Page 24

The crash and boom of ocean waves filled the night…

Andy opened his eyes, blinking up at the vintage recruitment posters, colorless and uncanny in the moonlight. He remembered that he was in Uncle C.’s guest room.

That he had left Marcus.

That Uncle C. was in the hospital.

That someone kept trying to break into Time in a Bottle.

Yeah, that last one. Uneasily, he listened for the sound that had woken him.

What time was it? There was no clock on the nightstand.

He continued to analyze the night noises. He’d forgotten how loud the ocean was at high tide. It would be about four thirty now, and it sounded like the entire village had flooded, like waves were smashing over the houses, swallowing the streets in wet and hissing gulps. It sounded like all of Main Street was underwater and that at any moment he could expect his narrow twin bed to rise ceilingward.

Andy pushed the fanciful thought away. He needed to sleep. God only knew what fresh hell tomorrow would bring.

He turned toward the wall and snuggled into the blankets, finding unexpected comfort in the familiarsqueakof old springs and older headboard, the music of his childhood. He’d alwaysfound the rhythmicrushandshushof waves soothing, but now…

Now the surf seemed to carry a weird, troubling energy. He rolled over and, in the gloom, could see the curtains stirring in the draft whispering around the old window casement. He heard thesqueakof the wooden sign out front. Heard the rattle of icy rain against the panes of old glass.

Great. Maybe it would snow. Because that was all this stay was missing. The opportunity to shovel piles of snow from the sidewalk. The opportunity to slip on ice and break his leg.

Oh hey. Maybe it could happen in front of Quinn.

Determinedly, he closed his eyes again.

Do not start thinking about Quinn.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spent the night in this very bed, in this very bedroom, puzzling over the mystery of Quinn Rafferty.

Gradually, another sound, a sinister sound, infiltrated his unwilling consciousness. The far-farawaysqueakof wood pressing against the restraint of nails, of floorboards flexing under footsteps.

Andy’s eyes popped open. He listened harder.

You’re imagining it.

Was that coming from downstairs?

There’s nothing there.

Was someone in the shop?

Again?

No way. No damn way.

More angry than scared, Andy threw back the covers, shuddering as he stepped onto the chilly wooden floor. He shrugged into his bathrobe, grabbed his cell phone, and tiptoed across the room.

He’d left the bedroom door slightly ajar, and he slipped through, silently feeling his way across the dark living room,trying not to fall over furniture. So much furniture. So little pathway.

He reached the door leading to the interior staircase, unlocked it, eased it open, and poked his head out. Tensely, he listened for those faint noises from below.

But…nothing.

Nothing but the wind and, more distantly, the ocean.

Because the other noises were never there to start with?