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CHAPTER NINE

A s predicted, Brooklynn’s nightmares had been populated with shadowy killers, giant Lord-of-the-Rings-sized spiders, and a creepy Hogwarts-style castle, complete with moving staircases and talking portraits.

She’d finally slept a few unbroken hours, then woke after the sun was well over the horizon.

After her shower, she dressed in the now clean outfit she’d worn the day before.

Though she’d washed a few of the things she’d found in the room, she wasn’t quite ready to wear the garments of a murdered teenager.

The house was quiet as she made her way down the main staircase and into the kitchen. A note on the counter told her Ford had gone shopping.

For some reason, the image of the enigmatic man wandering around the grocery store struck her as amusing. He seemed somehow above all that normal human stuff.

He’d made a pot of coffee and drunk a cup, based on the dirty mug in the sink. He’d left a clean mug and a couple of tea bags on the counter beside the old stovetop teapot.

She filled it with water and put it on the stovetop to boil, then emptied the dishwasher she’d run the night before. The lack of plates and bowls in the sink told her Ford hadn’t eaten before he’d left.

If she had any idea what time he’d be home, she’d fix breakfast for them both. She’d wait a little while before fixing herself something, just in case he was hungry when he returned. Maybe he’d sit and eat with her like he had the night before.

The man was mysterious and secretive. She supposed she should be grateful he’d offered her shelter for the time being, but she wanted more than just shelter. She couldn’t help but be curious.

She could imagine her little sister Cici’s reaction to Brooklynn’s thought.

Curious? The word you’re looking for is nosy .

Cici called it like she saw it.

Brooklynn was scanning the contents of the fridge and pantry when the sound of footsteps reached her.

Fear sent her heart racing. She grabbed a knife from a block on the counter and spun to face her intruder.

Ford stepped in from the dining room, multiple sacks hanging from his hands. When he saw the knife, his eyebrows hiked. One corner of his lips quirked as if he might, eventually, with a little provocation, crack a smile.

“You scared me.”

“Evidently.”

She slid the knife back into its slot as he settled the bags on the counter.

“You’ve been busy.” She peeked at the contents. “Is this everything?”

“One more load. I’ll get it.”

She put the groceries away. Lots of produce, a few boxes of pasta, jars of both marinara and Alfredo sauce. Condiments she’d searched for the day before but hadn’t found. Oatmeal. Eggs, bacon, sausage. Steak, chicken. A roast.

Lemonade, large tea bags for iced tea, and more Earl Gray. Oh, he’d even bought a different black tea. Salted caramel? Sounded yummy.

She smiled at the packages of sliced ham and Gruyère. Apparently, he’d liked the sandwiches she’d made for dinner.

He returned with two twelve-packs of drinks—one cola, one sparkling water—and more sacks hanging from his wrist.

He stowed the cases in the pantry, then handed her the sacks. “I thought you might… I just guessed.” His face turned an amusing shade of pink.

She peeked inside and understood why. He’d bought her a couple of sports bras and underwear.

She couldn’t help imagining him wandering around in the lingerie section.

He must’ve guessed the direction of her thoughts because he grunted. “You said the teen’s clothes were small.”

“This was very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

Another grunt as he filled his mug with coffee.

“Hungry?”

He turned, nodded.

“Eggs and bacon?”

“I can cook.”

“But unlike you, I have nothing better to do.” Which wasn’t strictly true, but there wasn’t a whole lot she could accomplish without her computer. That was a problem that needed to be solved.

She’d made some calls the evening before, reaching out to the people who’d left messages with Jewel. All of them had heard that Brooklynn was in trouble and asked what happened and where she’d been.

Graham, who owned the biggest hotel in Shadow Cove, practically grilled her for details about what she’d seen.

Elvis, owner of the shop next door, had worried drugs would flood into the community. “Back in my day, we experimented, dabbled here and there.”

Brooklynn pictured the sixty-something woman as a hippie, her long, straight hair parted down the middle, bellbottom jeans, and a multicolored polyester shirt.

“Not that they were good for us, mind you,” Elvis was quick to say. “But they weren’t laced with poison like the drugs nowadays. I know you’re holed up somewhere…nearby?”

Brooklynn, of course, hadn’t told her where she was.

The mayor had assured her that he’d directed the police chief to put his best men on the case. “We’ll get you back soon,” Ian had said. “Not sure we can pull off Old Home Days without you.”

Good to know where his priorities lay.

Only Lois Whitmore seemed truly concerned. “Call Leo. He’ll figure out the best way forward.”

Leo was the chief of police—and Lenny’s father. He was also an old friend of Lois’s.

“I might do that.”

“Do you have his direct number?” When Brooklynn said she didn’t, Lois rattled it off. “Did you get that?”

“It’s in my phone.”

“Call him, dear. He’ll help you. And if there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”

“I’m safe for now. There is one thing, though. I’m worried my mother’s going to find out what happened.” Lois and Mom had been friends as long as Brooklynn could remember.

“You know she’ll want to know.”

“Yeah, but I’m afraid she’ll rush back home, which could put her in danger. And if she does, Cici and Delaney will come too. They need to stay in Paris for the time being.”

“I hate to break this to you, dear, but they’re going to find out. I won’t talk to them without your permission, but you’d be wise to get ahead of it.”

“I will, but when she freaks out and calls you, talk her off the ledge, will you? I’ll do my best to assure her that I’m safe, but I’d appreciate your backup on that.”

“I’ll do what I can. So… Did you get it? The picture?”

Excitement bubbled inside. “I did. It’s perfect, exactly what we planned.”

“Wonderful! I can’t wait to see it.”

Brooklynn couldn’t wait to send it. The contest was the least of her worries at the moment, but if she won the prize money, she could keep the gallery door open. And the prestige of winning the contest wouldn’t hurt business.

She was considering how to break the news to her parents when Ford interrupted her thoughts. “If you don’t mind cooking, I’d eat.”

“Great. Maybe you’ll let me use your computer again later?”

“More pictures to look at?”

“To work. I need?—”

“No. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”

Of course not. He probably had something super-secret on his laptop he was afraid she’d discover.

Right. Because historians were just that interesting.

He sipped his coffee, then set it on the countertop. “I’ll get you a laptop.”

“I can’t afford?—”

“I have an extra one. I’ll have it delivered.”

“From your house? Where is that?”

As if he hadn’t heard the question, he started for the door, saying over his shoulder, “Let me know when breakfast is ready.”

The more he tried to hide, the more she wanted to uncover his secrets.

* * *

Brooklynn’s companion was as forthright at breakfast as he’d been during their other conversations, which was to say, not at all.

Ford was a puzzle Brooklynn worried she’d never solve. Rather than let that frustrate her, she gave up asking him questions. After their meal, she washed the dishes, then cooked some rotini and set it in the refrigerator to cool. She’d fix a pasta salad for lunch.

With no more excuses to put off the inevitable, Brooklynn called her family. The conversation went exactly as she’d expected—with Mom worrying, Cici demanding answers Brooklynn didn’t have, and Delaney diffusing the tension.

Fortunately, she managed to convince all three of them that she was safe—without telling them where she was—and that she would be safer if they stayed in Europe.

That task finished, she had nothing to do.

She wandered around the first floor, opening closed doors and peeking into closets. This place made the seven-bedroom house where she’d grown up seem quaint. She found no more hidden passageways.

With that thought, she went around pushing on wooden paneling and shifting books on bookshelves in hopes she’d find magic levers and moving walls.

No deal.

This sleuthing thing was harder than it looked, especially when she wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just…secrets.

At the end of a long corridor in the opposite direction from the office where Ford worked, she came to a door with a keypad beside it.

It was the alarm, and the little disengaged light was lit. So…it should be fine.

She opened the door and discovered a gigantic garage.

Considering the high ceilings and overhead loft, this must have once been a barn.

Fascinating.

She stepped inside, and her gaze snagged on a steep wooden staircase that led to the loft that had probably once held hay.

She climbed and found a beat-up cradle with some broken spindles, a chest of drawers, and an area rug wrapped in plastic.

There were boxes of toys and games that looked like they had come straight out of the fifties.

She found balls and bats and gloves. A badminton set, a croquet set.

Remnants of generations of happy families.

The thought made her eyes sting with tears. Years of Ballentines had lived here. Fathers and mothers and sons and daughters. And then a horrific crime, and the place had been empty since.

Was it really so easy to wipe away a family like chess pieces swiped from a board?

As if they’d never mattered at all.

Except they had mattered to someone. Suddenly, she had a better understanding of Ford and what made him tick.

Even the locals rarely talked about what’d happened at the Ballentine Mansion twenty-five years before.

But Ford hadn’t forgotten. The secretive, curious man was determined to uncover the truth.

If only he’d let her help.

From the loft, she got a sense of the size of this garage—large enough to hold far more than the two cars below.

Two cars… How odd when only one person was here.

A beat-up blue pickup truck sat beside a red Cadillac sedan. The two vehicles were worlds different from one another. Did they both belong to Ford? If so, why had he brought both of them? And, logically thinking, how?

She climbed down the stairs, thinking that Ford didn’t seem like the pickup-type. Maybe the truck went with the tool belt—a prop to back up his claim as a handyman.

But the man inside the house didn’t seem the red-Cadillac type, either.

Weird.

She reached to peek beneath a tarp in the truck bed and found boxes of flooring. Why would he have that, if he wasn’t really a handyman? Was that part of his prop?

The truck’s cab was clean, though it showed the vehicle’s age. In the glove box, she found the registration and proof of insurance, both in Ford’s name.

The Cadillac was just as tidy but much newer. She found the proof of insurance in the glove box. This car was registered in Massachusetts to…

She stared, blinking. Confused.

Marie R. Ballentine.

Ballentine?

As in, the Ballentine Mansion? As in, the family that used to own the property?

She’d assumed they’d sold it. Apparently not. Even so, why was the car here?

The Cadillac might not be brand new, but it hadn’t been here since the murders. That much was obvious, considering the fancy screen on the dashboard. It was clean and shiny and smelled fresh, meaning it hadn’t been parked very long at all.

It didn’t make sense.

Brooklynn climbed out and closed the door, suddenly certain that if Ford found her, he’d be furious. She hurried back inside, down the long hallway, and to the main staircase. She climbed to the second floor, her heart pounding all the way.

She’d discovered something Ford didn’t want her to know.

Not that she was afraid he might hurt her. He’d proved that much, anyway. But she needed Ford, she needed this sanctuary. She’d gotten comfortable here. She wanted to stay until this whole crazy thing blew over.

If Ford discovered her nosing into things, he might just order her off the property. But the more she knew about this place—and the man who lived here—the less she wanted to leave.