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S HEA

And this was the reason that, long ago, in this kingdom by the sea...

Annabel Lee

ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE PRESENT DAY

SHE HAD A SPLITTING HEADACHE. The kind that made a woman want to shower, bathe, curl up in bed, drink wine, and engage in a thousand other self-care attempts to make oneself feel better. Instead, Shea waved to Marnie, Edna’s daughter, who had given her a ride back to the lighthouse after having her car towed to a nearby repair shop.

Entering the lighthouse, Shea dropped her bag onto the table so she could dig through it to find aspirin. Popping two, she opted to avoid the wine since that wouldn’t be much help in collecting her thoughts.

Who in their right mind would throw a brick through someone’s windshield? And as much as she liked Edna Carraway, the elderly woman believed that a spirit could break a windshield, that Annabel had somehow risen from the dead and vandalized Shea’s car. Shea snorted, feeling a tad guilty as she did so.

The logic simply wasn’t there. Poor Edna. The elderly woman was so shaken by the incident that the police had called Marnie at the diner and asked her to come home. After finally getting Edna settled with a cup of tea and an old black-and-white western, Marnie had joined Shea back outside as Shea filed her report with the cops and helped her arrange to have the windshield repaired.

She had little to no hope the culprit would be found. Streets in Ontonagon weren’t lined with cameras.

“Am I in personal danger?” she had inquired of the police, who shrugged and explained that without a clear motive, it was hard to know what, if anything, was meant by the act of vandalism. It could be just bored kids with nothing to do. Or kids who didn’t like having tourists in town.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened here,” Marnie had chimed in, seconding the officer’s conclusion.

They’d do their best to figure it, but Shea could tell they had already dismissed it as unsolvable. That was the police response, and Shea really couldn’t fault them. It wasn’t as if they had a lot to go on, and motive was sketchy at best.

In the end, finding Edna relaxed and content with John Wayne, Marnie had offered to bring Shea to the lighthouse, and Shea had accepted.

Now she traipsed through the century-old house to the lightkeeper’s room. She slipped into a pair of joggers and a hoodie sweatshirt, hoping Holt didn’t decide to drop by tonight and see her in her slothful clothes that did nothing to aid her already curvy figure.

She needed to relax. Gather her thoughts. Maybe write an opening chapter in her book. She didn’t have much information on Annabel yet, aside from what she already knew. But then there was the Jonathan Marks angle she could capitalize on. She could also safely investigate the basics of that in the security of the lighthouse with the help of the internet.

Returning to the first floor, Shea glanced out the window. Dusk was settling in, and soon it would be dark. With the lighthouse dormant, there were no streetlamps to illuminate the yard, and the lake would become a black, moving shadow, beckoning lost souls with its rhythmic call.

She checked the lock on the window, then did a quick sweep of the place to make sure all the ground-floor windows were battened down against intruders. That she was unnerved from today wasn’t something Shea would even try to deny herself. Padding to the sitting area, she curled up on the couch with her laptop and prayed the satellite Wi-Fi would be reliable enough.

Jonathan Marks .

Murder or suicide? Shea hesitated as she glanced at the spot on the floor the documentary had indicated to be the place Jonathan’s body had been discovered. An involuntary shiver passed through her. The lighthouse looked friendly in the daytime, but after today—and now that night was setting in—Shea had to admit she was starting to become afraid of two ghosts—Annabel’s and Jonathan Marks’s.

First things first. She needed to make a spreadsheet of facts she knew about Annabel—which weren’t many up to this point. Then she would do the same with Jonathan Marks. Her editor would love the parallel angle of dead woman near the lighthouse from 1852 and dead man in the lighthouse from 2010. Two deaths would make for a creative approach to the historical setting of the place. The Porcupine Mountains area provided the perfect level of seclusion, and with Lake Superior’s incessant power and mystique, her approach to this tale would be like a book version of a chilling documentary exposé. Only, if she was going to go with that angle, she needed the material that would expose something other than what was already known by those who cared to research it themselves. She needed to uncover the local secrets, the lore that was never spoken of. She needed to know what secrets Jonathan Marks hid before he died, for everyone had them. And she needed to—

Someone pounded on the door.

Shea shrieked and almost flipped her laptop onto the floor as she jumped.

“Good grief!” She didn’t even bother to temper the volume of her voice, and she hoped whoever was outside banging would hear her. Shea set her laptop on the coffee table and smoothed back the wayward spiral curls that had escaped her scrunchie. She hurried to the tiny entryway. “I’m coming. For the love of Pete!”

“Yeah?”

“Huh?” Shea frowned, then grimaced at the familiar voice on the other side of the door.

No.

He hadn’t.

She jerked open the door, every emotion from the day releasing with the sigh she expelled and the tears that burned her eyes. Tears of frustration, need, hope, and preparation for the inevitable disappointment.

Pete stood there in his customary grease-stained jeans, his ratty old T-shirt, and an unbuttoned green flannel shirt. He hadn’t shaved—at least it didn’t look like he had—since Shea had left their place three days ago.

“What are you doing here?” She stared at Pete, unsure what her response should be. This was exactly why she’d left to come to the lighthouse. Six hours away wasn’t enough to deter him? He didn’t like to travel. But now here he was. His motivation was her ? Or the car. It had to be something to do with the car. Sometimes Shea wondered if it would be easier to dislike an interloping female rather than the soulless vehicles that competed with her for Pete’s faithful attention.

“I got a text from the insurance company saying they’re processing your claim.” Pete rubbed his chin. “Broken windshield, huh?”

“It’s okay,” Shea mumbled. She didn’t like that while she wanted to be away from him, there was also a sense of relief at the familiarity of his presence. Pete. Average Pete. But for a second, Shea caught a whiff of his deodorant—spices she could identify—and while he had nothing on Holt in the alpha-male hottie looks department, he was ... familiar . There was comfort in the familiar, but there was danger too. It meant settling for mediocrity. This was what Shea had come here to get away from. “You didn’t have to come,” she finished.

“I was already on the way. I got to thinking about the battery, and it probably needs replacing. I should have done that before you left, but I figured it was still fine for a bit longer.”

“The car is running okay. I don’t need a new battery. I need a new windshield, and you can’t help with that.” Shea should feel guilty she hadn’t asked him to come in, but she didn’t. Asking Pete to come in would be dangerous to her emotional well-being.

“Right. I debated.” Pete shifted his weight onto his other steel-toed boot. “But then when the text came through, I called the insurance company to follow up and found out someone had vandalized the car.”

She grimaced. She should have thought to call Pete, so he wouldn’t do what he’d just done. Touch one of his cars and the man would take whatever anxiety meds were necessary to have the guts to fly to Siberia or wherever to rescue the thing.

He was waiting for her to respond. Shea sucked in an irritated breath. “Yes. Someone threw a brick through the windshield. The cops found it under the passenger-side seat. But according to one lady, I’ve upset a ghost.”

Pete’s expression didn’t change. It was, for all sakes and purposes, expressionless. “A ghost. Okay. Anyway, I figure I’d stay the night at least. That way I can go to the shop tomorrow and see what the plan is for replacing the windshield.”

Shea should have bit her tongue, but she didn’t. “You can go home, Pete. They don’t need you hovering over them at the repair shop, plus where are you planning to stay?”

“Here.” With that, Pete lifted his backpack he’d been holding by the canvas loop at its top. “I know there’s more than one room here. I’m not looking to snuggle up for the night.”

“You never are,” Shea muttered, then stepped aside to let him inside, knowing it was fruitless to suggest Pete get a room in Ontonagon or at his own lakeshore cabin. He’d just inform her that it would be “poor stewardship” of their finances.

Pete entered the lighthouse and looked around, poking his head into the rooms, a logical scowl on his face. “You’re paying to stay here?”

“Yes.” Shea crossed her arms as she stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living area.

He glanced at her. “It’s small. And that’s a wood cookstove.” Pete pointed at it and then shot her a doubtful smile. “You know how to work a wood cookstove?”

“I never said it was the Ritz.”

“No, but for the price, you could’ve rented something nicer, more up to date. Something that has an electric stove.”

The man didn’t miss much when it came to functionality. For him, it was the practical that was important. Ambience was wasteful, even annoying to him.

“I’m here for the atmosphere and the history,” Shea mumbled. She wasn’t even going to try to explain it further. If Pete ever comprehended the importance of mood and sentiment and beauty, then she’d dye her hair green. It was a safe bet to make with herself. So safe that she didn’t bother to imagine what it’d be like if Pete appreciated the ambiance.

Another knock on the door. Shea groaned. She knew who it was before she opened it. Holt. It had to be. This place was turning into Grand Central Station for the collection of men who did things to her nerves. One who she’d slept with, and another who, well... Reining in her thoughts, Shea eyed her husband and then, for the first time since she’d arrived, mentally jotted off a prayer.

Save me from myself .

At least from the men in my life.

And this was why, for all the terrifying and creepy elements they brought with them, Shea much preferred the company of ghosts.

Shea was exhausted. She could see the dark circles under her eyes too, and that did nothing to boost her self-confidence.

Holt had stopped by last night, shortly after Pete arrived, having heard of the events of the day and wanting to check in and make sure she was okay.

After an awkward exchange between the men, Holt had wisely taken his leave, yet Shea couldn’t help but wish she could have followed him. She noticed Holt move a bottle of wine to the back seat of his truck before pulling away. Instead, she’d closed the door and shown Pete to one of the claustrophobic spare rooms in the attic just off the spiraling lighthouse stairs. Then she’d gone to bed, ignoring further research on Jonathan Marks, opting instead to toss and turn.

Giving up on sleep, she patted on some cooling aloe eye gel and tugged her uncooperative dark curls into a thick braid that had pieces springing out of it within seconds. She threw on jeans and was just buttoning a blouse when Pete entered the keeper’s bedroom.

Shea yelped and clutched her shirt closed. “Warn a person, Pete!” She’d forgotten that getting to the main floor required traipsing through the lightkeeper’s bedroom, where she was dressing.

He shot her a perplexed look. “Sure.” Pete kept moving and left the room, unaffected by her annoyance and the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her in her bra.

Husbands were the worst. She could dress in nothing but plastic wrap and Pete would be completely oblivious.

Shea sank onto the edge of the bed and drew a deep breath. This trip wasn’t going the way she’d imagined it. Now she had her husband to contend with. She’d exhausted prayers for her marriage months ago. She’d exhausted prayers for herself a few weeks ago. What was the use when they didn’t change anything anyway? All she could see as the next best move was to center herself on her own needs, evaluate the toxicity in her life, and then make the necessary changes.

A pang of regret warred with a twinge of anger. She’d been raised to believe that marriage was forever, that vows were sacred, that faith was the fabric of one’s life. Now she was realizing that her dreams were tired of being ignored, her vows had become a prison, and faith was nice but only when it worked.

It left Shea feeling lost at sea ... or lost at lake might be more appropriate. A bit like her research.

She sucked in a determined breath. Enough was enough. If Pete was going to hang around like a lost puppy, then fine. She would manage. She had for the last decade. And in some ways, it was nice to have Pete around. He was reliable at least. Yet it was all so difficult for her to sort out in her head, let alone try to talk to Pete about it. And the image of Holt and the bottle of wine in his truck? Why was romance always just out of reach? Why was happiness and feeling cherished as elusive as Annabel’s ghost?