Heather Graham - Ghost Walk

“An incredible storyteller!”

—Los Angeles Daily News

“Graham…has penned yet another spine-tingling romantic suspense.”

—Booklist on Picture Me Dead

“Graham’s tight plotting, her keen sense of when to reveal and when to tease…will keep fans turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Picture Me Dead

“Graham delivers a wonderfully inventive read.”

—Romantic Times on Picture Me Dead

“Graham builds jagged suspense that will keep readers guessing up to the final pages.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hurricane Bay

“Heather Graham writes with a unique passion for the characters and world of South Florida.”

—BookPage on Hurricane Bay

“This gripping tale strikes a perfect balance between romance and intrigue.”

—Publishers Weekly on Night of the Blackbird

“Spectacular and dazzling work…”

—Booklist on Eyes of Fire

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

MIRA is a registered trademark of Harlequin Enterprises Limited, used under licence.

Published in Great Britain 2005

MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

© Heather Graham 2005

ISBN 9781408955864

For Molly Bolden, with all the love in the

world. Also, for Bent Pages, and the girls,

Kay Levine, Michelle Bergeron,

Bonnie Moore, Jolene Leonard

and Betti Basile.

And for Connie Perry, Al, Scott, Stacy, Josh

and Me Maw, and the Ladies of Louisiana,

Brenda Barrett, Lorna Broussard,

Karin David Debby Quebedeaux

and Mary Lomack.

There’s nowhere like New Orleans,

but people always create the heart in

the why we love a place!

New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Heather Graham majored in theater arts at the University of South Florida. Heather grew up in Dade County, Florida, and toured Europe and parts of Asia and Africa as part of her studies.

After college, she acted in dinner theaters, modeled, waitressed, and tended bar. After the birth of her third child, she decided to stay home and was determined to commit herself to her dream: writing. She sold her first book in 1982. She is also now the mother of five!

Today, this author’s success is reflected not just by sales, with millions of copies of her books in print around the world and translated into over fifteen languages, but in many other ways. In addition to being a best-selling author, Heather has received numerous awards for her novels, and has been quoted in People and USA Today, been profiled in The Nation, and featured in Good Housekeeping. Her books have been selected by the Doubleday Book Club and the Literary Guild.

She has written over one hundred novels and novellas including category, romantic suspense, historical romance, vampire fiction, time travel, occult, and Christmas-themed holiday stories. Heather Graham writes for MIRA books and under the name Shannon Drake, writes for HQN Books.

Somehow, this prolific author manages to juggle it all—a family of five, married since high school graduation and a truly remarkable career.

The child awoke, not sure why. He could hear voices from the living room, but they were hushed, and though he immediately sensed a strangeness in their tone, he knew they hadn’t been loud enough to wake him.

He lay there, wondering.

Then he felt it.

Exactly what “it” was, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t frightening. It was just a sense of being comforted, like a blanket, like the soft brush of a feather, entirely pleasant. He felt enveloped by gentleness, care and concern. Even strength.

All the different tales that had been told to him seemed to blend together. There was a mist in the room that echoed the stories of the Great Spirit. He thought he heard a cry on the air, barely discernible, a soft keening. Perhaps it was only in his mind, but it might have been the distant cry of the banshee.

He wasn’t frightened.

Whatever it was…a mist, a shape, nothing concrete, but yet…it was there and it touched him, reassured him. The bathroom light was on; the little night-light was always kept on for him, even though he was five and already quite grown up.

But he knew that the mist or whatever it was had nothing to do with light or dark. It was simply there. It was a kiss on the forehead, a promise that everything was all right. It wasn’t a something but a someone, he thought. Someone who loved him and needed him to know that he was loved in return. Someone who had entered…

The kiss again, and the feeling of love, somehow deeper than anything real. And there were words, but not words that could be heard. They were words he simply felt.

Another world…

When the door opened quietly, he lay still. He could hear the tears in his grandfather’s voice as he whispered to his uncle, “He’s sleeping. There’s no need to wake him.”

He wanted to rise, to wrap his arms around his grandfather, to tell him that it—whatever it was—was going to be okay. But something held him silent, eyes closed, pretending he was sleeping. They were whispering again.

He was a strong child. He would be fine.

But he was an only child. He would be so alone.

No. It would be all right. He would have the rest of his family. And he was one of a great Brotherhood. He would be all right.

He definitely didn’t want anyone to know that he was awake, listening, and that in their words he had already grasped the sense of tragedy that was tearing them apart.

He was afraid that if he made the slightest sound, he might lose the precious sense of the light, the touch…the love that surrounded him.

Finally they left, the door closed.

It was in the morning that his grandfather spoke with him, stoic as always, firm in his belief in the Great Spirit, God, the Creator. There would always be an end to life here on earth, his grandfather told him, and it was how each man lived it that mattered, not the length of his lifespan. There was a world beyond, and it did not matter what a man called that world; it was simply there. His parents were gone from this place, and they could not be with him, not in the now. Nothing could hurt them anymore, ever. All they would know in the future would be the tender grace of their Maker. He—no matter what one chose to call him—would watch out for them.

His grandfather was wise, and yet the boy couldn’t help but wonder if he himself wasn’t more at peace than the man who would now raise him. His grandfather’s eyes were filled with pain. He didn’t fully feel the truth of his own words; he hadn’t felt the gentle touch.