from a partly open section of wall.
But there was no sign of Donovan.
Chapter Fourteen
She was going to play with a cat?
Donovan suspected the tangle of thoughts in his head had distorted Isabella’s words. He started to respond, but as he turned, he knocked one of the shelves he’d been examining and heard a quiet click.
Both the shelves and the wall on which they were mounted moved. A careful tug revealed a two-by-six-foot opening. A ladder staircase descended into full, fathomless black.
He tested the frame several times. Interesting. In a house riddled with rusty metal fittings and warped joists, this hidden door opened without a single creak.
He ran his flashlight over the hinges. Someone had used enough oil on them to lubricate three doors, enough to come and go in silence, the way a ghost would.
Although the opening intrigued him, first and foremost he needed to stop Isabella from chasing a cat around the manor—because he couldn’t see this being the only hidden door the would-be specter used.
He was turning for the kitchen when he spotted the shadow of a man on the kitchen wall.
He reached for his gun. The shadow halted. Donovan crept forward; however, while the oiled hinges might be silent, the floorboards were anything but. The one beneath him groaned loudly. Alerted, the shadow backpeddled and vanished through a side entrance. Swearing, Donovan followed him out.
The day’s premature twilight had bled into a moonless night. Mist twined about his legs as he slowed to determine direction.
The shadow man likely knew the surrounding woods. He’d have had his escape route memorized.
The bushes rustled. With his gun pointed skyward, Donovan listened.
The wind was negligible, but the ocean was a constant series of crashes above an omnipresent roar, tall waves tumbling over rocks then slamming into the cliff below.
Another shudder of leaves and limbs reached him. He jogged along something resembling a path. Ahead and to his right, the bushes vibrated, then gave a mighty shake.
He stopped, watched, waited until the foliage burst apart. And snapping his gun down, took aim at the figure that sprang from the black void inside.
BRAIN OVERLOAD. ISABELLA had it in spades. If Donovan, a trained professional, couldn’t make sense of what was happening, she held out little hope of finding the answers herself.
He’d spotted a shadow, given chase and come within a heartbeat of killing a deer spooked out of the bushes by—well, by whoever had been creeping through the manor, she assumed.
Meanwhile, she’d been threatened yet again, not by a woman this time, but a man. She estimated she’d been less than five feet away from him when the cat she’d been trailing had tripped him up.
Kudos to the cat, whoever it belonged to.
Back at George’s lodge, Donovan talked to a cop friend while Isabella sat on the staircase and contemplated whether to call Grandpa C or wait one more day.
She tried Killer’s number, and got the same tired response. She left yet another message and broke the connection.
The lobby had grown noisy over the past thirty minutes. Seven round poker tables took up half the floor space. Robert Drake was there, sequestered in a dark corner. Gordie Tallahassee had arrived flushed and breathless fifteen minutes ago. Orry was conspicuously absent.
Darlene stood by the reception desk with an unlit cigarette between her fingers and a scowl on her face. Her gaze flicked from Donovan to the tables, and then to the staircase.
“Have you seen my mother?” she called across the room.
“Smoke break outside.”
Darlene strolled toward the staircase, lighting her cigarette as she came. “You’re looking a tad shaky tonight, Isabella. Manor getting to you?”
“Only as it relates to my cousin’s disappearance.”
“At the risk of sounding like a broken record, you’re a fool for not selling.”
“Because tampering with Aaron Dark’s house will piss him off? Sorry, not biting.”
“I believe your former boyfriend said something similar a week or so before he died.”
“David drove a powerful vehicle too fast on a slippery road, overshot a hard turn and crashed. I doubt if a nineteenth-century ghost would know enough about twentieth-century cars to have brought that about. Aaron’s more into wails and whispered threats. Oh, yeah, and warning notes.” She summoned a pleasant smile. “That’s a pretty shade of lipstick you’re wearing. Not poppy red, I notice.”
Darlene took a drag from her cigarette, matched Isabella’s smile. “I like the darker tones myself. If I were you, sweetie, I’d consider—”
The front door opened and Orry swaggered in. Darlene cursed and swiveled away when George pushed through from the kitchen.
“What?” she demanded at Isabella’s raised brows. “I’ve got a moron on one side and a mother with a guilt whip on the other. Get your butt pinched a few times and see how eager you are to serve beer to a bunch of baboons. Stay out of my face, Orry,” she warned the approaching deputy. “You, too, Donovan.” This as her cousin came up from behind. “I’m not in the mood for a showdown of words.”
“Makes two of us.”
“Three,” Isabella said.
“Four,” Orry snarled. “Here.” He thrust something into Isabella’s hand. “I found this at the manor before you and Dead-eye Dick appeared, and I wound up with a concussion.”
Isabella regarded the earring in her palm. It was a simple white-and-yellow gold bonding of the letters C and R. Problem was…
“This isn’t mine.”
Orry’s snarl became a sneer. “It says CR, lady, as in Corrigan-Ross.”
She gave her head a shake, glanced at Donovan beside her. “It isn’t mine.”
“Katie’s?”
“It goes with the watch.”
Donovan picked up the earring by its stud back. “Looks like we’ll be making another trip to the manor.”
“I DON’T SEE WHY WE has to include me.” Orry glowered at the rain-drenched manor. “There are a hundred better things I could be doing at three in the afternoon than letting you drag me into a house that hates non-Dark humans.”
Donovan cut the engine, scanned the blackened windows. “Houses don’t hate,” he said in a distracted tone.
“What’s left of Aaron does.”
“He’s in good company.”
“You’re a real comedian, Donovan.” Slamming the truck door, Orry darted under the overhang. “The only reason people and ghosts like you is because they think you’re so cool. Well, I get my share of attention too.”
“Yeah, I saw the lipstick on your collar.” Donovan pocketed his keys. “How’d your wife feel about that?”
The acting sheriff’s cheeks mottled. “None of your damned business. Are the traps still here?”
“Far as I know. I didn’t see any around the perimeter of the room. Stay out of the main part and we should be good.” At the ballroom ent
rance, he repositioned his gun. “Where was the earring?”
“Ten feet ahead, to the left of that headless, armless thing.”
“That would be a replica of the Venus de Milo.”
Orry’s lip curled up. “No accounting for taste, is there?” A loud snap brought him to attention. “What was that?”
“One less trap to worry about. There’s nothing between us and Venus, Orry.”
“There was nothing around Venus, either, except bits of plaster, a ton of dead bugs and one shiny earring.” The deputy dug in. “This is ridiculous. Isabella says that earring belongs to her cousin. Am I arguing? She insists something happened to the woman. Fine, I’m on board with that. No idea where cousin Katie’s car went, but hey, still on board. Car’ll turn up. Probably in Florida where she drove it after she staged her disappearance, but who am I to question the woman’s motives? Oh, wait, I’m the acting sheriff, and while chasing the odd wild goose might come with the territory, I’d rather chase a local goose than one from another frigging state.”
Something akin to guilt snaked through Donovan’s stomach. Hadn’t he thought the same thing at one time? Thought it even when Isabella swore it wasn’t possible?
Orry swept an arm across the floor. “See? Nothing else there.”
Going down on one knee, Donovan measured the distance to the wall and considered the possibilities.
“Right, we came, we saw, let’s go.” However, in his rush to exit, Orry stepped on something that squealed. He emitted a scream of his own and bounced off Donovan’s shoulder and crashed into the wall.
“I see how that stupid bust thing lost her head and arms.” He levered upright. “This house is booby-trapped from top to bottom—and I’m the real boob for letting you drag me in here when… What?” he demanded as Donovan flicked a hand at his holster.
“Gun.”
The deputy’s eyes wheeled from side to side. “Why?”
“Because we’re going down.”
Orry leaped to his haunches, spied the hidden opening and drew back. “What is that?”
“A doorway.”
“With no knob. And stairs that go down. Into nothing.”
A faint smile crossed Donovan’s lips as Orry added a firm, “I’ll watch your back from here.”
Since he’d be more of a hindrance than a help in any case, Donovan stepped through the panel opening. “Don’t let the eyes in the portraits spook you, Orry. They only look like they’re watching your every move.”
After checking his gun, he disappeared into the dark.
“YOU KNOW WHY HE DIDN’T want you to go.” Haden scooted the soup chef away from her simmering pot for a taste. “Needs more onions,” he pronounced. “Look what happened last time you were there. Almost got your ankle hacked off. And you just know by the way Orry was dragging his feet all day that he’d be more than happy to push you into another trap if it meant he could avoid it. You’re better off here at the restaurant, sampling my new dishes and printing pictures for your granddad.”
A vexed Isabella didn’t want to do either thing.
“Are there many in Mystic Harbor who can trace their lineage directly to Aaron Dark or his sister?”
Haden made a note about the soup while he circled his desk. “Not as directly as the four of us, no, but there’s plenty can claim a distant family tie. And of course Sybil had people, too, uncles and cousins and such. Some of them get a little huffy at the suggestion they have no claim to Darkwood Manor. It could be by today’s laws they have a point. But the manor was sold off long ago, so really the whole question’s a tempest in a teapot. Darkwood’s yours until you decide it’s not.”
As its current owner, Isabella wanted to be there right now, searching. However, when she’d suggested as much to Donovan, he’d kissed her and turned her brain to mush. If part of her resented that, another part had to admit the man knew how to get around her—and he’d used the knowledge to full advantage.
The whirring printer spit out the remainder of her Mystic Harbor photos. She was lining them up when something about the last one captured her attention.
She’d taken this particular shot the night George had joined her on the rock outside her cabin. Darkwood Manor loomed on the ridge, but it wasn’t the house she saw when she looked closer. It was the trees, or more accurately, a figure secreted within the trees.
If she hadn’t done eight by tens, Isabella doubted she would have noticed anything unusual even with the aid of a nearly full moon. But the larger size revealed more than a figure among the branches and limbs. It showed a figure holding a knife. Preparing to throw that knife.
After enlarging the relevant segment, she held it up to the light. “That’s not good,” she decided. And with only the briefest hesitation, she went to find Haden.
“I SHOULD’VE KNOWN.” The big man gave his head a resounding smack, followed by a shake that sent raindrops scattering in every direction. “Girl’s always been a malcontent, always wanted more, wanted out. Still, I shouldn’t have been so abrupt on the phone.”
To Isabella’s amazement, he opened the outer office door with caution. “Woo-oo, Darlene, it’s Haden. You busy?”
On the sidewalk behind him, Isabella nudged his spine. “I hate to rush you, but I’m standing in a waterfall out here.”
He didn’t budge. “If you don’t know it yet, knives aren’t the only things Darlene can throw. Girl’s got a mean temper.”
“She’s not alone.” Out of patience, Isabella squeezed past him into the messy reception area. “There’s no point hiding, Darlene. The shop owner next door told us you were here.”
A wisp of smoke curling out of the supply closet gave her away. When Isabella opened the door, Donovan’s cousin swished past. “Bug off, sweetheart, I’m on my break.”
“In the closet.”
“I like privacy.”
“You like throwing knives, too.” Isabella dangled the incriminating photo twelve inches from the other woman’s face. “Care to explain this, ace?”
Darlene blew an insolent stream of smoke. “No. Now beat it before I call Orry and have you arrested for trespassing.”
Haden snorted. “Can’t trespass in a public office during business hours.” He shook a meaty finger at her. “You threw a knife at Isabella. Don’t deny it—the proof’s right there in her hand. You got eyes like Donovan’s and an arm the Sox would love to have under contract. Now you sit down at your desk, and tell us why you did what you did.”
Lips thinning, Darlene exhaled smoke through her nose. “You were never in any real danger,” she said in a controlled tone.
“Want me to throw a knife and see how you feel?”
“My guess is I’d feel blood. There was no chance of that for you.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because he…I…” Air hissed out from between her teeth. “Damn you and your camera. I never intended to hit you, only to shake you up a bit.”
“I figured that much.” Isabella absorbed her stony stare. “Who’s he?”
“If you’re smart, you’ll let it go.”
“Does he have some kind of hold on you?”
“What? No.” But she deflated slightly. “I’m not sure what he has, that’s the problem. More malice than I thought. Not as much. Somewhere in between. All I know is that he wants you to sell the manor and go back to Boston.”
“Sell to who?”
A cynical smile stole across the other woman’s lips. “Who wants the property most?”
“Robert Drake.”
“Bingo.”
“Is Drake your partner?”
“Hardly.”
A sigh escaped. “No, I didn’t think it would be that simple.”
“Why not?” a perplexed Haden demanded.
“Because the answer’s too obvious. Anyway, I picture Drake more like a vulture. Let someone else do the dirty work. He’ll swoop in when the killing’s done.”
“Killing! My God, Darlene!” The blood drai
ned from Haden’s normally ruddy cheeks. “You wanted Isabella dead?”
“I didn’t want her anything but gone.” She took a deep drag. “Money was my goal. If I could help make a sale happen, I’d get a nice fat payoff through my partner.” She moved a shoulder in Isabella’s direction. “You’re right about Drake, though. He’s a scavenger. Didn’t want to soil his hands directly, but he let it be known to anyone who’d listen that he was in the market for land. Although he’s bought some of it outright, one conversation with your grandfather confirmed that acquiring yours would call for a different tack.”
A gust of wind blew rain against the office window. When Darlene’s gaze traveled to the street, Isabella drew a controlled breath. “Did your partner do something to my cousin? Is he capable of—” She had to force the word out “—murder?”
“Sixty-four-thousand-dollar questions… Oh, Haden, for the love of God, stop looking at me like I’m the Boston Strangler and Jack the Ripper rolled into one. I was approached. I said yes. I thought we were going to scare her off. You know, do the woo-woo thing until she either bought into the ghost story or just got sick of being harassed. Either way, ka-ching, major sale.” Darlene screwed the heel of her hand into her forehead. “It got off track somehow. I didn’t mean for it to, but I swear, that deal in the tunnels and the attempted abduction—nothing to do with me.” In an unexpected and somewhat unnerving move, she snagged Isabella’s wrist and squeezed. “You want my advice, you’ll get the hell out of Mystic Harbor. If I don’t know how far he’ll go, no one does.”
Isabella regarded her through the haze of expelled smoke. “Give us a name, Darlene.”
Her eyes touched briefly on the building across the street. Drawing back, she crushed out the cigarette she’d smoked right down to its white filter.
Under the glare of florescent light, something about the lipstick smear on the end struck a chord in Isabella’s memory. She was good with colors, always had been. Darlene didn’t wear poppy red, she wore a deeper, richer shade of Bordeaux.
Like the lipstick Donovan had seen on Orry Lucas’s collar.
Chapter Fifteen
