The House on Foster Hill

by Jaime Jo Wright

  “That floor’s one hundred years old—or more.”

  “Exactly,” Kaine said.

  “Still, why hide them? And how did Gabriella, supposing it was her, hide them under those floorboards? It’s not like she took a crowbar to them like you did.”

  Good point. Kaine thought a moment, turning the facts over in her head. The faucet in the sink dripped onto the pan Grant had used to make his boxed macaroni-and-cheese dinner. “Probably one of them had been loose or something. I don’t know. Regardless, the entries are distressing. Like whoever wrote them was being held against her will. Maybe she hid them—from him.”

  “From who?” Grant looked confused, as if in trying to follow Kaine’s reasoning he’d been left behind.

  “From the killer,” Kaine supplied. “If he was threatening her, and she was being held captive, writing down her thoughts may have been her only outlet of relief. A cry for help.”

  Grant raised a doubtful brow. “That’s way out there, Kaine.”

  Kaine gave a hissing sound through her teeth. “Yeah, well, you should see the stuff I’ve seen in San Diego. Jerks trying to cover their tracks after beating a woman within an inch of her life. I had one pimp who broke a girl’s jaw and then had the audacity to paint the wall when he couldn’t wash clean the bloodstains. In front of her. While she cried on the bed.”

  Kaine seethed with indignation as she said it, recalling the satisfaction she felt when the perp was finally locked up. One man put away and at least three girls freed. She remembered well her passion to find justice for those girls. Danny had called her “the crusader” in the first year of their marriage—before it took a toll on their relationship. Before it took a toll on their love.

  “All right.” Grant rubbed his hand behind his neck. Kaine watched it drag down over his collarbone to his shoulder. “Let’s assume you’re right. What does it really tell us? I mean, we’re not trying to solve a hundred-year-old cold case. Or are we?”

  Kaine pursed her lips and shrugged, her eyes wide. “You tell me. It’s all there. I sort of feel like I owe it to Ivy to finish what she started.” Plus, it was another good distraction. From Detective Hanson reopening her case, from the creepy caller Detective Carter was looking into, and from the fact she still couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten her anonymous cell number.

  Grant searched her face, and Kaine met his eyes. “Why is it so important to you?”

  Kaine blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Staying at Foster Hill House. Restoring it. The place isn’t worth it, Kaine, and you know it. Now this? What’s driving you, really?”

  Kaine’s insides went numb. She asked herself that question every day. She asked what motivated her when she drove away from Danny to rescue girls, she questioned her own memories buried so deep inside she wasn’t sure she’d ever let them out, and she revisited it now as her ancestor’s tale of mystery linked hands with her own tribulation.

  “Hope,” Kaine whispered around the lump in her throat. But then she said it again, louder. “Hope. I need to find the hope to live again. A reason to move on with my life. You didn’t read what I read tonight, Grant. In the margins of a Dickens novel. They were pleas to God for escape and prayers of helplessness. And . . .” Kaine looked down at her hands and picked at a fingernail. Then, looking back at Grant, she said, “The girl was being held in that house against her will. The pages make it clear. She was abused. She was hunted. She was everything I’ve ever fought against, and everything I am now. I need to see this through. For Danny, for Ivy, for the girl Gabriella, and . . . and for me.”

  It was stupid to have assumed her motel key was lost in the bottom of her purse. More stupid to look for it there after leaving Grant’s place and, not finding it, take a quick drive—alone—to Foster Hill House, thinking she may have left the key there.

  Horror kept Kaine fixated on the window. Red dripped from the letters like blood from a knife. The wet paint glistened faintly with a tinge of bruised blue. A whippoorwill’s mournful call echoed through the woods and matched Kaine’s wild rush of alarm.

  Danny.

  The name of her murdered husband, painted across the front window of Foster Hill House, filled Kaine’s vision. She stumbled backward down the stairs. Olive was busy sniffing the ground near the window. The wind picked up the oak leaves in the woods, rustling them like miniature handclaps to mock Kaine’s fear.

  There was no explaining this away. This was blatant. A message.

  Kaine spun around, rushed back to the Jetta, and fumbled for the door handle. She yanked it open and scrambled inside, the car’s interior offering a deceptive sense of security against the vast yard of Foster Hill House, bathed in midnight darkness.

  Olive!

  Kaine pushed the door open. “C’mon, girl!”

  The dog jumped onto her lap, forcing the breath from Kaine’s lungs. She slammed the door shut and pushed the lock button. Olive moved to the passenger seat, her ears perked, and gave a throaty whine. She sensed something amiss too.

  Kaine grabbed her phone from where it was wedged between the driver’s seat and the console. She cried out when she misdialed. How did one misdial 911 to 914? Fear, that’s how. Hand-shaking, sense-numbing fear.

  Maybe she should’ve taken Grant up on his offer to stay the night, but it hadn’t felt healthy. Not that Grant would have taken advantage, but she couldn’t guarantee she wouldn’t have offered.

  Stupid missing motel key! Now she questioned whether she’d left it in the house at all. It was disturbing that she couldn’t remember.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  The voice was too cheerful.

  “I need help. Someone painted my dead husband’s name on my house.”

  “Are you in danger, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” Kaine squinted through the darkness but didn’t need to. The wet paint ran from the window down the siding to the porch. The car, which at first seemed to offer protection, now felt exposed, with glass all around her. She slapped at her keys on the dashboard. If she’d just thought to hook the motel key to them, she wouldn’t have discovered this tonight. She snatched up the key fob off the dash.

  “Is there someone in your house?”

  Kaine shook her head, clutching her phone tight to her ear. “I don’t know. I’m in my car. With my dog.”

  Her keys slipped from her fingers, landing by the gas pedal.

  “Ma’am, I’ve dispatched someone to assist you. Please, stay in your vehicle and on the phone.”

  “Okay.” Kaine was grateful for the human connection. She bent, straining to reach the keychain.

  A movement out of Kaine’s peripheral vision caught her attention. Two large hands smacked against the rear window, and a man’s body lunged over the trunk. A scream ripped from Kaine’s throat. Olive’s wild barking filled the car as the dog leaped over the seat toward the back window. Kaine pushed the locks repeatedly, making sure the car was secure. Her foot kicked her keys under the brake pedal. She shifted her reach and grabbed the can of bear spray from beneath her seat. The highly compressed pepper spray she’d bought from the local outfitters store was guaranteed to blind someone and was illegal to use on a human in the state of Wisconsin. Kaine didn’t care.

  The 911 operator’s voice was calling to her.

  Kaine twisted in her seat, catching sight of the man in her side mirror. Two blood-red handprints were impressed onto the Jetta’s rear window. She screamed at the sight, causing Olive’s barks to turn vicious.

  The man’s unidentifiable silhouette paused, then dashed away.

  “Ma’am! Ma’am!” The operator’s voice grew louder.

  “I’m here,” Kaine answered, straining to see out the window into the darkness where the man had disappeared. Olive continued her aggressive lunges at the back window.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Oh, thank you, Jesus,” Kaine whimpered.

  Olive returned to the front seat and nuzzled Kai
ne’s shoulder, a whine coming from deep in her throat.

  “Are the police there?” the operator asked.

  “They’re coming up the drive now. A man, he just jumped on my car. There’s paint on my car’s back window.” Kaine looked in her rearview mirror. She hoped it was paint. Oh God, please let it be the same paint as the house graffiti.

  Handprints, like bloody omens, streaked down the glass.

  Chapter 27

  There was never a more welcome sight than Grant pointing to Kaine as an officer stood between him and her car. Kaine wrapped her arms around herself, the fleece she wore failing to stop her shivers. Whatever Grant said made the officer step aside, and he sprinted over to Kaine. Without a word, he pulled her into his chest. She buried her face in his sweatshirt. The smell of his laundry detergent was mixed with woodsmoke from his stove and a comforting hint of dog.

  “I heard the sirens. Why on earth are you here in the middle of the night?” Grant placed his hands on the sides of her face and searched her eyes.

  “I couldn’t find my motel key and thought I’d maybe left it here. I was just going to quick run in and grab it.” Kaine turned her cheek so he would release her, and she rested it on his shoulder. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to stabilize her tremors and gather her wits. Grant’s arms tightened. She shouldn’t be so comfortable in his embrace.

  “I told you to stay at my place,” he murmured in her ear.

  Still shivering, Kaine nodded against his shoulder. “I know, but . . .”

  Her hesitation spoke louder than anything she might have said. Grant’s fingers splayed across her back. “Yeah. Got it.” He understood, and she felt his lips plant a light kiss on the top of her head.

  Her body continued to tremble as a deep cold settled into her bones. She drew in a breath that shuddered audibly.

  “You’re going into shock.” Grant rubbed her arms briskly.

  Kaine offered up a shaky laugh. “I am?”

  “Yes.” Grant grew more assertive. “Did the paramedics check you out?” He led her to the ambulance.

  Kaine shook her head. “They just got here. Literally. When you did.”

  Two paramedics were hurrying toward them. Grant recognized one and let his hand slip down and enfold Kaine’s as he greeted him.

  “Troy, she’s going into shock.”

  “Got it,” Troy acknowledged.

  Before Kaine could respond, they’d urged her onto a stretcher and wrapped her in blessedly warm blankets. Pillows were propped under her knees. Grant stepped back as the paramedics hoisted the stretcher into the parked ambulance.

  Troy felt her pulse and then snapped his fingers at his partner. “Let’s get her some O2.”

  Kaine tried to protest, but within seconds an oxygen mask was positioned over her nose and mouth. Awareness flooded into her, and her vision cleared.

  “Just rest now. You’ll be fine,” Grant said, encouraging her from outside the ambulance.

  The emergency vehicle was comforting. As Troy checked her blood pressure, she began to relax. But when she closed her eyes, the image of the handprints on the rear window of her car jerked her back to reality.

  “Try to relax,” Troy instructed. He felt her pulse again. “You’re normalizing.”

  Minutes later, Troy helped Kaine sit up. The oxygen was removed, and her confusion lifted. He gave her a few more moments before helping her off the stretcher.

  “Take it slow,” Troy admonished.

  Kaine did as she was told. She wasn’t dizzy anymore, yet she had no desire to leave the safety of the ambulance. She bent down with Troy’s help and sat on the back of the ambulance. The police were walking around Foster Hill House and taking samples for evidence. Someone had leashed Olive to a tree, where she nosed the ground but couldn’t disrupt the scene. Grant returned and hoisted himself up next to Kaine.

  “They want to ask you some questions.” His voice was gentle.

  Kaine tossed him a sheepish glance. “I’m not dying, Grant.”

  “I know.” Still calm. Very much in his counselor mode. “But I don’t need you going back into shock.”

  Kaine shook her head and pushed hair behind her ear, hoping Grant didn’t see that her hand still trembled. He reached up and took it in his.

  An officer approached, notepad in hand. The night sky exaggerated the shadows under his eyes, but she recognized him immediately. “How are you doing, Miss Prescott?”

  Kaine offered Detective Carter a wobbly smile. “Sick of me yet?”

  The detective shrugged and looked over his shoulder. “Not at all. But, this is unfortunate. For you.”

  Kaine leaned against Grant. “I never had this sort of evidence to back up my claims before.” A daffodil certainly didn’t hold the same type of ominous threat as blood-red graffiti.

  “Well, after your report of that call you received, and then chatting with Detective Hanson from San Diego, I’d say this is a slap in the face of anyone who’s ignored you.”

  Kaine appreciated his acknowledgment. She stared at the paint on the window of the house. Danny.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s all right?”

  “Of course,” Kaine said. Grant’s arm tightened around her.

  “Tell me exactly what you remember.”

  Kaine did so. With every recollection, she realized how close she had come to a physical altercation with Danny’s killer.

  A policewoman approached them. She carried a bundle in her hand and spoke into Detective Carter’s ear. His eyebrows furrowed, and he took the bundle, turning back to them. Kaine’s gaze dropped to his hands.

  “Miss Prescott, were you aware that there was a stolen artifact in your vehicle?” There was no accusation in his voice, but his eyes were sharp and searching.

  She nodded.

  His frown deepened. “Obviously you didn’t steal it, since you weren’t born when it went missing. Do you have any idea of someone who may be interested in obtaining this quilt?”

  Kaine matched his frown and exchanged glances with Grant. How was Ivy’s quilt and tonight’s attack connected? “No. I brought it with me from California. My great-great-grandmother was Ivy Thorpe, the one who originally owned the quilt. I thought it was just a family heirloom and”—she avoided looking at Grant—“I just recently found out it used to be a part of the Oakwood Museum.”

  The detective grunted. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take the quilt into evidence.”

  Grant cleared his throat. “Detective, are you implying the quilt is somehow tied to this?”

  Carter paused, then gave a quick nod. “There was a note wedged between the cracks in the porch floor.”

  Kaine sucked in a breath. “What does it say?”

  The detective’s mouth tightened. He shook his head. “It’s a cliché. It says, ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.’ And there was a swatch of material stapled to it. We checked the quilt, and the material matches a missing section.”

  Instantly the warmth drained from Kaine, leaving her chilled inside and out. Hadn’t Detective Hanson from back home implied that Danny’s death was somehow related to her career? But this? Never in a million years would Kaine have thought her personal circumstances could be tied to Great-Great-Grandmother Ivy. To a woman who was remembered in Oakwood for her obsession with a dead girl.

  Chapter 28

  Jvy

  She breathed deep of the fresh air that poured through the window she’d just opened. Foster Hill House needed a good airing out. Ivy jumped when a gust of wind swung the door behind her, closing it with a resounding bang. While it ushered away the moldy smell of the barren library, the suction had caused the door to slam shut. She eyed every corner, as if at any moment the attacker would return to finish what he’d started the night he shoved her down the stairs. She’d had no compulsion to argue with Joel when he arrived that morning to bring her with him to the house. Enough had been said the night before. Words, feelings . . . so much better
if just left alone. She would try to remember any detail she may have locked away inside from the night of the attack. For Gabriella, and maybe for Joel.

  “Is everything all right? Have you found something?” The door opened, and Joel poked his head through. His hand still sported her neatly applied bandage, but the way he looked at her was distant and professional. It turned her cold, the chasm between them enlarged to insurmountable proportions.

  Ivy shook her head. “No. No, I was just attempting to let in some fresh air.”

  “Has the window been disturbed in any way?”

  “I didn’t see anything.” She knew enough to have checked first.

  Joel stepped into the library. “So there were no handprints or fingerprints? Was the dust wiped away? Remember, we’re looking for any clues that might help us understand what exactly happened in this house.”

  Certainly, she remembered that. “Nothing to make note of.”

  Joel rested his hands on his hips and blew out a breath of air. He shook his head as he scanned the room. Ivy followed his gaze. The bookshelves, the warped molding at the base of the shelves, and the faded, mouse-eaten wing chair in the corner. It was all so hollow and deserted.

  “I’ll remember something,” she insisted before Joel could speak his mind. She had to. But her attacker’s face was still dark and shadowed. Only the memory of the page from Great Expectations was vivid.

  Ivy tugged at the cuffs of her goldenrod-yellow wool dress. It was soiled, on the hemline and the bodice. Even the piping on the bodice had taken on a tinge of gray. A poor choice of garments for today. Yet something in her had wanted to wear the color that suited her skin tone and dark hair, brought out flecks of yellow in her eyes, and made her more attractive than a twenty-six-year-old spinster could normally boast. It had done little to bring a flicker of admiration from Joel. He had retreated from her, probably for good now. It was what she’d orchestrated.