by Jane Godman
“Yes. Your Girl in Blue is finally sleeping,” Creed said.
Then he kissed her by the side of High Lake where once only death had reigned.
Epilogue
A young yellow tabby cat made its way across town. It crossed the street to avoid a large house with peeling paint and crooked shutters. Three stories up in a tall tower room topped by scalloped slate shingles, the curtains fluttered. The cat sat across the street cleaning its paws until a tall man came out of the house, climbed into a large SUV with a gold star painted on its side and drove away with a roar of engines and a burst of exhaust. When the curtains fluttered again, the cat stood up and walked slowly on.
Several blocks of travel brought it to an old Victorian with new paint that made its nose twitch. Still, a vaguely familiar sunny spot on the porch beckoned and the cat stole a nap until pansy-filled hanging baskets blocked the sunbeams it craved.
It padded onward to an alley behind a coffee shop where its stomach expected a bowl of cream. It waited to no avail. With a disgruntled twitch of its tail, it continued to a window of a hair salon where several surprised women made a fuss with tummy rubs and bits of sugared donuts it haughtily refused to touch.
“If I didn’t know better, I would swear that’s Violet Jesham’s old cat,” one of the women said. Her head was covered in a pungent paste that made the cat’s eyes water and burn. “It even has the same crooked stripes at the corner of its eyes.”
“Well, Gibbons did get around,” another woman replied and they all laughed.
The cat left the beauty parlor and headed to a quieter part of town. It trod a familiar path, but one it had never walked before until a niggling sense of urgency caused it to veer off course.
Padding down a side street lined with smaller homes than the ones it had passed earlier in the day, the cat found another sunny spot on another porch. This one had window boxes instead of hanging baskets so the sun could pour through and warm the pale blue boards beneath the cat’s paws. It flopped down, surrounded by a floral profusion it tolerated because it didn’t block its sunlight. Bright and colorful petals and greenery waved in the breeze. A few cool and lazy bees buzzed, but not actively enough to warrant the cat’s attention.
Here purred in its throat as it settled in to wait.
Inside the house, a phone’s musical ringtone chimed and footsteps sounded down a long hall. After several muffled sentences, an auburn-haired beauty hung up the phone and cried.
* * *
At the topmost branches of a blazing maple set back from High Lake by brambles and brush and a long gravel drive that ended in an abandoned foundation where a house had once burned to the ground, a shabby black crow stretched its wings. Its neck reached forward and its beak opened, and a rusty shriek of a caw sounded grittily to echo in the surrounding copse of woods.
Below its perch, more and more rescue vehicles arrived, silently, with no flashing lights or shrieking sirens.
The shallow grave that had finally been found warranted no rush.
With one more caw, this one stronger than the last, the crow leapt into the air to circle higher and higher on the autumn air currents, searching for an updraft that would take it home.
About the Author
Barbara Hancock lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains where her daily walk takes her to the edge of the wilderness and back again. When Barbara isn’t writing modern gothic romance that embraces the shadows with a unique blend of heat and heart, she can be found wrangling twin boys and spoiling her pets.
Also by Barbara J. Hancock
Darkening Around Me
Silent is the House
The Ghosts of Cragera Bay
By Dawn Brown
For Dave
Prologue
Rain fell in sheets like a veil from the night sky as Declan pulled into the parking lot behind the three-story building where he lived. A dull throb curved across his forehead from one temple to the other, squeezing his head like it was caught in a vise.
Shit, it had been a long day. He’d spent the bulk of it tracking down a woman’s daughter whom she’d given up for adoption nearly forty years ago, only to discover the girl had died in a car wreck at fifteen. He dreaded the conversation waiting for him tomorrow morning.
Of course, the cherry on his shit-sundae of a day had to be going to his stepfather’s to deal with his younger brother’s latest escapade. This time Josh had totaled his car, which he’d been driving without insurance. No surprise, since he couldn’t hold down a job to save his life. At least no one had been hurt.
Allen, Declan’s stepfather—Josh’s father—had looked worn-out, as if he’d aged ten years in just a few months. Ever since Declan’s mother had died four months ago. Allen was still grieving. Hell, they all were. None of them needed Josh’s crap. He was nearly twenty-two years old. Too old to be pulling this kind of shit.
With Josh living under his roof, Allen was exhausted and worried sick about what he’d get into next. Declan had thought about having his brother come live with him to give Allen a break, but Josh had already fucked up Declan’s life, and he was still scrambling to put the pieces back together. Besides, he wasn’t home enough to make sure Josh didn’t get into more trouble. Allen, at least, was retired.
But Declan still had to clean up this latest mess—even if he didn’t have a clue where to start. A part of him wondered if he shouldn’t this time, if he should just leave his brother to deal with the consequences on his own. And he might have. After Josh nearly destroyed the private investigation business Declan had worked so hard to build, he hadn’t been feeling terribly sympathetic toward his brother. But he had Allen and his younger sister Katie to think about. They couldn’t handle losing their son and brother so soon after losing their wife and mother.
“Tomorrow,” Declan muttered. He’d deal with it all tomorrow. For now, he was dead on his feet and half-starved. A cold beer, leftover pizza and mindless hours flaked out in front of the TV sounded perfect.
He pushed open his car door, grabbed his computer bag from the backseat then dashed across the parking lot and along the side of the building to the front door. The overhang protected him from the downpour, but in the short distance between his car and the building, rain had soaked the front of his jeans and his hair.
He shoved back the dripping tresses—he needed a haircut badly—and dug through the front flap of his computer bag for his key card to the security door.
His fingers closed around thin plastic just as a strange prickle crawled over his skin. He tensed and turned to peer out into the darkness. He couldn’t see anything past the pouring rain, but an invisible weight pressed between his shoulders as if he were being watched.
Stupid. He was tired from a long day—and those dreams that had him up through the night sure as hell hadn’t helped. Black water. Fire. Glowing red eyes. He shivered.
Beer. Pizza. Bed.
He turned back to the door as a tall man with white hair and a pale face materialized from the shadows like a ghost. Declan’s heart lodged in his throat. He jerked backward nearly stumbling over his own feet.
“What the hell?
“Declan Meyers?” the man asked. He had an English accent and Declan recognized his voice immediately. “I’m Hugh Warlow.”
“I know who you are,” Declan snapped. His face burned. He must have looked like a complete asshole nearly falling over himself like that. He was keyed up, overtired and he sure as hell hadn’t expected this man to turn up at his door. “There are laws against stalking, you know?”
“If you think I enjoy traipsing halfway around the world to wait for you in a bloody downpour—” the man slapped at his long, black coat as if trying to wipe away the wet “—you’re mistaken.”
Declan cocked a brow. “Not enjoying the Seattle weather?”
Warlow scowled, his light blue gaze narrowing. “Had you not been so stubborn, I wouldn’t have had to make this trip at all.”
“You didn’t ne
ed to make this trip. Showing up out of nowhere isn’t going to change my mind.”
When they come for you, don’t go. They’ll devour you. A chill danced along his spine.
“Your father needs to see you,” Hugh Warlow told him.
“I saw my father twenty minutes ago.”
“That man is not your father.” Ice dripped from the man’s tone. A faint smile pulled at his lips, but didn’t touch his chilly blue eyes.
“He is, actually. The man you’re talking about gave up his parental rights.” The first nine years of his life, he and his mother had lived like fugitives: new cities, new names. Then he turned ten and everything changed. His father gave up any claim he might have had on Declan, and they finally settled in one place. “My mother had something on him, didn’t she?”
Warlow’s smile broadened, making him appear smug. “Your father isn’t well. He needs to see you before he dies. Even as we speak, it could be too late.”
“I know, you said so when you called.” The phone calls had started a few weeks after his mother’s funeral, and Declan would be lying if he said a part of him hadn’t been curious. His father had always been something of an enigma to him, a boogeyman he’d been too terrified to discuss with his mother or anyone else—as if just speaking about the man might summon him like a demon and send them on the run again. Whatever the man wanted now, however, he could go to hell. Declan was thirty-two, a legal adult for quite some time. His father could have contacted him anytime over the past twenty-two years, but hadn’t. That he’d waited until Declan’s mother had died was likely no coincidence. What had she known that had kept him away?
He didn’t care. He had enough on his plate with the family that mattered to him and no interest in inviting more drama into his life. He’d politely declined the invitation to go to Wales, then ignored the phone calls altogether. Still, he’d never have guessed the man would turn up at his door.
They’ll devour you.
“Your father needs you.” Warlow slipped his hand into his pocket and stepped closer.
Declan’s heart rate kicked up a notch. Apprehension wound around him like an invisible snake. He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I’m not going to Wales.”
“Then what bloody good are you?” the man growled, smile vanishing, his features turning menacing. He took another step closer and started to draw his hand from his pocket.
He has something. A gun. A knife. Declan backed away into the door.
Fast footfalls splashing on the pavement drew the attention of both men. A woman jogged toward them, gripping an umbrella with one hand, her security card in the other. She smiled brightly, moving under the overhang with them and closing her umbrella.
“It’s terrible out here, isn’t she?” she said cheerily. She had short black hair and a pretty smile. Declan had seen her before. She lived on the second floor.
“Are you going in?” she asked him. Maybe she’d noticed he was still holding his own card, or maybe because he was blocking the door.
“Yeah,” he said, and glanced at Warlow. The fierce menace had left his face. He’d backed away so the woman could get by, a benign smile lifting his mouth.
What the hell had just happened? He didn’t know and he didn’t plan to wait around to find out. He grabbed up his computer bag, swiped his card and held the door for the woman, then followed her in pulling the door closed behind him.
When he looked back, Warlow had gone.
Chapter One
Wind swept cold off the sea and icy spray stung Carly’s face and hands like tiny needles. Despite the brilliant October sun glittering off deep blue waves, the dark water looked fathomless, empty. She drew her jacket tighter around her middle and stifled the shiver creeping up her back, focusing her attention on the man standing at the end of the rock jetty.
She smirked. Bathed in late afternoon sun, his shoulders hunched against the wet wind and his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, he could have stepped off the pages of some Victorian romance novel. The tortured hero, brooding and lost, returning to his cursed past.
He must have known something of the terrible legacy he’d stumbled into by now—if he didn’t before coming to Cragera Bay. Maybe he’d seen the shadows, heard the voices, smelled the dead. Maybe that’s why he’d changed his mind and agreed to speak to her.
She pushed back hair that had come loose from her ponytail and whipped wildly in the relentless wind, then started down the jetty. Waves slapped at the sides of the pier, spray soaking the hem of her trousers. Her heeled boots on the uneven stone turned her gait clumsy. Twice she nearly went over on her ankle and toppled forward.
Maybe the man hadn’t changed his mind at all. Maybe his plan was to let her fall over the side and be washed out to sea.
He couldn’t have guessed she’d wear such inappropriate footwear, but when she’d chosen her clothes this morning, she hadn’t considered traipsing across a deserted beach or over a stone jetty. She’d dressed to appear professional, capable and serious. Someone Declan Meyers could trust.
“Mr. Meyers,” she called over the surf splashing against the rocks. He stiffened and glanced over his shoulder. Dark eyes narrowed and glinted like black glass. Again the image of the brooding hero—Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester rolled into one. Windswept black hair framed the sharp angles and smooth planes of his face. High, carved cheekbones, pointed chin and lips pressed into a flat line.
“I’m Dr. Carly Evans. We spoke on the phone,” she said, coming to stand beside him.
She held out her hand, which he glanced at briefly before meeting her gaze—keeping his own hands jammed in his coat pockets. “Let’s go in.”
He shifted around her and started down the jetty, leaving Carly gaping at his back. Bloody prat.
She drew in a deep breath, swallowed down a few choice epitaphs and followed the man. He wasn’t going to give her what she wanted. Certainty trickled over her like a soft spring rain.
The hell he wasn’t. She hadn’t come all this way for nothing, hadn’t come this close to seeing The Devil’s Eye only to be turned away now.
Meyers reached the end of the jetty, descended the short set of stone steps and would have continued across the beach without bothering to look back.
“Mr. Meyers,” she called out, determined that he stop and wait for her.
He faced her, a single black brow arching.
“I appreciate you agreeing to see me. I understand your hesitance given recent events. You’re no doubt suspicious, but I can assure you, I’ve known your sister Brynn’s fiancé for years.”
He snorted. “I’ve never met my sister Brynn, so an association with her fiancé means about as much to me as if you told me you’ve known that guy for years.” He nodded to an old man trudging through the sand in heavy rubber boots, fishing rod slung over his shoulder.
“I understand, but—” Her heel caught between the uneven stones, ankle turning out. She tumbled forward, arms pinwheeling as the jagged steps rose up to meet her.
Big hands clasped her shoulders, stopping her from hitting the ground face-first. She lifted her gaze and met Meyers’s nearly black eyes. His mouth twisted in a smirk, and heat crept into her face. This wasn’t how she’d wanted their first meeting to go, her falling into his arms like some klutzy damsel in distress.
She drew a deep breath, and eased back from his grasp. Sharp pain zinged up her leg from her throbbing ankle, but she bit her lip to hold back the whimper and forced a smile.
“Thank you, Mr. Meyers. I wasn’t looking where I was walking.”
“Are you all right?” he asked, frowning.
She wasn’t. Her ankle ached miserably. Already her boot felt too tight—a sure indication of swelling. She fought the urge to kick his ankle then ask if he was okay. Instead, she held her forced smile in place. “I’m fine. Perhaps we could find somewhere to speak. There’s a café just up the road.”
He shrugged and grasped her elbow, helping her down the stairs to the sand. Shrill pai
n licked into her calf with every step, but she held her face stiff against the urge to wince and tried not to limp—the latter less successfully.
His frown deepened. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
And if I’m not, it’s your bloody fault. She bit back on the words, fighting to play nice. She needed his permission to access his property, after all.
Though, maybe she should use this little mishap to her advantage and guilt him into giving her what she wanted. If he hadn’t dragged her out here in the first place, she wouldn’t be hobbling across the beach now.
Once on the boardwalk, they followed a short alley to Cragera Bay’s main street. Most of the shops and restaurants that had lined the narrow cobblestone road were closed and boarded up. The village felt empty, abandoned. With hers and Meyers’s footfalls the only sound besides the wind and distant rush of the surf, she could almost imagine they were the last two people on Earth.
He pulled open the door to the café, letting her enter first. An older woman behind the counter set down her paperback novel and pushed her pink-framed reading glasses atop her head so the lenses sank into short, silver curls. Big eyes barely glanced at Carly before they fell on Meyers and widened.
Carly could guess what was going through the older woman’s mind. She’d no doubt recognized him, heir to Stonecliff. Arthur James’s long lost son.
“What can I get you both?” the woman asked.
Meyers ordered a coffee and Carly a cup of tea. They took their drinks to the table near the window overlooking the street and farthest from the counter. For all the good it did, the woman sat back on her stool and picked up her novel, but continued to watch them over the top of the pages, forgetting her glasses still atop her head altogether.
To be fair, she and Meyers were the woman’s only customers. There wasn’t much else for her to focus on.
How long until this café went the way of so many of the other businesses in the village? Months? Weeks? Days? Cragera Bay was diminishing as if it were slowly folding into itself until it disappeared completely. The discovery of a trio of murderers hunting in the area for more than two decades, killing countless men and women, seemed to have chased away tourists and locals alike.