Page 35

Grace spun away from the desk, crumpling the paper in her fist. Her eyes stung with an uninvited burn, the precursor to tears that always accompanied her fury.

No wonder sibling conflict was such a frequent plot device in fiction. King Lear, The Taming of the Shrew, the Greek gods—oh, and the very nonfiction rivalries in the Bible.

Her pace quickened as she stalked down the hallway, her fury propelling her forward.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to kill her sister like Cain, but giving her a solid shake?

That sounded like an excellent idea. Grace had never seriously entertained the notion of shaking her sister before, but it was oddly appealing now.

The thought almost brought a smile to her face, which to her surprise, eased the tension building in her chest.

Of course logic returned just in time to remind her that she had far more pressing matters than shaking her sister like a marionette.

Just as Grace rounded the corner, she spotted Frederick and Zahra approaching. Frederick’s expression tightened the moment he saw her, a worried frown creasing his brow. Before she even reached them, he shook his head.

“She’s gone.”

Evidently, Frederick had also developed a form of clairvoyance where Lillias was concerned.

“They must have left in the night.” She gave him the letter.

He read it over, giving his head another slow shake.

A roll of thunder rumbled in the silence, and Grace’s body tensed.

No! A storm at this moment? She couldn’t think clearly when thunder was involved.

“How could she do this?” Grace’s voice squeaked as she tried to raise her volume over other incoming thunder.

“We can’t keep her safe if she’s not with us. ”

Frederick folded the letter, his expression hardening. “Because she knows we’ll follow her.” He held her gaze. “And we must follow her if you’re to claim the inheritance together.”

“Could she not have waited a few days?” Another rumble tumbled into the conversation.

“She’s desperate,” he said softly, his hand brushing Grace’s shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “And when people are desperate, they convince themselves they’re doing the right thing, even if it’s reckless and selfish.”

Grace stiffened as another growl of thunder rumbled overhead. She tried to distract herself with the mystery at hand. “And what of Mrs. Lindsay?”

“Awake.” Frederick glanced toward the kitchen. “The officer said she’s already named Mrs. James as the person speaking with Mr. Clark in the back garden. So now we know they’re connected.”

Grace edged a step closer to Frederick at the sound of the next thunderstrike. Christmas. Think of Christmas. It’s a beautiful, happy, joyful time with lights, greenery, presents, and mistletoe.

Her gaze slid to Frederick’s lips. Mistletoe was a very good thought.

“And—and has Mrs. James been kissed or, er, seen this morning?”

Frederick tilted his head, examining her. One eyebrow arched slowly. “No. When the officer went to check her room at six o’clock this morning, it was empty. The window was open.”

Waking up in Frederick’s arms. Now, that was a good thought. Nice and distracting. And in the past, when they’d been alone, Frederick’s excellent cuddling and kissing skills had served as the perfect storm distraction. But Grace glanced at Zahra.

No, that wouldn’t be the best option right now. They were solving a mystery. And they had a daughter to consider.

Grace forced a whimper under control. “Then she’s gone after Lillias.”

Was that her voice? So high pitched?

Frederick’s brow shot up.

Zahra looked between them, her gaze narrowing on Frederick. “Are we going after Mrs. Dixon, Sayid?”

Frederick glanced out the nearest window as the rain pelted the glass. “Of course we are. She’ll not get much done alone, and I’m afraid she’s not prepared for the people who may be pursuing her.”

The thunder crept in again, and Grace moved another step closer to Frederick. “Daisies are very beautiful.”

Frederick turned his attention back to her, his gaze searching her face. Where was his clairvoyance now? Had he used it all up on Lillias for the moment?

“And I love strawberries … and bunnies … and those Italian sunsets are nice too.”

His eyes widened as another rumble shook the house, sending Grace directly into his chest. His strong arms wrapped around her, and he lowered his chin to her head. She could have sworn she felt him smiling.

“Zahra, do you think you could go to your room and start packing?”

The little girl nodded and dashed down the hallway, leaving the adults in silence.

“And snowflakes,” Grace muttered into his shoulder, burying herself as deeply into him as her body allowed. “Snowflakes are just lovely. I’m sure Zahra will love seeing snow.”

Thunder rumbled again, but Grace could only focus on the comforting weight of Frederick’s arms around her.

She hated thunderstorms. She’d gotten better over the years—she didn’t hide in small, enclosed spaces during them anymore—but the irrational terror still had a way of creeping in.

How could she help it? It had started during a storm the night her mother had died, giving birth to her baby brother.

Her mother’s screams had been drowned out by the storm, until those screams stopped forever.

She tried to take a deep breath to regain some sense of control, but it got caught in her throat, lodged there like a sob.

Silly. Weak. Detectives were not afraid of storms. And mothers certainly shouldn’t be.

“It’s just a storm, darling,” Frederick murmured against her hair. “But I know you could use a little distraction. And I’m never hesitant to provide one.”

She nodded, tightening her grip on him as she searched for a semblance of reason, but sometimes fear was far more persuasive than reason.

“Run along to our room, and I’ll let the policeman know we will be packing our things for the next hour, so that he will keep watch over Mrs. Lindsay.”

Grace looked up at him and sniffled. “I’m not a coward, Frederick.” Just to reassure him.

“I know.” He smiled in the dashing way she felt all the way to her toes. “But being afraid does not make one a coward. I’ll not be far behind.”

With that promise from his very kissable lips, she turned and started toward the main stairway, covering her ears as she went. But before she could escape to the relative safety of their room, a sharp knock came from the front door.

She froze mid-step, her hand instinctively covering her ears against the growl of thunder.

Who would be knocking at the door in the middle of a storm like this?

Another knock came—this time harder, more insistent.

Grace glanced down the hallway. With the servants absent and the house eerily quiet, she had little choice but to investigate herself.

Could it be Detective Johnson? Perhaps he had more information about Mr. Barclay—some piece of the puzzle they’d missed.

Her gaze flicked to the stairs again, lingering on the safety of her room …

and Frederick’s promise to distract her.

Maybe she wouldn’t answer after all.

The knock came again, followed by a muffled voice. “Please, open the door. Lillias!”

Grace’s blood ran cold. The voice was familiar—impossibly so.

Every concern about the thunder fled her mind completely. She may pretend to believe in ghosts, but she didn’t really believe in them, though she’d been on an alarming number of ghost hunts in her life. This voice was not the mumbled, distant sound of a phantom. It was unmistakably alive.

She took a step toward the door.

“Lillias,” the voice called again, followed by a desperate series of knocks that only made Grace’s pulse race faster.

Could it be? Could her mind really be playing such a cruel trick on her? Was this a hallucination brought on by the storm, or—she straightened, her fear pushing aside some of the dread clouding her thoughts. Well, there was only one way to find out.

With a quick turn of the lock and a pull of the door, Grace swung it open.

But instead of proving herself wrong and sane.

She proved ghosts were real.

Because standing in front of her, drenched from head to toe, his face pale and body trembling, stood Anthony Dixon staring right back at her.

“Grace?”

Her breath caught, as though her lungs had decided to skip a beat in protest. The ghost knew her name.

Of course, it knew her name—every legendary spectre knew its victim’s name.

Dickens’ ghosts all knew Scrooge’s name.

King Hamlet called his son by name. Did the headless horseman know Ichabod’s name? She couldn’t remember.

“What are you doing here?” Tony’s ghost asked her as he leaned a palm against the outside doorframe, as if to steady himself. “Are you going to let me in?”

Let him in? Oh no! Every legend where someone let a spectre in the house ended very badly for the living people.

So she did what any rational person afraid of storms who was talking to their dead brother-in-law should do.

She shut the door in his face.