***
Ryan climbed from his car, thankful that the drive from Brooklyn to Suffolk County was nothing more than the usual rush hour traffic jam. He made his way up the paving-stone pathway, drawing comfort from the chirping sparrows and crickets. They sounded happy, peaceful. The dying sun painted the sky brilliant hues of lavender and pink. He breathed in deep, hoping the scent of freshly mowed grass and roses would calm him further, as he unlocked his front door.
Ryan remembered a time when he looked forward to coming home to his mid-century colonial. No matter how tough his day, he could always count on the solitude of this house to settle his nerves. Maybe because of all the renovations, he felt as if he'd built it himself, given birth to it.
But that comfort was long gone. Now he dreaded the end of each day, dreaded the night.
After a quick dinner of tomato soup and a roast beef on rye, Ryan sat in front of the TV and sipped iced tea. He flicked through the channels, searching for a show that would hold his interest. There wasn’t much on. The Mets were off tonight, and any program worth watching he’d already seen.
After a few minutes he settled for a program on The History Channel. He switched from tea to Red Bull while he waited for the coffee to brew. A full pot tonight.
He knew what lurked on the other side of consciousness.
With the narrator detailing the shootout at the O.K. Corral for company, Ryan searched through the stack of books he’d yet to read. Sci-fi, mystery, thrillers. He longed for the escape, but reading usually made him sleepy.
Then his eyes shifted to the chess table he’d built years ago. What was once the most used piece of furniture in his home, hosting many hours of friendly competition, now sat gathering dust.
Just like his life.
The old grandfather clock in the entranceway chimed one, then two. Ryan chugged down his coffee. It burned his throat. He drank more.
The panic attacks hadn’t been this bad in years, probably because of where he’d been working. He’d thought he’d be ready for a job in that part of Brooklyn Heights by now.
Apparently not.
His eyes burned. He rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Drying off, he stared at his eyes in the mirror. Haunted, lifeless, devoid of the mischievous sparkle they once held.
He looked older than his thirty-nine years, mostly due to stress and lack of sleep. His doctor had offered sleeping pills, but he’d refused. He didn’t want to sleep.
Around three-fifteen, he could fight it no longer. His eyelids grew heavy. Sitting on his couch, his TV blaring, overhead lights shining on his face, he relaxed his grip on the coffee mug and it slipped from his hand. He finally gave in.
It started almost immediately. His body convulsed as blurred images rushed toward him, growing sharper with each passing second.
No!
Ryan fought to break away from his nightmare’s grip. Sweat soaked his body until he violently sat up, falling off the couch with horrified screams.
“Colin!”
Chapter Three
THE NEXT MORNING, Emma sipped her coffee as she carefully laid out the dry, crumbling newspaper she’d found in the fireplace. It was fascinating to read about a day in the life of 1888. Even though the city had suffered stronger blizzards, experts still considered the 1888 storm the worst in New York City history.
The paper had dedicated nearly the entire edition to the blizzard. It amazed her, reading firsthand the trials and tribulations people went through during and after the horrific event.
God, how would they survive it now? She couldn’t even leave the house without her cell phone.
It wasn’t odd to find a newspaper in a fireplace, but why was the paper in with the body?
Emma was sure the murder and the delivery of this newspaper had taken place on the same date. March 13th, 1888. Call it women’s intuition, call it a hunch, but somehow she knew.
Just as she’d somehow known the body in the fireplace was a woman. What was with her lately?
Nothing. Just her stupid imagination.
She headed toward the stairs with coffee in hand, unwilling to let it go to waste while she dressed. She had two job sites besides the one that was shut down, but she was taking the day off to go to the local library in Brooklyn Heights and do a little research. Maybe there was something in the archives or public records that would help her find out more about the brownstone and the previous owners.
The ringing of the doorbell startled her, and she spilled precious drops of coffee down the front of her robe. Placing her Blue’s Clues mug on the foyer table, she opened the door.
She was so surprised to see Ryan Atkinson, she lost coherent thought. Why was he here? How had he found her? What did he want?
Why was her mouth watering at the sight of him?
“A hello would be nice.”
Oh, right. “What can I do for you, Mr. Atkinson?”
“For starters you can stop calling me Mr. Atkinson.”
Okay, how about Jerkwad, or maybe PITA? Pain in the Ass seemed too juvenile.
As if reading her thoughts, he added through pursed lips, “Call me Ryan.”
Not as satisfying as calling him Arrogant Idiot, but she’d go along with it. “All right. What brings you by?”
“I talked to the police. You can start back to work on Monday. The preliminary report showed the body was there as long as we suspected and it was a woman of about fifty.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You could’ve told me that over the phone.”
“I know.” Ryan ran his long fingers through the silky brown strands that had escaped his small ponytail. “But you live so close by I decided to make the trip.”
“How did you get my address?”
“I called Frankie and asked him. And before you get mad, he only gave it to me because I told him I was coming here to apologize.”
Her brows shot up. “Well, in that case I won’t scold him.”
Ryan sank his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I’m sorry for the way I acted. I’m usually pretty fair.”
Huh, admitting he was wrong. This guy was full of surprises. His behavior still stung, but after taking in his red, tired eyes and slumped shoulders, she decided to give him a break. “Thank you for taking over yesterday after the shock I had. I can’t say I was in any state to take charge.”
He looked everywhere but at her. “No problem.”
An awkward silence followed. Emma didn’t like being at odds with anyone. But with Ryan, it weighed even heavier on her.
And she had no idea why.
“So, do we just stand at my front door, staring at each other, or would you like some coffee?”
After a slight pause, he said, “Sure, that’d be great.”
Emma retrieved her cup and led him into the kitchen, hoping he wouldn’t stay too long. From what she’d seen of Ryan, he tended to jump from one mood to another like a child playing hopscotch.
“This is a nice place.” Ryan slid into a chair.
“Thanks. It’s a bit big for two people, but I love this house. I didn’t want to lose it.” Grabbing a mug, she poured him some coffee.
“Two people?”
“Yes, my daughter and I.”
His face lit up. “How old is she?”
“Six going on sixteen.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s usually the case with girls.”
For the first time since she’d met him, Emma saw why Frankie thought so highly of Ryan Atkinson. He smiled easily when not on guard; although he never seemed to fully relax. “I’d like to argue, but sadly, I cannot.”
“Is she here? Can I meet her?”
“You want to meet Nicole?” His request should have seemed odd, but after the vision she’d had last night of him sitting in the same seat he was now, making faces at her daughter, it was almost natural.
“Well, yeah. Nicole is your daughter, isn’t she?”
“She’s with her dad. It’s his weekend. Since
he lives so close to her school, they start their weekends together a day early.”
“You’re divorced then?”
“Yes, for about four months now.”
His brow furrowed. “Wow, that’s not very long.”
Emma studied the liquid in her mug, sure it was now cold. “No, it’s not. She hasn’t gotten used to it yet.”
“She will eventually.” Ryan fiddled with the edge of the yellowed paper tucked behind the napkin holder while she replaced her cold coffee with hot. “What’s this?”
She sat down across from him. “I found it in the fireplace yesterday.”
Ryan’s eyes swung from the newspaper to her. “And you never said anything?”
Emma held up her hand. “Before you start yelling at me about removing evidence, it’s just an old newspaper.”
“It’s not ‘just an old newspaper.’ It could’ve proven the murder didn’t occur in recent history!”
“That’s not true. It could’ve happened later, just not before the date on the paper.”
Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s still evidence. We could’ve gotten back to work sooner if you’d handed it over.”
“You’re right.” Emma lowered her head as the truth of his words sank in. “I’ll go to the police station with it today.”
With a sigh, he rubbed his hands over his face. “Don’t bother. They’ve already decided it’s a cold case.”
Ryan carefully thumbed through the paper, seeming to be as fascinated with it as she had been. “So that body was left there right after the great blizzard?”
“That’s my thinking. I’m going to the library to see if I can learn anything about the house and the people who lived there.”
“I doubt you’ll find much. You’ll probably have better luck at the Kings County Registered Archives. I do know the original owner died in 1888.”
Emma gasped. “Do you think it was her?”
Ryan peered at her though his lashes, his lips pursed as if to hide a smile. “If it was, how would they’ve known she was dead if her body was hidden in a fireplace?”
The impish look in his eyes made her blush, not from embarrassment but from something much more upsetting. Sexual awareness. She pulled the neckline of her robe closed. Even though it was about as sexy as her grandmother’s old housecoat, she suddenly felt naked. Again. “Yes, I guess that was a silly thought, huh?”
He took extra care folding the paper. “Would you mind if I tag along?”
“You want to go with me?” She gripped the robe tighter. “Why?”
He shrugged. “I like a good hundred-year-old mystery just as much as the next guy. And since I can’t really do any work today, I figured, why not?”
No work? That was odd. It seemed strange that he didn’t have another job site to supervise.
But what was the harm in letting him help satisfy her curious mind about what had happened all those years ago?
“Sure. Just give me a few minutes to throw some clothes on.”
She dressed quickly, unaware that the way he’d looked at her—so intense, almost naughty—had clouded her judgment until she nearly walked downstairs in a neon green halter top and silk magenta pajama pants.
Not the look she was going for.
When Emma rejoined him, having donned a more presentable outfit of jeans and a simple blue T-shirt, Ryan stood by the front door, twirling his keys around his finger. “I’ll drive if you want.”
Drive over an hour with him? Alone?
What would they talk about? What if there was traffic? What if spending time with him made these tingly feelings grow stronger?
Emma busied herself with gathering her cell and keys, trying to come up with a plausible reason to take her own car.
Nothing. Damn it.
She faced him with what she hoped was a sincere smile. “Sure, thanks.”
To her surprise, as they made their way into Kings County, they chatted comfortably about work, sharing funny stories about the job sites they’d been on. She learned they had a shared love of history, the Mets, and architecture.
All too soon, he was fighting for a parking space.
Once they were inside and surrounded by documents, records, and an ancient computer, all thoughts focused on their quest.
Ryan scanned the screen. “The original owner of the brownstone was Nathan Smith. He died April 28th, 1884, so it can’t be that he murdered his wife and hid her in the fireplace.”
As Emma wrote down the information, she rolled her eyes at Ryan’s statement. “You didn’t really think that would be the case, did you?”
“Hey, if you watched as much American Justice as I do, you’d know it’s always the spouse who’s guilty.”
“True. I used to tell my ex-husband, if you’re ever murdered, make sure you wait until I have an alibi. He didn’t find it very amusing.”
Ryan chuckled as he clicked through the pages. “Huh.”
“What?” Emma glanced up from her notebook.
“This says Hilary Smith was given ownership of the brownstone after her husband died—”
“What’s so unusual about that?”
“She died March 13th, 1888.” He looked at her, his mouth agape.
Emma felt as dumbfounded as he looked. “The same date as the newspaper? That’s a huge coincidence.”
“No kidding.” His eyes scanned the page at high speed. “It also says the house became property of the state.”
“But they had three daughters. Why didn’t one of them inherit?”
“Let’s find out.”
Hours passed as they searched through the records, looking for anyone with the same name in conjunction with the brownstone. The air-conditioned room was chilly, but having Ryan so close warmed her. His cologne or soap or whatever that amazing scent that wafted up her nostrils was every time he moved had her fighting the urge to bury her face is his neck.
She noticed whenever he’d found something interesting, he’d brush his thumb across his bottom lip. Like he was doing at this very moment. Oh, to be a thumb right now.
“All three daughters married, but none of them inherited the house.”
Ryan’s announcement nearly made her jump out her chair. She buried her head in her notebook, hoping to hide the growing heat in her face, and pretended to write something relevant. “That makes no sense.”
“Public records can tell us a lot, but they can’t tell us personal business.” Ryan studied the papers before him. “It’s weird, don’t you think? This home was owned by so many people since the Smiths, yet none of them held onto it longer than two years. And that’s prime real estate.”
“That explains why it’s in such disrepair.”
“That’s about all it explains.” He pushed the mouse aside and flexed his neck. “I don’t think we’ll find anything else here. Do you want to go?”
No, what I want is to find out what it’s like to kiss those amazing lips of yours, she thought, but instead she reached for her purse. “Yeah, I guess that’s best.”
The drive home was as comfortable as the drive to the archives had been. It amazed Emma how only hours before she’d thought him to be arrogant, even irritating. But now—now she found herself holding back girlish giggles, and, at one point, twirling a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail around her finger.
God, was she really that easy to sway?
Apparently, if the slight disappointment she felt when Ryan pulled into her driveway was anything to go by. Wishing for some excuse to invite him in didn’t bode well for her either.
“Thanks for driving me.” Why did she suddenly feel so shy that she found it hard to look at him?
“Thanks for letting me tag along.”
When she finally found the courage to meet his gaze, her breath hitched. He looked less tired, his features less taut. There was still a slight slouch to his posture, but in spite of that this was still one sexy guy.
He held her gaze for a few seconds before turnin
g away, focusing on the steering wheel. “See you Monday.”
She left his car with a sense of anticipation. Maybe he had just dismissed her, but the spark between them had been unmistakable. She had a feeling life on the Brooklyn Heights job site was about to get very interesting.
Chapter Four
MONDAY MORNING, Emma hummed to herself as she walked the short distance from the work van to the job site. Even though she missed Nicole terribly over the weekend, remembering the time she’d spent with Ryan had kept her mind occupied in a warm-fuzzy sort of way.
“Well, someone sure is chipper for a Monday morning.”
Emma stopped in her tracks, staring with confusion at Ryan, standing in the entranceway of the brownstone. He appeared carved from stone, his back chalk-line straight, arms crossed tightly. She’d been looking forward to seeing him today, happy about their newfound camaraderie. From the tone of his voice and his defiant stance, either he’d forgotten about the time they’d spent at the archives or it didn’t apply at work.
“Doesn’t sound like I can say the same for you,” she snapped back, her happy mood lost.
“I would be if my work hadn’t been interrupted.”
What the hell was with him today? “I thought we were past that.”
“Still doesn’t get my framing done.”
Oh, to smack that annoyed look off his face. How wonderful life would be then. She stomped up the steps, but as soon as she reached the threshold, her body met a sudden resistance—like walking into a rubber band--seconds before she was flung backward.
Literally.
If Ryan hadn’t grabbed her wrist, she would’ve fallen down the steps. “What the hell is the matter with you? Put a bit of Irish in your coffee this morning?”
Staring at the open doorway in bewilderment, she turned to him, confused. “I don’t know. It felt like I walked into a screen door.”
Ryan glared. “There isn’t and never will be a screen door on a Brooklyn Heights brownstone.”
“I know that,” Emma said. “I’m just telling you, that’s what it felt like.”
He rolled his eyes.
Ruby's Letters Page 3
