Page 40 of Ghost Business (Boneyard Key #2)

Twenty-Seven

Tristan sat frozen on his couch. When he blinked, the afterimage of the weatherman on television burned against the backs of his eyelids. The condo was utterly silent: no ambient noise from the fridge or the air-conditioning, making the storm outside seem even louder.

Any room without windows. His living room was nothing but windows.

From the big picture window that framed his excellent view of the Gulf—a gray-and-white blur now, thanks to the wind and driving rain—to the sliding-glass doors that led to the balcony, he was surrounded on three sides by glass.

Glass that could shatter and kill him at any moment.

As if proving his point, a palm frond slapped against the sliding-glass door with a loud, wet thwap before falling to the floor of his balcony. The sound sent Tristan to his feet in alarm.

Maybe it was time to hunker down in the bathroom.

He’d just finished his beer while sitting on the bathroom floor, his back pressed against the cool ceramic of the bathtub, when he remembered his phone, stashed in his back pocket.

It still had bars and a relatively full charge.

It didn’t take long to pull up a weather map.

Flynn was still offshore but coming closer; outer bands reached like long skinny arms toward the state of Florida.

One of the thicker bands was firmly over Boneyard Key, which explained all the wind and rain, but the bulk of the storm was still to the south.

So things were about to get worse. Great. He was going to need another beer.

The act of opening the fridge reminded him that he should be keeping it closed.

The power was out; wasn’t he supposed to keep the cold air in as long as possible?

He grabbed two beers before slamming the door shut.

Now he saw the value in the red wine and Pop-Tarts that Sophie and Cassie had been talking about.

Sophie. His head automatically swiveled in her direction, toward the bedroom wall that abutted hers. She was okay, right? She had to be, inside that fortress that her place had become behind all those metal shutters.

He should have left. He had no business riding out a hurricane like this. Those thoughts swirled around and around in his head, the way the wind and rain swirled around outside. Dammit. He really should have left.

Outside, things were only getting worse.

He’d never realized just how loud rain could be when it pounded against the walls, the roof, the windows, like a living thing trying to get in.

Water started to puddle at the base of the sliding-glass door, and Tristan stashed the beers on the bathroom counter and grabbed a towel.

It felt like trying to bail out the Titanic with a bucket, rolling up that towel and shoving it against the door, but at least he was doing something?

It was probably time to head back to the bathroom. He wasn’t going to be able to do anything about the water coming in, and with everyone else he knew barricaded behind steel and wood, hiding in a windowless room was probably the smartest thing he could do right now.

Despite the power outage, visibility wasn’t a problem in Tristan’s place, until he got to the bathroom.

He flipped on the light switch, only remembering the power was out when the room stayed dark.

The wind howled from the living room and he closed the bathroom door behind him.

The total darkness was almost more terrifying than all the windows out in the living room.

He felt for the beers on the counter as he sank back to his place next to the bathtub.

His phone was blindingly bright as he refreshed the weather page between swigs of beer.

Oh, shit. Flynn was right here. Tristan watched, almost numb, as the storm on its little radar loop came closer to Boneyard Key, finally obscuring it completely.

No wonder it felt like the end of the world out there. Because it really might be.

The storm outside got louder and louder, until suddenly it wasn’t. The noise lessened, and fast, like someone had turned the volume down on the outside. Tristan hesitated before reaching for the doorknob. Was that it? Was it over?

—

Sophie had expected the power outage, so the sudden darkness didn’t frighten her.

She leaned forward on the sofa, groping for the lighter on the coffee table.

Within a couple minutes, she’d lit the grouping of candles in front of her, then the ones in the fireplace that were ornamental every other time of year.

Next, she moved to the kitchen, where she popped on one of her LED lanterns.

Her living space glowed now, warm and friendly despite the howling storm outside. Nothing left to do now but wait it out.

But Sophie couldn’t sit still. Not with the storm getting worse out there.

Not that she could see it, with all her windows blocked, and that somehow made it worse.

She paced to the kitchen and uncorked one of the bottles of red wine on the counter, but it was what, barely noon?

Hurricane or not, it seemed a little early to be hitting the bottle. Still, who was here to see her?

She splashed a little into a glass and carried it back into the living room along with a bag of pretzels, settling herself onto the couch with a book.

It wouldn’t get stuffy for another couple hours or so; for now, the remnants of the air conditioning lingered.

But after that it would get a little unpleasant.

She wouldn’t be able to open a window until after the storm had passed and Nick came over with his screw gun to help her take the shutters down.

Sophie took a long sip of her wine and opened her book.

She needed to distract herself from the storm outside and the impending claustrophobia.

Not being able to see out was maddening, making every little sound even more sinister and her nerves on edge.

But she gritted her teeth, sipped some more wine, and concentrated on her book.

Something slammed into her shutters a couple pages later, causing her to almost drop her book as her gaze snapped to the covered-up window. That had been some force. If not for the shutters, she’d probably have a palm tree in her living room right now.

Her phone chirped on the coffee table; cell towers were still up at least.

Landfall at Tarpon Springs any minute now! Then coming up this way. You lose power?

Sophie shook her head with a small smile. Trust Libby to bring the latest.

Power’s out here. Something hit the window, thank God for shutters.

Knowing her phone still had reception gave her an idea.

She opened up a weather app to watch the radar.

Flynn looked wicked, buzz-sawing his way along the coast of Tampa Bay.

The loop cut off right as the storm started to slide east, on a direct course with landfall at Tarpon Springs, like Libby said.

Not far from Boneyard Key now.

She was safe here. But it was hard to remember that when the storm got louder and the rain lashed harder, like a live thing trying to get inside.

Phone in hand and feeling like the final girl in a horror movie, she fled to the bathroom, shoving the shower curtain aside to climb into the bathtub.

It felt ridiculous. It was ridiculous. But being surrounded by smooth ceramic felt like an added layer of protection between her and the storm.

She huddled in the tub and refreshed the radar on her phone.

The storm dipped inland—landfall at Tarpon Springs, indeed—and the movement over land started to break up the storm.

But not a lot, not enough; the wind picked up outside, in time with the radar loop showing the storm getting closer and closer, until the world was nothing but wind and rain and howling outside like banshees trying to get inside, trying to get to Sophie, to grind her bones to make their bread—

—and then it was over. The silence echoed in Sophie’s ears as she crept out of the tub. It wasn’t really over, of course; this was the eye of the storm, a half hour or so of stillness before the back half of the hurricane showed up for a grand finale.

Back in the living room, which glowed with candles and the LED lantern, she took out her phone again. She should check on Libby. She should make sure Nick and Cassie were doing okay. But the contact she pulled up was much closer by. Right next door, in fact.

You okay?

The answer came back right away. She pictured Tristan huddled in his bathroom, phone in hand. He had better be in his bathroom, anyway, and not in that death trap he called a living room.

Look ma, I made it through my first hurricane!

Sophie bit back a groan. He thought it was over. When it was actually about to get worse.

“Ugh,” she said out loud to no one. She shoved her feet into a pair of shoes by the door and grabbed her umbrella from the stand nearby. “Fine.”

With a sigh she wrenched open her front door. It was still raining, the wind pushing it practically sideways into the breezeway. It took almost the entire fifteen feet between her door and Tristan’s to wrestle her umbrella open.

Because the storm wasn’t over. More was coming, and soon. And Tristan, that big dummy, was still riding it out in a plate-glass box. She couldn’t let him do that.

Time to cross a line.

—

Tristan eased the bathroom door open, blinking against the sudden brightness of the rest of the condo.

Everything looked intact, except for the puddle on the hardwood floor by the sliding-glass door.

The towel he’d put down was soaked—what a ridiculous, futile gesture that had been.

It was still raining outside, but it looked like a normal rain, like any given summer afternoon in Florida.

Fronds from the nearby palm trees littered his balcony, but that would be easy to clean up.

Tristan let out a surprised little laugh. He’d done it. He’d ridden out his first hurricane. He felt invincible, like nothing in the world could touch him. Take that, nature!

The knock at the door nearly sent him out of his skin. For an insane moment he thought Flynn was there; the hurricane itself coming to finish the job personally. Longneck still dangling from one hand, he eased open the front door.

Sophie stood there under a ridiculously large umbrella—the kind they gave out at charity golf tournaments—her eyes enormous behind her glasses.

“Come on.”

“What?” He blinked.

“Come on ,” she said again, as though that would clarify things. “You don’t have a single window boarded up. Come on over.”

“Now?” He looked toward the windows, out at the storm that wasn’t really a storm anymore. “But the storm’s over.”

She shook her head solemnly. “This is just the eye. It’ll be calm for a few more minutes, then it’s coming back with a vengeance. It’ll be the dirty side of the hurricane too,” she added, as though that meant anything to him.

But Tristan wasn’t going to argue with her tone of voice.

He slid his feet into a pair of flip-flops by the door before pulling it closed behind him, throwing the bolt and stowing his keys in his pocket.

A sudden wind gust had Sophie wrestling with her umbrella, and Tristan grabbed for it, holding it steady.

Their hands overlapped, and her hand was cold under his, fingers holding on tightly.

Sophie reacted visibly to his touch, her lips parting and a startled look coming into her eyes, but after a beat her grip softened, fingers loosening under his as she relinquished control of the umbrella.

He held it over them both, angling it to keep away the rain that blew in sideways as she led him into her place.

His heart quickened as she pushed open the door, and he caught his breath. He’d never crossed this threshold; she’d never invited him to. Something about this moment felt significant, and he wanted to mark it. Savor it. He took his time folding her umbrella before handing it to her.

“Well?” She stuck the umbrella in a stand next to the door, then she turned to face him again, crossing her arms across her chest. “Are you a vampire or something? Need an invitation?”

“No.” Yes. He let out a long breath as he stepped over the threshold and into her home.

Her place…glowed. That was the word that popped into his brain, and no other word could replace it.

It was dark, obviously, since the power was out and all the windows were sealed off from the outside world.

But there was a grouping of candles on the coffee table, and another in the fireplace.

An LED lantern sat on the edge of the kitchen counter to his right, throwing light down the hallway.

Her place smelled warm and soft. Like vanilla and comfort.

The square footage was smaller, but he could see traces of his condo here in hers.

The layout of the living room was the same but mirrored; in his place the kitchen was to the left.

His living room was more expansive, or maybe it just looked that way because his place had less furniture.

Sophie’s living room was filled with bookcases along one wall, and an old record player in a far corner with stacks of vinyl records.

An enormous floral sofa took up much of the real estate in this main room, and there were two neatly folded quilts across the back of it.

A fringed shawl was similarly draped over a recliner nestled into a corner near the record player.

The walls that weren’t filled with bookcases were filled with framed photographs and paintings.

Tristan immediately spied among the jumble a framed photo of a young girl with huge glasses, big curls, and a bigger smile.

Sophie. He couldn’t keep the grin from his face.

Next to him, the adult Sophie shifted her weight as she toed off her shoes. Tristan took the hint and followed suit, leaving his flip-flops next to hers by the door.

“I love your place.” The words were an understatement but they would have to do.

He’d lived in a lot of apartments in a lot of cities during his life, so “home” was a nebulous term for him.

But right now, in the dark of Sophie’s living room as the storm outside started picking up again—he could hear the wind intensify, throwing raindrops to rattle against the shutters—for the first time in his life, it felt like he was home.

It felt like nothing between them would ever be the same.