Page 9

9

D amien holds my hand as we walk the path back to the cottage, neither of us speaking. It’s a comfortable silence, and at the same time, it feels charged, sparking with things left unsaid, like the air before a storm.

A storm , I think, then shiver.

The storm has yet to come.

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head. The ocean air is cool, but even in short sleeves, I feel pleasantly warm. Like a winter fire is burning in my belly and spreading through my veins.

He pauses as we reach the back door, but he’s the first to speak. “You’ve been quiet.”

I smile up at him. “Just basking in the day.” It’s not a lie—brunch had been delightful. Talking with Syl and Jackson. Watching the kids in the surf.

But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Ever since we left the boat, a strange unease has been curling in my stomach. It’s not the food or the champagne. It’s something intangible, something I can’t quite put my finger on. I brush the feeling aside, chalking it up to overthinking. After all, this is supposed to be a weekend of relaxation and romance.

Stepping inside the house seems to ground me. We’ve barely spent any time here, and yet the creak of the floorboards seems so familiar. So welcoming.

As we enter, I look around this house that I already love. That already feels like mine. As if we’ve been coming here for years and years.

I reach for Damien, then sigh in relief when his hand immediately closes around mine. I look up, expecting a smile, but instead, I see darkness. Shadows on his face. A tightness in his jaw.

A shiver runs through me— that’s not Damien!— and I yank my hand free as I turn my head away, my gaze moving to the long shadows cast by the sun sneaking past the gaps in the curtains.

“Nikki?”

I hesitate, but when I turn my head to look at him, he’s Damien again. On the outside … and on the inside, too.

Relief washes through me, so powerful it makes me lightheaded.

“Baby, are you okay?”

I’ve bent over, my hands on my knees. Now, I straighten slowly, then put my fingers to my temples and shake my head. “Too many mimosas and too much sun, I guess.”

He moves closer, and I bask in the tenderness when he puts one hand on my hip, then strokes my hair with the other. “You should sit.”

“No. I just—I’m going to go change. Will you just get me a big glass of water and maybe a few ibuprofen?”

His gaze roams over me, as if he’s searching for secrets, but he nods, then turns toward the kitchen as I hurry into the bedroom, desperate to change into snuggly leggings and a tee. He’s Damien. He is, he is, he is.

I head first to the bathroom, then lean close to the mirror. “And you’re Nikki,” I whisper, meeting my own eyes, terrified that those words seem so strange.

I focus on the crucifix pendant. “Please,” I whisper. “What’s wrong with me?”

But instead of an answer, I feel a darkness well up inside me.

Rip it off. Just reach up and rip the damn neckless off.

The urge is right there, so potent I can feel it in my fingertips, but I don’t understand it. It’s a beautiful pendant, and it was owned by my favorite star.

Dammit, rip it off.

I reach up, then undo the clasp. I hold the pendant as the chain falls from my neck. Then I turn, intending to put the necklace into the small jewelry case I travel with.

But I don’t. Instead, I drop it into the cup that serves as a holder for my toothbrush.

I stare at the cup—that’s no place for such a lovely piece of jewelry. But I don’t retrieve it. Instead, I strip off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor as I head into the bedroom, trying not to think about how strange I feel.

No. Not strange.

Wrong .

I shiver, then close my eyes, trying to shake off this rawness. I rummage through the dresser into which I’d tossed the contents of my suitcase, then tug on my favorite leggings. I’m in the process of putting on the ratty concert tee I always travel with for lounging when I hear it—a soft, rhythmic thumping that seems to be coming from all around me.

The tee is covering my face, and I yank it down, then stand, turning in a circle as I try to find the source of the sound. I tell myself it’s Damien. He’s decided to chop up an apple, or he went outside to deal with some pipe or something that needs to be banged back into place.

But that’s just me making up stories.

I know where the sound is coming from. I know everything about this house. Which means I also know that there’s no place to hide. No place at all.

A cold shiver races through me, and I blink, trying to recall my last thought. Something about the house. But the thought is gone. Out of reach, like the string of a helium balloon drifting higher and higher, just beyond my grasp.

That doesn’t matter, though. Whatever the thought, I still know where it was leading — the attic.

I look up, and I know I’m right. Whatever that thumping is, it’s coming from above me.

I hurry out of the bedroom to the small hallway with the large storage closet. I yank the door open, then sigh with relief when I look up and see the string hanging down. The strange thumping has stopped, but that doesn’t matter. I want to know what—or who—is up there.

I tug on the string, then cough as a cloud of dust descends on me. I brush it off, unfold the stairs, and eagerly make the climb.

The attic is large, and the scent of age and decay fills the air. I pause at the top of the ladder, my head and shoulders in the space while the rest of my body waits below the attic floor.

“Hello?” Immediately, I feel foolish. Of course, no one is here. It’s just old house noises.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—is watching.

Get a grip!

With that quick and dirty pep talk, I climb the rest of the way into the dark space, then straighten when I realize I can stand without bumping my head. The room is dim, but a few shafts of light stream in through two small, dusty windows. My eyes adjust, and I see the single light bulb suspended from the ceiling. I reach up to pull the cord, surprised to find that the bulb still works, and it casts the room in a dim, yellow light, illuminating the dancing dust motes.

Discarded furniture hides beneath dusty sheets, and boxes are stacked precariously against the walls. One dusty trunk stands out by virtue of not being covered. I move carefully to it, fearful of rotting boards. The attic feels heavy with secrets. As if it’s been waiting for someone— for me— to uncover them.

I shiver, then order myself to get a grip.

The trunk is brown, its leather straps cracked and worn. I see a lock and silently curse, only to realize that the padlock is hanging open. I take it off, then draw a deep breath, this moment feeling somehow solemn. Then I open the latches and lift the lid.

Inside, carefully folded and surprisingly well-preserved, is a collection of clothing. Evening gowns, silk gloves, delicate scarves. My breath catches. These aren’t just any clothes. These belonged to Vivien Lorainne.

I reach in, gently pulling out a rose-gold gown that I remember from Starlight Serenade. My breath catches as I recall the scene in the grand ballroom with Vivien standing tall in that dress. Elegant. Timeless. Alive.

The unease I’d felt earlier is back, sharper now, like the point of a knife pressing against my skin. I lift a gown from the trunk, its cream-colored fabric shimmering faintly in the dim light. As I hold it up, a sudden chill races down my spine, and I spin around in time to see a drape flutter to the floor, revealing a dresser with an attached mirror.

She’s there .

Vivien.

She’s looking straight at me. And all around, I hear overlapping whispers of her voice. And then, cutting through the chaos, one phrase rises clear and sharp, cutting through me like ice:

“You shouldn’t have come.”