Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around Me\Legacy of Darkness\The Devil's Eye\Black Rose (30 page)

Reece snorted before he could stop himself. Mrs. Voyle glared at him over her shoulder.

“People say this place is haunted, too. I haven’t seen any ghosts.” He kept his smirk fixed in place and his tone light, so she wouldn’t know just how serious he was. Years of swindling people had taught him a lot about body language. The more he appeared to consider the whole thing a joke, the harder the housekeeper would try to convince him otherwise.

“Not haunted,” the woman said, holding his gaze. “Cursed. This land is cursed.”

“Because of the people who disappeared?”

She turned back to the stove and covered the sausage platter. “The disappearances are just the tip of the iceberg. How else can you explain Mr. James’s misfortunes? Two dead wives. Failing investments. Oh, things get better for a while, but they always crumble in the end. And now with that Matthew Langley…” She snatched the spatula from the counter and whirled to face him, waving the utensil like a witch waving a wand. “You mark my words, they’ve found one dead man. There’ll be more.”

Did she actually know something about what happened to the men who’d vanished, or was the woman merely relishing in the story? “Why do you stay?”

She jerked a shoulder. “We all have to eat, haven’t we? Mr. James pays more than a fair wage. There’s evil here, granted, but it doesn’t want me. You, though…”

“Afraid I might disappear like the others?” he asked, forcing his voice to remain amused despite the cold prickling the back of his neck. “You shouldn’t worry. I don’t.”

“You wouldn’t—too young and full of yourself. Still, you’re not a bad sort. We’ve certainly had worse working here.”

Like Matthew Langley? Reece had heard stories about his predecessor. And a con man could always recognize another con man. “What do you think happened to the men who disappeared?”

“I think they’re dead.” Mrs. Voyle’s dark eyes held his. “The house takes what it wants. It always has.”

* * *

Brynn stood with Eleri outside the pocket doors separating Arthur’s siting room from his bedroom. Nerves fluttered in her throat and she wiped her damp palms on her pants. What did she have to be so nervous about? He was the one to ignore her for the past twenty-three years. He was the one who owed her an explanation, who should be nervous.

Eleri hesitated before sliding open the door. “He’s not a nice man.”

Knots tangling Brynn’s insides squeezed. She swallowed hard. “Thanks for the warning.”

Eleri pushed open the doors and Brynn entered the dimly lit room. Silence closed in on her, except for the low hiss from the oxygen tank next to the bed. The sour odor of sickness combined with a sterile hospital-like smell sent a sharp pang slicing across her middle. For an instant, she was back in her grandfather’s hospital room, watching helplessly as he wasted away. She swallowed hard and shook the memory away, making a concentrated effort to breathe through her mouth. The doors slid closed with a thunk behind her.

“If you’re coming in, come in.” She jumped at the man’s raspy voice.

Nice to see you, too, Dad
.

She let out a slow breath and squared her shoulders, then crossed the room to a chair next to his bed—getting her first look at her father in more than twenty-five years.

He met her gaze with her own dark brown eyes—Eleri’s eyes, too. His thinning white hair was cut short to his head, gaunt features sharp, pointed, much like her sister’s. His sallow skin grooved around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. Propped into a sitting position with pillows, heavy blankets hid his lower body. Long clear tubes coiled from the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth to the tank on the floor. Despite the telltale signs of illness, he sat stiff and regal.

Brynn held her breath, waiting for some spark of recognition.

Nothing.

Her heart sank. He might as well have been a complete stranger.

He shoved his oxygen mask aside and nodded to the empty chair next to the bed. “Sit.”

Sit? Really?
Twenty-three years and the best he could come up with was
sit?
She hadn’t been expecting them to fall into each other’s arms, or that he’d crumple to his knees and beg for her forgiveness—okay, maybe she’d been hoping for something like that—but she
had
expected something more than
sit
.

She swallowed down her hurt and stiffened under the man’s glare. “I’m fine where I am.”

He let out an impatient sigh. “Eleri overstepped herself. She’d no right to bring you here without my knowledge. There’s nothing for you, know that from the start.”

Perfect
. Reece had been right. He did think she was after his money. He’d let her go through life believing he was dead, never once tried to contact her, but
she
was the bad guy here? “I don’t want anything. Eleri contacted me because you were ill—”

“And you came to see what you could get.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, fingernails digging into her palms. “No. I’d been told you were dead. When I found out that wasn’t the case, I wanted to meet you.”

He let out a dry bark of laughter that sounded more like he was choking. She wished he were choking. “You thought I would finally be the father you always wanted? That we’d become a happy little family? I made my peace with you when you left.”

His words ploughed into her like fists, stealing her breath. There was no point in lying to herself. She’d wanted all those things. A father. A family. A sense of place. And having him throw it in her face was like having her insides carved out with a spoon.

Her eyes burned and the back of her nose tingled. But she bit her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She’d be damned before she shed a tear in front of this man.

“How nice for you,” she said, her voice deceivingly unaffected. “You’ll have to forgive me, though. I was three and have no
actual
recollection of the event.”

“Your mother never wanted you to come back, and neither do I. I’m surprised your grandparents allowed it.”

“They’re gone.” And she was twenty-six years old. She wouldn’t have needed their permission.

Arthur jerked his shoulder like a sulky child. “I’m sorry for your loss, but if you think you’re going to get anything from me, you’re mistaken.”

No, he was the one who was mistaken. She’d come here for answers, and she wasn’t leaving until she had them. “They told me you were dead, you and my mother. Why?”

“We sent you away because we didn’t want you.” He over-enunciated each word as if speaking to a dim-witted child. “Isn’t that obvious?”

And becoming more so by the moment
. Could the answer really be that simple? Since Eleri’s phone call and discovering the papers granting her grandparents guardianship, the secrecy behind her grandparents’ behavior implied a sort of conspiracy. But maybe there was no conspiracy, no dark secret her grandparents were hiding. Perhaps letting their granddaughter believe her parents were dead rather than admitting they simply hadn’t wanted her was kinder than telling her the truth.

But she had eight letters that said otherwise. Proof her mother
had
wanted her. Proof she had been afraid of something. Proof her father was lying to her now.

“I drowned,” she said.

“Very nearly,” Arthur agreed, with a dispassionate shrug. “We were neglectful, neither your mother nor I interested in caring for you. Having accomplished what she needed to with your conception, you served no purpose to either of us. Now, I’m sure you’ve a life of your own.” He lifted a hand as if to silence her, even though she hadn’t tried to speak. “Not that I have any interest in hearing about it. It’s better for everyone if you go back to where you came from.”

Her insides shriveled, frozen and sore. A knot swelled in her throat, but she swallowed it away and pushed on. “Did you try to drown me?”

He rolled his eyes. “No one
tried
to drown you. You wandered off and fell into the water.”

“I remember someone holding me under.”

He shook his head. “You’ve confused the memory of Thomas pulling you out—”

“Who’s Thomas?”

Arthur let out an impatient sigh. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t work here anymore. My point is you’ve simply confused your rescue with someone trying to hurt you.”

Could he be right? She’d been three, and couldn’t remember more than the weight of hands on her shoulders, of flailing, of the water rushing into her mouth and up her nose when she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. And blind terror.

“No.” She cleared her throat, her mouth having suddenly gone dry. “Someone was pushing me under, not pulling me out.”

He leaned forward, dark eyes blazing. “Then who was it, hmm?” His lips curled back, exposing short, yellowed teeth. “What happened to you was an accident, nothing more.”

He flopped against the pillow and pushed his mask back into place, drawing deep, gasping breaths as if he’d been drowning.

“Go.” He waved a limp hand. “I’m tired.”

She didn’t care that he was tired. Hell, she didn’t care if he dropped dead in front of her. “What about my mother? How did she die?”

His eyes glinted like black glass. “She fell down the stairs. Now, leave. I have nothing else to say to you.”

He turned his head away, gaze focused on the far wall. Silence stretched between them, interrupted by the wheeze of the oxygen tank and his own gurgling breaths.

The lump returned to her throat with a sharp ache. She stood and hurried from the room before her control slipped. When she lost it—and she was close—she didn’t want him to have the slightest clue.

She pushed open the pocket door, but instead of Eleri a man and woman she hadn’t met were waiting. Both stood from wingback chairs set on either side of a cold fireplace, two opposites on the same spectrum. Both were tall—the woman only a few inches shorter than the man and he had to be at least six foot. He was dressed in a crisp pinstriped suit, his short white hair nearly as striking as his pale blue eyes.

The woman, on the other hand, wore a boxy skirt and jacket the color of wet sand, emphasizing her square, mannish frame. Coarse brown hair twined with strands of silver fell in a choppy line to her shoulders as though someone had hacked at it with a pair of garden shears.

“How is he?” the woman asked. His nurse, maybe.

“All yours,” Brynn muttered.

The woman’s thick brows lifted and vanished behind her choppy bangs. A bemused smile pulled at her mouth. She stared expectantly as if waiting for Brynn to say something more.

“Ruth,” the man said, interrupting the odd exchange. “See to Mr. James, please.”

The woman ducked her head, still grinning, and slipped into Arthur’s room, sliding the door closed softly.

With Arthur and the strange woman shut away, Brynn released the breath she’d been holding.

“Are you all right?” the man asked, straight white brows drawing together in a sympathetic frown.

She felt like she’d been through an emotional gauntlet, wanted to scurry back to her room and let loose the knot thickening in her throat. Instead, she swallowed hard and lied. “I’m fine. Where’s Eleri?”

“Called away, I’m afraid.” He smiled. “Do you remember me?”

Not him, not her father, not her sister, not this house. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”

“Of course you wouldn’t—you were just a little thing when you were here last. I’m Hugh Warlow, the butler here. If you need anything during your stay, you’re to let me know.”

“Thank you.”

“It must be quite strange, back after all these years. Does the estate look very different from how you remember it?”

She really wasn’t up to small talk, but she didn’t want to be rude. He was the first reasonably pleasant person she’d met since she’d arrived. “I don’t remember the estate at all.”

His eyes crinkled a little at the corners. “Nothing? Such a shame.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but where did Eleri go?”

“She’s in the study, speaking to the detective.”

A detective? A chill danced along her spine. “Why is she speaking to the police?”

“I should imagine they’ve more questions about the man murdered here.”

“Back so soon, Detective?” Eleri squeezed the doorknob until her knuckles whitened. Just then, it was the only thing keeping her standing. The last thing she needed was a visit from the man. Her sister already had one foot out the door. Catching wind of this might give her that final shove.

Harding looked up from the books on the shelf he’d been inspecting, flashed a feral smile and she fought the urge to recoil. “I’ve missed our chats.”

At least one of them had. She forced her feet to move, taking her into the room until she stood before Harding and another cop she didn’t recognize.

Absently, Harding scratched at his salt-and-pepper hair, leaving careless spikes pointing in all directions. Wrinkled bags pulled beneath his eyes, and his gray-stubbled cheeks sagged giving him an unfortunate hound-dog face. The stink of old cigarettes clung to his rumpled brown suit jacket. He nodded to the man next to him. “This is Detective Miller.”

The younger officer, taller with short blond hair and wearing a suit that didn’t look as though he’d slept in it, flashed a warm smile.

Ah yes, the good cop. “Is there something I can do for you?”

He would ask her to sit down next. These interviews had a flow to them, a sort of script. She’d been in this situation so many times she probably knew Harding’s part as well as her own.

The man didn’t disappoint. He pointed to the Queen Anne chair opposite the leather settee. “Sit down please, Eleri.”

“Would you like a cup of tea? Or Mrs. Voyle could make coffee if you prefer.” Ever the charming hostess, but if experience had taught her anything the more cooperative she was, the sooner she’d get rid of them and back to Brynn.

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Miller said, with another flash of his pearly whites. The man was a walking toothpaste advert. “We won’t keep you long.”

Both men sat at either end of the settee and Eleri lowered herself onto the edge of the soft-cushioned chair. For a moment, no one spoke. Instead they simply sat there, carefully placed points in an odd constellation—Harding and she the farthest apart, the oh-so-attractive Miller between them.

Of course, they’d choose the young, good-looking one to try to charm her and set her at ease with his blindingly bright sorry-about-my-asshole-partner smiles. The hair at the back of her neck bristled.

“We’ve more questions about Matthew Langley. I hope you don’t mind going over the details again,” Miller said, as his partner flipped open his notebook.

She shook her head, cold sweat slicking her skin. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I wasn’t even on the island when the man worked here, or when he was murdered.”

“Where were you living?” Miller asked.

Her gaze slid to Harding. He already had this information, but he smirked down at his notepad and didn’t meet her eyes.

“Manchester. I worked at a florists, In Bloom,” she added, hoping to move things along. “I’m…I was the store manager.”

“How long did you work there?”

“Almost two years.”

Harding pinned her with a hard glare. “Right after that other young man who worked for your family vanished. That’s when you left Cragera Bay, isn’t it?”

Her lungs shriveled in her chest. He thought he had something on her, something new since they last spoke.

Miller cleared his throat and shifted, the leather creaking beneath him. He looked uncomfortable with their exchange. She and Harding had veered too far from the script.

“We really do appreciate you speaking to us,” he said. A deep dimple grooved one cheek like a backward question mark. Warm hazel eyes crinkled at the corners.

She struggled not to roll hers. Miller was quickly wearing on her nerves. Did they honestly think she was so desperate for male attention, a smile and a warm look would melt the gray matter between her ears and she’d confess to whatever ridiculous thing they wanted to lay at her feet?

Bloody men
.

“I don’t see that I have much choice, but perhaps you could get to the point.”

Harding’s eyes, pale silvery-blue, flashed and he held her gaze. In his day, Harding had probably been an attractive man. Maybe even more so than Miller. He would have been the good cop, trying to lure her with leading questions and a beguiling smile.

He leaned back against the settee. “You claim you weren’t on the island when Matthew Langley was murdered, but I have a witness who says he saw you.”

Bloody Paskin
. God, how she hated that man.

“Your witness is lying.” Her pulse beat so hard she could taste it.

“Could you give me a rundown of how you spent the seventh of January?” Miller asked, drawing her attention.

“I’ve already gone over this with
him,
” she nodded at Harding, “three times.”

“Once more, please.” Again that brilliant smile. “For me.”

This time she did roll her eyes. “I didn’t work on Sundays, so I spent the morning cleaning my flat, read a book for a while, then went down the street to pick up some takeaway for my dinner. I came back to my flat and watched a documentary about Pompeii.”

“And then?” Harding prompted.

“I went to bed. I had to work Monday.”

Miller’s straight brows rose. “Alone?”

“Yes, alone,” she gritted out.

“No boyfriend?” Miller asked, frowning.

Instead of telling him to fuck off like she wanted to, she shot him a saccharine smile. “That’s right. No boyfriend.”

Miller and Harding exchanged a look. Given her lack of response to Miller, they probably thought she was a lesbian.

“Is there anyone who could verify your story?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Khan who own the restaurant where I picked up my dinner. They know me. They’d remember me coming in.”

“Friendly with them, were you?” Miller asked.

“Not especially. I just liked their curry.”

“Do you know why Stephen Paskin would say he saw you?” Harding asked, driving the momentum forward.

“Because he’s a lying prat.”

Miller blinked rapidly, and looked to Harding. The older detective’s gaze narrowed. “Why would he lie?”

“You know as well as I do. He believes I murdered his son.”

Harding sat forward and flipped back through the pages of his notepad. “That’s true, but Griffin Paskin wasn’t the first missing man connected to you. There are at least three others—two who worked for your family—who vanished and you were investigated for each.”

A mix of fear and indignation sharpened her tone. “I was, and you’ve yet to prove the men are missing let alone that I had anything to do with them.”

Harding leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head and smirked. “You were sloppy this time, Eleri.”

Her stomach knotted. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Harding’s grin stretched wide. “Unlike the others, there was a body this time. Langley’s things were still in the flat over at the coach house.”

She stiffened, curled her fingers into the soft cushion.

“No response?” Harding taunted.

“I didn’t realize you’d asked me a question.” She let out a slow breath. “The bottom line is, gentlemen, I hadn’t been to the island in two years. I had nothing to do with Matthew Langley…or any of the others. I’ve been cooperative, given you my whereabouts on the date in question. So, if that’s everything—”

“Stephen Paskin says he saw you the night Langley went missing. About three a.m., as he was closing up.”

“And what precisely did Paskin see me doing?” she snapped. “Baying at the moon? Drowning kittens? Sacrificing babies?”

Harding cocked a brow, considering her words. She wished she could call them back. When would she learn to keep her big mouth shut?

“Nothing quite so colorful, I’m afraid,” Miller broke in. “He said he spotted you watching him from the woods.”

Eleri snorted loudly and shook her head. Had she returned to the island, the last person she’d seek out would be Stephen Paskin. Simply thinking about him filled her with smothering nausea, never mind seeing him in the flesh.

“I’ve told you, the man is a liar. I wasn’t on the island. I don’t know what else I can say.”

The detectives exchanged another long look, communicating silently. Harding leaned toward her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Here’s our problem. While we can’t prove you were on the island, you can’t prove you weren’t.”

She opened her mouth to remind him of the takeaway she’d had for dinner, but Harding held up a hand to silence her.

“You’ve no alibi from seven o’clock onward, plenty of time to drive to Stonecliff and back.”

Panic’s icy fingers slithered up her neck, curled around her throat and squeezed. “I had nothing to do with what happened to this man…or any of the others.”

She stood, hoping they’d take the hint.

Neither man moved.

She opened the study door and stepped aside, waiting for them to finally leave. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help to you.”

Harding’s expression brightened. “Well, well. What have we here?”

Eleri whipped around to see Brynn standing just outside the door, eyes wide, face pale. Her stomach sank. Just how much did her sister know?

“I’m sorry,” Eleri said, unable to stop her hand from trembling as she tucked her hair behind her ear. “I meant to wait for you, but I was called away.”

“DI Harding.” He stepped forward, hand out, eyes locking on Brynn like twin lasers. “We haven’t met.”

“Brynn James,” she said, gripping his hand briefly.

“Ah, the prodigal daughter home at last.” Harding clapped his hands, rubbed them together and winked at Eleri. “The plot thickens.”

“If there’s nothing else I can do for you, Detective,” Eleri said, loudly, fighting the almost unbearable urge to shove the man out the door and away from Brynn.

Harding turned to the younger officer as if he hadn’t heard a word she said. “You see, Miller, Brynn here is the daughter of Arthur James’s second wife, Meris. Unfortunately, Meris met with an untimely end. Isn’t that right, Eleri?”

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!
Icy panic pumped through her veins leaving her frozen, unable to stop the inevitable.

“Now, if you keep with village gossip,” Harding continued, dark mirth dripping from his every word, “Meris holds a certain distinction for Eleri.”

Miller’s brows lifted, and he smoothed his chin with his thumb and forefinger as if giving Harding’s words serious thought. “Really? And what’s that?”

“Meris was Eleri’s first victim.”

Brynn swung around to Eleri, face white, eyes round.

“It’s not true,” Eleri said, quickly. She could feel the blood draining from her face in a cold swoop, dragging her stomach with it.

Brynn pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. “Well, doesn’t that just figure.”

Cold panic burst inside Eleri like a frigid firework. “I didn’t push Meris. Her fall was accidental.”

Harding chuckled humorlessly and the hair at the back of Eleri’s neck stood on end.

Brynn shook her head and started for the door. “I can’t deal with any more now.”

“Please,” Eleri begged, her voice little more than a whisper. “I’ll tell you everything about what happened to your mother. Just stay and hear me out.”

“I’m done,” Brynn said, sailing through the door without a backward glance.

* * *

Reece walked from room to room in Morehead Lodge, heavy boots thudding against the wood floors. The air smelled stale—the way empty places did after a time—and faintly of mothballs. If Stonecliff was old, the lodge was antiquated by comparison. The main house had at least been updated throughout the years—modern kitchen, new wiring and plumbing—the same could not be said for Morehead.

Of his less-than-thrilling tasks, upkeep of the lodge was the least physically taxing. On one of the few parcels of land Arthur James hadn’t sold off—at least, not yet—the house was let out from time to time. Though, not while Reece had worked there. While the house was unoccupied, Reece regularly dropped in and checked there’d been no vandals or vagrants and that the plumbing and electrical were running, and emptied the mousetraps.

He leaned over an ancient cooker, checking the gas was still off and the trap tucked in the corner. Sure enough, the bar pinned a small lump of fuzzy gray fur.

His lips curled with disgust as he freed the tiny corpse, plucked it up by the tail with one gloved hand and dropped it into the bin bag he held with the other. He poked his head into the cupboards, but the other traps were empty.

Only two this time, and he’d been all through the whole house. Maybe the poison he’d set out a few weeks back was working. Or maybe with no one living here, and no food source, the mice had moved on.

After tying the bin bag, he left through the front door and turned to lock it.

“Missed you last night.”

Reece jumped at the man’s voice and whirled around.

Detective Harding leaned against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest, smug smile stretched across his face. “Did I give you a fright?”

“More like a bloody heart attack,” Reece muttered, slipping the keys into his pockets. This was all he needed—a visit from the good detective. But after last night he wasn’t surprised.

“You mean you didn’t
know
I was coming?” Harding lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers.

Reece’s jaw tightened. “I’m not psychic.”

Harding chuckled, low and humorless. “Oh, I know you’re not, my boy.”

The detective snorted and jammed his hands into his coat pockets, ambling closer. Behind him, a pale boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen, followed.

Damn
. He’d grown so used to Stonecliff interfering with his senses, he hadn’t bothered with his blocks. He could throw them up now, but didn’t relish the inevitable headache that would come. Besides, he’d seen the boy before. He followed Harding wherever he went and showed little interest in Reece.

“What are you doing here? If someone sees you, your plan’s finished.”

Harding’s grin stretched wider. “Psychic or not, I’m sure you must have expected me after you didn’t make an appearance last night.”