Page 1 of In Her Memory

PROLOGUE

Donna Marsh stood at her kitchen sink, warm water rushing over the delicate bone China teacup from the set her husband had given her on their thirtieth anniversary. The marble countertop gleamed under the soft glow of the pendant light, making the kitchen look like something from a magazine spread—beautiful, perfect, and utterly lifeless. Just like the rest of her condo. Just like the rest of her evenings since Richard had died.

She turned off the faucet and set the teacup on the drying rack next to its saucer. Everything was in its place. Everything was as she wanted it. Everything except Richard.

She pulled her silk robe tighter around her frame, now fifteen pounds lighter than when they’d celebrated their last anniversary together. The doctors had called it “grief weight loss,” as if giving it a name made it less concerning. She put one hand on the cool marble of the counter, steadying herself for a moment.

With a sigh, Donna turned and moved into the large living room, where the marble fireplace reflected the warm light of the brass lamps she’d positioned just so. Moonlight spilled through the bay window, catching on the edge of her new silk curtains.

“This is supposed to be elegant,” she whispered to herself, her voice sounding foreign in the stillness. “This is supposed to be healing.”

The move to Calloway House was meant to be her fresh start—a chance to rebuild without the constant shadow of memories in their St. Louis home. The real estate brochure had promised “luxury living with historic charm,” and Boyd Calloway himself had given her the tour, emphasizing the building’s meticulous restoration and exclusive clientele.

“Only ten units,” he’d said, his smile practiced but warm. “A select community of discerning residents. The interior has been redesigned with nice entrances to each unit from the grand old hallways.”

What he hadn’t mentioned was how those discerning residents kept to themselves, nodding politely in those hallways before retreating behind their solid oak doors. Three months in, and Donna still felt like an outsider—the widow from the city who talked too much, asked too many questions, and hadn’t yet learned that Trentville had its own rhythm, its own unspoken rules.

At her feet, Biscuit—a Yorkshire terrier with more attitude than size—had curled into a comfortable ball. He was another gift from Richard, a companion for her “golden years.” She hadn’t realized those years would arrive so suddenly, or that she would face them alone.

The silence around her made the spacious condo feel cavernous. During daylight hours, she could almost convince herself that she’d made the right choice. The morning light streaming through the tall windows, the view of the gardens below, the history that seeped from the walls of the old mansion—all of it had seemed to promise possibilities. But most nights, Donna felt more like a guest in a museum than the mistress of a home.

She picked up her phone from a small table, checking for messages. Her daughter’s last text was from three days ago: “Super busy with work. Call you this weekend. Love you.” Katie was building her own life in Chicago, her visits becoming shorter and less frequent with each passing year. Donna couldn’t blame her. At thirty-two, Katie had her career, her fiancé, her future. What she didn’t need was a mother clinging to her like a life raft.

Donna set down the phone and gazed out at the October night. The trees on the edge of the property swayed in the autumn wind, casting moving shadows across the moonlit lawn. In the distance, the lights of Trentville twinkled, a reminder of the community she had yet to join.

A sudden growl broke the silence. Donna turned to see Biscuit standing rigid, his ears perked toward the hallway that led to the guest bedroom and laundry nook. The fur on his back stood on end.

“What is it, boy?” she asked, frowning.

Biscuit let out a sharp bark and darted into the darkness of the hall.

“Biscuit!” Donna called, annoyance sharpening her voice, though underneath it was a tremor of unease. The dog had been acting strangely for days—growling at empty corners, barking at the closet in the guest room, refusing to enter certain parts of the condo without coaxing.

The building had its quirks, she knew that. Boyd Calloway had been upfront about the “settling noises” typical of historic properties. What he hadn’t mentioned were the persistent maintenance issues—the flickering lights in the hallway, the cold spots near the windows despite the new weatherstripping, the faint smell of smoke sometimes drifting through the air ducts despite the strict no-smoking policy.

Donna had filed three maintenance requests in the past month alone. Each time, the building superintendent, Nolan Greer, had arrived with his toolbox and his taciturn demeanor, fixing the issues without comment beyond “These old houses, they got their ways.”

Another bark echoed from down the hall, followed by the clicking of Biscuit’s nails against the hardwood. Donna sighed and straightened her robe. It was nearly midnight, and she had planned to finish her novel before bed. Instead, she was chasing her neurotic dog through the shadows.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, flicking on the hallway light.

The long corridor stretched before her, lined with framed photographs from her previous life—Katie’s graduation, her and Richard’s trip to Europe, the family cabin on Lake of the Ozarks. She had arranged them carefully, trying to create a sense of continuity between her past and present. Now, in the harsh overhead light, they looked like artifacts from someone else’s life.

As she moved away from the kitchen, a familiar tightness returned to her chest. It wasn’t fear, exactly—more like a premonition, a sense that something was not quite right. Richard would have laughed at her, called it her “mystery novel imagination.” But Richard wasn’t here.

The house seemed to hold its breath as she walked, the old wooden floors creaking beneath her slippers. Despite the extensive renovation, Calloway House retained a certain presence, as if the walls themselves were watching, listening, judging.

“The place has history,” Boyd had told her during the tour, his eyes gleaming with what looked like pride. “Built in 1878 by Pete Shannon, one of the county’s most successful coal barons.”

“And now owned by you,” Donna had replied, catching something in his expression. “A Calloway.”

“Yes,” he’d said, his smile tightening just slightly. “Fitting, don’t you think? After all these years.” With a laugh, he’d added, “Some people say Pete’s ghost still haunts this place. If so, I don’t guess he’s resting easy now that it’s mine.”

She’d overheard enough conversations at the one HOA meeting she’d attended to understand the significance. The name Calloway meant something in Trentville, just as Shannon did. Old money, old grudges, old stories passed down through generations.

Biscuit barked again, the sound muffled now, coming from the laundry room at the end of the hall. Donna found the light switch on the wall, illuminating the last stretch of corridor.

“You’d better have a good reason for this midnight adventure,” she called out, trying to keep her voice light.