“Kaine?” Grant’s soft voice broke into her reminiscing.
She bit her lip. Hard. “He’s dead.”
“Yes,” Grant acknowledged, and his head tipped to the side.
“Someone killed him and now . . .”
“Now?” Grant leaned over and set his mug on an end table.
“Now his killer is after me.” Kaine watched concern return to Grant’s face. “He followed me from San Diego. He’s playing with my mind, Grant. He leaves daffodils for me, my favorite flower. He used to break into my apartment and move things around. It was subtle. But I knew he was there. I knew he killed Danny. It’s as if he’s trying to tell me something and I don’t know what it is. I don’t understand why he took Danny’s life. I don’t know what he wants—” Rising fear choked Kaine’s words.
Grant reached out, taking the mug from her hands.
“Maybe I know how my great-great-grandmother felt,” she whispered. “That house—it draws wickedness. I thought I could come here to escape, but I’ve come full circle to the place where someone tried to murder her. Where they murdered the girl called Gabriella.” Kaine clutched the blanket, pulling it higher. “I’m afraid it’ll happen to me.”
“Kaine.” Grant’s deep voice barely broke through her growing panic. “They’re not connected. Ivy’s story is different from yours, and so is Gabriella’s. Don’t associate Foster Hill House with your husband’s death and this stalker.” Grant shook his head.
The blanket wasn’t enough anymore. She pulled her knees to her chin and rested her feet on the couch. “Maybe the circumstances aren’t connected, but we are.” Kaine wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I am not giving up. I’ll find out who he is and I’ll stop him. I’ll—” Kaine stopped and drew a deep breath, gathering her courage—“I’ll survive this, Grant. I’ll fight.”
Chapter 16
They said Hell was a place of darkness. Kaine flicked on her flashlight, and it lifted the shadows. Nothing good ever came from wandering in the dark. The attic of Foster Hill House was barren, the rafters low, and Grant was forced to duck in some areas. His six-foot-one frame wasn’t going to be friends with the low ceiling. Kaine shifted her attention from him. She battled guilt over his decision to take a weeklong vacation from work. She was practically a stranger to him, and being on the receiving end of sacrifice was far more difficult than giving of herself. At least he wasn’t treating her with pity or patronizing her with random, sad smiles.
Grant bent to peer out one of the small attic windows. “You can see a long way from up here.”
“I know.” Kaine never wanted him to leave now. She’d had the most peaceful night’s sleep on his couch. He left Sophie with her and Olive, along with the comforting statement, “She was an abused dog the shelter rescued, so she hates men and will alert us if your stalker tries to get in.” His wink was meant to ease her anxiety, and it worked.
In the morning, she awoke to the smell of fresh Guatemalan coffee. Grant had showered—his hair was damp and he smelled like minty soap. Kaine watched the morning news with him and avoided the idea of returning to her motel or Foster Hill House. Avoided it until Grant announced his impromptu vacation from work and his intention to continue to help her with the repairs and renovation.
She stole a glance at him now. He still stared out the window like he was studying the landscape. His worn sweatshirt wasn’t exactly sexy, but it was passable considering Grant wore it.
“So, where do we start?” Grant turned and brushed his hands down his jeans.
Kaine turned away quickly so he didn’t catch that she’d been watching him. “The moldy wall, downstairs in the bedroom. It’s not the dangerous mold that has to be removed professionally—at least that’s what the contractor thought. Also, the floorboards are very warped. I need to pull them up and have them replaced. I guess I’d rather start there and make an appointment for someone to come out to do a mold test, just to be on the safe side.”
Grant grimaced.
“What?” Kaine pressed.
He shrugged. “You’re right about the mold test, but floorboards? Seems to me there’s more concerning things. Like the roof, for one.”
Kaine knew he was right, but she would need to hire a roofer to do that. Besides, cosmetic repairs were less daunting than the list of other, more involved repairs. The surface fixing only required a few crowbars, hammers, face masks, and aggression. And she had enough aggression inside her to tear down the entire house.
“I’d prefer to tackle the easy stuff first,” she said. It was her house after all, and she really didn’t have any obligation to Grant Jesse. He might make her feel safe, but outside of that . . . yep, no obligation whatsoever.
“The easy stuff doesn’t take care of the root issue.”
Part of Kaine bristled against his stating the obvious. He was making a barely veiled point.
“If the roof collapses, new floorboards won’t matter.” Grant stomped on the attic floor. It was sound, unlike the floor in the third bedroom.
“Fixing the big stuff is painful,” Kaine admitted. She swiped at a tiny spider that swung from the ceiling.
Comprehension filled Grant’s eyes, empathy that made her own eyes sting with tears. He didn’t pity her, he understood her. There was a big difference.
“I know.”
Two words. But they were poignant.
Kaine wrestled with her swirling emotions as she moved toward the stairs leading out of the attic. It was one thing to face the loss of a spouse, but it was entirely different when he’d been murdered and her own life was—
Kaine halted, and Grant caught himself on the wall before he stumbled into her.
“What’s the matter?” he asked in her ear.
Kaine squinted. She had caught a glimmer of a shining reflection in the far corner. But she didn’t see it now. She backed up a step, and Grant moved with her.
“I thought I saw something.” Kaine edged past him. She rocked from her left to her right foot, hoping to catch a glimpse of the reflection. Nothing. She took another step. The sunlight through the attic window bounced off something tiny in the corner of the bare space. “Over there.” Kaine pointed.
Grant looked in the direction she pointed. “I don’t see anything.”
“It’s shiny. Or it was.” Kaine reached the corner of the room and knelt on the floor. She couldn’t see it anymore. Palming the floor, the filth collected on her hands as she ran them across it hoping to feel whatever it was she’d seen.
Grant knelt beside her. “Like glass? Be careful you don’t slice your hand.”
“I will.” Reaching the corner, Kaine ran her fingers by the floorboard where the sun shaft was brightest. The tips of her fingers met something smooth, wedged in a small gap between the floor and the wall. “I’ve got something.” She tugged at it.
“Careful.” Grant’s breath was warm on her neck as he leaned over to watch.
Kaine worked her fingers beneath it and pulled. It released. A gold locket. Its tarnish layer was thin and barely darkened the reflective surface.
“Whoa. That looks old.” Grant’s statement echoed Kaine’s thoughts.
They both straightened and looked closer at the locket resting in her palm. Its chain dangled off and swayed below her wrist. She touched the engraved foliage on the front.
“I’m surprised it could even be wedged in there without someone seeing it,” Kaine said.
Grant tapped it lightly with his index finger. “You never would have seen it if it hadn’t caught the sun.”
She pried at its tiny clasp with her fingernail, slowly opening the locket. She blinked in surprise. The inside of the locket was lined with an aged ivory material. What caught her attention, though, was a navy blue ribbon, embroidered, which held strands of baby-fine blond hair.
“Hair?” Grant appeared fascinated by it.
Kaine shook her head. “Weird. Why would someone put hair in a locket?”
“Well, in centuries pa
st, hair was kept in memory of a loved one, or as a token of love.”
“You mean they cut hair off a corpse?” Kaine handed the locket to Grant so he could get a better look.
“Or a lover.” He studied the hair and ribbon.
Why did that make her blush?
There wasn’t a chance Kaine would want a lock of hair in a necklace around her neck whether the donor was alive or dead. She preferred the more contemporary token of a gemstone.
“It was to remember them by,” Grant explained. “Like if I gave you a lock of my hair to keep near your heart.”
Kaine raised her brows. “Did guys really do that sort of thing back then?”
He nodded. “Exchanging hair wasn’t uncommon.”
“A love note wasn’t enough, huh?” Kaine received the locket back from him and carefully snapped it shut, hiding the token of memory or love. An etching on the back caught her eye. Holding it closer, she read the inscription and reached out to grip Grant’s wrist.
“Grant, look.” As she bent over the locket, her heart pounded. Grant’s whispered “What—?” only enhanced her surge of adrenaline. They turned toward each other, and Kaine knew the astonishment in Grant’s eyes mirrored her own.
“Ivy.” Kaine traced the engraving with her finger. “My great-great-grandmother’s name. Is this her locket?”
Grant leaned back against the attic wall. “Unless there was another Ivy we don’t know about.”
Kaine closed her hand around the locket. “Why is it here in Foster Hill House?”
Jamming his hands into his pockets, Grant looked her in the eye. “The bigger question is, whose hair is that?”
Chapter 17
Jvy
She would not survive. Ivy’s feet slipped and slid in the mud as the rain continued to beat down on her. She threw a glance over her shoulder. No one. Had she outrun him or had he given up the chase as she approached town? Joel’s boardinghouse came into view as she ran into the village, glad she’d overheard him telling her father where he was living and his room number in case he was needed. Her home was at the opposite end of Oakwood, and she told herself the distance, rain, and fear was what sent her in a fast run toward Joel and not her home. She was running from the same shadow of a man who had killed Gabriella. It had to be. If he caught her, this time he wouldn’t fail in killing her too. Safety was her first concern, propriety a distant second. That reasoning catapulted her into the boardinghouse and up the stairs to Joel’s room.
Her fist connected with his door in a frantic knock. Nothing. Ivy knocked again, a three-time rap. Her wet hair clung to her face, and she raked it away with her fingers. Her dress clung to her in damp folds. She looked over her shoulder again as if convinced the man from Foster Hill House had followed her into the house and would charge up the stairs any minute.
She was about to knock again when the door swung inward. Joel stood framed in the doorway, his pinstriped shirt untucked and hanging over his trousers. His rumpled hair sprang up from his head. Ivy ignored his impressive physique and pushed her way inside, ducking under his arm that held the door open.
“Close it. Please!” Ivy’s command was met with compliance.
“Ivy Thorpe, have you taken leave of your senses?” His raspy voice sent shivers through her. He shut the door firmly with a glance into the hallway. “You shouldn’t be in my room.”
“He followed me.” She ignored his scolding and sank onto a ladder-back chair by the lone desk and a bed with a white iron frame opposite her.
“Who followed you?” Joel hadn’t left the door. His hand still gripped the knob as if ready to toss her out.
“I don’t know!” Ivy peeled off her wet gloves. “Him! The man who attacked me. The man who killed Gabriella!”
“Slow down.” Joel pushed up his sleeves and leaned against the door. “You saw him?”
“Just a glimpse. A man. I didn’t recognize him.” Ivy drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And I’d just seen Mr. Foggerty. What if it’s him? What if Mr. Foggerty is trapping more than otters?”
Joel pushed off the door. “Stop, Ivy. I need you to collect yourself.”
“I am collected.” She skewered him with a glare. “I’m always collected.”
Joel tilted his head and stared back at her, silently arguing with her self-assessment. “What happened? Exactly.”
Ivy set her gloves on the desk and folded her hands. At least she was safe here. Safe. A pistol lay on the desk next to her gloves. There was some comfort in knowing Joel was armed.
“I went to the orphanage to make some inquiries.”
“Ivy.”
The disapproval on Joel’s face told her he was far from pleased. He took a seat on the bed.
“On my return, and after a brief interlude with Mr. Foggerty, who walked away in the opposite direction,” she continued in spite of his stern expression, “I saw movement in the woods. A man of medium build and height. He started toward me and I ran. I just ran.”
Ivy swiped at her dripping hair and flipped it over her shoulder.
Joel’s nostrils flared from the compressed fury that radiated from his eyes. “Did he speak to you? Was it Foggerty?”
“I told you, I didn’t recognize him. It was hard to see through the rain.” Ivy blinked rapidly. Tears threatened to fall but she never cried, and she wouldn’t start now in front of Joel. “But he said, ‘None to hear you. None to care.’”
Joel gave her an uncomprehending look. Ivy curled her fingers into her soaking wet dress. “It’s what my attacker said before he threw me down the stairs at Foster Hill House.”
With a muttered curse, Joel reached for the pistol. He stuck it into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.
“What are you doing?” Ivy caught the coverlet he snatched from the end of the bed and tossed toward her.
“I’m going out to look for him.” Joel marched across the room and pulled open the doors of a large wardrobe.
“He won’t be there.” Ivy wrapped the coverlet over her shoulders. She was shivering now.
Joel yanked a slicker from the wardrobe and shoved his arm into a sleeve. Ivy launched to her feet.
“Please, Joel.” She cared. God help her, she cared. Ivy had visions of Joel charging through the rain and confronting the killer with the pistol. Ivy put her hand on his forearm.
Joel stilled. He looked at her hand.
“It’s not worth going out in the rain when the man has most certainly vanished by now,” Ivy said, trying to reason with him.
His eyes flashed. “Ivy, if he dared touch you again . . .”
She dropped her hand. That was why. She was the reason Joel wasn’t acting rationally. The realization sent an unwelcome thrill through her.
Joel strode to the window and looked through the panes of glass as rain pelted against it. Ivy waited.
He took a deep breath and spun around. “Why did you visit the orphanage in the first place?”
Ivy faltered under his accusing glare. “It doesn’t matter why I was there, but—”
“It does matter, Ivy.”
“You and Sheriff Dunst were so preoccupied with organizing the search for Gabriella’s baby, I thought I’d look at the orphanage. If it was as simple as she’d left it—”
Joel stared down his nose at her. “You think I didn’t already ask there?”
Ivy swallowed and looked up at him.
If it were possible, Joel’s blue eyes turned into ice. “That was the first place I went after we found out she’d even had a baby. Before you were attacked even.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Blast it all, Ivy! I know you don’t trust me, don’t even like me anymore, but don’t discredit me. Or Sheriff Dunst. We are as worried about this baby and the killer as you are.”
Ivy swiped at a drop of water that ran from her hairline down her cheek. She realized her hand was shaking. “I just—Gabriella deserves justice, and her baby deserves life. I can’t just sit by and not do anything.”
<
br /> Joel dropped the slicker to the floor and positioned his hands on the top of his head, his elbows sticking out. “Then care for someone living. Gabriella is dead and very possibly her child too. They’re not worth your life.”
Maybe he said it in the passion of his own fright for her safety, but his words revived her offense against him. Ivy turned her back on Joel and moved toward the door. She said over her shoulder, “If there’s a chance that baby is alive, it is worth my life.” Ivy whirled back to face him. “Just like Andrew was worth yours! But you didn’t give it for him, did you? You let him die and then you left me alone. You never show passion for anyone, so how was I supposed to know you’d already been to the orphanage? I wouldn’t think you’d ever want to go back there.”
Furious, she reached for the door. Joel chased after her in a few long strides and grabbed her upper arm. “You really don’t want to inquire about my passion for anything, Ivy Thorpe.” He pulled her closer until Ivy’s shoulder pressed against his chest.
She wriggled her arm to free herself.
“Don’t discount my own investigation. Don’t assume I don’t care or that I didn’t just get back to my room after twenty-four hours without sleep looking for the baby, wishing I could bring justice for Gabriella, and wanting to protect you.”
His breath was warm on her face. Ivy turned away.
“And you know I tried to save Andrew.” Joel’s voice dropped. “You’re an intelligent, beautiful woman, Ivy. Use that intelligence and stay home. Stay safe. I don’t want to lose you again.”
They searched each other’s eyes. Lose her? He had left her! Ivy wondered if Joel could read her agony. Yet something pulled them together, even now, and the space between them lessened. She could sense Joel’s face not far from hers, and the look in his eyes deepened. Unreadable but tumultuous.
The House on Foster Hill Page 12
