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But not without cause.
That was the part that nagged at Trenton’s mind, made him doubt Baxter’s guilt. Vindication alone was not enough to drive Baxter Caldwell; no, not unless he had something tangible to gain from it.
Money.
In this case, money was not an issue. Mentally torturing Trenton would bring nothing of monetary worth to Baxter. Which drastically reduced Caldwell’s plausibility as a suspect.
So who had sent that book? Whoever was guilty had to be motivated by blatant viciousness, enough to pay someone to impersonate Vanessa in order to torment Trenton.
Masses of red hair and splendid green eyes.
Trenton squeezed his own eyes shut to block out the image that conjured up: Vanessa. Damn her even in death.
Rearranging the pillows, Trenton settled himself for sleep, determined to stop agonizing over that bloody book. Purposefully, he ran his hand over Ariana’s soft curves, reaffirming what was real, what was important. Then, cradling her to him, he slept.
The lantern heralded her arrival, piercing the dark of night and illuminating her hair to a fiery crimson blaze. Her lime silk gown was snug, and she wore nothing underneath, clearly defining every tantalizing curve of her body.
He was unmoved.
He could hear her voice, sense the urgency that drove her. He could feel the silk of her gown as his fingers dug into her shoulders, the fragility of her bones as he shook her.… Dear Lord, the venom inside him was such that he could kill her. …
Kill her… kill her… kill her …
Trenton, don’t … don’t … don’t …
Bolting upright, Trenton felt sweat drip down his back, trickle along his forehead. It was a dream, only a dream. And yet, so very real.
Wild-eyed, Trenton looked down at Ariana, who had rolled onto her other side and was curled away from him, still sleeping soundly. He wanted to wake her, to crush her against him, to bury himself inside her, to forget.
He couldn’t run forever.
Easing out of bed, Trenton dressed and left the room. Broddington was dark, the grandfather clock in the hall telling him that it was nearly midnight. Quietly, he slipped out into the night, inhaling long and hard.
He realized he was still shaking. That damned dream had unnerved him even more than he thought.
Strolling about the grounds, Trenton wished he were at Spraystone. His head was so much clearer there, his thoughts better able to crystallize. And heaven only knew he needed that, needed to achieve some semblance of peace.
He walked endlessly, staring vacantly ahead. Moving automatically, he let his feet take him where they would.
They took him to the River Arun.
Gazing at the deserted shore, Trenton felt that familiar chill encase his heart. Six years. It had been six years since he’d paced along this shoreline, waited for Vanessa to arrive.
His life had never been the same.
Hands balling into fists, Trenton muttered a savage oath and turned away.
It was then that he saw it.
Laying on its side, candles extinguished, the brass lantern was half buried in the sand, only its upper portion visible. Like a man possessed, Trenton walked toward it, squatting to take a closer look.
A groan escaped his throat.
The lantern was unique: a gazebo cage exterior with space for three candles within, ornate, intricate, unchanged.
It was the lantern Vanessa had carried the night she died.
With trembling hands, Trenton lifted it from its sandy bed. Had it been here all these years? Impossible. The police had searched every inch of this beach when they’d scoured the waters for a trace of Vanessa’s body—and discovered only her bloodied gown.
