In The
Dead of Night
Linda Castillo

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Prologue

Sara Douglas wasn’t afraid of the dark. She was a big girl, after all—almost eight years old. She didn’t believe in monsters or the bogeyman or things that went bump in the night. But lying on her frilly bed, watching the lightning flicker outside her bedroom window, she was scared.

She clutched her little blue hippo and counted the seconds the way Mommy had told her. One. Two. A yelp escaped her when thunder crashed. She slapped her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes tightly. The thunder seemed to go on forever, like the approaching footsteps of some giant beast.

Sara wanted to slide into bed with her sister, but Sonia was spending the night at her friend Jonie’s house. Sonia was nine years old and never got scared. She laughed at Sara’s fear of thunderstorms and called her a ninny. That made Sara mad, but she still wished she were here.

The curtains at the French doors that opened to the balcony billowed with a sudden gust of wind. In the darkness they looked like restless ghosts. Sara jerked the covers up to her eyes. Another flash of lightning speared the sky. Thunder cracked so hard the windows rattled.

Throwing off the blanket, she slipped from her bed and darted to the French doors. It wasn’t raining, but the treetops swayed like spindly fingers. Taking a deep breath, she ran along the balcony toward her parents’ room, her bare feet slapping against the tile like little flippers.

One of the French doors to their room stood open a few inches. Yellow light slanted out like a sunray. Voices floated on the wind. Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Nicholas. Sara liked Uncle Nicholas. He smelled like peppermint gum and told funny stories that made her laugh.

Putting her eye to the two-inch opening, she peered into the room. Mommy and Daddy and Uncle Nicholas were standing around the table in the sitting area, looking at some papers. But they weren’t laughing. Their expressions gave Sara a funny feeling in her stomach. She wanted to go inside. She wanted her mommy to hold her while Uncle Nicholas told funny stories.

But Mommy was crying. Uncle Nicholas looked mad. He was shouting, the veins on his neck standing out like snakes beneath his skin. Daddy’s face was red, his hands clenched into fists.

Sara wanted desperately to rush in and throw herself into her mother’s arms. But she couldn’t move. Her feet seemed to be frozen to the ground. She didn’t know why, but the thought of going inside frightened her even more than the storm.

She started to cry. Lightning flickered. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the tree branches claw at the night sky. She set her hands over her ears to block the inevitable crash of thunder, but she knew it wouldn’t help.

Thunder exploded. Three times in quick succession. So many times that Sara thought it would never stop. Holding her hands over her ears, crying, she shoved open the French door. Another kind of fear gripped her when she entered the bedroom. The kind that made her legs feel shaky and her stomach go tight.

Fear transformed into terror when she saw the gun. Death exploded from the muzzle. Once. Twice. Each shot was as bright as lightning. Louder than thunder. And more terrifying than any storm.

She saw a shocking bloom of red, as brilliant as the roses that grew in Mommy’s garden. The world spun as if a giant tornado had picked her up. The room blurred into an eddy of terror and lightning and thunder.

“Mommy,” Sara whispered.

When her mommy didn’t answer, the night rushed in and swept her into its dark embrace.

Chapter One

The headlights of the rental car cut through rain and fog and darkness. Gripping the steering wheel, Sara Douglas inched along the narrow coast road at a snail’s pace, not daring to look over the guardrail where the landscape dropped away to the rocky shore a hundred feet below.

The house had been calling to her for quite some time. Years, in fact, but Sara had never heeded that nagging little voice. Her job as a costume designer kept her far too busy to listen to frivolous voices inside her head. Certainly not when it came to the terrible chain of events that had shattered her life twenty years ago.

The phone call two days ago had changed everything.

Even now, the memory of the electronically altered voice sent a chill skittering up her spine. Why would someone call her and dredge up a past she’d spent a lifetime trying to forget? Who would go to such lengths to hide their identity and why? Sara intended to find out.

Midnight was not the best time to arrive at a sprawling old mansion you haven’t seen for two decades. She’d planned on arriving in the light of day, but her flight from San Diego to San Francisco had been delayed due to mechanical problems. She’d taken a puddle jumper to the Shelter Cove Airport, a tiny facility that served much of northwestern California known as the Lost Coast. By the time she retrieved her luggage and rented a car, it was nearly ten o’clock.

A leaning mailbox overgrown with a tangle of vines alerted her that she’d reached her destination. She turned the car into the weed-riddled driveway. The old Douglas mansion loomed before her like some aging Hollywood actress. Shrouded in mystery and glamour and scandal, the house was perched high above the rocky cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The old place seemed to cry as it looked out over the black expanse of sea. Twenty-five years ago Sara’s father, Richard Douglas—an up-and-coming Hollywood producer at the time—designed and built it for his family. A dream home that should have been filled with children and laughter and happiness.

A double murder and suicide five years later turned his dream into a nightmare, the mansion into a dark legend and the setting for even darker stories.

Sara and her sister, Sonia, had inherited the property. They’d rented out the old place a dozen times over the years. They’d discussed selling it more than once, even going so far as to put it on the real estate market. But the house hadn’t sold. Later, the real estate agent told them no one wanted a house that had been the backdrop for the worst crime in the history of Cape Darkwood.

The headlights illuminated the battered mahogany garage door through slashing rain. Sara put the vehicle in Park and killed the engine. For an instant the only sound came from the pounding of rain on the roof.

“Welcome home,” she whispered. But her voice sounded strained in the silence of her car.

Not giving herself time to debate the wisdom of coming here tonight, she threw open the door and stepped into the driving rain. Darting to the rear of the car, she heaved her suitcase from the trunk and started toward the front door. Around her the cold air smelled of the ocean and wet foliage.

She rolled the suitcase up the slate walkway to the tall beveled-glass door and jammed her key into the lock. A single twist and the door groaned open. The odors of dust, mildew and years of neglect greeted her. She’d called ahead and had the utility companies turn on the electricity and phone. As her hand fumbled along the wall in the darkness, she fervently hoped they had.

A sigh of relief slid from her lips when her fingers found the switch and light flooded the foyer. For a moment, Sara could do nothing but stare at the majesty of the double spiral staircase. Constructed of marble and mahogany, twin stairs curved left and right to a railed balcony hall above that overlooked the grand foyer.

An onslaught of memories rushed over her. Her dad standing in the hall with his arms wrapped around her mother. The sound of laughter as she and Sonia rode their sleeping bags down the slick marble steps in a race to the bottom. She could practically smell the roses her mother picked every morning and arranged in a vase on the console table.

In a flash, the memories were gone, replaced by the emptiness of a house that had been vacant for so long there was no life left inside it.

Sara’s boots clicked smartly against the marble tile as she crossed to the formal dining room. She flipped the light switch and for an instant she could only stand there as the grandeur of the room washed over her. A crystal chandelier iced with cobwebs cast prisms of light onto an oblong table draped with a dusty tarp. A floor-to-ceiling window looked out over a garden that had once abounded with roses and wild-flowers, neat rows of herbs and the ornate Victorian gazebo Daddy and Uncle Nicholas had built that last summer. Little did they know that by fall all three of them would be dead—and her father would be accused of murder and suicide.

For twenty years Sara had believed that. She’d hated her father for stealing her childhood and shattering her happiness. For two decades she’d held that hatred close; she’d clung to it because she’d needed someone to blame. Someone to hate so she could lock all those old emotions into a compartment and get on with her life.

The phone call had brought it all rushing back, like black water backing up in a drain.

Leaving her suitcase in the dining room, she went through the first level of the house, turning on lights as she went. Some of the rooms didn’t have lamps, but there was enough light for her to see that the interior had fallen in to disrepair. In her father’s study, she walked along the floor-to-ceiling shelves, wondering what had happened to his collection of books. The scents of lemon oil, fragrant cigars and the leather of his chair drifted to her, but they were only memories. An arched hall took her to the bathroom. Several marble tiles on one wall had fallen to the floor and broken. Rust-colored water dripped from the ceiling, forming a puddle the size of a saucer on the floor. In the semidarkness, the stain looked like blood.

“Don’t even go there,” she muttered, refusing to let her imagination take flight.

She lugged her suitcase up the stairs. Her heart pitter-pattered in her chest when she shoved open the door to her old bedroom and turned on the light. For an instant she expected to see twin beds with matching pink comforters and frilly pillows. Carved pine furniture. A purple bean-bag chair and a doll-house as big as a Volkswagen.

Instead she was met with a queen-size bed and an antique cherry bureau that was covered with dust. A tarnished brass lamp sat upon a lone night table. Fresh linens rested on a wingback chair. It was the only room in which the furniture wasn’t covered.

Sara was glad she’d called ahead and told the caretaker, a retiree by the name of Skeeter Jenks, that she would be staying the week. She and Sonia had been sending him a small check each month for maintenance. She thought about the leak in the bathroom and made a mental note to call him the next morning.

Setting her suitcase on the bed, Sara unpacked her clothes and toiletries. She’d just hung the last pair of jeans in the closet when the lights flickered and went out. She knew it was silly—she was not afraid of storms—but her heart went into overdrive when she was suddenly plunged into darkness.

“Lovely,” she muttered.

Nothing to be alarmed about, a shaky little voice assured her. The mansion was old and practically derelict. More than likely, lightning or the wind had taken out a telephone pole. Or maybe she’d turned on too many lights and overloaded the fuse box.

Thankful she’d had the foresight to bring a flashlight, she went to the night table and pulled it from the drawer, hoping that the caretaker kept candles and fuses on hand.

She jumped at a deafening crack of thunder. Her laugh came too quickly and sounded forced. She was not afraid of storms. Really, she wasn’t.

Dim light filtered in through the French doors and within seconds her eyes adjusted to the inky blackness. The din of rain against the roof seemed louder in the darkness, the shadows more menacing. The wind whistled around the wrought-iron rails of the balcony. The silhouettes of the trees outside swayed in the gale. Somewhere in the house, she heard banging. A shutter? Or was it something else?

Using the flashlight, she made her way to the hall. The steps creaked beneath her feet as she descended the stairs and entered the foyer. The banging grew louder. She swept the beam right toward the kitchen. It was just the wind, she told herself. A piece of siding torn loose by the storm. But the flashlight beam trembled.

Thrusting the flashlight out before her like a weapon, she made her way to the kitchen. It was a cavernous room with cobalt tile countertops and intricately designed rosewood cabinetry. Once upon a time, it had been state-of-the-art. Her parents had enjoyed cooking and entertaining. Sara had spent many an afternoon sitting at the counter while her parents hovered over fancy canapés and hors d’oeuvres she couldn’t pronounce.

Dim light spilled in through the arched window above the sink. During the day the window offered a stunning view of a turbulent sea. Tonight, it held darkness and shadows and a vague threat Sara didn’t want to acknowledge.

Setting the flashlight on the counter, she went through each drawer. Relief slid through her when she finally unearthed a half-burned candle and a box of wooden matches.

“Who says I don’t have all the luck.”

She found a saucer in the cupboard, set the candle on it and lit the wick. Yellow light cast flickering images on the walls. Picking up the flashlight, she turned toward the utility room. She was midway through the kitchen when movement in her peripheral vision stopped her dead in her tracks.

Gasping, Sara spun. Her heart slammed against her ribs when she saw a shadow pass quickly past the window. She stumbled back, adrenaline burning her gut. The flashlight slipped from her hand and clattered to the floor.

Quickly, she snatched it up, but the bulb had gone out. She tapped it against the heel of her palm. When she glanced back at the window, the shadow was gone.

A terrible uneasiness stole over her. Someone was out there; she was sure of it. But why would they be at the back window of a vacant old house on a night like this? Vandals? Teenagers looking for a place to hang out? Or was something more ominous in the works?

The memory of the phone call flicked through her mind, conjuring a tinge of fear. Had she locked the front door? Was the garage locked? What about the patio doors?

Setting her hand on the cell phone clipped to her waistband, she doused the candle, knowing she would be less visible to an intruder in total darkness.

Never taking her eyes off the window, she backed from the kitchen. Her heart hammered as she moved silently through the hall toward the staircase. She could hear herself breathing hard. Blood roared like a jet engine in her ears. She passed the front door. Through the beveled glass, lightning flashed with blinding intensity, illuminating a tall figure draped in black and dripping with rain. A scream tore from her throat. She scrambled back, her hand shooting to the cell phone at her waist. The door flew open with a burst of wind and rain.

“Stop right there,” came a deep male voice.

Gripping her cell phone like a lifeline, she spun and ran for her life. Tearing through the foyer, she rounded the staircase and took the steps two at a time. All the while she tried desperately to remember if there was a lock on the bedroom door.

She heard the intruder behind her as she reached the upstairs landing. Heavy footsteps. A hint of labored breathing. The knowledge that she was alone with someone who could very well mean her harm. Her fingers trembled violently as she stabbed 911 into her cell.

“Stop! Cape Darkwood PD!”

The words barely registered over the jumble of fear. She dashed into the bedroom, spun to slam the door. But the man stuck his foot in. “Take it easy,” he said.

Facing the door, Sara stumbled back. In a small corner of her mind she heard the dispatcher’s voice coming over her cell phone. “There’s a prowler in my house!” she screamed.

The bedroom door swung open. The yellow beam of a flashlight cut through the darkness. The man stood silhouetted in the doorway. Sara looked around wildly for a weapon. Finding nothing, she glanced at the cell phone in her hand and threw it with all her might.

He ducked, but wasn’t fast enough. The phone struck the left side of his face. Grunting, he lifted his hand to his cheekbone.

“The police are on the way!” she cried.

Spotting the lamp on the night table, she snatched it up and mentally prepared herself to use it if he got any closer.

“I am the damn police,” he snapped. “Calm down.”

The words penetrated the veil of shock, slowed the hard rush of fear. He illuminated his face with the flashlight beam, and Sara lowered the lamp.

“I’m a cop,” he repeated. “Put down the lamp.”

He didn’t look like a cop. Wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt beneath a dark raincoat, he looked more like the villain in a slasher film. The thought made her shudder.

“I—I want to see your badge,” she managed.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” He shone the light at her, sweeping it from her head to her feet. “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

“I own this place,” she said.

Sliding a badge from the pocket of his trench, he shoved it at her. “You’re the homeowner?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Show me some ID.” Tilting his head slightly, he spoke into a lapel mike. “This is zero-two-four. I’m ten-twenty-three. Over.”

“Whatcha got, Chief?” crackled a tinny male voice.

“Cancel that ten-fourteen, will you?”

“Roger that.”

Convinced this man was indeed a cop, Sara sidled to the bed and pulled her driver’s license from her wallet. “You scared the hell out of me,” she snapped as she crossed to him and held it out for him to read.

He shone the beam on her license. “Sara Douglas.” He said her name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“Th-there was a prowler,” she said. “I saw him. At the kitchen window. A man.”

Dipping his head slightly, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “How long ago?”

“A minute. Maybe two.”

“That was probably me.”

“Oh.” Sara choked out a nervous laugh, releasing some of the tension that had built up inside her.

He frowned, apparently not seeing any humor in the situation. Maybe because he had a bump the size of a quarter on his left cheekbone from where she’d thrown the cell phone.

“I’m sorry I threw the phone at you.”

“Yeah.” He touched the bump. “I’ll let you know if I decide to arrest you for assaulting a cop.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He didn’t answer, and Sara found herself wishing she could see his face better.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“A 911 call came in about twenty minutes ago. Someone reported seeing lights up here.”

Realization dawned. “Someone thought I was a prowler?”

“This place has been vacant for quite a few years. Neighbors aren’t used to seeing any kind of activity up here. Unless, of course, it has to do with ghosts.”

The word hung in the air like a bad joke. “Ghosts?”

“Word around town is that this place is haunted.”

“That’s pretty ridiculous.” Her laugh held no humor.

“Considering what happened up here.” He lifted a shoulder, let it drop. “People love a good ghost story.”

Or a murder mystery, she thought.

He shoved the badge back into his pocket. She caught a glimpse of a pistol and leather shoulder holster. But even more dangerous than the weapon was the man himself. He was built like a distance runner. Tall with narrow hips and long, muscular legs encased in snug denim. The navy T-shirt was damp from the rain and clung to an abdomen that regularly saw the inside of a gym.

“So are you planning on hitting me with that?”

Realizing she was still clutching the lamp, Sara returned it to the bedside table. “I thought you were an intruder.”

“Good thing for you I’m not.” He motioned toward the lamp. “Wouldn’t do much good against a gun.”

Sara didn’t know what to say to that; she knew firsthand the damage a gun could do.

“I didn’t mean to spook you,” he said. “You okay?”

“Just a little rattled. Electricity went out.”

“Lightning took out a transformer down on Wind River Road. Crews are out, but it’s pretty remote out here. Could take a while.”

“Lovely.”

“Do you have a flashlight or candles?”

“I dropped the flashlight and broke it, but I think there are candles in the kitchen.”

“I’ll stay long enough for you to get a few lit if you’d like.”

“Not that I’m afraid of ghosts or anything.”

“Of course not.” Touching the brim of his cap, he left the bedroom and started for the stairs.

Feeling silly for having overreacted, Sara followed.

“Where are you from?” he asked as they descended the stairs.

“San Diego.”

At the kitchen, he moved aside and motioned her ahead, shining the flashlight so she could see. Sara went to the candle she’d left on the counter, relit it, then began rummaging for more.

“Alexandra and Richard Douglas were your parents?”

That he knew her parents’ first names shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did. Cape Darkwood was a small town, after all. She looked up from the drawer. In the candlelight, she was able to get a better look at his face. An odd sense of familiarity niggled at the back of her mind. Her hands paused as she reached for a second candle. She wasn’t sure why, but her stomach went taut in anticipation of some unexpected and ugly surprise. “Yes, they were my parents. Why?”

“I used to know them. My parents knew them, actually. A long time ago.”

Sensing there was more coming, she stopped rummaging and looked at him over her shoulder. His eyes met hers. A little too curious. A little too intense. A keen awareness of him rippled through her. She wanted to blame it on the darkness. The storm. The strangeness of the house. Whatever the case, he was one of the most disconcerting men she’d ever met.

“I used to know you, too,” he added.

Sara faced him, certain she would have remembered meeting this man. He had one of the most memorable faces she’d ever encountered. Definitely unforgettable eyes. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s been a while,” he said.

“I didn’t get your name.” The words came out as a whisper.

“I’m Chief of Police Nick Tyson.” He stuck out his hand. “Your father shot and killed my father the same night he murdered your mother.”

Chapter Two

Sara stared at Nick, her mind reeling. She’d known that at some point she would have to face this. The past. The people whose lives her father had ripped apart all those years ago. But to face this man now—a man whose life had been shattered by the actions of her father—seemed a cruel twist of fate.

“Nicky?” she said.

“People don’t usually call me that now.” His grin transformed hardened features into a hint of the boy she’d once known. A rough-and-tumble kid with black hair and eyes the color of the Pacific. Her memory stirred like a beast that had been hibernating for two decades. She’d been seven years old. Twelve-year-old Nicky Tyson had talked her into playing hide and seek, but when she’d closed her eyes, instead of running and hiding, he’d stolen a kiss. Her first kiss from a boy. It had been innocent, but made a huge impact on Sara.

Funny that she would remember something so silly at a moment like this. But then she’d blocked a lot of things that happened that last summer.

The man standing before her was nothing like the ornery kid who’d pestered—and secretly charmed—her. There was nothing remotely innocent about him. His eyes were still the color of the sea, but now it was a stormy sea, all crashing surf and churning waves and water the color of slate. Beneath the brim of the Cape Darkwood PD cap, his black hair was military-short. He might have looked clean-cut if not for the day’s growth of beard and the hard gleam in his eyes.

“Surprised?” he asked.

Realizing his hand was still extended and she had yet to take it, Sara reached out. “I don’t know what to say.”

His hand encompassed hers completely. His grip was firm. She got the impression of calluses and strength tempered with a gentleness that belied the obvious strength.

“Hello would suffice,” he said.

An awkward silence descended. Intellectually, Sara knew what her father had done wasn’t her fault; she’d been a little girl at the time. But it was disconcerting to think that this man’s father had been her mother’s illicit lover. That her father had murdered Nicholas Tyson in a jealous rage then turned the gun on himself. That was the story the newspapers had reported, anyway.

Sara was no longer sure she believed it.

She studied Nick Tyson and thought about the call she’d received two days ago. The electronically disguised voice that told her Richard Douglas hadn’t murdered anyone on that terrible June night. Had there been a fourth person involved as the caller intimated? A person filled with hatred and a secret that was now up to her to expose—or disprove?

The memory of the voice spread gooseflesh over her arms. She studied Nick’s face. Familiar now, but somehow every bit as threatening. His was the face of a cop. Hard, knowing eyes filled with suspicion, cool distance and an intensity that thoroughly unnerved. She couldn’t help but wonder if, as a policeman himself, he’d ever doubted the scenario the police had pieced together.

“Ah, you’re in luck.”

The words jerked her from her reverie. She let go of his hand. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face because he motioned toward the drawer she’d opened. “Another candle,” he said.

“Oh. Right.”

His eyes shone black in the semidarkness. She could feel them on her, probing, wondering. Wondering what? Why she was back? Or was he wondering if a capacity for violence was inherited?

“I should probably check the fuse box while I’m here,” he said.

“We wouldn’t want those ghosts getting any ideas.”

He gave her a half smile. “Everyone knows they do their best work in the dark.”

The tension drained from her body when he started toward the utility room and, beyond, the garage where the fuse box was located. Using the dim light slanting in through the window, she began searching for another plate or saucer to use as a candleholder.

“Fuses look fine.”

She jolted at the closeness of his voice and nearly dropped the saucer she’d found. He was standing right behind her, so close she could smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave. For the first time she realized just how tall he was. At least six-three or maybe six-four. He towered over her five-foot-three-inch frame. Uncle Nicholas had been tall….

Nick stared at her intently. “You’re not still afraid of storms, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said a little too quickly.

One side of his mouth curved. “Looks like you’ll have to ride this one out in the dark.”

“Thanks for coming by. And for checking the fuses.” She wanted to say more, but what? Thank you for not hating me. I’m sorry my father ruined your childhood. Oh, and by the way, he didn’t do it….

The words flitted through her mind, but she didn’t voice them. Even though she was no longer convinced her father had done anything wrong that night, she needed to figure out who to trust—and find proof of her suspicions—before going to the police.

“Just doing my job.” His gaze flicked to the saucer in her hand. Usurping it from her, he set the candle on it and dug out a match. “This should help keep the ghosts away.”

“If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not for a second. Don’t tell me you do.”

“I guess it depends on the ghost.” He set the saucer on the counter. “Hopefully the utility crews will get the transformer up and working in the next couple of hours.”

“Does the electricity go out often up here?”

“They don’t call this stretch of beach the Lost Coast for nothing.” He stood there a moment, studying her. “How long will you be in town?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “A few days. Maybe a week.”

“Any particular reason you’re back?”

Sara wished it were lighter so she could gauge his expression. Was it an idle question? Or was he uneasy that someone was sniffing around a mystery that, in the minds of a few, had never been solved? Somewhere in the back of her mind, the caller’s voice echoed eerily. Don’t trust anyone….

“Family business,” she said vaguely.

“I see.” But his expression told her he didn’t. “How’s your sister?”

“Sonia’s doing great. She and her husband live in Los Angeles now. She thinks I’m a nut for staying here.”

“It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

She smiled, but it felt brittle on her face. “I think she was more concerned about how the citizens of Cape Darkwood would react.”

As if realizing to whom she was referring, Nick sobered and shoved his hands into his pockets. “There might be a few people in this town who can’t differentiate between what your father did twenty years ago and you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Some people have short memories and small minds. If you run into any hostility, give me a call.”

“I hope I don’t.” But Sara knew she probably would. Emotions had run high and hot in Cape Darkwood after her father had allegedly shot and killed his pretty young wife and her lover, then himself, leaving two little girls without parents, a little boy without a father.

She looked at Nick. “It seems like if anyone in this town has a right to be angry with the Douglas family, it’s you.”

“I wasn’t the only one hurt that night.”

The statement made Sara think of Nick’s mother. Laurel Tyson had been widowed at the age of thirty and left with a mountain of bills and a young boy to raise. Sara had been too distraught to remember much about her parents’ funeral, but she would never forget the look of hatred in Laurel Tyson’s eyes.

“How’s your mother, Nick?”

“She’s doing fine. Owns an antique shop and a couple of bed-and-breakfasts in town.” His expression darkened. “But then, you knew about the B&Bs, didn’t you?”

Sara nodded.

“Then you’ve already realized it might be a good idea for you to steer clear of her.”

His meaning was not lost on Sara. She’d often wondered if Laurel Tyson had recovered from the grief and scandal surrounding her husband’s murder.

“Thanks for the warning.”

He studied her a moment longer, then touched the brim of his cap. “Welcome back, Sara.”

At that he started for the door, leaving in his wake the smell of pine and rain and the undeniable feeling that she would see him again.

THE MEMORY of her sultry perfume still danced in his head when Nick climbed into his cruiser. Sara Douglas was a far cry from the freckle-faced little girl he’d played hide and seek with some twenty years ago. She’d grown into a gypsy-eyed beauty with a throaty laugh and a body any Hollywood actress would give her right hand to possess.

As a man, he’d enjoyed seeing her, talking to her. Touching her, an annoying little voice chimed in. But as a cop, he knew her return to Cape Darkwood spelled trouble. He couldn’t help but wonder why she’d really come back. He didn’t buy the family-business bit. Why would she fly all the way from San Diego to Cape Darkwood and spend a week in a dilapidated mansion when most business matters could be handled via phone? The mansion was barely habitable. Especially taking into consideration what had happened there twenty years ago.

But Nick knew why she hadn’t stayed at one of the bed-and-breakfasts in town. His mother owned both of them. Sara must have done her homework and realized it would have been an uncomfortable situation to say the least.

Thoughts of his mother elicited a sigh. He’d lied to her when he’d said his mother was doing okay. Laurel Tyson had never recovered from the events of that summer night twenty years ago. Nick had never been sure if her bitterness stemmed from the fact that her husband had been having an affair or that he’d been gunned down for it. Whatever the case, her happiness had ended that night right along with Nick’s childhood. Neither of them needed the past dredged up.

As he started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, he decided Sara Douglas bore watching. He was the chief of police, after all. It was his job to keep an eye on people.

He didn’t want to admit that his interest went a tad beyond professional concern. Twenty years ago he’d had a crush on her the size of California. In a kid-sister kind of way. He knew it was crazy, but the old attraction was still there, as clear and sharp as the dawn sky after a storm. Only now, there wasn’t anything kid-sister about it. Nick wasn’t happy about it. He had a sixth sense when it came to trouble. Sara Douglas had trouble written all over that shapely body of hers in big, bold letters.

As he pulled onto Wind River Road and started for town, he decided it would be best for everyone involved if she let the ghosts of the past rest in peace. The citizens of Cape Darkwood—including him—would rest a hell of a lot easier when she went back to San Diego where she belonged.

Chapter Three

She saw blood, stark and red against pale flesh. The metallic smell surrounded her, sickened her. Horror punched through layers of shock. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.

“Mommy,” she whimpered. “Wake up. I’m scared. Wake up!”

Sara shook her, but her mother didn’t stir. Feeling something warm and sticky between her fingers, Sara looked down at her hands.

Blood.

Her child’s mind rebelled against what she saw. Against what she knew in her heart. Against the terror of knowing her mommy wasn’t ever going to open her eyes again.

Ten feet away her daddy lay on the floor, his head surrounded by a slick of red. Next to him, Uncle Nicholas lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were open, but when she called out to him he didn’tanswer. Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why wouldn’t he wake up and tell her everything was going to be okay? That they were just playing? Making a movie?

Thunder cracked like a thousand gunshots. Sara screamed and crawled to her mother’s side, curled against her. “Mommy,” she choked out the name and began to cry. “Please wake up. I’m so scared.”

Outside the French doors lightning flashed, turning night to day. Beyond, a man in a long, black coat stood in the driving rain, staring at her. He held something dark in his hand. A gun, she realized. It had a shiny white grip, like the ones cowboys used in movies. But he was no Lone Ranger; he was a bad man.

Her heart beat out of control when he raised the gun and pointed it at her. For an interminable moment, the storm went silent. All she could hear was the freight-train hammer of her pulse. Somewhere deep inside she knew he was going to hurt her, the same way he’d hurt her mommy and daddy. She didn’t want to go to sleep and never wake up. Closing her eyes, Sara buried her face in her mother’s shirt.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows.

When she opened her eyes and raised her head, the bad man was gone.

And she began to scream.

Sara sat bolt upright, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. The old fear thrashed inside her like the reemergence of a long-dormant illness.

Blowing out a shaky breath, she lay back in the pillows and willed her heart to slow. It had been a long time since she’d had the nightmare. After the deaths of her parents, it had taken more than six years of therapy before she could sleep through the night. But as she’d entered her teens, Sara had finally begun to heal. Slowly but surely, her mind had shoved the horrors of that night into a small, dark corner where they had remained.

Until now.

This particular dream had been incredibly vivid, conjuring all of her senses and a barrage of emotions. In the past, the nightmare had evolved around her finding the bodies of her parents and Nicholas Tyson. She’d never dreamed of the man with the gun.

Twenty years ago, a detective by the name of Henry James had investigated the case. He gave her a cherry lollipop every time he questioned her. As days spun into weeks and Sara began to understand what happened, she’d realized Detective James believed she’d witnessed the murders.

It had been a heavy burden for an eight-year-old. Sara spent years trying to remember. She’d even undergone hypnosis. But the memory—if there was one—refused to emerge. She never understood how she could forget something so vitally important, especially if the real murderer got away scot-free.

Eventually, the police pieced together the events of that night, ruled the crimes a murder-suicide and the case was closed. Now, Sara was left to wonder if they’d been wrong.

Was the man in the long black coat a figment of her imagination? Perhaps it was her mind’s way of redeeming her father? Or was he part of a blocked memory resurfacing?

Troubled by the notion of a killer getting away with the murders of three good people, Sara slipped into her robe, crossed to the French doors and flung them open. Beyond, the Pacific churned in a kaleidoscope of blue and green capped with white. The beach sang to her with the crashing notes of a well-remembered and much-loved ballad. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head and savoring the scent of last night’s rain.

She craved coffee as she descended the staircase and was glad she’d had the foresight to tuck a few single servings into her bag. After brewing coffee, she carried a steaming mug to the redwood deck.

The Adirondack furniture that had belonged to her parents had long since been sold. But the view was the same and so stunning that for a moment she could do nothing but stare. Whitecaps rode a violent sea of midnight blue. Leaning against the rail, she looked out over the rocky cliff at the battered rocks below. Mesmerized, she watched the fog bank retreat into the sea like the spirits of long-lost sailors.

She wasn’t sure why the scene reminded her of Nick Tyson. Something about his eyes and the ocean. Sara wasn’t given to noticing inconsequential details about men. But even in last night’s darkness, she’d discerned the reckless male beauty lurking beneath a mild facade that would be dangerous to an unwary woman. Sara was glad she didn’t fall into that category.

The ringing of the phone in the kitchen drew her from her reverie. Surprised, taking her mug with her, she went through the French doors. Expecting her sister, she picked up on the third ring. “Checking up on me?”

“You came.”

Shock rippled through her at the familiar, electronically-altered voice. “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Who are you?” She posed the question, but knew he wouldn’t answer.

“All that matters is finding the truth.”

“What truth?”

“About what really happened that night.”

“The police investigated and closed the case.”

“The police don’t know everything.”

Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you know.”

He was silent for so long she feared he’d hung up. “Find the manuscript, Sara. It will explain everything.”

“What manuscript?” It was the first time she’d heard of a manuscript. “What are you talking about?”

“Find it.”

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Why are you calling me? Why now?”

“You’re the only one left.” Another silence. “You saw him, after all.”

Her heart pounded harder, like a frightened animal trapped in her chest. “I—I didn’t see anyone.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare—and the man with the gun.

“Be careful,” the voice whispered. “Trust no one.”

“Please, tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re calling, dredging all of this up now.”

The line went dead.

Uneasiness climbed over her, like a scatter of ants over her body. Frustrated and uneasy, Sara cradled the phone. “Crackpot,” she whispered.

But she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t have taken a week off and flown from San Diego to Cape Darkwood on the word of some prankster. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the police had made a mistake. But how did the caller play into all of this? Was there some type of manuscript that would prove her father had been falsely accused? How was she supposed to find it?

She’d come back to this house, this town, to uncover the truth. She owed it to herself. To her sister. To her parents. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew where she had to start. She knew the key to unlocking the truth might very well lie in the nightmares of the past.

THE CORNER NOOK was exactly the kind of shop Sara would have frequented had she been on an antique-buying excursion. She’d inherited her love of old things from her mother. Even as a child, she’d enjoyed browsing the stores and wondering about the history of the trinkets they brought home.

Sandwiched between a coffee shop and the Red Door Bed-and-Breakfast, the Corner Nook was as inviting as a tropical beach on a hot day. But Sara felt no anticipation as she parked the rental car curbside. Dread curdled in her gut as she started down the cobblestone walk.

The bell on the door jingled merrily when she entered, the aromas of vanilla and citrus pleasing her nose. Having recently furnished her first home, Sara had spent hours perusing antique shops. But she’d never seen such an eclectic collection in one place. To her right an entire wall was dedicated to Hollywood nostalgia. A nice collection of celebrity cookbooks jammed the top shelf. Beyond, a dress once worn by Marilyn Monroe flowed elegantly over an ancient wooden mannequin. Sara was so caught up in admiring the wares, she didn’t hear the proprietor approach.

“Are you looking for something special?”

She spun at the sound of the rich voice and found herself facing a tall, elegantly dressed woman. She caught a glimpse of silver hair and midnight-blue eyes before recognition slammed home.

LaurelTyson pressed a slender, ring-clad hand to her chest and stepped back, her face going white. “Alex.”

The name came out as little more than a puff of breath, but Sara heard it. Her mother’s name was Alexandra, but everyone had called her Alex. “Mrs. Tyson, it’s Sara Douglas.”

The woman blinked as if waking from a nightmare. Something dark and unnerving flashed in her eyes. “What earthly reason could you possibly have for coming into my shop?”

“If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Sara hesitated, surprised by the degree of the woman’s hostility. But she hadn’t traveled six hundred miles to give up at the first sign of resistance. “I want to talk to you about what happened….”

Laurel’s eyes went flat. “I have nothing to say to you about that night.”

“I know this is difficult. It’s been hard for me, too. But if you’d just hear me out.”

“Difficult is not the right word, Sara. Your family has hurt mine enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”

There weren’t any other customers in the shop. Sara didn’t want to upset her, but she desperately needed information. Laurel had been her mother’s best friend. She might know something that could help her sort through the mystery. If only she could get her to listen.

“I may have new information about what really happened,” Sara said.

“What really happened?” The woman choked out a sound that was part laugh, part grunt. “I already know what happened.”

“I think the police may have made a mistake.”

“How dare you.” Laurel’s lips peeled back in an ugly parody of a smile. “You have some nerve walking into my place of business and making wild insinuations.”

“All I want is to find the truth,” Sara said honestly.

“The truth, darling, is that your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.”

Sara recoiled at the viciousness of the words. A knot curled in her chest. Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off, found another source of information. But Laurel Tyson was Sara’s strongest link to her parents and what might have taken place that night. “I know you were hurt, but if you’d just give me a minute—”

“I’ve given you enough.” Laurel turned away. “Get out.”

Sara reached out to touch the other woman’s arm. Laurel spun with the speed of a striking cobra. She shoved Sara’s hand away with so much force that Sara’s fingers brushed a porcelain figurine and sent it crashing to the floor. The delicate china shattered into a hundred pieces.

“See what you’ve done?”

“Mrs. Tyson, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sara looked down at the broken statuette, truly sorry, and wondered how the situation had spiraled out of control so quickly. “Please, let me pay for—”

“You’ll never be able to pay enough.” Angrily, Laurel gestured toward the door, her hand shaking. “Now, get out or I’ll call the police.”

Vaguely, Sara heard the bell on the door jingle as another customer entered the shop. In a last-ditch effort to get the woman to listen, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father didn’t kill anyone that night.”

The woman’s hand shot out so quickly Sara didn’t have time to brace. Laurel’s palm struck Sara’s cheek hard enough to snap her head back. The sound was like the crack of a bullwhip in the silence of the shop.

Sara reeled backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t caught her from behind. “Easy,” came a familiar male voice. “I’ve got you.”

Nick Tyson steadied her, then quickly thrust himself between the two women. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his angry gaze flicking from Sara to his mother.

Laurel thrust a finger at Sara. “She’s not welcome here. I want her to leave. Now.”

Nick’s gaze went to Sara. He tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. His eyes narrowed to slits, and she got the sinking sensation that he was going to take his mother’s side. He surprised her by asking, “Do you want to press charges?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Laurel breathed.

“Try me,” Nick shot back, but he never took his eyes from Sara.

“No.” Shaken and embarrassed, Sara started for the door.

The older woman’s gaze swept over her as she brushed past. An emotion Sara could only describe as hatred gleamed in her eyes. “You’re just like her,” Laurel said icily. “You look like her. You sound like her. You lie just like her.”

“That’s enough,” Nick snapped.

Sara told herself the words didn’t hurt. But deep inside, they cut as proficiently as any knife.

By the time she reached the door she was dangerously close to tears. There was no way in hell she’d let Laurel Tyson see her cry.

She yanked open the door. Nick called out her name, but Sara didn’t stop. She barely noticed the slashing rain as she ran to her car. Opening the driver’s-side door, she slid behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. All the while, Laurel’s words rang in her ears.

…your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.

Those were the words that hurt the most, she realized. She’d loved her parents desperately. To have their names tarnished when they weren’t there to defend themselves outraged and offended her deeply.

“You’re wrong about them.” Sara jammed the car into Reverse.

When she glanced in the rearview mirror, her heart stopped dead in her chest. “Oh my God.”

Hitting the brake, she turned. Blood-red letters streaked from the rain were scrawled messily on the rear window.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Chapter Four

Nick’s temper was still pumping when he ran from the shop to catch Sara. He spotted her rental car just as she was backing away from the curb. He sprinted toward it. “Sara! Wait!”

Of course, she couldn’t hear him with the windows rolled up tightly against the deluge of rain. But to his surprise, the car jerked to a halt. He waited, expecting her to pull back into the parking place, but the car remained still, idling halfway into the street.

Only when a car horn sounded from the street did he realize she was blocking traffic. Crossing to the driver’s-side door, Nick bent and tapped on the glass. He wasn’t sure why he’d run into the rain after her. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to say. All he knew was that he didn’t want to leave things the way they were.

The window hummed down. He started to tell her to pull forward when he noticed her shell-shocked expression. If he hadn’t been a cop, he might not have discerned the pale cast of her complexion, her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel or the way her eyes kept flicking to the rear window.

“I don’t have anything to say to you,” she said.

“Yeah, well, I’ve got something to say to you.” He motioned toward the parking meter. “Pull in.”

Shaking her head, she put the car in gear and eased it back into the parking space. Only when the rear window came into view did Nick notice the crude red lettering smeared on the glass. The rain had obliterated much of the letters, but there was enough left for him to make out what they spelled.

Curiosity killed the cat.

What the hell?

He stared at the words for a moment, then strode to the window. “How long has that been there?”

“I don’t know.” She blew out a pent-up breath. “It wasn’t there when I walked into your mother’s shop.”

He looked up and down the street, but the sidewalks were mostly deserted because of the rain. “Did you see anyone near your car when you walked out?”

“I was a little preoccupied but, no, I didn’t notice anyone.”

Realizing he was soaked, he motioned across the street. “Look, the police station is right there. I’d like for you to walk over with me so we can talk about this.”

“You mean the fact that your mother slapped me? Or the adolescent cliché some clown wrote on my car?”

“Both.” Nick opened her door. “Come on. I’ve got hot coffee.”

To his surprise she acquiesced. Without speaking, they crossed the street, jumping over the torrent of water at the curb.

The police station was a small office on the first level of a redbrick building that also housed the local phone company and two apartments on the second level. Nick shoved open the wooden door, bypassed the stairs, and took Sara through a glass door and directly to the police department.

His dispatcher, administrative assistant and part-time officer glanced up from his desk when they entered.

“Damn, Chief, forget your rain suit?”

“Left it in my other bag,” Nick said sardonically.

Behind him, Sara brushed rain from her jacket, but she was hopelessly soaked.

Noticing his dispatcher’s curious stare, he frowned. “B.J., this is Sara Douglas.” Nick glanced at Sara. “This is B. J. Lundgren, one of my officers.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rising, B.J. offered his hand. “You’re staying up at the old Douglas mansion?”

Sara nodded and shook his hand. “Word travels fast.”

“Small town.” He smiled. “You’re…a relative?”

“They were my parents.”

“Oh.” B.J. nodded. “I’m the one who took the prowler call last night. Sorry ’bout that. Hope it didn’t scare you too much.”

“It’s okay.” Sara glanced at Nick. “The power was out and Chief Tyson let me borrow his lantern.”

Nick almost smiled. B.J. hung on to every word like a pup waiting for a treat. At twenty-four, he was Nick’s youngest officer and obviously enamored by Sara.

“Let me grab a towel for you.” Rising, B.J. disappeared into a back room and returned with two fluffy towels. He tossed one to Nick, and handed the other to Sara.

“Thank you.”

Taking the towel, Nick wiped the rain from his face and crossed to the coffee station, pouring two cups.

“That’s fresh-brewed, Chief. Made it just a few minutes ago.”

Nick handed one of the cups to Sara and lowered his voice. “Be careful, his coffee is lethal.”

For the first time, she smiled. Nick would have smiled back, but noticed the small abrasion on her cheekbone and grimaced instead. He couldn’t believe his mother had struck her. But he knew she’d never recovered from what had happened that night twenty years ago. He supposed they all bore scars. But to hold a misplaced grudge against Sara for something her father did was unconscionable. He was going to have to talk to his mother about it.

“We can talk in my office.” He motioned toward the wood-paneled door at the rear of the room.

Sara headed toward Nick’s office. Nick glanced back at B.J. who was doing his best not to ogle her. His deputy raised his brows up and down like Groucho Marx and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Cut it out,” Nick murmured.

Walking inside, he closed the door behind them and settled behind his desk, all too aware of the faint scent of perfume on her wet skin.

Sara took the visitor’s chair across from him and sipped her coffee. She’d toweled her hair, leaving it tousled and curling around her face, like wet brown silk against fine porcelain. Her brows were thin and dark and arched above big, gypsy eyes. But it was her mouth that arrested his attention and held it. Full lips the color of mulberries arched like a pretty bow. Twenty years ago he’d kissed that mouth. Even as a twelve-year-old kid, it had made one hell of an impression on him. As a man, he knew one kiss would never be enough….

“I didn’t realize your mother would still harbor such intense ill feelings toward me over…what happened.”

Realizing he was staring, Nick picked up his cup of coffee. “I wanted to apologize for what she did.” Taking in the mark on her cheek, he grimaced. “That was inexcusable.”

“Thank you.” She lifted a hand as if to touch the small bruise, but let her hand drop to her lap instead.

“If you want to press charges…”

“I think everyone involved has already been hurt enough.”

“Just don’t think that because she’s my mother I won’t do my job.”

“Thank you for saying that.”

Leaning over, Nick dumped his remaining coffee into the ficus tree’s pot. When he set the cup back on his desk, he noticed Sara watching him. “Tree doesn’t seem to mind.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

He smiled. “Just don’t tell B.J.”

She didn’t smile back, but amusement glinted in her eyes.

For an instant, the only sound came from the rain hitting the glass. Nick took that moment to ask the question that had been gnawing at him since the moment he’d seen the rental car parked outside his mother’s shop. “Was your visit to my mother part of the family business you’re taking care of while you’re here?”

“One of the reasons.” She sipped coffee.

Nick’s cop’s instinct had been telling him all along there was more to her appearance in Cape Darkwood than she was letting on. “So what’s the other reason?”

“I want you to reopen the case.”

An odd mix of disbelief and disappointment gripped Nick’s gut. She’d seemed so rational last night. As a cop, he appreciated rational people. Why did she have to go and spoil his opinion of her?

“What case?” he asked, knowing full well which case she was referring to, hoping he was wrong.

“The Douglas murder-suicide.” She said the words as if he were dense.

“You mean the one that has been closed for twenty years?” he asked dryly.

She pursed her lips as if he were trying her patience. The feeling was mutual. If she hadn’t been so damn good to look at in her snug jeans and lavender T-shirt, he might have already tossed her out of his office. But he’d always been drawn to her. A lifetime ago, the feeling had been innocent and vague. As a man there was nothing vague or innocent about what he felt for Sara Douglas. Attraction. Maybe with a hint of adult male lust mixed in.

Setting her cup on the corner of his desk, she leaned forward. “Nick, I think the police may have been wrong.”

“And you think that because…?”

She hesitated, and for the first time Nick got the impression she wasn’t telling him everything. That she was keeping secrets. What secrets? What could possibly have been important enough to prompt her to fly all the way from San Diego to Cape Darkwood after all the terrible things that had happened here?

“I have my reasons,” she said vaguely.

“I guess it’s safe to assume you’re not going to make this easy and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Let’s just say I have reason to believe there was a fourth person involved.”

“A fourth person?” Intrigued, he leaned forward. “Like who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then how can you be so sure there was one?”

“I’m not.” Frustration tightened her mouth.

“That doesn’t leave me with sufficient grounds to reopen the case.”

“Maybe you could do it…unofficially.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re the cop. All I’m asking is for you to take a look at the file. See if all the loose ends were tied up.”

“Sara, the case was closed. I’m not real big on conspiracy theories.”

“Neither am I,” she said firmly. “But if certain things didn’t come to light twenty years ago, don’t you want to know about it?”

“Certain things like what?”

He stared at her, vaguely aware of the din of rain, that his heart rate was up just a tad. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve remembered something about that night?”

“No,” she replied quickly.

The accepted supposition amongst the residents of Cape Darkwood was that seven-year-old Sara Douglas had witnessed the murders, but the experience had been so horrific, her young mind had blocked it. Had the memory finally resurfaced? Why wouldn’t she tell him?

“If you want me to follow up, you’re going to have to give me something a little bit more concrete to go on.”

“I don’t have anything concrete.”

“Then at least level with me. Tell my why you’re here. Why you came back.”

“There’s no hidden agenda, Nick. All I can tell you is that I came to find the truth.”

“Are you telling me your father didn’t kill them?”

“I’m telling you I’d like the police department to revisit the case and prove beyond a shadow of doubt that he did.”

Nick thought of the words written in red on the rear window of her car and an uncharacteristic rise of concern went through him. “Have you told anyone else about your suspicions?”

“No.” She hesitated just long enough for him to believe otherwise.

“Any idea who vandalized your car?”

“No. Kids.” She shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t want me poking around and asking questions.”

Her answer gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

She got to her feet. “Look, I’ve wasted enough of your time.”

Nick rose. He knew it was silly, but he didn’t want her to leave. There was a part of him that wanted to help her. But was his need to do so because of her pretty brown eyes and the way she wore those blue jeans? Or because he thought there was merit to her suspicions?

Standing behind his desk, he watched her cross to the door. “Where are you going?” he asked.

She looked at him over her shoulder. “To get something concrete and bring it back to you.”

He wanted to say more, but for the life of him the words wouldn’t come. Only when she’d reached the door and gone through it did he realize what he wanted to say.

“Watch your back,” he whispered.

SARA’S LEGS were still shaking when she yanked open the car door and slid behind the wheel. The words smeared on the rear window had been washed away by the rain, the same way her hope for help had been washed away by Nick’s words.

…give me something a little bit more concrete to go on.

His voice rang in her ears as she backed onto the street and put the car in gear. She wasn’t sure why she’d expected him to help her without question. He was a cop, after all. Cops tended to be cynical. Of course he would want something solid in order to reopen the case. Or did he have another reason for not wanting to help her?

Trust no one….

The anonymous caller’s words crept over her like a chill, and she reminded herself that someone in this quaint little town could very well be a killer. If he or she knew Sara was sniffing around and asking questions, they might want to get her out of the way.

“It’s going to take a lot more than some juvenile threat,” she muttered.

There was one more place to go for answers. A place where secrets and emotions played no role. The Cape Darkwood Library was located just off the traffic circle in a turn-of-the-century Greek revival house that had been donated to the town by Sir Leonard Darkwood upon his death in 1926. It was a place Sara had spent many a Sunday afternoon, reading with her mom and browsing the hundreds of books.

The rain had stopped by the time she parked on the street beneath a massive elm tree and made her way up the sidewalk to the wide beveled-glass doors. Inside, the library smelled exactly as she remembered. Old paper. Lemon oil. Heated air from antique steam registers that hissed and pinged. All laced with a pleasant hint of book dust.

Though her mission wasn’t the least bit enjoyable, the memories made Sara smile as she crossed to the information desk. A tiny woman wearing a maroon print dress looked at her over the tops of cat’s-eye glasses. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for archived newspaper stories.”

The woman removed her glasses, her eyes narrowing. “Do you have a date in mind?”

Sara hesitated, not wanting to get too specific or else risk starting the tongues wagging in town. “I’m not sure exactly.”

“Everything before June 1, 1989 is on microfiche. Everything after that date is on disk.” She looked pleased with herself. “I’ve been working on computerizing our archives.”

“This would be on microfiche,” Sara said, keeping her answer purposefully vague.

“Microfiche is in the basement.” She rounded the desk. “I’ll show you.”

Sara followed her across the marble floor, past the children’s books section to a wide stairway that led to a low-ceilinged room with red carpet. A smattering of desks, a row of narrow file cabinets and a microfiche machine filled the room.

“We only have one machine left,” the librarian said. “Other one went kaput last year and we didn’t have budget dollars for another.”

“This one will be fine. Thank you.”

The woman smiled the way a not-so-kind grandmother would smile at a child from the wrong side of the tracks. “Dear, you look familiar. Are you from around here?”

Sara had never been a good liar. But for the time being she didn’t want anyone to know she was back. She scrambled for an answer. “I’m from L.A., actually, and researching an article for my boss.”

“Any particular subject matter?”

Murder. “History,” she answered.

“I must be mistaken, then.” But from the glint in her eyes, Sara wasn’t sure the woman believed her. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

The instant the librarian was out of sight, Sara crossed to the row of file cabinets. Anticipation of getting her hands on information that wasn’t rumor or hearsay bolstered her, and she scanned the labels. Each was marked with a date range. Midway down the row, she paused and pulled out the drawer she needed. Setting it on the desk, she paged through each film until she came to the dates she wanted.

The day after the murders, the Cape Darkwood Press ran the first of many stories. Even now the headline made Sara shiver.

Prominent Hollywood Producer, Wife, Local Author Found Murdered.

Pulling out a small spiral notebook, Sara scanned the article, making notes as she went. The name of the lead detective who investigated the case. Possible witnesses. The journalist who reported it all.

The following day the headlines read:

Douglas Killings May Have Been Murder Suicide.

Sara read the piece with care, noting the evidence listed by police. Richard Douglas’s fingerprints were on the gun, a .38 caliber revolver. The gun had fallen to the floor as if Douglas had shot himself, then dropped it.

Richard Douglas May Have Killed in a Jealous Rage….

She struggled not to let the words get to her. Though she’d only been seven years old at the time, Sara had spent enough time with her father to know he was a gentle man with a kind heart. A man who kissed her nose at bedtime and made her laugh. There was no way that same man had killed two people he’d cared for in cold blood.

Working quickly now, she jotted down the name of a neighbor who’d witnessed an argument just a week before while out walking her dog. Emma Beasley. The newspaper reporter had evidently interviewed and quoted her.

It was around 6:00 a.m. when I heard Mr. Douglas shouting at his wife. Nicholas Tyson’s car was there. The lights were on in the upstairs bedroom. Strange goings-on in that house. Pity with those two little girls. I guess you never know about people.

Disgusted by the woman’s unfounded assumptions—and the journalist’s willingness to print them—Sara shook her head, hating it that gossip and hearsay may have had as much to do with the outcome of the case as the evidence itself.

Hitting the print button, she went on to the next story.

Love Triangle May Have Led to Douglas Murder Suicide.

Below the headline, a photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson at an outdoor café covered half the page. They sat at a table, beneath a wide umbrella. The likeness between Nick and his father struck her. Same Pacific-blue eyes. Thick brows that gave both men a brooding expression. Strong square jaw.

Something niggled at Sara as she stared at the photo. To the casual observer, they appeared to be friends enjoying a cold drink on a hot day. Upon closer inspection, Sara realized they were looking at an object on the table in front of them.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

She hit the magnification button. The photo swelled, becoming grainy and losing some detail. But the enlargement was enough for Sara to identify what was on the table in front of them.

A manuscript.

Chapter Five

Darkness had fallen by the time Sara left the library. She’d lost herself in research and somehow spent the entire afternoon reading and printing enough material to keep her busy for a week. The most important thing she’d discovered was the photograph of her mother and Nicholas Tyson looking at the manuscript. Had her mother carried on a relationship with the true-crime writer? Was there, indeed, a missing manuscript?

Sara couldn’t get the questions out of her mind as she parked the rental car in the drive. The anonymous caller had mentioned a manuscript. Until this afternoon, she’d dismissed the notion. Now that she’d seen the photo, she wasn’t so sure. Nicholas Tyson had been a true-crime writer. He’d written several books, but had never become successful. Had he been working on a book? If so, what was it about? Did the book somehow involve her parents? Did Nick know anything about it? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it when she asked him to reopen the case?

Distant thunder rumbled as she lugged her notebook and oversized purse to the front door and let herself in. Turning on lights as she went, Sara made her way to the kitchen and set her things on the bar. Rain lashed the windows as she traversed the foyer and ascended the stairs. The long and narrow hall stood in darkness. She was midway to her parents’ bedroom when it struck her that the bathroom light was on. She was certain she’d turned out the lights before leaving…or had she?

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