Eli scoffs lightly, a hint of a smile. “Now if only someone could cook.”
I laugh into my coffee. “One miracle at a time. Speaking of, is there breakfast?”
He jerks his thumb at the stove. “Bacon and biscuits. Should still be warm.”
“That’ll do just fine.” I rise, pulling the pans from the oven. But before I can dish a plate, a knock rattles the front door. Eli frowns. Visitors are rare at Devil’s Ridge.
Rising from his place at the table, Eli walks to answer the door. I set the pans back in the oven and stand waiting until I hear a woman’s voice. My chest seizes. Not everyone sees me. Some can. Some can’t. I’ve learned to be cautious either way.
“Um, hello, my name is Grace Winthrop.”
Leaving the food behind, I retreat into the pantry, fading into shadow.
“Hello, Grace,” Eli says, “what brings you to Devil’s Ridge?”
I peer through the crack in the door. She looks young, mid-twenties, with curious eyes and urgency humming in her posture. She pulls an envelope from her bag and hands it to Eli.
“My mother passed recently,” she says quietly. “When we went through her house, we found a box of my grandmother’s things. This was inside. The address led me here—to the ranch.”
Eli studies it, and his face changes. His eyes flick toward me.
“Marcel Clarke,” he murmurs. “He worked here in the twenties.”
My breath halts.
She withdraws another object, a worn book, edges frayed with time. “This too, it’s her diary. She spent a summer here before she married my grandfather. If what she wrote is true…Marcel was my real grandfather.”
Eli’s eyes widen. My chest tightens, like a rope pulled taut. A ragged breath escapes me.
I only ever loved one woman. In life or death.
Clara.
We hadn’t been careful. We hadn’t even known how to be. She left Hawthorn and married the man her family chose just a couple weeks later. She never said a word. Never hinted. I never dreamed…
I can’t breathe. My heart races as another presence stirs behind Grace.
A spirit. Quiet. Familiar. Watching.
And then the world stops.
Because I know those eyes.
The soft curve of her face. The tilt of her mouth. The shimmer in her gaze, as if she’s holding back words that only I’ll ever understand.
Clara Albright.
Suffocating
Clara 1923
“Clara,this is Irene Montgomery. She works as a secretary in your uncle’s office,” my aunt says, gesturing to the woman seated across the tea table.
I offer a polite smile as I take in the stranger. Her hair, a soft silver, is pinned back neatly beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and though her cheeks are dabbed with a touch too much rouge, her eyes gleam with warmth. Her smile is effortless. Genuine.
“So lovely to finally meet you, dear!” Irene leans across the table, maneuvering through the maze of porcelain cups, tiny sandwiches, and delicately frosted tea cakes. Her hand reaches for mine, fingertips tapping my arm like we’re already old friends.
I return her smile. “Lovely to meet you as well, Mrs. Montgomery.”
