That drew the complacent look from his face. He laid his palms down flat on the counter and offered her his full attention.
Satisfied, Serena nonetheless sobered at the recollection. She could read Brett’s stormy eyes well enough to see he mirrored her unease.
"It gets worse," she continued. "I accused her of killing Alan."
"Whoa, and I have to stay in hiding up here and miss all the action."
Serena could tell that the joke was strained.
"How did she respond?" Brett asked.
"Simon interrupted us and she ran off. I wanted to get up here to tell you about this, not because I was worried about you."
Only the pale light from a lamp in the living room kept the dark at bay. Her trusty nightlight. The day it was finally extinguished would be the day she recognized an end to her fears.
"Okay, so Rebecca has motive." He reasoned. "Do you think she’s capable of terrorizing you?"
Serena cocked her head and drummed her fingers anxiously against her arm. "The crying child—that strikes me as a woman’s touch."
"Mmmm, perhaps," he murmured. "But what about the guy you saw last night, the one heading to the lighthouse?"
"It was a figure, not necessarily a male figure."
"But was it only five feet tall?" Brett asked over his shoulder as he stoked the fire.
Serena wanted to recall that one small fact, but try as she might to doctor up the image, she knew in her heart it was not Rebecca hiking up to the old lighthouse last night.
"No, no it wasn’t." She stooped to adjust a doily on the end table that was already smooth and neatly situated. "But hey, that could have been anybody out there. Someone out for a walk perhaps?"
He turned around and gave her a come on now arch of the eyebrow.
"So let’s recap. We have John Morse’s pickup parked out front, yet he’s nowhere in sight. Rebecca has admitted to her affair with Alan—" Brett cleared his throat, noticing the pain lance her face, "sorry bout that."
Serena waved, shaking her head. "And Simon."
"Simon?" He came alert.
Listening to Serena describe the encounter in the kitchen, Brett’s fist clenched as he began to pace before the mantle. "That guy gives me the creeps."
"Why, because he likes you?" Emerald eyes glinted in the firelight.
Brett’s body shook in a staged chill, but he ignored the taunt.
"Okay, so that’s three possible suspects right there, not to mention half a dozen local tribesmen I’ve talked to that have it out for Alan."
"Most everyone in this town had it out for Alan."
Brett heard the gloomy tone to Serena’s voice, but decided not to pursue it. Right now he was more concerned with the fact that the Grandfather clock had struck midnight, and wondered if their downstairs visitor would return.
He wrenched a hand through his hair. He felt the heat of the fire on his back and inhaled the scent of charred embers mixed with the fragrance of Serena’s honeysuckle shampoo. His forehead knotted.
"You think he’s going to come back tonight, don’t you?" Serena prodded.
"Yes. I wish I thought otherwise."
"Well," Edgy, she glanced around the loft, "at least all the lights are off." She crossed her arms. "He’ll probably have assumed I went to bed by now, and that I’m alone."
Stating this didn’t make it any less frightening when a grating noise emanated from behind the inner stairwell door. Serena’s eyes flared. Her hand reached out and connected with Brett’s arm.
"In there," he urged quietly.
Brett pushed her down into a crouch behind the kitchen counter. He stooped beside her and ordered in a hushed voice. "Stay here."
When he would have risen, Serena’s fingers captured his.
She pleaded. "Brett?"
He crouched again and touched her cheek. "Shh. Please baby, please stay here."
He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead he inched out to the living room, trying to conceal his tread on the worn planks.
A smoldering log popped aloud. The noise made Serena’s body spasm as she hung to the handle of a cabinet door with a grip that cut off her circulation. Brett rounded the corner into the hallway, out of view. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the revealing tales of the old inn, but today its silence only enhanced the rasping sound of the doorknob.
Fearing for Brett’s life, she leaned forward to peer into the hall. She found him; a menacing silhouette crouched behind an open doorway, a fierce creature waiting to pounce on its prey.
With a groan, the stairwell door swung ajar as a shadow emerged within the two-inch gap. Brett tensed, his muscles twitching with the need to ambush. But he waited−waited until the door gaped open completely and the stranger took his first step. All he could make out was a leather-gloved hand wrapped around the doorframe, followed by a black boot, broaching the hall.
With his weight behind his shoulder, Brett launched at the roving shadow, plowing into the stranger and pitching him forward. The momentum forced him down on top of the figure as the two men grappled for dominance. Brett’s fist landed a forceful blow, followed by a whoosh of air heaving from the assailant’s body. Struggling to right himself, the momentary pause cost Brett as a heavy boot clipped him under the chin, knocking his head back and his balance off.
In a fog, Brett heard the squeal of rubber heels against polished wood. Scrambling to his feet, he watched the living room spin around before it wobbled back into place. The squeal drew his attention again as he discovered the shadow vaulting towards the front door. He launched after it.
Brett managed to seize the hem of a dark raincoat, hauling with all his might, until gradually he felt the impetus swing in his direction. A muffled curse sounded as the door swung open, but the shadow was slowly drawn back from freedom.
Bitter wind and stinging snow blinded Brett. He sensed the upward swing of an arm and ducked against its descent. The maneuver was too late. Unable to dodge the blunt object that cracked against the side of his head, he was knocked to the ground and into a black chasm, where only the roaring sound of the surf penetrated.
"Brett?"
Brett cringed and then growled at the pain. Gingerly, he touched his fingers to his temple, wincing at the contact.
"Brett?"
"Not so loud please."
"Well, then answer me when I call you." Serena whispered above him, anxious.
Thankful that the light was still dim, Brett forced his eyes open and witnessed the veil of cinnamon caressing his chest.
"Ummmm." The sound came from deep in his throat.
"Are you okay? Can you see?"
"Feeling better," he muttered as he struggled to sit up. "Wh-what happened?"
"He hit you and got away." Serena’s voice was strained. "By the time I got to the door he was gone. I couldn’t see him anywhere, but I wasn’t about to leave you."
"Good girl." He tried to smile. "The last thing in the world I want is for you to be out there with some maniac."
Brett tested the wound again and grimaced at the touch, but found he was beginning to control the pain. "Christ, he thought you were up here alone—he would have—" He didn’t dare finish the thought.
"So you care about me?" Serena teased softly, although her mouth was pinched with concern.
He tried to stand up. Reaching out towards the table for support, he missed it as Serena surged under his arm, awkwardly steering him to the sofa.
“What the hell did he hit me with, an anvil?” His hand reached for his head.
Serena gasped.
"What?" He cringed.
"Don’t move." She ordered and disappeared into the bathroom.
When she returned, it took too much effort to open his eyes, so Brett listened to her settle on the floor by his side. Next, he heard the sound of a cap being extracted from a bottle, followed by a toxic scent.
"This may hurt," she warned one second before administering the peroxide.
"Jesus, woman.
I stood a better shot with the other guy.”
Serena replaced the medicinal cloth with a towel. Brett heard her rest back on her heels and he sensed her eyes on him.
"It’s starting to clog." She proclaimed, as he felt her hand begin to quiver.
"It’s okay," He heard the fear and anxiety in her tone. "I almost had him too—I didn’t count on the anvil. Next time I’ll be prepared."
"Dammit Brett, I don’t want there to be a next time. This is getting out of hand. What if the anvil was a gun? What do they want? I wish to God I knew what they wanted. I’d just give it to them."
Cautious, he opened his eyes into a squint and then once he acclimated, slanted a cunning look.
"We’re going to have to set a trap," he declared.
"But I thought I was the trap. I thought pretending that you weren’t here anymore was going to lure this person, which it did."
Trying to shake his head and suffering for it, Brett frowned.
"No, not enough. We’re going to have to have another performance tomorrow to convince our friend that you are here alone again. He was surprised to see me, and that’ll make him cautious next time. We don’t want that. We want him to think that you’re vulnerable. Tomorrow we have to make a good show of it, maybe drop a hint that we found something, some vital papers—"
"But—but, okay so sure, that will bring him back, but what are we going to do when he does come back?" Frustration boosted her voice. "He has a gun, and you’re in no shape to fight him. What can I do, clobber him over the head with a beer pitcher?"
Brett struggled to sit up, dropping his legs down on the carpet, while still holding the damp towel to his head. "I’ll be fine by then, nothing a few aspirin can’t fix. I’ve survived worse headaches in the stock market."
"But—"
"No more buts, Serena. We’ve got to deal with this."
"It’s a matter for the police."
Brett snorted. "Yeah, a lot of help they’ll be."
He took the towel away from his head so he could look at her. "I know you’re scared. You know I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe, but I need you to go through with this hoax tomorrow if we ever hope for this to be over."
His knees were parted as Serena knelt between them and placed her hands on his forearms, squeezing for emphasis.
"He could have killed you tonight. Do you know how much that terrifies me?"
"Ah," His voice rumbled. "So, you do admit you care about me?"
A brief growl and she released her grip. "You’re my brother in-law. Of course I care about you."
His free hand reached out to snag her by the waist. He hoisted her between his legs so that their faces loomed close together.
"Well, I don’t feel very brotherly to you. I’ve been holding back out of respect to our mutual loss, but that’s not going to last." His gray eyes smoldered. "So if you don’t feel the same—if you don’t want this—you better run, Serena. Run as fast as you can. Because when this is over, I’m going to chase you," he leaned in, "and baby, I’ll break every record to get you."
Serena’s breath hitched in her throat and then burst out to fan his lips. She wondered at God’s logic for giving a man such stunning eyes. Half of her wanted to flee, to run as fast as he warned. The other half wanted to lean into his embrace and sate the desire making her heart beat in triple time.
"Brett—"
"So," he gently set her back on her heels, "for now we have to seriously consider our list of possible suspects. I couldn’t get a good look at the guy, but I know without a doubt he was male and about six feet tall. That ought to narrow things down. Did you catch a glimpse of him at all?"
Flustered, she shook her head and shot to her feet. She looked down at him with arms crossed. If he could dismiss the subject so easily, so could she.
"No. You shoved me behind the counter, remember?"
"I’d rather an anvil rammed into my skull than yours. I’ve got a hard head, I can take it."
Serena jolted as another log cracked in the fire. "Well," she breathed. "I’m not as soft as you’d like to portray me."
Brett relied heavily on the arm of the loveseat to inch upright, and then managed a grin.
"Honey, I’ve never accused you of being soft. You’re stubborn, you’re proud, and you’re beautiful." He looked into her eyes. "Quite a deadly combination."
"Damn." She smiled.
"Damn." He echoed.
CHAPTER XX
With a ballpoint pen lodged behind her ear and a turkey feather blown free from the copious décor nestled in her hair, Serena moved through the dining room, adjusting napkins and autumn-patterned placemats. In the center of each table was a woven ring of foliage that flanked an ocher candle, as yet unlit, but still effervescing the scent of maple.
Faux candles dangled from the ceiling to provide intimate lighting over booths lined with Thanksgiving cutouts. Brown and orange streamers awaited the festive crowd that would soon bustle in from the annual rivalry against Victory Cove’s neighboring football team.
Standing beside the longest table, a link of three smaller ones, Serena tapped her fingers against the sleeve of her sweater, and then swooped down mechanically to smooth unseen wrinkles in her knit, calf-length skirt. She dusted some imaginary crumbs off the nearest table and smiled at her domain.
Perhaps the décor was a bit tacky. Perhaps the shadows chosen for atmosphere conveniently hid layers of dust she couldn’t reach on the beams. All in all, O’Flanagans represented home, and Serena needed that feeling. She needed the warmth of friends, and in return, would show them that Thanksgiving in her home would be the best damn meal they ever had.
Two hours later, Serena’s face was flushed. A speck of mashed potatoes clung to her glossy hair, while the sleeves of her sweater were hiked well above her elbows.
"More gravy!"
"Coming," She muttered, ladling the creamy liquid into a ceramic turkey. She handed the bowl off to one of Harriett’s great nephews and resisted the impulse to muss her fingers through his unruly hair. She flashed him a smile that had the eleven year old blushing as he hastened back out of the kitchen.
Straightening her own haphazard mane before plunging out into the crowd, Serena felt a rush of warmth and listened to the harmonious clamor.
"When the hell is Simon getting here?" Rebecca muttered nearby, breaking the positive meditation.
"In about an hour. Don’t worry" Serena said, "everything’s under control."
She tried her best to stave the disdain in her voice. She did not want to face Rebecca’s betrayal until after the holiday was over.
"Easy for you to say. You haven’t been behind the bar taking the sixteen thousand orders I’ve had to fill." Rebecca snorted.
Not about to argue that she was busy in the kitchen throwing sixteen thousand rolls into the oven, nor eager to point out that she had placed a pitcher of iced tea along with a carafe of wine on each table simply to prevent Rebecca from having to take many drink orders, Serena swallowed her sigh and shouldered her way back into the crowd.
"Rena, honey, you’ve outdone yourself this time." Harriet reached out to grab her as she hastened by. "But I’ve got to ask—what’s this here stuff?"
Dressed in her best corduroy jacket, the shopkeeper sniffed her nose at a bowl full of unidentified liquid.
"Dove sauce?" Serena attempted.
"Dove sauce? What the hell is dove sauce?"
One of Harriet’s elder daughters quietly admonished her mother for her language, but Harriett shrugged it off.
"I don’t know." Serena said. "Ask Simon when he comes in. It was his masterpiece."
"I’m gonna pass. Just keep bringing out the mashed potatoes dear−and some more of those dinnah rolls if you will?"
Serena pirouetted back to the kitchen and caught sight of Simon entering through the back door. She summoned up a smile.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Simon."
Simon shook the snow off his black leather jacket a
nd glanced over his shoulder. "Huh, uh yeah, you too. How bad is it out there?"
"Not bad at all, everyone’s enjoying themselves. They’ve even commented on your—your sauce."
A glint of interest pierced the cerulean eyes. "Really, what did they say?"
"They, ah, they wanted to know all about it. Nobody asked about my gravy as much as they’ve asked about your sauce."
Seemingly pleased, Simon tucked his black necktie into the waistline of his sleek black trousers, and then tested the cuffs of his starched white shirt. He reached up to run a hand through his hair.
"Well alright then, I guess I’ll get started."
It was impossible to ignore the subtle underscore of conversation about the discovery of Alan’s body, but Serena managed to disregard it along with the accompanying sympathetic glances. She moved through the crowd, pausing to touch people on the shoulder while sharing a familiar tale, and even managed an opportunity to test a slice or two of the tender, golden meat.
That brief amount of food now churned uneasily in her stomach as the door opened and Brett walked in, smirking at the hush that befell O’Flanagans. He did not so much as glance in her direction as he strolled up to the bar and asked Rebecca for a beer.
"So, you decided to join this festive event?" Rebecca drawled as she handed Brett the frosted mug, letting her fingers linger for a second against his.
"Well, Thanksgiving is supposed to be for sharing with your family—" Brett tipped back the beer and set it down forcefully enough to draw attention. "And my family is lying in the morgue right now."
Conversation halted completely as all eyes in the restaurant swung back and forth between the outsider and Serena.
Serena’s hand, which had been casually resting on Cooper’s shoulder, now clenched. He winced and pried her fingers loose. She gathered herself, remembering this had to be done−grateful that the act came after dinner was complete.
She approached the bar.
"Would you like some turkey, Brett?"
With a derisive grin, Brett hoisted an eyebrow. "Ever the hostess, aren’t you, Mrs. Murphy?"
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