by C. B. Clark
Rick scratched his head. “Let me think.” His eyes lit up, and he smiled like he’d figured out the answer to a challenging math question. “Sometime last September. I remember because the season-opener hockey game was on the TV, and I was upset because I had to come over here and open the house. I didn’t want to miss the game. The Canucks are looking good this year, and I wanted to see the new lineup. They have this new defenseman who’s supposed to be—”
“You’re sure it was September?” Russ asked.
Rick nodded. “Like I said, the season starter was on.”
Russ shot her a look and turned back to Rick. “That must have been right before he died.”
The caretaker nodded. “That makes sense, because the next thing I knew a lawyer called me and said Mr. Crawford had passed, and you—” He nodded at Russ. “—were the new owner.”
She sipped her coffee and digested the news. Why were Angus’s trips to the island secret? Was that when he locked himself in his study and looked at the photos of her? She shuddered. Russ’s deep voice drew her out of her disturbing thoughts.
“Do you live alone, Rick?”
Rick’s face flushed red. “Well, once in a while I have a female guest spend a few days, but never longer than that.” He wrinkled his brow. “Mr. Crawford didn’t mind me having guests. It’s okay with you, isn’t it?”
Russ nodded. “Of course. I’m sure you get lonely out here.”
“It’s not too bad. This place keeps me busy, and I have my podcasts I listen to. I love the true crime shows.” His pale-blue eyes lit up. “I’m writing a book about this island. That’s why I wanted this job, though I didn’t tell Mr. Crawford that. I didn’t think he’d like the idea. He was prickly whenever I brought up the couple’s disappearance.” His wiry body vibrated. “But you know what I’m talking about, all that stuff that went down years ago? Those people who went missing? No one knows what happened to them.” He bounced on the toes of his scuffed, suede boots. “How cool is that?”
Her hand jerked, and coffee slopped on the table. Rick’s prurient interest in her family’s tragedy was an example of why she’d changed her name and moved away from the west coast. Everyone wanted a piece of her. Growing up, reporters had hounded her and Clara for juicy tidbits. The police, social services, doctors, and neighbors had regarded her with too much pity, too much seriousness. Their solicitousness and curiosity were overwhelming.
An awkward silence descended, and the hum of the refrigerator and the distant pounding of the surf grew louder.
Russ cleared his throat. “You clean this cottage, right?”
“You bet. I dust and vacuum once a week whether the place needs cleaning or not. That’s what Mr. Crawford paid me for. That, and keeping the grounds looking good.”
Russ cut in. “What about that house on the north side of the island? Do you clean it too?”
“I keep the dust down and get rid of the mice.” His cheeks flushed red. “Wait a minute, are you worried about that broken window? That just happened a few weeks ago. We had a real big blow, and a branch broke the glass. I’da fixed the window by now, but I had to order a pane from the mainland, and the glass hasn’t arrived yet.”
“How often do you check on the house?”
“Once a week or so.” Rick chewed on a ragged cuticle. “When I first came to the island, I asked Mr. Crawford if I could move into the house. I mean, the place was old, but I figured that’s where those people lived.” He shrugged. “You know, maybe I could soak up their vibes. Living in the house, sleeping in the rooms where the O’Flynn family lived, would help with my book. Maybe even get me a documentary. That sort of authenticity sells.”
The room spun in dizzying circles. He was talking about her family, her nightmare, as if her life were a true crime television show.
“And what did Angus say?” Russ asked.
“He got all weird and said I couldn’t live there, so I moved my stuff into the caretaker’s cottage.” He picked a piece of lint from his sleeve. “You’re not going to fire me, are you? I’m sorry about the window. I should have boarded it up until the glass came, but—” He shrugged. “I got busy and forgot. I won’t do it again. I promise.”
Russ stared out the window, his jaw working.
Rick hung his head. “Look, I need this gig, Mr. Crawford. I can’t leave here yet; not ’til I’m finished researching my book.”
“I’m not firing you.” Russ set his cup on the counter. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the island. For the time being, I want you to continue to keep an eye on the place and fix that window. Can you do that?”
Rick grinned and pumped his fist in the air. “Awesome!” His gaze shifted to her, and his smile faded. “I know this is none of my business, but that house freaks me out. I can’t imagine why Mr. Crawford insisted I keep it neat and tidy.” He shivered. “It was almost as if he was expecting that family to walk in the front door.” Another exaggerated shiver. “I mean, they’re dead, right? Everyone knows that. Ghosts don’t—”
“Don’t you have work to do?” Russ’s voice thundered.
Rick’s face paled. “Yeah. Sure.” He shuffled his feet. “Those branches the storm brought down need picking up. I better get on that.”
Russ nodded. “Good idea.”
As if he were a kid freed from the principal’s office, Rick wheeled around and almost sprinted out of the room.
His boots pounded down the hall, and the front door closed with a bang.
All was silent.
Chapter 25
Russ rubbed the back of his neck, kneading the pads of his fingers into the painful knot of muscle. He looked out the window, watching as Rick trudged across the lawn toward a garden shed, his long blond hair tangling in the wind.
The handyman opened the shed door and dragged out a red wheelbarrow. Tugging on a pair of work gloves, he picked up a fallen branch and tossed it into the wheelbarrow.
Russ glanced over his shoulder.
Athena stared at her clasped hands on her lap. Her shoulders drooped, and her face was pale.
He drew out a chair, set it beside her, and sat. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
She kept her gaze on her hands. “I’ve faced people like that my whole life. It’s what happens when your family’s tragedy is all over the news. I’m used to it. It doesn’t bother me. Not anymore.”
He snorted. “Liar.”
Her head snapped up.
“I saw your face when Rick mentioned the book he’s writing.” Unable to resist, he clasped her hand. Her fingers were icy. “I can’t imagine how upsetting it is to hear people talk about something so horrible, as if your personal tragedy is entertainment.”
“I guess tragedy is exciting, unless something bad happens to you.” Her lower lip trembled. “Do…do you think he knows who I am?”
He tightened his grip on her hand. “I don’t think so.”
A shudder rippled through her slight body. “What if he figures it out? What then?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
Her laugh was brittle. “Come on. He’s writing a book on my family. He must have seen a photo of me. The newspapers were full of them. He’s not stupid.”
“I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”
“And just how are you going to do that?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell him that if he tells anyone, I’ll fire him, or sue him, or something. Whatever I have to do to keep him quiet.” He meant every word. He no longer questioned his motives. She’d been through enough, and he was prepared to go to any lengths to protect her.
“You heard him.” The corners of her mouth tightened. “He’s determined to write his true crime book. He won’t stop just because you fire him. Once word gets out that your father left me his estate, the media will go crazy. It’ll all come back…the questions, the harassment—” She shuddered. “I couldn’t stand it.”
The pain etched on her face cut like a knife. “You’re a lawyer,
so you know this already, but once Angus’s will is probated, it becomes a public document that anyone can access.”
She rubbed her arms as if she were chilled. “I…I forgot about that.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “So, anyone curious about the details of the will can read about them?”
He nodded.
“Damn.”
He shoved back his chair and stood, drew her to her feet and enfolded her in his arms. “We’ll figure this out…together.”
She stiffened, as if all the muscles in her body contracted at once, but in the next heartbeat, she softened and sank into his embrace.
“What if we made a public statement before the will is probated? That way this won’t blow up in your face.” His mind whirled as he worked out the details. He wanted to do whatever he could to ease her distress. “We’ll control the story. We’ll decide when and how the information comes out.”
Her brow furrowed, and she chewed on her bottom lip.
Distracted, he stared at her mouth. Fantasies of kissing those plump lips swamped him like a tidal wave.
“I don’t like the idea. I’ve worked so hard to keep my life private, but I don’t see another option.” She shrugged. “Who knows? It just might work.” For the first time that morning, the corners of her mouth lifted in a smile. “What’s with the we? Are you planning to help?”
“Of course. I have your back. We’re in this together, remember?”
Her smile widened, and her blue eyes sparkled. “You continue to surprise me, Russell Crawford. Thank you.”
Unable to hold off any longer, he kissed her, a deep, tongue-down-her-throat kind of kiss, bursting with all his hunger and desire.
She kissed him back.
Hallelujah!
All too soon, she freed her mouth from his. The light in her eyes dulled. “Let’s go check out those photos. I can’t help the feeling I’m missing something.”
He smoothed a wisp of her silky hair off her forehead. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
“Angus took those photographs for a reason. The answer’s in that box of pictures. I just know it.”
He studied her for a long moment, and then nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
****
For all her bravado, she hesitated on the threshold of the study and stared at the dozens of photographs strewn across the floor.
Russ edged past her and headed for the cabinet. “Maybe there’s something else in here that will give us some answers.” He opened the door wider and peered inside.
She moved into the room, her knees quaking. One photo after another blasted her, and she fought for breath. The walls closed in, sucking the oxygen out of the small, windowless room. She needed air, space, a drink, room to process the nightmare before her, but she held steady. Angus had taken the photos and stored them in this room. She wouldn’t rest until she knew his reasons.
“Here’s something.” Russ dragged out a small cardboard box. He lifted the cardboard flaps, rummaged in the box, and tugged out a handful of glossy papers. “More photos.”
Her feet were glued to the floor. “Are—” She swallowed. “—are they like the others?”
He sifted through the photographs. “You’re the star in every picture.” His brow furrowed, and he shuffled more photos. “I don’t think you’re going to like this.”
“What is it?” Her heart pounded.
He handed her a photo. “Take a look.”
Her breath whooshed out in a blast of air, and the picture fell from her nerveless fingers and floated to the floor. Her legs wobbled, and she would have fallen if he hadn’t grasped her arm and held her steady. “That’s my house. The picture was taken in my backyard last summer. The rosebush I planted in June is blooming in the background. You can see it.” She met his gaze. “Angus followed me to Calgary?”
All those times when she’d sensed she was being watched, she’d dismissed her unease as the result of an overactive imagination. But now there was proof that someone had been watching. But Angus Crawford? The thought of that dignified old man, sneaking around, hiding in the bushes, spying on her, taking his invasive photos, didn’t make sense. Had he hired someone to take the pictures? “Are…are there more photos like that?”
He nodded. “Yeah.” He handed her another one.
Her breath caught in her throat. “This—” She struggled to swallow over the fist-sized lump in her throat. “—this was taken in December. I…I’d just put up my Christmas lights.”
He tugged the photo from her fingers. “Are you sure about the month?”
She nodded. “Positive. I always put up the lights on the second weekend in December. It’s a tradition. I buy eggnog and play Christmas music.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
She shook her head. “No.” But that wasn’t quite true. Something twigged in her brain—something about the photo, but she couldn’t put her finger on her disquiet.
“Angus died in September.” His mouth tightened. A tiny pulse ticked in his firm jaw.
Her breath whooshed out. “Oh my God.” She gulped. “If Angus was dead when this photo was taken—”
“Someone else took the picture and stored it in this box.” He finished for her.
She stared, her mouth gaping, her breath frozen in her throat.
“Did you hear me?” He brushed her arm, his fingers a light caress. “Someone, other than Angus, was spying on you.”
She rubbed the goose bumps prickling her arms. “Who?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, but trust me, we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
“Did…did you find anything else in the cupboard?”
“No. Just the box with the photos.”
She chewed on her bottom lip. There had to be something. She’d bet her life the answer to the disturbing photographs was in this room. She zeroed in on a large watercolor painting on the far wall.
Mounted in an ornate wooden frame, the painting presented a vivid scene of stormy skies, waves crashing on a rocky beach, fingers of foaming seawater frothing over a lopsided stack of washed-up logs. On a bluff in the background, towering cedar trees swayed in the wind.
Her heart stuttered, and she stumbled back a step when she spotted the familiar signature in the lower right corner. “My…my father painted this picture.”
Russ’s shoulder brushed hers as he edged closer. “I saw the one he painted hanging on the wall in the living room at your old house. He was a talented artist.”
“Why would Angus have one of my dad’s paintings?”
Russ shrugged. “He liked it?”
There were other paintings hanging on the white walls, but her father’s painting was the largest one. An idea popped into her brain—a wild thought—but she couldn’t ignore it. Her hands shook as she lifted the painting from the hook. A small, metal safe was set into the wall behind where the painting had hung. Her breath gusted out in an explosion of air, and the heavy painting clattered on the floor.
“What the hell?” Russ leaned closer. “How did you know that was there?”
“I…I didn’t, but I’ve read more than my share of mystery books. There’s always a safe hidden behind a painting.” She spun the knob. “How do we open it?” The clicking of the dial was loud in the little room. “We don’t know the combination.”
He stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “I suppose we could get a locksmith out here. He should be able to figure out a way to open the safe.”
“I don’t want to wait.” She tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. “I want to know what’s in this safe now.” She stopped tapping. “We’ll figure out the combination ourselves.”
He snorted. “You have read way too many books. We’re not safecrackers.”
She studied the combination dial. She wasn’t leaving the island until they opened that safe. “I don’t suppose Angus had any dynamite or other explosive devices hanging around?”
He choked. “What?”
“I’m kidding.”
He blew out a breath. “You watch too many movies.”
“Probably.” Her teeth worked her bottom lip. “I suppose we could try random numbers and see what happens. I mean, what would that hurt?”
“There are thousands of possibilities. Even if we spent all day trying, we wouldn’t get the combination right.”
She bounced on her toes and grinned. “I’ve got it! I know the combination.”
“Right.” He chuckled. “The combination’s one, two, three, four.” He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
A trill of excitement rippled along her spine. “I’m the focus of all those photographs. For whatever reason, Angus was fixated on me.”
The furrow between his dark brows deepened. “How does that help us figure out the combination?”
“It’s my birth date. It has to be.”
“Go ahead.” He smirked. “Give it a try.”
Her cold fingers slipped on the rough metal as she spun the dial. Cursing, she tried again. Her next attempt failed. Biting back her disappointment, she spun the knob, clicking each number with care. She tugged on the door, but the safe still wouldn’t open.
Russ blew out an audible breath. “Even if your birthdate is the combination, there are hundreds of permutations of those numbers. We could be here all week.”
His shoulder brushed hers, and an instant zing of awareness slammed into her like a shot of adrenaline. She swallowed hard, fighting to concentrate, and attempted a different combination of her birthdate numbers.
And another. And another.
The tips of her fingers grew sore, and her wrist ached, but she didn’t quit. She wanted answers, and she refused to stop until she found them. She worked the dial again.
Another series of numbers. And another. And yet another.
“Looks like this is going to take time.” Russ crossed to the door. “I’ll make more coffee. We’re going to—”