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THE FACT THE AMBULANCE PASSED HER on the highway going toward Ontonagon from where she’d just been did nothing to make Shea feel any better. She had spun on the gravel shoulder, turning her car back toward Ontonagon and the hospital and thought she was driving fast. She floored the gas pedal, remembering her childhood when her mom, for fun, would yell “pedal to the metal!” and take off at top speed from a stop sign. Probably not the best of parental choices, but it was a happy memory. Until now. Now when Shea had to apply it in an emergency. How had Pete fallen from the lighthouse of all places? A person didn’t just lean and flip over the side!

Shea pounded the wheel as trees whipped by on either side. Pete. Predictable Pete. A tear escaped her eyes, and then another. When had they grown so platonic? When they were younger, Pete had been the hometown boy, the one she wanted to plant her roots with. What had changed? Was it her? Was it her overblown romantic notions? Too many streaming-service romances that had gotten under her skin?

Thankful there were no four-way stops or intersections to make her slow down, Shea glanced at her speed. Seventy-five? She could raise that by at least ten. Cops out here were few and far between, and the greater risk was in hitting wildlife. She increased her speed while considering literally flooring it.

A memory of Pete when they were newly married flooded her senses. He’d been at the kitchen table eating cereal. Shirtless. Wearing boxers. It was a Saturday morning, and twenty-something Shea had thought he was the sexiest thing since Mr. Darcy himself. She’d come up behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, running her hands down his chest. The man had jumped—literally startled—sending his cereal bowl flying, milk spilling everywhere. His look had been incredulous. Stunned. Confused.

“What the heck are you doing?” He wasn’t angry; he was one hundred percent taken by surprise.

Shea recalled her laughter as milk dripped down his chest, but Pete had just stared at her. The shock of the moment had stilled him into wordlessness. Her smile had waned. He’d reached for a washcloth and begun cleaning up. He didn’t reprimand her, but he certainly didn’t respond the way she’d expected him to. The standard belief was wink at a man and he’d come running. But Pete? He liked predictability. She liked to act on impulse.

Even then the gap had widened between them. She’d even taken to reading books to see if her new husband was maybe on the spectrum somewhere. She’d asked herself how she’d not noticed his inability to do things on the spur of the moment. But there was no magic diagnosis. It was just Pete. She was just Shea. Back then she’d accepted it. Now?

Shea swiped at the tears that trailed down her cheeks. Guilt rolled in her stomach. Guilt about her attraction to Holt. Guilt that she was tired of Pete. Guilt that she still prayed he would somehow change and become, what, different? Fun? Affectionate?

Another memory slammed into her. That night a few years ago when she’d been sick with stomach flu. He’d stood in the bathroom with her. He retrieved a cold washcloth for her forehead. He cleaned up the mess. He’d sat in the chair next to her until she fell asleep. When she’d awakened the next morning, he was still there. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed with a mechanic’s manual on his lap. “You good?” he’d asked blandly.

She’d nodded. Then he had gone about his day.

Shea threw her head back against the headrest as she pushed the gas pedal even more toward the floor. He was boring. But he was there. He was there ! How many women would kill to have a husband who was there. Always. Reliable. Never wavering. Maybe there were no clandestine kisses. Maybe he was immune to feminine wiles, but that was sort of nice too in a way. She knew he was faithful. When they were together, it was only her. He didn’t whisper dramatic words and memorable one-liners that could be the script for a romantic movie, but he was...

“Please, God,” Shea prayed aloud, “don’t let Pete die.”

“Is Pete okay? What’s going on?” Shea demanded, wrestling against Holt’s grip.

“Shea.”

“Let me go, Holt!” She wrenched away, took two steps, and then was caught again by Holt, this time with an arm around her waist, pulling her toward him. She knew everyone in the hospital was staring at her, but she didn’t care. Shea searched his face with desperation. What she saw sent cold waves through her body. “No. No, no, no.” She shook her head. The pulsating realization of grief knocked her knees out from under her.

Holt caught her against him. “He’s alive.”

Her breath caught, and she snapped her head back to stare at Holt. “He’s alive?”

“He is. It’s not as bad as I first thought.”

The relief she felt didn’t assuage the worry. “Tell me what happened.” There was steel in her words. She was losing patience. “No. First, I need to see him.”

Holt released her when she shoved away from him. He raked his hand through his hair. “They won’t let anyone see him yet. He’s getting a CT scan and an MRI.”

“What happened?” Shea’s resolve was crumbling.

“I stopped by to work on some repairs to the oil shed,” answered Holt. “I saw Pete on the lawn, directly under the lighthouse. When I got to him ... he was pretty messed up.”

“What do you mean ‘messed up’? Did he say anything?” Shea curled her fingers into the front of Holt’s shirt.

Holt winced. “He was in a lot of pain, Shea. His arm or shoulder—it has to be broken. He tried, but—”

“But what?”

“All he got out was—”

“ What? ” Shea slammed her palm against Holt’s chest.

He stumbled back, frowning. “‘Annabel.’ He said ‘Annabel.’ But he didn’t elaborate. He was writhing in pain.”

She snorted in disbelief and stepped away from Holt, scanning the hospital for a nurse, a doctor, anyone who could give her a better explanation. She took off toward the nurses’ station.

“Where are you going?” Holt hurried after her. “Shea!”

“No.” Shea waved him off, blinking back tears that burned.

“But—”

She leveled a fierce look on Holt. “You want me to believe that Pete thinks a poltergeist pushed him off the lighthouse?”

Holt grabbed at Shea’s arm, but she wrenched it away.

“I’m only repeating what Pete said, Shea. But they won’t let you see Pete, not yet. And you need to calm down. You’re too panicked.”

“I’m going to see my husband.” Shea glared at Holt, trying to piece together a fall from a lighthouse. None of it made one iota of sense. “While I go see Pete, I suggest you come up with a heckuva better story than that a ghost shoved Pete off the gallery!”

She didn’t blame Holt. Not really. He was trying to help, to protect her even, but the idea that Pete’s only response was “Annabel”? It was stupid. It was asinine. It was horrific. And while Shea didn’t believe that a ghost was behind Pete’s fall, she couldn’t shake the reminder of Penny’s declaration from the other day about Jonathan Marks:

“Fact is, he was the last person I know to try to understand Annabel and the lighthouse, and ... well, the cursed story killed him.”

Penny had been speaking of Jonathan, but now Shea was terrified it applied to Pete as well.

She had never felt so alone in all her life. Maybe it would’ve been a good idea to allow Holt to accompany her to Pete’s room. They had told her she could wait there—at least it wasn’t ICU. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? They had taken Pete back for who knows what litany of tests, and now she sat in the room staring at an empty hospital bed, thinking over every possible good and bad scenario she could.

Holt had to have heard Pete wrong. Annabel? It just didn’t make any sense. But if Pete fell from the lighthouse, how was he even alive? The ground below the structure was essentially a geological rock plate hidden beneath the grass. There was no give in it, no bushes to soften a fall. Either a miracle had taken place, or Holt had misread the situation, or—

“Mrs. Radclyffe?”

Yesterday Shea would’ve grimaced hearing that. Now she didn’t care. She shot to her feet as a doctor entered the room. She had kind green eyes and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Her scrubs were clean but wrinkled, and she wore a white jacket. All in all, her expression was one hundred percent unreadable.

“How’s Pete?” Shea was breathless.

No death. Please, no death.

The doctor extended her hand. “Emily Sturgeon,” she stated by way of introduction. “Pete is going to be all right.”

Shea’s relief was palpable, and she collapsed onto the chair she had been sitting in.

Dr. Sturgeon continued, a smile of understanding on her face. “Your husband sustained a proximal humeral fracture.”

Shea blinked. “A what?”

“A bad break to the upper left arm. He also has soft tissue injuries. But there are no internal injuries, and no head injury.”

“That’s good,” Shea said.

“ Very good. Getting hit by a car is no small thing.”

“A car?” Shea stood again, confusion warring with relief. “I thought he fell off the lighthouse.”

Dr. Sturgeon’s eyebrows winged upward. “Well, that would’ve resulted in far more severe injuries, if not been fatal. No, your husband said he was hit by a car. I’m not sure where you heard the idea of the lighthouse.”

“The man who found Pete—he said he was lying at the base of the lighthouse,” Shea informed the doctor.

Dr. Sturgeon gave a small laugh, revealing straight white teeth. “I’m guessing he assumed as much, given where he found your husband near the lighthouse. Anyway, Pete is on an IV of pain medications to alleviate the stress to his body. From what I can tell, there are no bone fragments that have shifted out of place, so surgery doesn’t appear to be necessary. We’re getting him into a sling and such. He’ll need to keep that shoulder immobile for at least two weeks. I’ll want to do an X-ray next week to make sure the fracture is healing properly.”

“If it’s not?” Shea swallowed the panic that was still unnecessarily rising in her.

“If it’s not, then we’ll reassess. Sometimes surgery ends up being required. But let’s not borrow trouble.”

“Okay.” Shea nodded vehemently. Funny how she hadn’t prayed in weeks, but suddenly today it seemed as if praying was all she was doing.

“One other thing,” said Dr. Sturgeon. “When he first came in, he was understandably in a lot of pain and a bit delirious. He said the name Annabel. Seeing as it was a hit-and-run, the police were wondering if you knew who Annabel might be?”

Shea wrapped her arms around herself to steady her nerves. “No. No, that’s just some research he and I were doing together. I-I’m not sure why he’d mention her. Annabel died in 1852.”

“Oh! Well, Pete hasn’t mentioned her name again. In fact, he doesn’t even remember saying the name Annabel. Which is understandable. The shock of the impact, the pain, all of it can lead to some wacky things being said. The good news is there’s no evidence of a concussion—although he’s sure to be groggy from the meds when we bring him back to his room.”

Shea gave a nervous laugh and nodded. Then a question popped into her head, and she voiced it without thinking it through first. “If Pete was hit by a car ... the lighthouse isn’t even by the road. How did he end up by the lighthouse?”

Dr. Sturgeon’s eyes widened, more in consideration of the question than in surprise. “I’m not sure what to tell you. I know the police will want to follow up. There’s already been a report filed.”

Shea winced.

“But Pete is going to be okay, and that’s what matters most,” the doctor concluded.

“So someone hit him with their car and then sped off?” Shea still couldn’t wrap her head around what had happened.

Dr. Sturgeon grew serious. “From what he has claimed, yes. And his injuries are consistent with that.”

“Thank you.” Shea had no intention of enlightening the doctor any further with where her mind was beginning to go. If it wasn’t Annabel—which was ludicrous—then the only person who would even be around the lighthouse with a vehicle in the driveway would be ... Holt.

Dr. Sturgeon, oblivious to Shea’s swirling thoughts, reached out and touched her elbow. “Pete will be fine. After a scare like that, I want to keep him here overnight to monitor his condition and help with pain management.”

“Thank you,” Shea repeated.

Shea hated harboring suspicions regarding Holt, but she also couldn’t fathom who else might have driven to the lighthouse, struck Pete with their car, then left him there to writhe in pain. Pete would have been welcoming to whoever had pulled into the drive, likely standing close by where he was vulnerable to someone wishing to do him harm. No doubt he believed they would stop their vehicle. And if she took the scientific position that ghosts do not exist, nor do they have the power to exact vengeance on the living, then the only logical conclusion was that someone alive— very alive—wanted Pete dead.