Heather Graham - The Dead Room

“Crowd control?” Brad marveled.

Robert cleared his throat uneasily. “There’s nothing like an…event to draw crowds.”

Hank Smith groaned, taking Leslie by the arm. “What our good sergeant is trying to explain without words is that not only is this house a historical masterpiece, it has a modern-day tragedy to go with it. Unfortunately, tragedy brings people in droves. In the beginning, we had cops every day. The lines were around the block. That’s slacked off some, but even so, eventually this place is going to pay for itself. Look, you’ve chosen to stay here, and I, for one, am not going to tiptoe around. You know that we were all affected by what happened, that we all felt a terrible loss—not as great as yours, but a terrible loss all the same—and if you want to be here, I say good for you. And that’s not sucking up, that’s God’s honest truth. So, hey, can we eat now, Greta?”

“Of course, of course,” Greta stuttered. “Come along to the dining room. Leslie, I’ve put you in the best bedroom. We’ll get your bag up in a bit. One of these brawny fellows will be willing to serve as a…well, as a brawny fellow and take it up there for you.”

“Hey, I can handle a suitcase,” Leslie said.

“Yeah, and one of us can be a gentleman and take care of it, too,” Brad told her. “Let’s eat.” He looked at his watch. She had a feeling that Brad had other plans for the evening and that a welcome-back dinner party hadn’t been on his agenda.

Leslie…

She was thinner. She looked almost ethereal. He had never known such pain, such longing, as he felt seeing her there that night. He wanted to touch her so badly. He wanted to tell her that it was all right.

He wanted to tell her that Hank Smith was a dickhead. He laughed at himself. He hadn’t known he disliked the developer so much. On the surface, the guy was a decent sort. Maybe he was too perfect. Tall, dark and slimy. His Armani suits were pressed to a T. Even his shoes were designer. He was a big man in town. Went to the right clubs. Ate at all the right places. Shook hands with the mayor. Hell, the guy even kissed babies’ cheeks. He was a partner in Tyson, Smith, and Tryon, and he was the perfect representative whenever the firm had to deal with permits, public opinion and the laws of the state. But he just wasn’t the kind of man other men liked. His lines were too smooth. He didn’t kick back at a local bar to enjoy a good football game. Did that make him bad? No, just…a dickhead.

And there was Robert Adair, good old Robert, still looking like a bloodhound. Working tirelessly, always concerned, always in the middle of something tragic, criminal, sad…

Ken Dryer. He didn’t like him any better than he liked Hank Smith. He never wore Armani. Instead, he was spotless in his police dress best. But then, Dryer had a tough job, speaking to the media, trying to assure New Yorkers that even under the worst circumstances, they were going to be all right. He supposed he should have more sympathy for the man, but he didn’t. Dryer liked his job too much. Liked finding a way to put a spin on things that always made himself look good.

Greta…well, she loved history more than life itself. She was a good old broad, caring, genuine, which was hard, when you came from that much money.

Professor Laymon…he should get to know Greta better. They would make one hell of a couple.

Brad Verdun. He almost smiled. Would have smiled, if he’d had substance and could have. Once upon a time, he’d been jealous of Brad. Like Ken Dryer and Hank Smith, Brad loved the limelight. He was a good-looking dude, too. But he’d never had any cause to be jealous. To Leslie, Brad was a friend and colleague, someone with whom she worked well. They’d laughed about a few of his romantic fiascos together. But now…

His heart ached. Funny, he had no heart, but he could feel the pain. That was then, and this was now. He himself was gone.

He loved Leslie. Wanted her to have a life. Wanted her to find something as great as what they had shared. Really…

He just didn’t want her falling for some asshole.

All right, so he’d gotten bitter. How the hell not?

Don’t touch her, don’t you dare touch her, he thought.

Then he amended that.

Don’t hurt her, don’t you dare hurt her. If you do, I’ll…

He’d what? He couldn’t even appear at will, could barely communicate with the others haunting the same space.

Don’t hurt her, he prayed.

Hastings House wasn’t huge. The entry was handsome, with the staircase off to the side to allow for a breeze to make its way all the way through the house. Leslie imagined that once those breezes had been plentiful; now, with the house surrounded by skyscrapers, the possibility was highly unlikely. There were two rooms to the right, two rooms to the left, and six bedrooms upstairs. The dining room was the second door on the left, and behind it was the one accommodation to the twenty-first century; the kitchen and huge back pantry were attached to the house by an arched passageway.

“Are you really all right?” Robert asked, coming alongside Leslie as they headed toward the dining room.

She squeezed his arm. “Really,” she assured him.

Really, she repeated in her mind. I just want you all to get out of my house.

Her house?

It wasn’t her house at all.

It was simply the house where Matt had died.

“So, Hank,” Brad said as they filed into the dining room. “Your company made another historical discovery, huh? Must be hard. All that time and money invested—and now you have to stop work and wait for us to prowl around.”

“Thankfully,” Professor Laymon said, before Hank could reply, “the company doesn’t try to hide what it comes across, Brad.”

But Hank was grinning. “Do I mind losing money, Brad? Sure. But we get more promotional bucks out of this than you could begin to imagine.”

As she took a chair at the period reproduction dining table, Leslie ignored the men and flashed a smile at Greta. They were eating on reproduction Dutch porcelain dishes, and fresh flowers graced the table. The minute she’d entered the house, she’d smelled the aroma of beef cooking, so she assumed they would be having a traditional old English pub roast.

“So, Hank, tell us more about the find,” Brad said.

Hank looked a little surprised. “Professor Laymon has been given all the specifics.”

“He’s told us what he knows, but I’m curious. Why do you think you’ve discovered a working-class burial?”

Hank shrugged, taking his seat just as the caterers made their appearance, bringing the meal from the kitchen. A roast, whipped potatoes, greens, a tomato salad. Red wine. A very nice and very traditional meal.

“No one has turned vegetarian on me lately, have they?” Greta asked worriedly.

They all shook their heads as Hank started to answer Brad’s question.

“Well, we haven’t come across any coffins or bones—we’re leaving that to you,” he said, helping himself to the potatoes. “Gravy?” he asked. Ken Dryer passed over the gravy boat.

“What our first worker came across was a set of wooden teeth,” Hank explained.

“Wooden teeth?” Leslie echoed.

“Just like the pair of George Washington’s in the Smithsonian,” Hank said.

“Poor people didn’t generally have false teeth,” Leslie said.

“They’re very rough, and only preserved because they happened to have been wrapped in a scrap of tarp, like something a soldier might have had,” Hank said. “I don’t really know anything about this stuff, but that’s what the first guy on the site, someone from the museum, said. Anyway, there was more. A few pieces of jewelry, costume stuff, and poor costume stuff at that. And a couple of tiny crosses—those were actually real silver. We stopped work right away, of course.”