Addison Lockhart 3

by Cheryl Bradshaw

  “Joseph,” the woman whispered.

  Instinct told Addison what would happen next. And though she was helpless to change the outcome, she reached out, attempting to grab the woman‘s arm. But there was nothing she could do to save her, nothing to keep her from her fate, a fate that had been set in motion long ago, long before Addison ever stepped foot on the estate at Blackthorn Manor.

  The woman spread her arms to the side and stepped off the edge, her dress flapping in the wind as her body soared downward, crashing like a rag doll onto the jagged, unforgiving rocks below.

  CHAPTER 5

  Addison drifted close to the cliff’s edge, her frame feeble and limp.

  Rattled.

  Fingers gripped her arm, reeling her backward.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” Marjorie asked. “One more step and you would have gone over.”

  “The woman. Did you see her? She committed suicide ... just now ... a few feet from where we’re standing. She just spread her arms and walked right off the edge.”

  “At least you know how she died. Now you just need to figure out what she’s still doing here.”

  Addison wrenched herself free from Marjorie’s grip. “You didn’t answer my question. You nodded when I asked if you saw her, but you didn’t see her, did you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I did.”

  “Describe her to me then. What does her hair look like? What color are her eyes?”

  Before Marjorie could respond, an unfamiliar male voice said, “Beautiful night tonight, isn’t it?”

  Marjorie and Addison spun around. A middle-aged couple headed in their direction. Their hands were entwined, bare feet coated in sand. The man stood a foot taller than the woman and had a round face and short, salt-and-pepper hair with a touch of curl to it. The woman was petite and had auburn hair that fell just below her shoulders.

  “Hi, I’m Colin,” the man said. “And this is my wife Whitney. Congratulations on your wedding today.”

  “Thank you.” Addison looked at Whitney. “You’re the chef here, right?”

  Whitney nodded.

  “And you both live in the guesthouse on the estate,” Addison added.

  “One of them,” Colin said. “There are two. It’s beautiful here. We love living by the ocean.”

  “And you have no children?”

  “I, umm, I can’t have them,” Whitney said.

  “I’m sorry,” Addison said. “I shouldn’t have asked. It was—”

  “No, no,” Whitney said. “It’s fine, really. We’ve come to terms with it. I mean ... I have come to terms with it. I was married once before, and let’s just say the topic of kids was one of the biggest strains on our marriage. Then one day my ex announced he was going to be a father. He’d been seeing another woman on the side. He left me to be with her. Now they’re married and have two kids of their own.”

  “Bastard,” Marjorie said.

  “Gran!” Addison chided.

  “She’s right,” Whitney said. “He was a real dirt bag. The best part is, I met Colin because of it, and now when I look back, I realize it was meant to be.”

  “What do you do, Colin?” Addison asked.

  He slid an arm over Whitney’s shoulder. “I flip houses.”

  “That’s similar to what Luke does. He restores them.”

  “Yeah, we were talking earlier today. He showed me a bunch of before-and-after photos of your place. I wish I had his talent.”

  Addison glanced at her phone, checking the time. “Speaking of Luke, I need to get back. I promised I wouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Great to meet you both,” Whitney said. “I left a bottle of champagne on your bed, a couple of glasses, and a few other treats I thought you might like. If there’s anything else you need, let me know.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Addison tossed and turned in bed. It was just after one o’clock in the morning, and her mind refused to shut down, mostly because she wouldn’t let it. Part of her kept thinking of the woman. The other part kept reliving the moment she was pushed from the window, which had her worried about what else might happen if she dozed off. Even with her grandmother’s assurances about spirits being incapable of harm, she still wasn’t sure it had been a spirit.

  Addison stared at Luke’s masculine yet kind face. He looked so peaceful sleeping there next to her. Telling him about what happened earlier would put him on edge, so she decided it was best to wait for now. She peeled back the covers and crept out of bed, her movements slow, so as not to wake him.

  It was the perfect time to do some digging, and she knew the exact place to start: the parlor where much of the manor’s history was kept. She made her way downstairs, startled when she turned the corner and found Mrs. Ravencroft still awake, sitting by a crackling fire, perusing a book. She considered backing out of the room, until the wood floor beneath her creaked, giving her away.

  Mrs. Ravencroft glanced up and snapped the book closed, setting it on the table next to her.

  “I’m sorry,” Addison said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  Mrs. Ravencroft raised a brow. “You didn’t.”

  Addison shifted her attention to the portraits on the wall, the ones her father mentioned earlier. One stood out in particular. A man standing next to a woman, an unmistakable woman whose eyes were dark and longing—the woman in black.

  Not wanting to linger too long, Addison turned to Mrs. Ravencroft. “I didn’t think anyone would be awake.”

  “I don’t sleep much anymore. Three, four hours a night if I’m lucky. But you, you’re young. Why haven’t you gone to bed yet?”

  “I did. I couldn’t sleep, so I—”

  Mrs. Ravencroft narrowed her eyes. “Why are you sneaking around at this hour?”

  “I’m not sneak—”

  “Of course you are. Shouldn’t you be with your husband?”

  Seeking a diversion, Addison pointed at the book on the table. “What are you reading?”

  “Bronte.”

  Addison crossed the room and stuck her hands out, warming them by the fire. “Charlotte or Emily?”

  “Emily.”

  Emily—the more melancholy of the Bronte sisters. It came as no surprise. “I’m familiar.”

  “Isn’t everyone?”

  “I read Wuthering Heights in high school,” Addison said.

  “And what did you think of it?”

  “I thought it was ... interesting.”

  Mrs. Ravencroft swished a hand through the air. “Interesting is such a dull word, you know. It’s little better than saying the book was nothing out of the ordinary. If you’ve read it as you say you have, you know it’s much more than that.”

  Addison accepted the slap to the face and moved on. “What do you like about it?”

  Mrs. Ravencoft eyed Addison in such a way as to let her know she was well aware of Addison’s attempt at small talk.

  “It isn’t the book I care for as much as Emily herself. There are pieces of her in the story. She was a quiet sort of woman. Reclusive. Logical. Rare. Intelligent. Reminds me of myself, you know.”

  She had left out another accurate, descriptive word. Emily Bronte was also troubled, something Addison didn’t dare say aloud.

  “Do you read every night?” Addison asked.

  “Is this what you really want to ask me? I get the feeling it isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been skittish since you’ve arrived here—curious and bursting with questions. Why not say what’s on your mind?”

  Addison bit her lip, contemplating how far she could push before Mrs. Ravencroft shut her down like she had before. “How long has the manor been in your family?”

  “My grandfather Luther built it. He passed it down to my father Clayton, and when he died, he left it to me, for the most part. I never expected to keep it this long. I always thought I’d sell the place.”

  “Why?”

  “With exception of
one or two things, I have no sentimental attachment to it anymore, and I’ve always thought it was too big for a family of three.”

  A family of three indicated she had a son or daughter.

  “Why didn’t you sell it?”

  “My husband Gene likes living by the sea, and he’s fond of this place. He convinced me to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast so we could profit from all of the wasted space, the rooms we never use. It was a brilliant idea, and it’s served us well. But we’re not young like we once were, and over the last year, I’ve grown tired of tending to it. I’m getting too old. The time has finally come to rid myself of it.”

  “If you leave the manor, where will you go?” Addison asked.

  “What difference is it to you?”

  “Why not leave it to your son or daughter?”

  Mrs. Ravencroft glared at Addison. “Why did you tell everyone you fell from the window earlier today?”

  “Because I did.”

  “If you don’t want to say what really happened, it’s your choice, I suppose. But there’s no reason to lie about it.”

  “How can you be so sure I lied? Where were you when it happened?”

  Mrs. Ravencroft leaned forward, folding her arms in front of her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “If you didn’t see what happened, then you don’t know I’m not telling the truth.”

  “I was in the kitchen at the time. But it doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

  Mrs. Ravencroft rose from the chair and grabbed a poker out of a metal can. She stabbed at the wood, breaking it into pieces. “You should return to bed, to your husband.”

  She crossed in front of Addison and walked out of the room, pausing before turning the corner. When Addison remained, she sighed and then whipped around. “Come on then, let’s go.”

  “I’d like to stay here for a while if you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. Just because you’re a guest here doesn’t mean you have a run of the house.”

  “Has anyone ever died here?”

  “By died, you mean what exactly?”

  The question had seemed self-explanatory.

  Apparently she would have to spell it out.

  “Has anyone ever committed suicide at the manor, or on the grounds, or at the lookout point by the ocean?”

  It seemed to catch Mrs. Ravencroft off-guard. Seconds passed. Addison waited for an answer, listening to the clicking of the clock on the mantel.

  Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

  “Why would you ask such a question?”

  “I thought I read something about a tragedy happening here once,” Addison said.

  Mrs. Ravencroft glanced at the wall like she had gone somewhere else in her mind, locked in a memory she’d rather forget.

  “Please,” Addison said. “I need to know if a woman threw herself over the edge of the cliff at the lookout point several decades ago.”

  “Whatever you’ve heard, forget it. People in this town love to chatter.”

  “I know you know what happened,” Addison said. “What I don’t know is why you won’t tell me.”

  Addison walked to the opposite side of the room, snatching the portrait off the wall. She held it out to Mrs. Ravencroft. “This is the woman I saw through my bedroom window this morning. She’s dead, isn’t she? Who is she to you? Your sister? A relative? Your brother’s wife?”

  Mrs. Ravencroft tore the portrait out of Addison’s hands and hung it back on the wall. She flipped the switch in the room, leaving Addison with nothing but the dying embers of the fire for light.

  “I’ll put the hall light on to guide you back to your room,” Mrs. Ravencroft said. “Goodnight, Mrs. Flynn.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Catherine Ravencroft closed the closet door, tugging on a thin piece of string dangling from the ceiling until it clicked, illuminating the area with light. Standing on the tips of her toes, she reached for a small box she kept on the top shelf. It was old and black and dusty—so dusty her fingerprints left oily imprints on the outside when she touched it. She grabbed a sweater she no longer wore from of a hanger and wiped the box down, discarding the sweater inside a wicker hamper. Box in hand, she sat on the floor, staring at the lid.

  She wanted to lift it off.

  She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  Ever since she’d first set eyes on Addison the day before, a strange feeling had come over the house, almost like the manor had taken on a life of its own. As preposterous as it seemed, Catherine couldn’t deny the fact that Addison’s presence had shifted the energy somehow, stirring things up that had long been asleep.

  It was a problem.

  There was something “off” about Addison—something peculiar in her deep-hazel eyes—an odd curiosity, leaving Catherine with more questions than answers.

  Why had Addison invented the story about falling from the window the day before? She had to have known that no one would believe her.

  How could they?

  It would have been impossible to survive such a drop without sustaining a few broken bones, at the very least.

  And yet, Catherine’s curiosity had been piqued, so when Addison and her guests had headed to the beach for the wedding ceremony, Catherine snuck up to Addison’s room, opened the window, and looked out. What she saw surprised her. Three of the roof’s shingles in front of the window had slid out of place, and Catherine was certain they had been intact only days before. There hadn’t been any storms or gusts of wind in recent days, nothing to explain why the shingles had shifted.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  And why had Addison pointed at the portrait of Cora minutes ago, claiming she’d seen her walking along the beach?

  She couldn’t have.

  It wasn’t possible.

  Curling a hand over the lid of the box, she hesitated once more. It had been years since she last looked inside—years since she’d allowed the painful flashbacks of the past to creep back into her life. But now she felt as though there was nothing she could do to stop it. Addison had ripped opened the door to her heart, a door she’d kept sealed for so long. Only the tiniest of droplets had made their way out from time to time, but now ... now the memories were rushing back.

  The floodgates had opened.

  Catherine pulled the lid back, discarding it on the floor next to her. She reached inside and pulled out a pair of boy’s shoes. They were small and brown, scuffed from daily use. Running her fingers along the worn leather, she could almost see him now, his ball in hand, running circles around her in the yard. She pressed the shoes to her chest, holding them there for a time. Then she set them to the side and reached back into the box. This time she removed a framed photo of a boy dressed in his Sunday best, standing in front of the manor, smiling.

  He’d always had such a pleasant disposition.

  The closet door creaked open, and Catherine’s husband poked his head inside. “Honey? What are you doing in here? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I couldn’t sleep. I was just reminiscing on old times.”

  Gene glanced down at the photo in Catherine’s hand. “It’s been a while since we’ve looked at this stuff, hasn’t it?”

  “Too long. Far too long.”

  “You look tired. Come to bed.”

  Catherine nodded and returned the shoes back to the box, but she kept the framed photo in her hand. “How do you feel about putting this back on the dresser again?”

  He held out a hand, and she took it.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” he said.

  “Have you had much interaction with the young woman who got married yesterday?”

  He shook his head. “Not really. She’s said hello a few times in passing. She seems like a nice girl. Why do you ask?”

  “She knows things.”

  “What things?”

  “Things about our past,” Catherine said. “Things about Cora.”

  “How could she? She said she’s never been here before.�
��

  “I’m not sure yet. But in the morning, she has to go.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Addison stood outside of Marjorie’s bedroom door, knocking lightly so she wouldn’t disturb the rest of the house. When Marjorie didn’t respond, she twisted the knob and looked inside. Gran was curled on her side on the bed, dressed in a pale-pink chiffon nightgown that reminded Addison of one Elizabeth Taylor had worn in the movie Elephant Walk. She seemed peaceful, and though Addison wanted to tell her about her encounter with Mrs. Ravencroft, she decided it was best not to disturb her until the morning.

  Addison backed out of the room, resigned to return to bed until a faint glow coming from beneath a bedroom door caught her eye. It was a room unoccupied by anyone else in the house. She cracked the door open and stepped inside, finding the room to be similar to others in the house, a relic frozen in time. A small twin bed covered in a blue-and-red plaid quilt rested in the center of the room. Three teddy bears sat on top. There were two nightstands and a dresser, and a closet full of little boy’s clothing.

  “Hi,” a young voice said.

  Addison whipped around. Standing a few feet in front of her was a child, a boy no older than seven. He had dark-brown hair and large, playful, brown eyes. He was dressed reminiscent of the ‘70s in a pair of blue, wide-legged pants, a plaid button-up shirt, a thick, white belt, and brown Buster Brown shoes.

  But his clothes weren’t what stood out the most. Addison could see right through him.

  The boy waved.

  Addison waved back.

  “I’m Billy,” he said. “What’s your name?”

  “Addison.”

  Billy’s nose wrinkled. “Allison?”

  “Close. Addison, with a D.”

  “That’s a funny name. I never met a girl named Addison before.”

  “When I was your age, my friends called me Addy. How old are you?”

  “Six and one quarter.”

  Addison wondered whether or not Billy was aware he wasn’t alive, and decided it would be best to start with a few simple questions first. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not tired.”