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As she hurried down the stairs, she thought she heard them cry out for help. But the noise—the wind, the waves—stormed through the air.
Breathless, she twisted the dead bolt, pulled the door open.
To a cold, calm, clear night.
No storm raged; no desperate traveler stood calling for help.
Shocked, she nearly stepped out. But remembering the stuck (locked?) door on her first walk, she pulled back.
Not a raging blizzard, but bitterly cold. She wouldn’t risk getting locked out of her own house in the middle of the night.
Shuddering, she shut the door. Maybe by morning she’d convince herself she’d dreamed it all. But now, it was all too real.
Had Collin heard pounding at the door? Had he rushed to help and fallen on the stairs? Fallen to his death?
That leaped a long way, a hell of a long way, from playing music, opening doors, making up the bed.
Now, as she stood alone in the foyer, the house stayed silent around her. As if it waited.
“I’m pretty steady on my feet. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Her voice seemed to echo back to her as she walked to the staircase. As she climbed, the clock struck three.
Chapter Twelve
In the morning, it remained real. She knew she hadn’t dreamed it all.
She’d seen what she’d seen, heard what she’d heard.
And she’d handle it.
Because she wanted to live here. She wanted to work in the library, and wake to sunrises over the sea. She wanted to watch whales sound and spot a deer coming out of the woods.
She toasted a bagel, made coffee, and with her tablet sat at the table answering emails and texts.
A check on her weather app told her they’d likely see snow—two to four inches—by midafternoon.
Hopefully, Cleo would arrive about noon, as planned.
After filling her water bottle, Sonya went back up. She’d shower, put on actual clothes, then work until Cleo got there.
The made-up bed and fluffed pillows barely gave her a jolt this time. Ignoring it, she went into the bathroom, firmly closed the door.
She needed to talk to Cleo, she thought as she showered. If anyone stood wide open to… ghosts, spirits, poltergeists—whatever the hell—it was Cleopatra Fabares.
Or maybe just having someone else in the house for a few days would… disburse things.
Somehow.
She hooked a towel on, started to reach for another to clear the steam from the mirror. And stared at the message written in it.
7 lost
“Seven what?” Annoyed as much as shaken, she wiped it away. “I don’t do cryptic.”
Since the patchy sleep after three a.m. showed, she used makeup to disguise it. She dressed in jeans, a sweater, even added earrings.
And decided she looked fine. Cheerful and sane.
