by Lisa Childs
Bode had convinced him to return, to help him salvage the manor and their family name. Yet neither of them used the family name. They wanted to distance themselves as much from it as Elijah once had the island. He never should have come back.
Bode planted his big hands on Elijah’s desk and leaned over it. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wonder that myself,” he murmured.
Bode’s brow furrowed with confusion. “So why’d you do it? Why did you hire her?”
He chuckled. “Oh, you’re talking about Rosemary Tulle.”
“Damn right I am,” Bode said. “What the hell did you think I was talking about?”
“The manor,” Elijah said. Despite all the renovations David had done, he still saw it when he looked around—he saw the ruins it had once been. Stone walls crumbling, plaster rotting ... holes in the ceiling ...
The air thick with the smell of decay and sadness. Such profound sadness ...
“I am talking about the hall,” Bode said, “and how your recent hire is going to put at risk everything we’ve worked so hard to build.”
“Why?” Elijah asked. “Do you have something to hide?”
Bode’s face flushed. “What are you asking me?”
“For the truth,” Elijah said.
“The truth about what?” Bode asked. “I—I don’t know anything about that girl.”
Elijah arched an eyebrow. “Really? She was young. She was beautiful. That’s your type.”
“Was?” Bode asked, arching a dark brow of his own over eyes that weren’t quite as pale as Elijah’s but were still a silvery gray. “Why are you talking about her in the past tense? What are you hiding, big brother?”
Elijah shook his head. “If I was hiding something, why would I have hired Rosemary Tulle?”
Bode shrugged. “I don’t know why you do anything that you do,” he replied. “Masochism? Punishing yourself?” He shrugged again. “I don’t know.”
“Rosemary will help the guests,” Elijah insisted. “She’s highly qualified and recommended. The hall isn’t all about the physical appearance of our guests.”
Bode tensed. “You think that’s all I’m about? The superficial?”
Elijah had no idea what his brother was really about; sometimes it was as if they barely knew each other.
“I’m not,” Bode said. “Looking good makes a person feel good. Being healthy physically affects mental and emotional health as well.”
“Is that from your book?” Elijah asked.
Bode snorted. “Yeah, I wouldn’t expect you to know that. You haven’t read any of them. You have no idea what I’m about. . . .” His mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.
“I didn’t realize you were still trying to impress me,” Elijah said.
“Fuck you,” Bode said. “You know I’m the reason that we get any guests at all to this godforsaken place. My books. My television appearances. Without me, we wouldn’t have attracted one guest.”
“Fuck you,” Elijah said. “Without me and David, this place would still be a pile of moldy stones. You have no idea what it takes to run a facility like this. No idea about business at all.”
“I know not to hire someone who keeps reporting us to the sheriff who already has it out for us,” Bode said. “So that makes me a hell of a lot smarter than you are, big brother.” He turned then and headed toward the door.
Elijah didn’t press the button, though, he didn’t open the door—until Bode turned back and flipped him off.
“What are you scared of, little brother?” he asked—because there was fear beneath the anger and contempt. Real fear.
Bode sighed, and his broad shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m afraid of you destroying everything we’re trying to do here.”
Elijah pressed the button then and when the office door opened, it revealed Rosemary Tulle standing in the doorway. Had she been listening in the hallway? If so, she had probably gotten a hell of an earful.
Bode just nodded at her in passing. They had probably met earlier when Gordon had taken her on a tour of the facility. If not, Elijah didn’t call him back to introduce them himself. It was clear his brother wasn’t going to welcome her.
Why?
If he had nothing to hide, it shouldn’t matter how many times she brought the sheriff out to investigate Genevieve’s disappearance. So what was Bode hiding? Or whom?
Chapter Seventeen
“I hear them at night. . . .”
“Who?” Rosemary asked as she glanced around the sunshine-filled conservatory. “Who do you hear?” Was this the lead she’d been looking for? The clue to where Genevieve could be, to what had really happened to her?
The day before, when she’d eavesdropped on the conversation between the hall director and the fitness expert, she’d been left with more questions than answers. They were brothers?
Clearly, they didn’t like or trust each other. Why not?
What were they both hiding?
Genevieve?
“The girls . . .” Morgana Drake leaned across the small table between her and Rosemary and pitched her voice to a soft whisper as if she didn’t want them to hear her now. Morgana hadn’t been a girl for quite a while. She was probably older than the Pierce sisters though it was hard to tell with her hair dyed a bright red and all the makeup she wore. She appeared quite the eccentric. “I hear the girls crying. . . .”
“What girls?” Rosemary asked. Had there been more than one? More than Genevieve upset with having to stay here? After touring the facilities and spending some time there, Rosemary couldn’t help but wonder why. The hall was luxurious with a warm indoor pool, sauna and hot tubs along with a well-equipped gym, movie rooms, and dining room. Rosemary loved this room, the English-style conservatory that seemed to fill with sunshine despite the clouds that hung over the island.
“The girls, you know,” Morgana continued in her whisper that vibrated with excitement. “The crazy girls that were imprisoned here at the manor.”
“Committed,” Rosemary corrected her. “And they weren’t crazy.” She hated that word, hated how freely it was tossed around as a derogatory label. “But that all happened in the past. Is that what you’re talking about?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s why I came to this place, to talk to the restless spirits.”
“Oh . . .” The word slipped through Rosemary’s lips but hopefully her disappointment hadn’t slipped out with it. But maybe she should have been relieved that the woman hadn’t heard Genevieve crying.
“I’m a medium,” Morgana explained. “I talk to the dead.”
“Why did you ask to speak to me then?” Until Rosemary had been hired, Morgana hadn’t asked for any counseling services since her arrival—months ago—at the hall. Neither of the psychiatrists had a file on her, and on her application to stay, she had stated her reason as relaxation.
“I thought maybe you could help them,” Morgana said, her dark eyes bright with excitement.
“Me?” Rosemary asked. “Why didn’t you ask Dr. Chase or Dr. Cooke?”
The woman shivered despite the warmth of the sun shining through all the conservatory glass. “Oh, no, neither of them could help. They’re not to be trusted.” She leaned closer and placed her hand, with its bulging veins and dark spots, over Rosemary’s. “At all . . .”
“Why not?” Rosemary asked, and she pitched her voice to a whisper, too. Maybe the woman actually knew something—something that Rosemary needed to be aware of.
“They don’t care,” Morgana replied. “They don’t care about the dead ... or the living . . .”
“They’re both doctors,” Rosemary reminded her. “They chose that profession so they could help people.”
Morgana shook her head and one of her bright curls fell across her face. She reached up to push it away, taking her hand from Rosemary’s. “They have no souls,” Morgana said with another shake of her head. “So how could they reach lost souls?”
“How can I?”
Rosemary asked.
Morgana curved her brightly painted lips into a wide smile. “You are an old soul. You have empathy, like me. You’ll be able to hear them, too.”
Rosemary forced a smile. “I haven’t before,” she told the woman. “I don’t have your ability.”
“You’ll hear them here,” Morgana assured her. “You can’t help but hear them. The spirits are loud and restless within these walls—with the manor’s horrible history of abuse and pain.”
“That’s in the past,” Rosemary said. “It’s nothing to do with the present.” At least she hoped like hell it didn’t have anything to do with it.
“The spirits can’t leave,” Morgana said. “Not until they find peace.”
“What about you?” Rosemary asked. “Can you leave?” She hadn’t been committed; nobody had. The place was a voluntary treatment center, almost more of a spa now than the psychiatric hospital it had once been. But then Genevieve hadn’t been able to leave on her own.
Morgana shook her head. “No. I can’t leave.”
Rosemary leaned forward now and asked with concern. “Why not? Is someone keeping you here?”
Morgana glanced around the conservatory that was empty but for them and the multitude of plants filling the space. “They are . . .”
“Who’s they?” Rosemary asked. The brothers . . . ?
“The spirits,” Morgana replied, her voice sharp with impatience. “I have to stay to help them cross over.”
Rosemary nodded and held in a sigh of disappointment. Morgana wasn’t going to be able to help her any more than Rosemary would be able to help the spirits Morgana claimed to hear.
“You don’t believe me,” Morgana said.
“I don’t doubt that you believe it,” she said. “I know there are a lot of rumors and stories going around—”
“It’s cursed,” Morgana interjected. “That’s why they can’t leave, why they can’t cross over. They came here and they’re cursed now.”
“Why did you come here then?” Rosemary asked. “If that’s how you feel about it?”
Despite her age Morgana moved with such suddenness that she knocked over her chair when she jumped up. “I told you. I have to help them. I thought you might help but I can see now that you have no more soul than those other doctors have.”
Rosemary jumped up, too, but before she could say anything else, or even reach out to the woman, Morgana rushed out of the conservatory, nearly knocking down another woman who stood in the doorway. As the younger woman stepped aside, she collided with a tall, potted tree and lost her balance. Unable to help Morgana, Rosemary rushed over to the other woman who lay sprawled across the stone floor, her long golden brown hair splayed out around her.
“Are you okay?” she asked her.
Maybe she was dazed because the woman, with wide, heavily lashed eyes, stared up at her for a moment before taking Rosemary’s hand. She was so slight that Rosemary easily pulled her up. “I’m fine,” the woman replied, “this is not my first run-in with Morgana.”
“Has she hurt you before?” Rosemary asked.
The woman shook her head. “No. She’s harmless. Crazy but harmless.”
Rosemary must have flinched at the insensitive term because the woman chuckled.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice husky. “You must be the new shrink.”
“And you are?”
The woman’s lips curved slightly. “I’d tell you . . . but . . .”
“I’m sworn to secrecy,” Rosemary said. “I’ve signed a contract.”
The woman’s smile widened, revealing a slight gap between her front teeth. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m nobody . . .”
Rosemary tilted her head and studied that face. There was something faintly familiar about it—at least around her mouth with its bow-shaped lips. The woman’s heavily lashed eyes were green with gold flecks, like the faint gold streaks in her brown hair.
“I doubt you’re nobody,” Rosemary said.
And the woman chuckled again. The husky voice struck a chord in Rosemary’s memory, too.
“In fact you seem vaguely familiar to me.”
“Maybe Morgana’s right,” the woman replied. “And your old soul met my old soul somewhere before.” Amusement twinkled in her green eyes.
“You were listening for a while,” Rosemary said.
The woman shrugged her slight shoulders. A big sweater hung on her, dwarfing her tiny frame. Beneath it, she wore leggings that had dirt stuck to them from where she’d fallen over the plant.
“I can guess what she said. She’s always going on about the spirits crying out. . . .”
“You haven’t heard anything . . . have you?” Rosemary asked. Maybe it wasn’t spirits that Morgana had heard. Maybe it had been someone alive and scared ...
The woman laughed. “Looking to catch me in your butterfly net, too?” She shook her head. “I’m not here to get my head shrunk or to help spirits cross over.”
“Why are you here?” Rosemary wondered.
“To rest,” the woman replied with a heavy sigh. Dark circles rimmed her green eyes, and those slim shoulders slumped as if it took too much effort to hold them up, to hold up her head even.
“Have you seen the doctor?” Rosemary asked.
“I know what’s wrong with me,” the woman replied. “Exhaustion.” She studied Rosemary. “What about you? Why are you here?”
“I’m the new shrink, remember?”
She snorted. “Yeah, but why are you here?”
“I’m looking for someone,” she admitted. “Someone who was staying here until just last week. A girl named Genevieve.”
The woman shook her head. “The only girl I’ve seen around here is the one who works on the weekends.” She glanced around, as if looking for the girl, and as if on cue, a dark-haired teenager appeared in the doorway. Those lips curved slightly again. “Her . . .”
“That’s not Genevieve,” Rosemary said. She turned back toward the woman. “I’m also here to help,” she said. “If you ever want to talk, that doesn’t mean you’re crazy.”
“Oh, we’re all crazy,” the woman replied. “Some more than others . . .”
Was she talking about herself or Morgana now? Before Rosemary could ask, she turned away—toward the door. “You can stay,” Rosemary told her. “I won’t bother you.”
“Not you . . .” the woman murmured. She glanced at the teenager as she hurried past her and into the hall.
The teenage girl stared after her, dark eyes wide with awe. “Do you think I scared her off?” she asked Rosemary. “Am I being creepy?”
“Creepy seems to be what this place does best,” Rosemary murmured. “No, if anyone scared her off it was me.”
The girl looked at Rosemary now. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing really,” Rosemary said.
“What did she say to you?”
“Nothing really,” Rosemary replied again. “She wouldn’t even tell me her name.”
“You don’t know who she is?”
Rosemary shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”
“She’s famous,” the teenager murmured with awe.
She must have been to have elicited such adoration from the girl. “She said she was nobody.”
“So she told you!” the girl exclaimed. “She admitted it.”
Rosemary’s brow furrowed with confusion. Then she remembered the singer who used that name. Nobody. Whenever she was in public, she wore a cloak with the hood pulled over her head and sunglasses over her eyes. Only her mouth showed. “Oh . . .”
“You’ve heard of her,” the girl said. “My dad has no idea who she is. But he doesn’t know anybody that doesn’t live on this damn island.”
“You live here?” Rosemary asked.
“Not here,” the girl replied. “I just work here. I live on the island, though.”
Rosemary held out her hand. “I work here now, too. My name is Rosemary.”
“
Holly,” the girl replied.
“Nice to meet you, Holly.”
“You too,” the girl replied with a smile. Like with the singer, the girl looked vaguely familiar to Rosemary, but it was more something about her deep-set dark eyes that struck a chord.
“I have to confess,” Rosemary said, “that the only reason I’ve heard about Nobody is because my daughter told me about her. Haven’t you told your dad?”
Holly shook her head. “I talk to my dad as little as possible.” Anger and pain roiled in those dark eyes. “You and your daughter must be close. . . .” she murmured wistfully.
“Not really,” Rosemary admitted. “Right now I don’t even know where she is. The last time she was seen was here. Maybe you remember her? She’s about your age. Genevieve Walcott.”
The girl glanced away from her now. “I only work weekends.”
“You could have met her then.”
“She wasn’t here long.”
“So you do remember her?”
“I don’t know her,” Holly said.
“I think you do,” Rosemary said.
Holly shook her head. “I just know she wanted out of here. That she would have done anything to get out of here.”
“Even run away?” Rosemary asked. “That’s what they tell me happened. That she ran away . . .”
Holly nodded. “Yeah. But it isn’t easy to run away from a damn island.”
She spoke as if from experience.
Rosemary realized why she looked familiar. Holly was the sheriff ’s daughter, the one he’d admitted ran away.
“Somebody always finds you,” Holly murmured. She was obviously talking about her dad.
Who had found Genevieve? And what had he done to her after finding her?
* * *
Whit pressed his finger against the button for the intercom, surprised that his skin didn’t stick on it as damn cold as it was on the island. Wind hurled snow and ice pellets through the wrought iron gates. The icy blast struck his face and stole away his breath.
“Halcyon Hall, how may we help you?”
“I’m here to see Rosemary Tulle.” The sister at the boardinghouse who actually spoke had informed him that Rosemary was working here now. Not that she’d seemed all that happy about it. But she hadn’t seemed much more approving of him than she’d been of the hall.