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The music was coming from the back of the house. Shutting the front door, she walked, as silently as she could, toward the sound. The home was brightly lit from the sun. It wasn’t spooky or eerie, even if the decorations were decidedly morbid now that she examined them. There were a lot of bones. Most seemed animal, but some…weren’t.
Human skulls were hard to mistake.
The skulls were tucked into odd places, hiding on bookshelves and sitting out on mantels like they were normal decorations. Mixed in among the books and other trinkets on display were old medical devices. They were antiques that she wasn’t quite sure what they were for, but she was pretty sure she didn’t want a demonstration. Their cotton covered wires were frayed and yellowed with time, the Bakelite knobs and switches faded and worn.
Shaking her head, she decided not to judge. Everybody had hobbies. If this was Gideon’s home, he was a doctor, after all. Maybe he liked having a collection. If she could afford to live in a giant, fancy Victorian home, maybe she’d fill it with antiques, too.
It wasn’t like her tastes also didn’t run toward the creepy and macabre. She was always wearing shirts with skulls on them or doodling spooky monsters in her sketchbook. If she had the money and the class, she probably would do the same thing.
Heading down the hall, she found a grand dining room. The music was coming from around the corner, through a door from the kitchen. Leaning to one side to peek once more around the corner—she probably looked like the worst ninja ever—she saw it was a greenhouse. An enormous, beautiful, cast-iron-framed, antique greenhouse.
She pulled in a breath in surprise. It was filled with lush plants and flowers. She could smell them in the breeze wafting through the room. Pinks and yellows, reds and oranges, and every color in between. She saw roses, tiger lilies, orchids, and more. She stepped into the greenhouse, marveling at what she saw. It was a gorgeous and carefully maintained work of art.
The music was coming from a wireless speaker sitting on a wrought-iron, glass-topped table sitting in the center of the space. An upholstered garden bench and a few chairs sat on either side of it. It was vintage jazz. She thought she might have recognized the singer as Bing Crosby, but she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t really her style.
Looking up at an enormous flowering trumpet vine that wove up a trellis next to her, she almost missed movement out of the corner of her eye.
Gideon Raithe. He was, for the first time since she had known him, not wearing a suit. He was in black slacks and a gray canvas button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It looked like his version of work clothes. Somehow, he still looked like he was going to a black-tie event. He was humming along with the music, his back to her, standing at a wooden table by the far side of the greenhouse. He was trimming a plant in a pot.
And he was smiling. It was a small, peaceful expression. Something about it caught her. She hadn’t ever seen him with his guard down before. She stood there, staring at him, and found herself marveling at him just as much as she was the flowers.
Damn it all if he wasn’t criminally handsome. The muscles in his back moved as he worked, and she realized the man was fairly built. Not jacked like a weightlifter—it looked like he could touch his elbows to his waist if he tried—but definitely more than she expected from him.
Movement caught her attention again. This time from above her. She looked up at a taxidermy vulture.
Feathers stuck from a skeletal frame. She had no clue what was holding it together. Like the rat she had seen, it looked like it had seen some serious use. Its eye sockets were empty.
The large, bony head with its curved and pointed beak turned to look at her.
It fluffed its feathers.
Marguerite screamed.
