by HR Mason
“You said earlier that you had a terrible day. Would you like to talk about it?” Hank asked.
“You mean talk about my feelings? I don’t really do that.”
“Okay, then don’t talk about your feelings. Just tell me what happened to make your day so terrible.”
“I found out who my father is,” she blurted.
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“I don’t know what it is. I’m still trying to process it. Apparently, I also have grandparents who have known about me all along and chose not to say anything.”
“That’s a tough pill to swallow. I’ll bet you’re really angry and confused.”
“Among other things.”
“They really missed out, you know.”
“Missed out on what?”
“On getting to know you. It’s their loss, because from what I’ve seen, you’re an amazing woman.”
Aubrey had never believed men like Hank Metzger existed. She let her eyes linger a bit longer than she intended.
“You surprise me at every turn. Do you know that, Hank?”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not, but thank you.”
“It’s a very good thing. Don’t worry.”
Hank tore his gaze away. The last thing he wanted to do was leave, yet he knew that’s exactly what needed to happen. She’d had a rough day, and she was vulnerable. She needed space to get her head on straight.
“Well, thanks for the coffee. I should probably be going.”
He stood, took his coffee mug to the kitchen sink, and rinsed it out. Aubrey followed.
“Thanks for the information. Every little bit is helpful. I have to get to the bottom of this supposed family curse if I’m going to find some semblance of peace.”
“Between the two of us, we’ll figure it out.”
Aubrey followed him to the front door, and a strange sensation came over her. Rather than being in a rush to see him leave, she wished he would stay.
“It means a lot to me that you want to help. I’m not used to having people in my corner, Hank.”
“There’s a first time for everything. And I’m definitely in your corner.”
He reached out and took her hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze. A magnetic, electrical current vibrated between their gripped palms. The surprised look on Hank’s face told Aubrey she wasn’t the only one who felt it.
“What was that?” she asked quietly.
“I have no idea. But I kind of liked it,” Hank replied with a grin.
“Strangely enough, I did too.”
Hank brought Aubrey’s hand to his lips and kissed it softly before letting go.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Take care of yourself.”
“Thank you.”
Aubrey closed the door quietly and listened for the sound of his car as he pulled out of the driveway. Once Hank was gone, she locked the door and headed upstairs.
24
Aubrey busied herself in her room in an attempt to exorcise the image of Hank from her mind. She had no idea what was wrong with her. She’d never formed such an attachment to another person, and the very idea of getting too involved made her nervous. She tried to remind herself that she wasn’t into relationships, but try as she might, the image of Hank’s face wouldn’t go away.
She ran her fingers lightly across the top of her hand. She could still feel the warmth of his lips on her skin. She wanted to deny it, but the fact remained that she’d enjoyed it.
“Spectre, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That man is bad news,” she said.
The cat meowed and kneaded the bed beneath her paws before settling into a comfortable position.
“This is where you’re supposed to tell me to stay away from Hank.”
Aubrey’s voice echoed in the room. Exasperated, she flopped on the bed next to Spectre. She rolled over onto her stomach, and something on the bedside table caught her eye. It was a very old locket, and it hadn’t been there before.
With trembling hands, Aubrey opened it. The antique necklace was heart-shaped and delicate, containing a miniature painting of a man. It was Henry Metzger, but his face looked exactly like Hank’s.
Aubrey knew with certainty that the jewelry belonged to Marie, who had no doubt kept it as a reminder of her love for Henry. She didn’t know why it appeared at that exact moment, when she was contemplating her attachment to Hank, who was identical to the man in the locket. Perhaps it was a sign.
“What are you trying to tell me, Marie?”
Aubrey fondled the locket for a bit longer before placing it in the drawer next to the pearl necklace. She’d slipped the rose between the pages of a book to dry. She needed to keep the unexplainable, tangible mementos to convince herself she wasn’t hallucinating.
Her shoulders and neck knotted with tension. She rotated her head in an attempt to loosen the kinks, but it was no use. She needed a hot bath if she had any hope of relaxing.
Aubrey headed into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the faucet in the large claw-foot bathtub. She drizzled bubble bath beneath the running water and watched as it foamed. She couldn’t believe she’d waited so long to run herself a bath in the extra-deep antique tub.
As the water rose, she stripped away her clothes and immersed her body, sinking beneath the froth. Easing lower until she rested her head on the back of the tub, she closed her eyes and sighed, attempting to clear her mind of all thoughts of Hank.
After several moments, she was successful. Her body relaxed, the tension drifting away in the hot water. Her mind faded in and out of consciousness. She wasn’t awake, but she wasn’t asleep. She was in some sort of blissful in-between. She heard the faint sounds of an old jazz song playing in the other room.
Suddenly, her eyes flew open as her head was shoved beneath the water. She struggled to pull herself to the surface, but she couldn’t. There was no one standing above her, yet the weight of a large hand was firmly planted on the top of her head, plunging her into the depths of the water. Her arms flailed, fingers wriggling to grasp the edge of the bathtub, then slipping away, unable to get a grip.
The room grew dark, then light again. Aubrey was on the verge of blacking out. She placed her feet firmly on the sides of the tub and pushed her body upward with all of her might. The hand thrusting her down was stronger. She tried again, but the force shoving her beneath the water was substantial. She was too tired to fight it. Her drowsy eyes were made of lead. All she could do was close them.
Aubrey didn’t know how long she was unconscious, but when she finally opened her eyes, she was floating listlessly in the bathtub. The water had grown ice cold. She shivered uncontrollably, although she wasn’t sure if it was from the temperature of the water or the terror of what had occurred. All she knew was she needed to get out of there.
On shaking, unsteady legs, she managed to pull herself into a standing position. She wrapped the large bath towel around her trembling frame and glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent. Her wet hair hung limply around her terrified face. Dazed, frightened eyes stared back at her.
Aubrey was freezing. She walked into the bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawer, pulling out the warmest pajamas she owned. She tugged the garments over her body and wrapped a towel around her dripping hair, then climbed into bed and dove beneath the heavy down comforter.
Someone had tried to kill her. Someone had attempted to drown her in her own bathtub. She was afraid and disoriented, but even in her frazzled state of mind, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it had really happened. She also knew the perpetrator was not a flesh-and-blood person. Whoever tried to kill her was not of this world.
Having no idea what else to do, she reached for her phone and called Hank.
25
Desolate Ridge — 1940
James Ross turned up the volume on the console radio. The jazz sounds of Benny Goodman filled the master bedroom. He glanced into th
e adjoining bathroom and saw Annabelle’s nylon stockings hanging from the towel rack. His wife hung those blasted things all over the place. It was enough to drive him mad.
He flopped onto the four-poster bed and tapped his foot in agitation. Music blared throughout the room, and his head pounded in time to the rhythm. James tried to remember why he’d gone into the bedroom to begin with, but he couldn’t recall. He muttered under his breath, cursing his failing memory. It was all because he couldn’t sleep. It had been days since he’d rested. His brain refused to shut off.
The incessant ringing in his ears grew louder, and he squeezed his head between his hands in an attempt to stop the sound. James tried to concentrate on the beat of the music, but it was no use. The monster in his brain was relentless, refusing to let him rest. He was crazy, just like his father, Clarence, had been. As hard as James had tried to be different, he wasn’t.
He unplugged his ears and, through the ringing, listened to Annabelle humming the song “I Thought About You” from inside the bathroom. Her voice was clear and melodic. Annabelle Fraser Ross could have easily been the jazz singer she’d dreamed of, instead of James’s wife and Stuart’s mother. James knew the woman blamed him for her deferred dreams, as she blamed him for all her unhappiness.
The sound of water sloshing sent his anger up a notch. Why was she taking a bath in the middle of the day? Didn’t she have duties to perform? She was, after all, the mistress of Desolate Ridge. Annabelle shouldn’t have time for such indulgent afternoon pleasures.
Their young son, Stuart, was sleeping down the hall in the nursery. Shouldn’t Annabelle be close by, watching over him like a good mother? Not that James knew what a good mother did—he hadn’t had one for most of his life. His mother, Elsie, died when he was quite young. But he imagined what she would have been like, and Annabelle just didn’t measure up.
James had noticed a change in his wife over the last few months. She was moody and distant, and the only person who could make her smile was little Stuart. She always flinched when James touched her, and his wife avoided him whenever possible. In a house as large as Desolate Ridge, that wasn’t difficult to do.
Annabelle’s moodiness angered James. She demeaned him, making him beg for her attention and then refusing him. The silly woman was probably still upset about the broken bones he’d given her after their last argument. Perhaps he’d gotten carried away, but he couldn’t help it. Annabelle pushed him, and he blew a fuse. That woman brought out the worst in him.
Last month she’d told him she wanted a divorce. He’d convinced her she didn’t. After all, members of the Ross family didn’t do such things. They didn’t divorce. No one in his family had ever divorced, and he wouldn’t be the first. The Ross men always handled their problems without bringing the law into it. That was the way things were done.
When the doctor came to set Annabelle’s broken arm, James said his wife had tripped and fallen down the stairs. It wasn’t as if he was going to tell the actual truth. And Annabelle didn’t tell the truth either. She knew what was good for her. She agreed to stay.
James swore it would never happen again, and then yesterday he’d lost his temper and smacked her across the face. The black eye and bruise on her cheekbone did nothing to diminish her beauty. That woman was too beautiful for her own good. Or his.
He’d lost his temper. Annabelle would go back to saying she wanted a divorce. That couldn’t happen.
His ears began to ring again, even louder than before. He strode across the room and turned up the volume, trying to drown out the incessant ringing.
“I’m trying to relax. Turn that music down, James,” Annabelle yelled from the bathroom.
“Don’t tell me what to do! You’re not in charge here,” he screamed.
Any day now, Annabelle would pack her bags and abandon him. She would find another man and leave him in the dust. She would take Stuart, his son, his heir. That couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t allow it.
He glanced into the bathroom and saw those blasted nylon stockings hanging from the towel rack. The sight of them made his blood boil.
He turned up the volume even more. The music was so loud the windows shook. Even so, it didn’t drown out the ringing in his ears. James stalked into the bathroom and stood over Annabelle’s body, glistening beautifully in the tub. She glanced up at him, rolled her eyes, and then closed them again, blocking him out.
“Go away, James, I’m trying to relax while Stuart is sleeping. Can’t you just leave me alone?”
Annabelle didn’t open her eyes as she spoke. She didn’t even have the decency to look at him. Why should she get to relax? He couldn’t. He hadn’t slept in days. James Ross had never been at peace. For as long as he could remember, he’d lived in turmoil, tormented by the monster in his brain.
Without a second thought, James leaned down and placed his large palm on top of his wife’s head. He shoved her beneath the water and held her there while he slowly counted backward from sixty. Annabelle struggled, but her tiny frame was no match for his strength. Her eyes locked onto his, and he stared back at her lovely face as it blurred in the water. It wasn’t long before her body stopped moving and her limbs grew slack. Her eyes were still open, looking at him, finally understanding that he called the shots.
James let go, and Annabelle’s lifeless body floated to the surface. Her fingers splayed on top of the water, and he noticed the glint of the sapphire ring he’d given her on their wedding day. He knew he should feel something, but he didn’t. His mind was blissfully blank. Finally he was numb, incapable of emotion. The rage was gone, drowned in the water with his wife. Maybe now he would get some peace.
Annabelle would have left him, and he couldn’t let that happen.
He dried his hands on the towel, then grabbed his wife’s nylons and tossed them onto the bathroom floor. He’d done nothing wrong. Annabelle had simply fallen asleep in the tub and drowned. It was tragic, really.
The song “Swingin’ Down the Lane” blared from the console radio. James tapped his foot in time to the music as a wide smile bloomed across his face.
26
Aubrey shivered under the down comforter as she waited for Hank. She knew she’d been hysterical when she called him, but she didn’t even care. Someone had tried to kill her, nearly drowning her in the bathtub, and she was afraid to be alone. Hank said he would come as soon as he could.
Not even ten minutes later, Aubrey heard him pounding on the front door. She rolled out of bed and ran down the staircase, flinging the door open. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she didn’t even attempt to wipe them away. She was too afraid to care what he would think, too frightened to be aloof.
When Hank saw the look of terror on Aubrey’s face, he hesitated. He wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but he didn’t want to scare her further by coming on too strong.
“Aubrey….”
“I don’t know what’s happening to me. Please help me,” she sobbed.
Hearing the sound of her desperate, trembling voice, instinct kicked in, pushing logic, reason, and propriety out of the picture. Hank pulled Aubrey close to him, hugging her tightly and stroking her back in slow, rhythmic motions, hoping to calm her. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she folded herself inside his arms, practically melting her body into his, and let him hold her.
After several minutes, the tears subsided, and the pounding of her heart began to slow. Still freezing, her body trembled.
“You need to lie down, Aubrey. Let’s go upstairs.”
“Yes. I’m so cold.”
She started up the staircase, but after only two steps, her rubbery legs gave way and she collapsed. Without a word, Hank picked her up, cradled her in his arms, and carried her the rest of the way.
“Which room is yours?” he asked.
She pointed toward her bedroom, and he angled in that direction. He gently placed her in bed and pulled the thick blankets over her shivering body. Once she was tucked in, he walked across the roo
m and started a fire in the large fireplace.
“You’re freezing. We need to get you warmed up. Once the shock wears off a bit, you can tell me what happened.”
Aubrey didn’t have the strength to speak, so she simply nodded.
Before long, Hank had made a cozy fire, blazing in the fireplace, the flames casting dancing shadows on the walls of the room. She felt her body beginning to warm. The trembling in her limbs subsided, and her weary eyes grew heavy.
Aubrey hadn’t realized how completely exhausted she was, both mentally and physically, until that moment. She was tired of holding it together, tired of being strong.
Hank perched awkwardly on the edge of the bed. There were a million things he wanted to say, but he wasn’t sure if he should. Instead, he remained silent, waiting for Aubrey to speak.
“Thank you for coming, Hank. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“I’m glad you called me. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I… I was feeling stressed after you left, so I decided to take a bubble bath. I got in, started to doze off, and the next thing I knew, my head was being shoved under the water. I know it sounds crazy, but someone—or something—tried to drown me. I fought back, but I must have passed out. When I woke up, I was afraid to be in the house alone, so I called you.”
“Someone shoved you under the water?”
“Yes. I know it doesn’t make sense, Hank, but that’s what happened. I… I… don’t have an explanation.”
“I don’t either.”
“I also don’t have any proof. It’s just my word. My crazy, mixed-up recollection of what happened to me.”
“I don’t know what to say, Aubrey. But I know you’re not making this up.”
“You mean you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.”
