Broken.
Like my back.
At least Rule #3—Never kiss a fellow cop—remains intact.
Though the idea did cross her mind for a split second when she got back last night and found Barnes sound asleep in her bed.
She let him stay there. He looked so peaceful, and so . . .
Naked.
Realizing he probably had nothing on beneath the covers, she felt a forbidden longing stir, and made a tiptoed beeline for the couch.
With a grunt, Sully attempts to twist her stiffened spine into any kind of position that will allow her to stand. Nope.
She stretches and flexes her toes, wondering what time it is. At least ten, judging by the sunlight falling through the window across the room. Not good. She’s supposed to meet Rowan Mundy at eleven. And she wanted to go over to the Dapplebrook first thing, to get her book and talk to Emerson Mundy.
Right now, rolling and straining, she can’t even get off the couch.
“Need a hand?” A large black one closes over her own.
“Wait! Don’t pull,” she tells Barnes, wincing as a spasm seizes her lower back.
“I won’t pull.”
“I’ll pull.”
“Fine. You pull.” He pauses. “You’re not pulling.”
“When I can move,” she says through clenched teeth, “I’ll pull.”
They wait in silence.
“Now?”
She curls her pinky finger. “Owwwwww!”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Okay, don’t pull. Push against my hand to brace yourself. Ready? Go ahead. Push!”
“I . . . can’t . . .” she bites out. “Get me . . . an ice pack. And . . . drugs.”
“What?”
“Medicine cabinet . . . top . . . shelf.”
Fifteen minutes later, she’s in a chair with a bag of frozen peas between her hip and the cushion, waiting for the outdated painkiller to take full effect.
The doctor had prescribed the medication last year for her bullet wound. She soon discovered that nothing that came in an orange bottle could ease the agony of being shot and watching a kid die.
It can, however, ease her sciatica.
Barnes sits on the offending couch, drinking the reheated coffee she’d brought him last night and left on his bedside table.
It can’t be any worse than the nasty cup of tea he just brewed for her. She’s not complaining, but only because it still hurts to talk.
She watches him brood, noting that he hasn’t used the razor she bought for him at Wal-Mart. At least he showered and used the toothbrush, because he smells a lot better than he did when he got here.
She still has no idea what the hell happened to him. Time to find out.
She opens with an icebreaker. “Hey, good thing we never had a baby together, Barnes.”
He doesn’t ask why.
Seriously? An opener like that, and he’s silent? Not just silent, but he almost seems angered by the quip. Either this is worse than she thought, or he spaced out and didn’t hear her. She persists.
“I mean, you’d make a lousy labor coach.” Using exaggerated inflections, Sully paraphrases their earlier conversation, making his voice guttural, her own high-pitched and anguished. “‘Push’ . . . ‘I caaaaaan’t!’ . . . ‘Okay, here, have some drugs.’”
She’s baiting him, trying to rouse a comeback that will prove Barnes—her Barnes—lurks somewhere within this glum shell of a man.
Nothing.
Alrighty then.
“Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“You know . . . insult me, mock me, tell me to go to hell . . . the usual.”
“I thought you said it hurt you to talk.”
“It’s getting better by the second.”
“Yay,” he says flatly.
“I see you found the clothes I left you.”
“Yes. Thanks.”
“Gotta love one-stop shopping. I guessed on the sizes.” The navy blue T-shirt hangs in folds on his not-as-broad-as-usual shoulders. “And boxers instead of briefs—also a guess. Was I right?”
He shrugs.
“You mean you’re a tighty-whitey guy?”
Bait.
Wait.
Nothin’.
Sully shifts her tactics and her position in the chair—still ouch but improving. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here? Because as much as I want to think you just missed me, this doesn’t feel like a last-minute vacation, and I feel like you’d rather be in Cuba.”
He almost seems to wince at that comment. “I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
She shrugs. This time, it doesn’t hurt quite as much. The prescription medication really is dulling the pain. Maybe her common sense, too, because she’s not going to press Barnes for more information.
“Fine, it can wait. I have to be someplace anyway.”
“Work?”
“No, I’m meeting someone.”
“A date?”
She shrugs. It’s not the kind he’s thinking, but let him assume there’s a man in her life, because . . .
Because, dammit, having him here is . . .
It’s inconvenient, that’s what it is. And worrisome, concerning his safety.
It’s nothing more. She doesn’t regret leaving Barnes and New York; not at all.
She heaves herself to a standing position and cautiously arches her back. “I’ll bring back some lunch for you. But if you get hungry in the meantime . . .”
He makes a face, looking down at the bag of peas she thrusts toward him. “Freshly thawed and squashed by Sully butt? No, thanks.”
“Not butt. Hipbone.” She starts out of the room, then turns back. “One last thing . . .”
“No means no. You get on out of here with your butt peas, girl.”
It’s so good to have him back—a tiny hint of him, anyway—that she holds up the bag as if it was, indeed, her one last thing. “Sure I can’t tempt you?”
“You mean threaten me?”
Smiling as she walks away, she swallows the original question she was going to ask.
She knows the answer already.
Yeah, he’s in danger. And despite three buses and a train . . .
That probably makes two of us.
Letter
10th July 1665
Dearest Sister Felicity:
Two months have passed since we bade each other farewell in London. I shall not recount the arduous, perilous weeks at sea, lest you decide against fulfillment of your promise to make the journey to this bountiful new land so that we may be reunited.
I expect that Mother has passed on by now. I do hope that her suffering was not great, and that you did not take ill while caring for her in her final days whilst this scourge ravaged the population. I must thank you for allowing me to take her gimmal ring. I wear it on my own finger now, and one day, I shall give it to Jeremiah for his bride.
Daughter Charity remains frightfully frail. Though Priscilla is several years younger, she is a more stalwart child and her health is good. Jeremiah is becoming a fine, strapping young man. However, he has taken an improper fancy to the Dowlings’ young servant girl. He does not speak of it, but it gives me great cause for concern. I cannot ensure space between them in cramped shipboard quarters, but surely when we reach our destination, he will come to his senses.
I shall post this letter in the morning when our ship docks. Did you know that this great harbor, known as New Amsterdam until September, has been renamed New York? I viewed its smoky rooftops in the distance from the deck this evening as the sun slipped into the sea. Tomorrow, we shall disembark to set foot on New World soil, and to prepare for the final leg. Our journey shall continue north from the mouth of the river to fertile ground our country has reclaimed from the Dutch and the savages who inhabit its forest. There, we intend to build a home where we shall welcome you one day. I will send word of our lo
cation when we are settled.
Until we meet again,
Your sister,
Elizabeth Mundy
Chapter 7
Showered, wearing makeup, dressed in cuffed white denim shorts and a sleeveless periwinkle blouse, Emerson lingers in her suite at ten minutes to eleven, listening to the old mantel clock.
She doesn’t want to arrive at the café right on the dot. That would make her seem too eager. She sits at the desk in the windowed alcove overlooking the street, hands clasped on the polished top, legs crossed beneath it.
Mundy’s Landing: Then and Now lies before her. She gave it a thorough read, though the text was limited to captions beneath old photos. Not all are of Mundys—most aren’t. She studied the ones that are, struck by the resemblance between herself and her ancestors—maybe because you see what you want to see.
Tick . . . Tick . . .
Ten more minutes.
Nancy hadn’t mentioned the desk last night when she’d shown Emerson the table, clock, and bench, but she’d said there were other original pieces in the room. Could this be one of them?
It certainly looks authentic, but the silky mahogany surface is unmarred by evidence of longtime use. Her own classroom desk at school was only ten or fifteen years old, yet unmistakably timeworn with ink stains and nicks.
Antique furniture is sturdier, though. And Horace probably used a blotter. Wanting to believe he’d sat in this very spot, she stares out into the network of sturdy limbs that seem to strain toward the house like strong arms and splayed fingers.
Back in Horace’s day, the leafy screen might not have obscured neighboring rooftops along Prospect Street’s steep slope to the heart of town. Maybe he could see all the way out to the fringe of towering evergreens on the river bluff.
She imagines him working on his financial paperwork, pausing every so often to gaze out at Schaapskill, pondering their ancestors’ plight during that tragic winter.
Tick . . . Tick . . .
She opens a drawer, seeking some evidence, like . . .
What? Fingerprints? The phrase “Horace was here” scribbled inside? Yellowed, faded paperwork caught way in the back?
She finds only a glossy white folder imprinted Dapplebrook Inn above a simple line drawing of the building’s façade. Maybe there’s stationery inside—letter paper and envelopes bearing the address, even a picture postcard or two.
No.
Just as well. Who but her father would appreciate the significance of correspondence from here?
The folder contains a couple of take-out menus, a page of coupons for local businesses, and a photocopied hand-drawn grid of area streets, a relic of the days before smart phones and Google Maps. There’s a glossy trifold brochure outlining the inn’s history, but even the modern photos appear dated, and it contains far more information about the architecture than the family that built it.
Shoving everything back into the folder, she checks the clock.
Six minutes to eleven.
Tick . . . Tick . . .
She returns the folder to the drawer, closes it, and stands, restless. Too bad she couldn’t spend the morning exploring the first floor of the inn as she’d planned.
Nancy Vandergraaf is a nice woman, and last night Emerson did welcome her insight into the family history. But she isn’t in the mood to chat right now, and Nancy seems like the kind of person who craves conversation.
Earlier, when Emerson reached for the front doorknob upon returning from her run, it turned from the inside. There was Nancy, smiling and holding out an icy bottle of water.
“Welcome back!”
Had she been watching for Emerson to come back up the street? Roy sometimes does that when she shows up at his door, waiting like an anxious puppy.
“How was your run?”
“Tougher coming home, like you said.”
“I told you! Those hills are killer.”
Emerson agreed with her, though that’s not why the return trip was more difficult. She’d walked most of the way back up to the inn, pondering what had happened out by the river.
“There’s a continental breakfast in the dining room. We usually serve it on the porch, but there are hornets or yellow jackets buzzing around, so I’m going to spray the whole area. It should be fine by lunchtime.”
Emerson thanked her and grabbed an apple and a piece of toast to eat in her room. Under a hot shower, she thought about the strange experience at Schaapskill.
For a few crazy moments—crazy!—she felt as though she might somehow have gone back in time. It was almost as if she’d actually become . . . whatever, whoever Elizabeth Mundy is to her.
Her great-grandmother, at least nine greats over.
Time travel is impossible. But out there, in the middle of that clearing, she was Elizabeth, trapped like a hunter’s prey, facing certain death.
She could feel her racing heart pumping desperation with every beat, could see the crowd, could hear the voices condemning her to death.
Now, she paces across the room, scowling.
Come on. The crowd was a flock of geese, and the voices were only in your head.
Yes, of course she knows that now. On some level, she must have known it then, too.
As she told Nancy Vandergraaf, she doesn’t believe in ghosts.
Then again . . .
She doesn’t not believe in ghosts, either.
Maybe the place is haunted. The field, the inn, the whole damned town.
Mouth dry, she grabs her water bottle and takes a long, tepid sip. About to set it back on the table, she realizes that she should have used a coaster when she put it down the first time. The condensation left a faint ring on the wood.
Terrific. It’s one of the room’s original antiques, like the bench and the . . .
She can hear Horace’s disapproval reverberating through the room.
Tsk, tsk . . .
But of course, it’s only the mantel clock.
Horace’s clock, ticking . . .
Tick . . . tick . . .
Tsk . . . tsk . . .
Horace wouldn’t want her here. That was his voice in the nightmare, telling her she shouldn’t have come, condemning her.
She tucks her room key, phone, and some cash into her pocket and grabs Sullivan Leary’s book, hoping Nancy Vandergraaf won’t be lying in wait at the foot of the stairs.
Luck is with her. The front hall is deserted. She can hear dishes rattling in the kitchen at the back of the house, and voices of the waitstaff as they prepare to open the restaurant for lunch.
As she descends the front steps, she decides to detour around the block and kill a little more time. Turning right instead of left, she hears someone call, “Hey, are you trying to sneak by me without saying hi?”
Emerson turns to see Trevor, the nice waiter from last night, setting tables on the porch.
“Sorry! I didn’t even see you there.”
“Sure, that’s what they all say.”
“Who?”
“You know. The beautiful women who pass me by.”
She can’t help but smile at that. She’s not beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, especially to a kid his age. She’s almost old enough to be his mother.
Almost? Come on. You’re closing in on forty, and he doesn’t look a day over twenty-one.
Still, it’s been a while since anyone flirted with her, unless you count Roy.
A chill creeps over her at the thought of him.
“We’ve got some great specials today,” Trevor informs her, “so I hope you’re not going out to lunch.”
“No, just coffee.”
“Enjoy!” He waves, or maybe flashes a peace sign, and she strolls off into the breezy sunshine, making a right onto Prospect Street.
“Hey!” Trevor again.
She turns back.
“You’re going the wrong way.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you said you were going for coffee. Everythin
g’s that way.” He points in the opposite direction, toward the business district.
“Everything?”
“It’s Mundy’s Landing. There’s not much, but what there is, is down there, around Fulton and Market.”
“Not if you like taking the long way around.” Smiling more to herself than at him, she turns away. She can feel Trevor’s eyes following her until she turns the corner onto State Street.
Small towns.
Holy cow.
If she moved here, would she ever get used to everyone noticing and weighing in on her every move?
It’s better than no one ever noticing you at all. Strangers’ friendliness may occasionally cross the line into nosiness, but at least they care. It’s been a long while since Emerson has felt as though anyone cares, other than . . .
Dammit.
She pushes Roy from her mind, trying to focus on the lovely old homes that line State Street. Making a left at the corner, she notes the large Second Empire Victorian about halfway down the block.
Forty-six Bridge Street is another of the three notorious Murder Houses where the Sleeping Beauty Killer struck during the summer of 1916. The current residents, the Bingham family, figured prominently in last summer’s news coverage.
Emerson spies a woman in the side yard. Tall and slender, with short dark hair, Annabelle Bingham is easily recognizable. Her picture was all over the news a year ago, along with photos of her husband, her son, their house . . .
Back then, she looked fragile and haggard. Today, she appears fully healed, serenely cutting tall white flowers from a blooming border. But as Emerson walks past, Annabelle flicks a wary gaze at her.
Not surprising.
Once you’ve been stalked by a murderous sociopath, you’re probably suspicious of every stranger who crosses your path.
Not just strangers.
Sometimes, people you know, or even love, are capable of heinous acts. Emerson picks up her pace, leaving the Murder House behind.
Bridge Street ends at Fulton Avenue, the eastern perimeter of the town square. Market Street runs parallel, across the green that was so quiet earlier this morning. The bucolic paths have become pedestrian thoroughfares. Every bench is occupied. In a grassy corner, the spiderwebs are gone, and a teenage magician in a cape performs for a group of children wearing lime green Mundy’s Landing Day Camp shirts. At the fountain, chubby-fisted toddlers throw pennies at their mothers’ urging, then attempt to climb into the rippling water after them.
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