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SHE PROBABLY HAD INSOMNIA. Shea stared at the ceiling, knowing even as she thought this, that there was an entirely different reason for her not sleeping. The fact that Pete’s snoring could be heard an entire floor above in the attic was part of it. The other part was because to get to the bathroom, he had to come down the metal spiral stairs of the lighthouse, through her room—the lightkeeper’s room—into the hallway beyond. Horribly distracting, considering Pete went to the bathroom twice a night, and because the last time she’d bothered to see him past eleven o’clock at night was at least a year ago. And during that time, he had for some reason decided to start sleeping without a shirt.

He might be the most boring man alive, but there was something to be said about naked broad shoulders in the moonlight.

With a growl, Shea rolled over in the bed, punching her pillow. The podcast on her phone had long since expired, and now she was conjuring up feelings for her husband. The heart was fickle, but at least she didn’t have to feel guilty about these thoughts since Pete was her husband after all.

Nevertheless, she had no intention of a midnight jaunt to the bedroom upstairs. Seduction was the furthest thing from her mind. She had come here to be alone . She snatched up her phone and thumbed through a few bookmarked sites that were inspirational and meant to help encourage self-care. She needed to remember that despite her book research, her other reason for coming here was to get back in touch with herself. To heal. To rest. To bandage her tired, sore heart.

What was it her favorite women’s retreat speaker from church had said when she’d attended last year? “Until you take care of your inner self, your whole being, and find yourself grounded firmly where you need to stand, you can’t take care of anyone else. Even Jesus went off to be alone. So should you.”

That was all Shea had needed to hear, even though she wasn’t fond of the chic and cute speaker, who claimed to be forty-seven but looked to be twenty-three. Well, if becoming self-grounded was church-approved and helped her stay young, then sign her up!

Except life was creeping in already. Pete. The broken windshield. The convoluted murder-suicide or whatever it was that had happened. Wasn’t self-care about reflection, coffee, quilts, a sepia-toned filter with neutral colors that inspired a hygge lifestyle beautiful enough for the socials? Not to mention, it seemed like the more she focused on her own self-care, the more she tended to push Pete away. To push others away. To disconnect from those around her.

Shea sat up. She needed something to drink. Water. Cranberry juice. Fruit punch. Anything. She hadn’t explored her inner self much, let alone her faith, and being raised in a traditional Christian home had made her bored by the time she reached her late twenties. Enter marriage with Pete and ... maybe that was the issue! Was she simply bored?

The low ceilings of the building attached to the lighthouse made the cramped rooms even darker as Shea made her way from the lightkeeper’s room on the second floor down to the kitchen. She opened the small fridge—which Holt had called the “icebox”—and observed the few groceries she’d stocked it with. Cranberry juice it was.

After pouring a glass, Shea wandered the first floor aimlessly, stopping to look out the windows and catch different nighttime views of the property, the lake, the woods, the dark outline of the Porcupine Mountains in the distance. It was all so primal. So wild. So beautiful at night. The moon was a thumbnail, but the sky was clear, reflecting off the lake.

There was a small room off the kitchen and sitting area that Shea recalled had originally been the oil room. Having read up on the lighthouse before she’d come, Shea knew it was in this room where the keepers had stored the oil for the light, until lighthouses made the switch to kerosene instead of colza oil. Kerosene’s fumes were far too toxic to store in the lighthouse. It would be unhealthy for those living in the lighthouse. Shea peered out the window in the now empty oil room, whose shelves bore vintage books and knickknacks as decor instead of for function. Across the yard, closer to the woods, was a small shed, built strong to weather the fierce Upper Peninsula winters. That had been the oil shed where the kerosene had been stored during the later lighthouse years.

Shea leaned toward the glass, brushing her forehead against the windowpane. She hadn’t explored the shed yet, although it didn’t appear all that interesting. But maybe there was something there she should log in her research. Old cans of kerosene or even a scent might still linger that she could include in her book to capture the essence—

Two hands slammed against the outside of the window in front of Shea’s face. A dark, hooded figure blocked her view of the shed, and an even blacker liquid mashed between the skin of the hands and the windowpane. It ran down the wrists and the glass. The window trembled from the force of the hands, and Shea flung her glass of cranberry juice, a scream ripping from her throat as the hands smeared down the window. The figure seemed to sink to the ground, vanishing below the window.

Shea scrambled away, her shoulder colliding with a shelf that sent a bookend flying and a line of books toppling like dominoes. She spun wildly and charged from the oil room, her arms stretched out ahead of her to avoid running into anything. Her hands slapped against a bare chest, and Shea careened backward, managing a terrified fall onto her backside. She tried to scurry away as the figure drew near, bending over her.

She screamed again, slapping the hands that gripped her arms.

“Shea.” Pete’s voice broke through her panic.

Shea began to calm.

“—the heck?” Pete’s frown was barely visible in the dark inner room of the house.

Without another thought, Shea flung herself against him. Pete wrapped his arms around her, just as he used to do when they were younger. Only now it wasn’t for romance. It felt necessary for her survival.

Shea knew she looked a fright, but she didn’t care. Her spiral hair was springing in directions altogether reminiscent of attempting to catch a radio wave. Her hands were jammed into the pocket of her blue hoodie, and her flannel pants touched the tops of her bare feet, which were shoved into flip-flops. She was bordered by two men, one her husband, one her landlord, and both were investigating the window. They all stood outside, Holt’s large flashlight illuminating the area. Pete had insisted they call Holt after calling the police, who were half an hour away in Ontonagon. Holt would want to know, Pete had stated blandly. He was altogether unbothered by the event.

“Looks like blood.” Holt held the light at an angle to see the smears left behind on the glass.

“It is blood,” Shea insisted, warding off a shiver. “I saw it on the hands when they slapped the window!”

“Maybe,” Pete said. “Corn syrup and food coloring can make good fake blood.”

“Why don’t you taste it?” Shea snapped sarcastically. Both men eyed her, and she dipped her head. She was scared. Freaked out. If either of these two guys had been standing in the oil room when the ghoulish invader had slapped their hands on the glass—well, they’d be more agitated too.

Holt crouched and shone the light on the ground below the window. “The grass isn’t even trampled.”

Pete squatted beside him, and Shea decided to join them, not wanting to be left out. Holt was right. The grass showed no signs of anyone ever having stood there.

“Where did you say this person went after hitting the window?” Holt asked Shea over his shoulder.

“The person sank,” Shea answered.

The guys both twisted to look at her.

“Sank?” Holt frowned.

“Yes, sank down below the windowsill and just disappeared .” She knew she sounded a tad bit off-center from normal.

“So whoever it was bent down to get out of sight?” Holt clarified.

Shea winced. “I mean, if I was to say what it looked like? It looked like a hooded phantom with human, bloody hands that simply dissipated as they sank into the earth.”

“Oh,” Holt said.

Pete sniffed and nodded. “The ground is dry, so I suppose someone could have stood here and not left any indentation.”

Headlights swept across the yard as a vehicle came up the highway and turned onto the gravel drive.

“That’s the police.” Pete stood and went to greet them, still clad in his cotton sleep pants.

Holt stood also, but he lagged behind and looked down at Shea, his eyes searching her face. “Are you all right?”

She drew in a steadying breath and nodded. “Scared,” she admitted, “but I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry about all this,” Holt stated.

“It’s not your fault.” Shea shook her head. “I don’t know what’s going on. I mean, if stuff like this happened when Jonathan Marks lived here, then I can see why the man went off his rocker.”

Holt’s hand gave the middle of her back a quick rub of reassurance, and Shea took strength from it, even as Pete and a police officer made their way toward them.

“Officer Ford.” He gave a short nod.

“Can you fill me in on what happened?” The officer retrieved a notepad and pen.

Shea spent the next several minutes recounting the tale.

The officer took notes with the assistance of Holt’s flashlight. He leaned in toward the window and studied the blood on the glass, shaking his head.

“Yeah, that’s not blood. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not blood. Probably corn syrup.”

Pete shot Shea a glance. She looked away.

Officer Ford tilted his head toward the door. “Mind if we go in where I can have more light?”

“Sure.” Pete led the way, followed by the officer and then Holt and Shea.

“I thought for sure it was blood,” Holt muttered. “He didn’t even take a sample.”

“I’m guessing Ontonagon doesn’t have a CSI lab?” Shea whispered back.

Pete and Officer Ford glanced back at them as they entered the house. Once inside, they crammed around the kitchen table, where Officer Ford collected more details.

No, trespassers hadn’t been a common occurrence of late, Holt informed him.

No, he didn’t have any history of vandalism to the property.

Yes, they knew tourists were coming into the area to the Porkies to camp and hike.

Yes, it probably wasn’t unrealistic to assume they knew about the ghost story and had creeped around the property for the adventure of it.

Officer Ford tapped the notepad with his pen. “That’s probably what it was. Someone from the big city wanting to play ghost hunter.”

“What about the blood? Why would someone smear blood on the window to scare the pants off me?” Shea asked.

Officer Ford looked her way. He shrugged. “Well, it’s not blood. It’s not paint either. I can take a sample if you want, and we can have it sent to a lab. It’ll take a few weeks—”

“Don’t bother.” Holt’s mouth thinned. “If you know for sure it’s not blood—”

“It’s not,” Officer Ford assured him.

“Then what’s the point?” Holt finished.

“Just trying to make you feel at ease, that’s all.” Officer Ford sucked in a breath and glanced around the room. “Been years since I’ve been in here.”

Shea furrowed her brow.

“Years?” Holt inquired.

“Yeah.” Officer Ford grimaced as though he probably shouldn’t have given voice to his thoughts. Now he seemed to feel obligated to explain. “I was here when Mr. Marks was found.”

“You were?” Shea’s attention was sparked.

Pete’s foot pressed down lightly on hers beneath the table. Why was he trying to squelch her curiosity? She pulled away and ignored him.

Officer Ford nodded. “Yeah. I was new to the force back then.”

“Do you believe it was suicide?” Shea’s question brought all three men’s eyes to her face. Shea flustered for a second. “I was just curious. I...”

“It was ruled a suicide.” Officer Ford’s expression was sincere. “No question in my mind.”