My phone chimes with a text from a 310 number, and my chest squeezes.
10:24 A.M.
I know what Beau did. Do you?
No thank you, ominous phone number.
My marriage, my life, my sanity—every piece of me is in free fall. And I’m chasing the wreckage—picking up bits and pieces—like I’m going to be able to put it all back together with my bare hands.
I’m too distracted to look at the address Nora sends. I copy and paste in a daze, and let the robotic voice on my dash guide me, doing my best not to hyperventilate or drive into a mailbox.
Talking to Autumn was supposed to help. She was supposedto have a clue or some reason to believe Beau’s not hiding something sinister. But instead, I’m spiraling.
Every street looks the same. Every second stretches like it’s taunting me. Finally, I pull into a driveway as my breath catches. Because this? This is not what I expected.
“What the actual fuck, Nora?”
Chapter 15
The sight of the Mediterranean mansion sends prickles of goose bumps burning up and down my arms. The once-stunning property looks dull after sitting untouched for almost a year. It’s teetering on the verge of disrepair; the windows are dark from the lack of interior light. Cobwebs cover every angle—from the windows to the doors and the eaves—every corner with enough leverage for a spider to swing from one peak to the next is shadowed with layers of gossamer webs. I wonder how long the estate can sit empty before the lake and wildlife overtake the property entirely. I picture vines reaching out their leafed arms and fingers, drawing the structure down into the water, reclaiming the land in the name of something wilder.
Sinking to the bottom of Lake Osceola wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to this place.
In fact, watching the estate disappear beneath the lake’s current might almost feel like mercy. Unfortunately, this body of water isn’t deep enough to consume this house and everything it reminds me of.
The home once belonged to one of this city’s oldest and wealthiest bloodlines—the Halls. That is, of course, before scandal felled their generational money and tarnished their name. Frederick “Fritz” Hall, the family’s patriarch, had buried his legal empire with years of embezzlement and fraud. His cunning wife, Gianna, had gone further to protect her perfectly curated life from total ruin by murdering Nora’s husband and Fritz’s lawpartner, Will, to keep Fritz’s financial crimes from seeing the light of day. The place might look haunted, but the house’s most formidable ghosts—Fritz and Gianna—have moved on to prison for their misdeeds. Their kids had tried to claw the house out of court-ordered reparations but had lost in the face of Fritz’s overwhelming debt. A bank owns the house now.
Before Fritz and Gianna went to jail, I was everyone’s favorite outcast, so I’ve never been invited to this property before. I don’t feel welcome now either. Standing in front of the abandoned mansion makes me shiver despite the heavy heat of the day.
“What are we doing here?” I ask as I step out of my car.
Nora is standing next to her SUV, waiting for me with a grin on her face that is out of place on this property.
“I know these people ruined your life, but if we’re going to burn the house down, I don’t think we should do it in broad daylight.”
“Ta-da!” Her hands are out, showcasing the haunted house with a flourish. “Remember when I said I found a house?”
“Oh. No. This is not a house. This is a crime scene. This is theHallHouse.”
“Not anymore. I bought it.”
“I’m sorry, you what now?” I tilt my head to the side, as if, with the horizon on an angle, buying this house might make an ounce of sense. But even at a slant, it’s a massive mistake. A multimillion-dollar impulse purchase. “You like bought-it bought it? Like, with money?”
Nora frowns. “What do you mean? I bought it. It’s mine. I own it.”
Grief does strange things to people.
“It’s a good investment,” Nora adds.
“A good investment? Now we’re listening to financial podcasts? Or did you go straight for the Motley Fool investment subscription?”
She rolls her eyes. “I mean, I have all this money now.”
The suggestion of Will brings my sour attitude to a grinding halt.
I’m not being fair. She has no idea my marriage is crackingunder the pressure of Gemma’s murder. This isn’t about any of that.
It’s about the money. From the dead husband. The ghost at the feast. Of course it is.
