by Dawn Brown
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Anderson.” Hopefully, she didn’t sound as shell-shocked as she felt.
“My pleasure, Ms.—”
“Reynolds,” she supplied, and waited to be hung up on again. Silence stretched between them and she was certain he had. “Hello?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ms. Reynolds.”
“See you then.”
She blew out a slow breath and hit End. Apparently, he hadn’t realized the woman he’d rented a house to was the same woman he’d threatened to sue if she tried to contact him one more time. At last, her luck seemed to be changing.
The electronic pulse of her cell phone dragged Shayne up through layers of sleep. Blinking in the darkness, her eyes focused on the glowing green numbers of the alarm clock next to her bed. Three forty-five. Who in the hell?
She rolled off the sofa bed and shuffled toward the sound, stumbling over the coffee table. With a muttered curse and an aching toe, she snatched up her cell phone from the top of an ancient television set.
“Hello.” Sleep made her voice gravelly.
“Forget Gwendolyn Grey,” a man whispered.
“What? Who is this?” Her sleep-muddled brain tried to make sense of the call.
“Give up that book before I make you give it up.”
Oh please, was that the best he could do? A threatening call in the middle of the night? Not terribly original. “Get bent.”
She started to pull the phone from her ear, but the harsh voice stopped her. “If you want to stay alive, keep yourself in suburbia. You come to Dark Water, you won’t leave.”
The line clicked and a dial tone filled her ear, but she barely heard it over the pounding of her heart. A chill settled over her as she scrolled the menu for the number. Blocked. Figures.
How had he known she lived in the suburbs?
He didn’t, it was a lucky guess. Why not, “Stay in the city”? Or, “Stay away”? No, mentioning the suburbs was specific. Had someone followed her? Were they watching her now?
Don’t be paranoid. She’d had whack jobs call her before. Vaguely threatening letters sent to her via her publisher, but none had ever hinted at knowing where she lived.
She snapped on the lamp next to the sofa. Soft light filled the room but did little to chase away the unease coiling around her like an icy fist. Shayne glanced around the small space she’d called home since she and Travis had separated almost a year ago. Orange, gold and chocolate brown with chunky wood furniture—her parents’ rec room was like going back in time to 1975.
Her parents were asleep upstairs. If something happened to them, because of her… For crying out loud, the jerk said the suburbs. He hadn’t rattled off her address. She was overreacting. At least she hoped so.
Chapter Two
“Statistics show that while a large number of men who kill their biological children take their own lives, men who murder their stepchildren rarely commit suicide.”
—excerpt from Blood and Bone by Shayne Reynolds
Shayne squinted in an effort to make out her barely legible handwriting on the crinkled sheet of paper. Her gaze bounced from the directions pinned between her thumb and steering wheel to the road. The turn to Dark Water should be coming up.
She might have been able to read the instructions easier—be better organized overall—if she’d stopped using her car as an office. These days, however, she didn’t seem to have much choice. Her parents’ dingy basement wasn’t exactly conducive for work, and her mother snooped.
Her parents meant well, and they’d helped her out by letting her stay with them while she and Travis fought it out in the courts. But since her divorce had become final, her father, always critical, had become far more provoking. Her mother insisted it was because he worried about Shayne now that she didn’t have a man to take care of her. The fact that she didn’t need a man to take care of her eluded him.
Whatever rustic dwelling Anderson had found for her, having her own space again would be a huge relief. Almost worth every penny this trip to Dark Water was costing her.
If you come to Dark Water, you won’t leave.
A chill danced along her spine.
She was making something out of nothing. More than likely, the creep on the other end of the phone was some pissed-off relative of Gwendolyn’s trying to scare her. Nothing to get bent out of shape about. Still, she couldn’t shake the unease knotting her insides.
Following Anderson’s directions, she steered on to Main Street. The early morning sun cast a soft, orange glow on the red brick storefronts. Pretty baskets of purple and pink petunias hung from old-fashioned lampposts lining the street. The sidewalks were empty, except for an old man peering into store windows with a mangy, black poodle at his feet.
A sign with the words “Grey Family Realty, since 1952” in burgundy script caught her eye. She pulled up to the curb in front of an old house converted into a business, parking behind a rusted-out station wagon that might have been brown at one time.
As she climbed from the car, she spotted a man in his mid to late twenties, wearing a god-awful Hawaiian shirt, slouched on a park bench. With his arms draped casually along the back, he turned his head to watch her. Dark sunglasses shaded his eyes, but Shayne was certain he was checking her out from behind the tinted lenses.
“Nice car,” he said.
“Thanks.” Shayne barely gave the sleek convertible a second glance, but as she dropped her keys into her purse, she hit the remote lock and automatically set the alarm.
At the high-pitched double beep, the man smirked.
Odds were her car wouldn’t be stolen in broad daylight in a town with a population of less than ten thousand, but why test fate? Especially with a seedy character loitering next to it.
She’d traded in the minivan Travis had insisted they buy for the Solara shortly before they’d split up. For her, the car represented her first acceptance she wouldn’t have children and she was okay with the realization. The car wasn’t super sporty, but it didn’t scream soccer mom either.
“Ms. Reynolds?”
Her name, spoken by the man on the bench, jerked her from her reverie. She stopped and faced him, frowning.
“I’m Des.” He stood, almost reluctantly, jammed his hands into his jeans pockets and sauntered toward her.
Oops. Okay, not loitering, and probably not interested in stealing her car. Crap. “Thanks for meeting me.”
“I’m thrilled, naturally.” He smirked and stared at her for a long moment. At least she thought he did. She wished he’d take off those glasses. “Did you want to follow me to the house?”
“Sure.” Actually, she wanted to ask him about a million questions, but had no idea how to get around to mentioning she was the person he’d threatened with legal action.
How could he not have made the connection?
Certainly he’d heard what was left of Anderson’s family, as well as some of his parents’ acquaintances had agreed to speak to her. Wouldn’t he suspect she and the writer attempting to contact him were one and the same?
He walked over to the ancient station wagon and tugged open the driver’s-side door. She half expected the handle to fall off in his hand. As Shayne slid behind the wheel of her car, the station wagon rumbled to life and pulled away from the curb.
She followed Des past century-old homes with meticulous green lawns and brilliant gardens, then past tiny wartime houses skirting the edge of town. The neighborhoods fell behind them and thick forest rose up on either side of the narrow road.
“Where are you taking me?” she muttered. A flutter of apprehension tickled her belly. Maybe he did know who she was after all. Could he be the creep who’d called last night? Perhaps he’d inherited a little of his father’s psychotic nature.
A twinge of guilt pulled at her conscience. Not fair. He’d probably spent most of his life facing down that particular legacy. Especially living in the town where it had happened. So why stay in Dark Water? She’d never l
ived in a small town, but while writing about them, she’d learned they had exceedingly long memories.
The road dipped slightly and, through the trees on her right, the dark, sluggish water of the river from which the town took its name caught her eye. But there were no houses to be seen. Where in the hell was she?
Stop the car, he’ll stop too and you can make him explain where he’s taking you.
Brake lights shone red beneath the dirt-encrusted plastic and his turn signal flashed. Yet where, exactly, in the wall of trees next to the road he could be turning escaped her.
She followed him anyway. Up two narrow, dirt ruts enclosed by tree branches, forming a sort of tree tunnel. The long grass growing between the ruts whispered against the underside of her low car.
“Oh, this is promising.” Maybe his reward for killing her and disposing of her body would be her car.
The stone cottage seemed to appear from nowhere, and she took back every mean thought she’d had about Des Anderson. The house was cute and private and perfect.
Des stopped the station wagon and slid out. She pulled up beside him and did likewise.
“This is great.”
“It’s a little small,” he told her, climbing the wood steps of a newly added deck, “but the price was right and it was available.”
He unlocked the door and she followed him into the dark cottage. The air smelled musty and stale. Des went to the window and pulled back the heavy gold drapes, allowing dappled sunshine to spill into the sitting room.
White sheets covered the furniture, protecting against dust. A short set of five steps led to a tiny galley kitchen overlooking the sitting room. Shayne climbed the stairs, opened the 1950s fridge and peered inside. It wasn’t running, but it was clean.
“Does this work?” she asked.
Des nodded. “Power’s off. The fuse box is in the bedroom. I’ll flip the switch before I go.”
Shayne closed the fridge and noticed the back door next to it. She pulled back the filmy scrap of material used as a curtain and peeked out the window. Overgrown lawn stretched out to the river.
“It was a fishing cabin,” Des said, suddenly standing next to her. She jumped and took a step back. He’d removed his sunglasses and in the dim light his eyes were dark pewter. Like his father’s. They stood out from the defined angles of his face as his gaze moved over her, measuring her.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and swallowed hard. “When’s the last time anyone stayed here?”
“Had a couple of fishermen rent the place last spring. The owner’s been trying to sell it since her husband died last year. She rents it out when she can in the meantime.”
“Not a big market for fishing cabins?” Standing so close to her, his scent, clean and indefinably male, teased her senses.
“She has it priced too high and won’t budge.”
Shayne smiled and tilted her head slightly. “Should you be telling me?”
He shrugged. “Were you interested in buying the place?”
“Not even a little a bit.”
“Doesn’t matter then. The bedroom and bathroom are this way.”
He started down the stairs. She followed, letting her gaze travel the length of him. He wasn’t at all what she’d expected. From the ridiculous shirt, to the worn blue jeans—which, after a lingering look at his butt, she had to admit he wore well—to the beat-up leather flip-flops on his bare feet, he wasn’t like any real estate agent she’d known.
She hadn’t necessarily expected him to wear a suit in eighty-five-degree heat, first thing on a Saturday morning. Maybe casual pants and a golf shirt, though. She’d also expected Desmond Anderson to be clean cut and well-groomed. A sort of male version of a Barbie doll. He’d been raised with the Grey family fortune at his disposal, after all.
“You don’t look much like a real estate agent.”
He glanced back over his shoulder. “I do, however, look like a car thief.”
Shayne fought uselessly against the heat creeping into her face. “I’m from the city. Everybody looks like a car thief.”
He chuckled, dimples grooving the flesh on either side of his mouth, then turned away. She’d never liked dimples on men before. She’d always found them too boyish, but on Des they looked pretty damn good.
He led her to the first of two rooms off the living area. A sagging double bed with a ratty mattress cover and a chipped wood dresser was all that made up the suite. As she stepped inside, she caught sight of herself in the tarnished mirror. The warped glass turned her reflection wide and skinny like a fun-house mirror.
“You’ll need bedding,” Des said. “If you didn’t think to bring any, there’s a store in town.”
And she’d probably end up paying an arm and a leg. She wished he’d mentioned that yesterday and she would have brought her own.
“Is there a TV?”
Des nodded and turned back to the sitting room. He yanked off one of the sheets like a magician performing a particularly complicated trick. “Ta-da. Did you want to see the bathroom?”
“Sure,” she said, hardly listening as she mentally recalculated her budget.
He opened the door next to the bedroom to a small bathroom, equipped with pedestal sink, toilet and claw-foot bathtub.
“Great tub.” She pushed past him into the room and ran her fingers over the cool enamel. “I may buy this place after all.”
“In that case, I think you’ll find the price extremely fair.”
That smoky gaze stayed on her face, boring into her as though he was trying to read her mind. What was he looking for? A warm tingle spread over her skin, and she looked away, feigning interest in the chrome faucets.
What the hell was wrong with her? Had it been so long since she’d dealt with a man outside of a divorce or a murder trial that some hick real estate agent could make her feel like a teenaged wallflower?
Pull it together. She knew from her research he was only twenty-eight. She had seven years on him, for Christ’s sake.
“There’s some paperwork I need you to fill out,” he told her.
When she lifted her gaze, his smirk had been replaced with a smug grin.
Fantastic.
“Where do I sign?”
Des went out to his car to collect the rental contract while Shayne waited for him in the sitting room, fighting the urge to pace. She’d have to give him her first name. How would he react? Maybe he wouldn’t make the connection at all.
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Des said as he strolled inside.
She faced him, her heart beating double-time, her mouth dry. She had to clear her throat before she could speak. “Is it a lease?”
He shook his head. “A weekly rental. You can stay as long as you need to, provided you pay the rent, but you’ll have to give a week’s notice before you leave. I need the first two-weeks’ rent today and a damage deposit. You have to fill in the top portion of the contract and initial here.”
She reached into her purse for her checkbook. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”
Des pulled a sheet off a round colonial dining table, its scarred surface in need of refinishing. She set her checkbook face down on the table and accepted the contract from him. As she filled out her personal information, he wandered to the window.
Thank God.
After she’d completed the paperwork, she wrote out the checks. Des turned from the window and moved back to the table. Cool sweat dotted her skin when he lifted the contract. As he read, he shook his head slowly. She returned her attention to the check, pretending not to notice.
“I can’t believe you actually went through with it,” he said, a mix of incredulity and disgust lacing his voice.
Frowning, she scribbled her signature on the last check. “I’m sorry?”
“I can’t believe you actually rented a house to get to me.”
Her knotted stomach dropped to her shoes. He knew who she was, probably had all along. She slid the checks across the table and met h
is hard stare.
“It’s not like that.” She tried not to cringe under his furious glare. “I needed a place to stay, and I didn’t know you worked there.”
“It didn’t occur to you, when you called Grey Family Realty, you might end up speaking to a member of the Grey family?” His grip on the contract tightened as if he was about to tear it up. Instead, he tossed it back on the table, badly creased but still in one piece.
“I didn’t know it was your family’s business until the receptionist answered the phone. The woman at the Pinecone gave me the number for a realtor, but didn’t tell me the name of the company.”
“What a load of crap.” He snatched up the contract and the checks. “I knew that line about the festival was bullshit.”
“No, really—”
“Well, I hope you did need the house, because if you thought using it as an excuse to get to me would work, it didn’t.” He strode toward the door, but Shayne ducked in front of him, blocking his path.
“Look, whatever misconceptions there were, couldn’t we start again?”
“You can do whatever you want.” He stepped around her and continued to the door. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my family.”
He stormed out, the screen door banging shut behind him. A moment later the station wagon coughed to life.
“Well, that could have gone better.” She moved to the front window in time to catch a glimpse of red taillights before they disappeared into the trees. The clanging of his car rattled in her ears long after he had driven out of sight.
Des yanked open the door to the realty office, Shayne Reynolds’s rental file still gripped in his free hand. He would have loved nothing more than to tear the contract into pieces and tell her to go to hell, but financial debt didn’t leave a whole lot of room for pride. The commission on this deal wouldn’t be much, but every little bit helped.
Heather, the receptionist, turned a beaming smile on him as he approached her desk. Her expression dissolved the moment her eyes met his. She dropped her gaze to her open appointment book and pretended he wasn’t there.
