Lisa Childs - The Colton Marine

Why wasn’t it locked now?

“Damn this house...” She pushed open the door but hesitated before stepping inside the foyer. She reached into her purse instead, but her fingers fumbled across notebooks and pens, her wallet and plastic makeup containers. She couldn’t find the hard metal of the pepper spray canister. Then she remembered she had dropped it last night. It was under the basement stairs.

“Not going to do me a whole hell of a lot of good down there,” she murmured.

She peered around before stepping across the threshold. “Hello?” Her voice echoed throughout the two-story foyer—off the marble floor and the ornate plaster ceiling. The paint was peeling off the plaster like it was the exterior and several crystals in the chandelier were shattered, fragments lying on the scratched marble floor.

What were Declan’s plans for the house? Did he want it restored?

From estimating previous projects, she had an idea how much money it would take to return the mansion to its former glory. More than Declan would probably be able to get out of it—if he intended to flip it, like he had other properties. He wasn’t just CEO of SinCo; he’d built the company from the ground up. So maybe he was going to develop the land instead. The three hundred acres might get him a return on his initial investment if he turned it into a housing subdivision or something. But she grimaced at the thought of Uncle Mac’s ranch adjoining a real estate development.

“Hello!” she called out again. Nobody else’s voice echoed back at her. She heard nothing else. No creaking. No footsteps. Not even the scurry of rodent feet.

She shuddered at the thought of dealing with rats or mice. But no doubt animals had moved in when the humans had moved out. That was probably what she’d heard and seen the night before—some nocturnal creature like a raccoon or possum.

She probably hadn’t actually locked the door last night, either. As rattled as she’d been, she might have turned the key the wrong way before pulling it out. Maybe instead of locking it, she had unlocked it.

She expelled a slight breath of relief at the rationalization. Of course she knew that was what she was doing—trying to convince herself that everything was fine. She had been doing that most of her life, so it was second nature to her now.

It was also how she had survived. So she wasn’t about to change her ways. Even though she was only twenty-seven, she was still too set in them. Or maybe, as some people including Mac and Declan had accused her, she was too stubborn to change. Instead of being insulted, she’d always taken that as a compliment.

She was tenacious. As she glanced around the damaged house, she was glad that she was. A less tenacious woman might have turned around and walked back out.

As damaged as the house was, though, it was still apparent how beautiful it had once been. The foyer was quite grand, with French doors opening off it on the left to a parlor and living room and an arched hallway to the right leading to the dining room and kitchen. And in the middle of the space wound a grand staircase to the second-story landing.

She could almost hear the music from the parties she’d heard had been held here. The murmurs of conversation, the tinkling of laughter...

What had it been like to grow up here? It was a far cry from the overcrowded foster home where she and Declan had grown up. Was that why Declan had bought it? Did it represent some sort of accomplishment to him?

She knew it was important to him. She just didn’t know why. But because it was important, she had to get it ready for him. He couldn’t see it like this or he might be horribly disappointed—in the house and in her.

She turned around again, surveying the damage. “Where do I start?” she murmured.

The kitchen. She would need the plumbing and appliances functioning in order to stay there while she did inventory of the furnishings, and Declan would need it working for his visit, as well. La Bonne Vie was too far from town to order takeout. They would have to be able to prepare their own meals. When he came, he would have to tell her what he intended to do with the estate. Maybe he just hadn’t said yet because he wanted to assess the property in person before he decided.

She passed through the dining room, with its elegant coffered ceiling, to the kitchen. Sunlight worked its way through the vines and grime covering the many windows to gleam off the stainless steel counters that looked like they had begun to rust. The wooden floor had buckled near where the sink must have leaked. The doors to that cabinet stood open, as if they’d rotted off their hinges. She could smell the dankness of water damage and mold.

She would need a plumber for certain and definitely a carpenter. She moved toward the stove, about to check the gas, when she heard the noises again. The basement steps creaked as if beneath someone’s weight.

Instinctively she reached for her purse again, but then remembered the pepper spray was gone. So she reached instead for the metal pot holder dangling over the island, and she grabbed a heavy iron skillet. Declan had taught her how to swing a bat. She suspected this wouldn’t be much different.

It would do for protection.

Drawing in a deep breath, she opened that basement door again. But she didn’t see anything this time. Was it just the sounds of a neglected house settling into disrepair?

Something scraped across cement, and she knew it was more than the house. Something—or somebody—was down there. But she was the only one with a right to be in this house—in Declan’s house.

So she started down the stairs with the frying pan held over her shoulder like a bat. She was ready to swing. But when she reached the bottom step, she couldn’t tell where that scraping noise had come from.

It was farther away than the stairs, than the utility room. She had no idea how big the basement was or where the dark hallway might lead. She needed more than the frying pan. So she moved around the stairwell until she stood beneath it. Cobwebs brushed across her face and clung to her hair, but she felt around in the shadows until she found it—the can of pepper spray.

Its metal was dented and dirtied with dust. As she reached for it, she noticed a bright patch of color lying in the dirt next to it. She picked up the piece of pink lace along with the can. The handkerchief must not have rolled around in the dirt like the pepper spray because it wasn’t nearly as dirty.

Where had it come from?

She doubted River had had it on him the night before. But Mac could have; it might belong to the woman he’d started dating, Evelyn. Edith had met her at Thorne’s wedding. She dropped it into her purse so she could ask him about it later. But she held on to the pepper spray yet because she heard that noise again—that scraping noise...

Someone else was down here. This time Edith would find the intruder and deal with him once and for all.

* * *

Why had it taken ten years after seizing the estate for the FBI to sell it? Why now? For a decade, it had sat empty—abandoned.

Now there were too damn many people coming in and out, poking around.

Trembling fingers reached for the volume on the speakers, turning them down. It wouldn’t do for anyone to hear that echo—of that damn scraping noise.

What the hell was going on?

The person didn’t tremble with fear but with rage. With fury.

Those shaking fingers reached for other things now—for the gun lying atop an old bureau. Or the knife...

Even from down here, in one of the secret rooms, someone might be able to hear a gunshot. And if they came to investigate...

He or she would have to die with whoever was investigating now. That scraping sound was against one of the walls of the secret room. Too close.