CHAPTER THREE

C HAPTER T HREE

Standing at the front entrance, before long, Shannon heard footsteps—not the soft footfalls she would have expected but more like marching-style thuds.

Every nerve tingled with anticipation.

Meeting Rosella Marlow in person was a dream come true. The door swung open with an air of impatience, revealing a tall woman with silver hair bluntly cut between shoulder and ear and clear blue eyes filled with what could be concern, or maybe frustration. The creases on Rosella’s forehead deepened, and her voice trembled with barely contained anger. “You’re late.”

It took Shannon a moment to collect herself. “I-I’m sorry. Some women in the neighborhood stopped by to introduce themselves, and I couldn’t find my shoes—”

Rosella waved a hand between them, as if shooing away a fly. “Excuses merely serve to reveal a certain feebleness and, most likely, a lack of confidence.”

Stunned, Shannon said, “But it’s not an excuse. It’s the God’s honest truth.”

Rosella shook her head as if talking to a petulant young child. “Excuses expose mediocrity. They are a tool used by the weak-minded. Had you broken your leg on your way here, maybe that would be different. But you didn’t. Using your inability to find a pair of shoes as the cause of your tardiness shows an intent to absolve yourself of accountability.”

Shannon struggled to swallow the gigantic lump in her throat as she wondered whether she should turn around and walk away. She seldom cried, but she felt the urge to do so now. Dissolving into tears would most likely spark another lecture, so she swallowed, blinked, and didn’t dare say a word.

Rosella’s disappointment hung in the air like a bad smell as Shannon awaited instructions on where they might go from here. She had planned to express her amazement over Rosella’s immaculate gardens, but all sense of cordiality had left her completely.

Rosella exhaled. “My time is valuable. In the future, I expect you to be punctual. Do we understand one another?”

Shannon had never been great at sticking up for herself, and this moment was no exception. She deserved respect and told herself she wouldn’t tolerate being spoken to in such a demeaning manner. But she didn’t say a word. Trey called her a big softy. He was right. She stood there stiffly, lips sealed tight, and nodded.

“Wonderful,” Rosella said. “Perhaps we should start over.”

“That would be amaz—”

The door shut in Shannon’s face before she could finish her sentence. What the hell? The woman was a—

No sooner had the door closed than it came open with a flourish, yanking Shannon from her thoughts, which were far from gracious.

Rosella’s smile, the one Shannon had observed during their internet call, suddenly materialized. Her expression was now warm and friendly, appearing so genuine it caused the corners of her bright-blue eyes to crinkle. “Shannon Gibbons. So nice to finally meet you.”

Rosella offered a hand, and Shannon took it in hers. “Nice to meet you, too,” she answered with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, telling herself Rosella’s initial coldness likely stemmed from a personal difficulty, maybe due to lack of sleep, a health issue, or one of myriad other possible concerns.

“Come inside so we can get started.” After waving Shannon through, Rosella shut the door. “Follow me upstairs and perhaps we can attempt to make up for all the time lost due to your lack of punctuality.”

Climbing the steps on the woman’s heels, Shannon felt her insides squeeze together. She opened her mouth, ready to attempt a more detailed explanation involving being new to the area and taking a few wrong turns while driving her daughter to school, but quickly thought better of it. Let it go.

Issues or not, Rosella Marlow didn’t appear to be the kindhearted individual she’d expected. But she had been warned. Becky had compared Rosella’s personality to walking a tightrope between overbearing and genial. Shannon’s description of Rosella might lean toward something more like Jekyll and Hyde. For now, Shannon thought, if she could ignore a few jabs here and there, she might be able to learn from one of the best.

As they made their way through the house, the sheer scale of the residence became apparent. The exterior had been impressive, but the interior was a sight to behold. Rich wood paneling adorned the walls, exuding a timeless elegance that whispered of a bygone era. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow throughout. Every detail, from the ornate crown moldings to the elaborate banisters of the grand staircase, was meticulously crafted and uniquely charming.

Despite the remarkable beauty at every turn, including the massive office soaked in natural light and filled with antiques suitable for a museum, a sense of unease hung heavy in the air the moment they stepped inside. Rosella gestured toward the sturdy wooden chair in front of her desk. A solid chunk of wood without cushions or armrests, the chair looked out of place, causing Shannon to wonder whether it had been pulled from the basement. With her back to the windows overlooking the neighborhood, Shannon clung to a spark of hope that Rosella would stop, blink, and return to the friendly person she’d been during their chat months ago. If Shannon weren’t ridiculously fearful of the woman’s reaction, she might consider asking her if something was wrong. Instead, feeling her confidence dwindling fast, she sat with her back uncomfortably straight and didn’t say a word. She felt like a teenager sitting in front of the principal.

It wasn’t until Rosella took a seat at her desk that Shannon noticed a hint of desperation etched across her face. “I should have called you weeks ago, but I was afraid you might not come.” Rosella’s voice was no longer stern. “Everything has changed since we last spoke.”

Shannon nodded and listened closely.

“Someone has been following me, lurking in the shadows, watching me from a distance.”

“That’s so frightening,” Shannon said, believing that must be the reason Rosella was acting so erratically. “Do you have any idea why someone might be following you?”

“I think whoever it is, they wish me harm,” Rosella said in a hushed tone. Her gaze scanned the room, as if for any signs of lurking danger. “I’m certain it’s one of our neighbors, but the question is who.”

Of all the reasons that had swept through Shannon’s mind as to what might be causing Rosella’s perplexing behavior, this was not one of them. “You think someone in this neighborhood wishes to do you harm?”

“Without a doubt.”

Shannon didn’t know what to do, afraid of exacerbating the situation or causing Rosella further distress. “Why? What happened?”

Rosella pulled open a desk drawer and withdrew a piece of folded paper. “Here,” she said, reaching forward. “Read it for yourself.” Her arm brushed against the letter opener on her desk, sending it toppling to the floor. Shannon stood and reached for it, then set it back on the desk. Rosella impatiently waggled the note again.

Shannon grabbed hold of it and returned to her seat. The second she unfolded the paper and read the five simple words—I K NOW W HAT Y OU D ID —handwritten in red capital letters, goose bumps formed on her forearms. Shannon flipped the paper over. No name, address, or signature. No date, either. She handed the note back to Rosella. “Do you have any idea what the sender might be referring to?”

Rosella pushed herself to her feet and went to one of three enormous windows. “Come.”

Obediently, Shannon went to stand by her side.

“The house there,” Rosella said, pointing, “separated from mine only by a fence, belongs to Jason Abbott, his wife, and their son, Finn. Jason is embezzling from the company he works for.”

Rosella hadn’t answered her question. Shannon wondered where the woman was going with that bit of gossip. “Is he in jail?”

“He should be. He’s been a thorn in my side for a while now.” Rosella rambled on for a few minutes about Jason’s string of complaints about her noisy dog, tall hedges, and most recently, a property-line dispute. “Dealing with him has been stressful,” she said. “I have tried to be civil, but Jason Abbott is impossible.” Rosella lifted her chin. “He has forced me to do what I’ve done with anyone who pokes me too many times.”

Shannon’s eyebrows curved upward. “What did you do?”

“I sent an anonymous letter addressed to Jason at his workplace, letting him know I was onto him.”

“Do you think he knows you were the one who sent the letter?” Shannon asked. “That could explain the cryptic note you received.”

“He might suspect it was me, but he can’t know for sure,” Rosella stated matter-of-factly. “The truth is, anyone on the block could have left me that note.”

“Anyone on the block?” Shannon asked. “But why?”

Wagging her finger toward the window again, Rosella said, “Next to Jason, living in the pastel-colored house with that god-awful turret, are Becky and Holly Bateman.”

Another beautiful house, Shannon thought.

“The women used a surrogate and now have two small children. A five-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl.” She released a heavy sigh. “I’m fairly certain Jason turned them against me, whispering lies about me in their ears, making mountains out of molehills, no doubt, after I told his wife, Dianne, what I thought about them.”

“What did you say to his wife?”

Rosella stiffened as if her hackles were rising just thinking about it. “I told her the truth ... that those women have nothing to talk about except their bratty kids. Ethan did this and Charley did that. Ethan is so smart and clever for his age—he’s going to be president of the United States someday. ” Rosella rolled her eyes. “They are so busy hovering over their children, as if they think someone might snatch them if they blink, they have no time to watch the news or read about world events. They didn’t even know who I was!”

Shannon held in a groan.

“And that’s not all. Fundraising. You can’t go near Becky or Holly without one of them asking for money for one organization or another. It never stops. They held a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society three weeks ago, and they’re throwing another one in the next week or two.”

A minute ago, Shannon had felt a bit sorry for the woman. But now she felt only pity. “You don’t like these women, but you still attend the events they put on?”

“Of course. It’s expected of me. I have a reputation to withhold.” Rosella huffed as if she didn’t like being questioned. “Across the street from the women, the house next to yours, are the Alcozars, Kaylynn and Nicolas.”

Shannon held her breath, waiting for the ball to drop. What was it about the Alcozars Rosella didn’t like?

“Like everyone else on the block, they have children.” Rosella released a pitiful groan. “It won’t be long before the whole neighborhood is overrun with disrespectful teenagers who take everything for granted, use like way too much, and are glued to their cell phones.”

As Rosella rambled, Shannon noticed a pair of binoculars sitting on an antique, birch empire table set against a wall and found herself wondering how often Rosella used them. And if she did use them, what did she use them for? When Rosella paused, Shannon asked, “So you’re good with the Alcozar family?”

“Oh, no. The entire family is afraid of their own shadows. Kaylynn is skittish and meek, and Nicolas can’t maintain eye contact.”

Shannon kept quiet.

“He can’t be trusted,” Rosella went on. “And Kaylynn is such a frail, weak little thing. She’s afraid of her own shadow and too friendly for her own good.” Her eyes narrowed. “I think there’s a good chance they might be hiding something.”

She shifted her gaze so she was looking directly into Shannon’s eyes. “I spent decades interviewing people, important people. Doing so was never easy. It not only involved preparation and homework but also required discipline and hard work. Learning how to read body language became my forte. I was quite adept at observing facial expressions, gestures, and posture.” Rosella drew her brows together. “A furrowed brow might indicate defensiveness, while a relaxed posture often signals quite the opposite.”

“And that’s how you’ve determined the Alcozars might be hiding something?”

“Exactly. Are you doubting me, Shannon Gibbons?”

“No. Of course not.” But that wasn’t true. Rosella was being unreasonable, but how could she argue with the woman? She was Rosella Marlow—a superstar. And besides, Shannon hardly knew her.

Rosella turned back toward the window. “Their attempts to avoid me are blatantly rude at times. If I dare approach them, it seems they’re always making some absurd excuse before rushing back to the safety of their home.”

“Avoiding someone is one thing, but why would they, or anyone in the neighborhood, want to hurt you?”

“Because they must know I’m onto them.”

“The Alcozars?” Shannon asked.

Arms flailing, she said, “All of them.”

Shannon thought about what Chloe and Becky had already told her about Rosella. They were right; Rosella appeared to be making assumptions about the neighbors based on body language, such as eye contact and personality. Everything Rosella had said so far made Shannon wonder whether Rosella suffered from paranoia, which would explain her unrelenting mistrust and suspicions when there was no reason to be suspicious.

Shannon was trying her best to lend an empathetic ear, but it wasn’t easy. It made sense that Rosella’s neighbors would run whenever they saw her coming their way; Shannon wanted to run away, too. Before she could think of an excuse, Rosella found a new victim to talk about: Chloe Leavitt, whom Shannon had just met and who lived in the house directly across the street from Rosella’s. According to Rosella, Chloe was fifty-five years of age and lived with her husband, Wesley, and three children.

“Does the name Chloe Leavitt ring a bell with you?” Rosella asked.

Shannon shook her head. “Should it?”

“Well, she has been in the local paper a few times for her goodwill and generous character ,” Rosella said, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Not many people like her.”

“Why not?”

Rosella shrugged. “Despite the facade—meaningless fundraisers and such—she’s selfish, the kind of person who puts her own needs above all else, often at the expense of her family. No need to go on about her. You’ll see for yourself.”

But Rosella did go on about Chloe Leavitt ... and on and on. Apparently, Rosella and Chloe had become fast friends after Chloe and her husband moved into the beautiful house, with its charming mixture of brick, shingles, and siding, directly across the street. According to Rosella, it wasn’t long before Chloe set her sights on Rosella’s husband, Lance. Their friendship went south and had been tumbling downhill ever since.

Rosella perceived Chloe Leavitt as conniving. She also had a lot to say about Chloe’s apparent lack of control over her unruly children, who Rosella said ran amok without consequence. Rosella’s dislike of the woman was much more extreme than her animosity toward the others living in the neighborhood. Her resentment was apparent in the icy edge of her voice and the subtle tightening of her facial muscles as she talked about Chloe. Talk about body language, Shannon thought. Rosella was not difficult to read.

“Her husband is oftentimes away on business,” Rosella went on. “And I have no doubt that man of hers has wandering eyes, which more times than not leads to wandering hands ... like most men ... even yours. I mean, let’s be real ... a young Brad Pitt look-alike who happens to be a doctor. Keep an eye on him, my friend.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, please. Don’t act as if you’ve never once suspected your husband of cheating on you.”

She never had, but Shannon saw no reason to bother disagreeing. The statement was ridiculous and didn’t warrant a reaction. If anything, it only fueled Shannon’s desire to cut their meeting short and leave. There was no point in staying; Shannon no longer had any desire to work with Rosella. Mustering a halfhearted smile, she reached out and gently touched Rosella’s arm, ready to announce her need to get home and unpack some boxes. But apparently nothing short of a bomb going off would stop Rosella’s long-winded diatribe.

“Chloe Leavitt’s relentless pursuit of the coveted Best House award, a title I’ve claimed twice, was the last straw.” Rosella’s face contorted into a mix of disapproval and contempt as she swept her hand toward Chloe’s house. “Look at that place! It’s an eyesore.”

Far from it, Shannon thought as she followed Rosella’s gaze. The Arts and Crafts–style house was extraordinary. Exposed roof rafters added a touch of rustic elegance, while tapered columns gracefully supported a large, covered porch. The patterned windowpanes were works of art. And that was all from a distance. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rosella turned her way, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her elbows sticking out like sharp sticks. “You think my distrust of these people is misplaced, don’t you?”

Yes. Yes, I do. “I don’t know them, so it’s impossible for me to have an opinion one way or another. But I do find it easier to be kind than cruel.”

Rosella scoffed. “My last encounter with Chloe Leavitt,” she said, as if there had never been an interruption in her story, “ended in a heated exchange where I boldly declared that Chloe’s only chance of winning another Best House award would be over my dead body.”

And there it was: the reason, no doubt, Rosella thought Chloe wanted to cause her harm. The woman seemed out of sync with reality. Her contempt for her neighbors seemed to emanate from her core, and yet her reasoning had no substance. Clearly, it wouldn’t be long before Rosella was spreading rumors about Shannon, too.

“Please take a seat,” Rosella said. “We need to get down to business and talk about my project.”

Reluctantly, Shannon returned to the hard wooden chair and plopped down. She had no spine. Her husband knew it, her daughter knew it, and now she knew it.

Back at her desk, Rosella said, “As you’ve probably guessed, I am no longer interested in writing about the history of the homes in the area.”

Exactly what Shannon was afraid of. And not a big surprise.

“But I do need your assistance in helping me figure out who sent the note I showed you.”

“But—”

Rosella didn’t care to hear what she had to say. “The spotlight will shift away from the homes on my block. We will be delving instead into the lives of its residents and their deepest, darkest secrets.”

The idea of her first journalistic endeavor involving observing her neighbors made Shannon’s stomach fill with dread. “You would need their permission—”

“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t use their real names, dear.” Rosella made a tsk ing noise before continuing with her plan. “This will be an exposé. I will need to personalize the story and include investigative information.”

Shannon entwined her fingers in her lap. “I was taught that an exposé had to do with a social issue or problem, concluding with a possible solution.”

“Oh my. Don’t you see? This is a social problem, dear. People all over the world are living among strangers. Their neighbors could be absolutely anyone. Take Jeffrey Dahmer, for example. He fed his neighbor human meat.”

“Are you comparing your neighbors to a serial killer? A little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

Rosella shrugged.

Shannon had no further words.

“Call our little project whatever you want, but let’s be clear ... I want to know everything about these people—their likes and dislikes, but more importantly, their inner feelings and thoughts.”

Their inner feelings and thoughts?

“I need your help unearthing the truths that lie hidden behind every closed door and hushed conversation on this block.”

Shannon had no words. This was madness. Rosella’s desire to know everything about these people appeared to have more to do with control than anything else. What else could it be? Knowing their vulnerabilities might allow Rosella to hold power over them, just as she was doing with Jason Abbott to get him to back off about the issue he had with property lines and whatnot.

If Shannon had to guess, she would say Rosella wasn’t interested in idle curiosity or gossip. Maybe she wanted to gather information so she could use it to manipulate people. If so, it was Rosella’s motive that remained unclear. Maybe she got some sort of weird satisfaction from the knowledge she collected, fueling her sense of superiority, empowering her to shape lives according to her whims?

Rosella smiled. “Don’t look so worried. You’ll have fun getting to know the neighbors! We’ll meet every day, which will allow me to shape and guide you.” She leaned forward. “Nobody will be the wiser, because of course you would be curious to know what your neighbors are up to. And when you’re not out and about, you can use your journalistic skills to learn more about their backgrounds, where they came from, what their childhoods were like. I think it best if you start with Chloe Leavitt.”

Shannon swallowed. She didn’t bother telling Rosella she’d met Chloe Leavitt before coming here and liked the woman straightaway. “I can’t possibly spy on my new neighbors.”

Rosella’s eyes gleamed with a renewed urgency. “I don’t think you understand. I’m giving you a chance to show the world you’re more than a stay-at-home mom. I’m asking you to help me. My life is in danger.”

A bit dramatic, Shannon thought. Keeping eye contact wasn’t easy, but she held strong as she told Rosella how she felt about the matter. “To be honest, from what you’ve told me so far, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for you to believe anyone is out to get you. Do you think it’s possible your fears and anxieties have gotten the best of you?” When Rosella said nothing, Shannon added, “Maybe you need to take a break, go somewhere, and get away from it all.”

“I have no one else to turn to,” Rosella said. “Did I mention someone attempted to break into the house recently?”

“When?”

“Two days ago. The police arrived before the intruder was able to enter, but what will happen to me if they try again and succeed?”

If the story was true, it did worry Shannon. What if crime was a problem in the area? “Did they break a lock?”

“No. I happened to be looking out the window when I saw someone fiddling around below. The next day I discovered footprints in the dirt outside the basement window. I took a picture. I have proof.”

“Could the footprints be from a landscaper?”

Deep lines of worry cut into Rosella’s face. “Somebody is after me. I know it, and any true journalist worth a grain of salt would gratefully help me gather information and prove me wrong if they thought I was crazy.”

“I never said you were crazy.”

“But you thought it.”

Shannon couldn’t deny it, so she remained silent. Every time Shannon blinked, Rosella went from borderline bully to desperately frightened woman. Is it all an act?

“I need your assistance in unraveling this mystery. We must figure out who sent me the note, who is watching me, and why.”

Rosella’s fear hung heavy in the air, carrying the weight of the vulnerability she seemed to be trying to hide beneath a wall of dominance and authority. It was clear she yearned for someone to validate her fears, take her concerns seriously, and join her in uncovering the truth.

“I’ve done my research,” Rosella said. “You have a keen eye for detail and an uncanny ability to connect with people.”

“I don’t know about—”

“You spend a lot of time online, trying to solve cases, don’t you?”

Shivers coursed through Shannon. “How do you know that?”

Rosella no longer seemed fearful for her life; she looked smug. “I know people who know people who also know people.” She exhaled. “Something is bothering you. Talk to me.”

“I don’t understand why you went to all that trouble to know so much about me.”

It was true. Shannon had always possessed a fascination with true crime. By the time Mac had reached the age of three, Shannon had joined a couple of online sleuthing groups in order to stay sane. She considered it a form of self-care. Her favorite online group was Sleuthsolvers, a gathering of amateur dicks who required members to put in a few hours a week. If Rosella had originally contacted her to help write a story about the homes in the neighborhood, why would she have dug so deep into Shannon’s personal life?

Rosella’s eyes bored into hers. “Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you’re not ready to work with someone of my caliber. Maybe being a mother is all you were ever meant to be.”

Her words caused heat to rise to Shannon’s cheeks, a flush of embarrassment mixed with irritation. Shannon loved being a mother to Mac, and yet she would be lying if she didn’t admit to having moments when she didn’t feel fulfilled, when she thought being a mother wasn’t enough. She wanted more.

And yet, for all she knew, Rosella Marlow could be deliberately trying to needle her. Shannon straightened her spine. “I don’t think you know me well enough to make any sort of judgment about me.”

Rosella placed a hand on her chest. “Okay,” she said. “Fair enough. But you agree you’re a true-crime fanatic, wouldn’t you say?”

Fanatic? Shannon thought about all the hours she’d been spending on her computer lately, looking through digitized phone books and yearbooks, scouring the internet for clues. “Sure. I guess ...”

“Then help me.”

The thought of this being Rosella’s plan all along—to get Shannon to relocate so she could spy on the neighbors—popped into her head. Ridiculous. There was no possible way she could have arranged for Shannon to come here. There were too many moving pieces: her husband’s job, the house, the timing. But what if Rosella could and had? If that was the case, who was Shannon dealing with?

Shannon had to stop her active imagination from getting the best of her. Although Rosella Marlow was proving to be an oddball, that didn’t mean she’d spent months plotting some sort of wacky plan to get Shannon to move to the neighborhood. “I know I’ve asked before, but tell me the truth,” Shannon said. “I’m sure anyone you asked would have been thrilled to work with you. Why me?”

One side of Rosella’s mouth lifted. “As I mentioned before,” she said, “when we spoke months ago, I told you I believe we both possess a darkness within. It’s what drives us. And it’s one of the reasons I was drawn to you.”

Shannon had assumed Rosella was talking about all the emotions that came with having a troubled childhood. “What sort of darkness are you referring to?”

“The vindictive kind,” she said matter-of-factly. “We both have a history of being betrayed, which might fuel our desire for revenge, wouldn’t you agree?”

Shannon didn’t have a vindictive bone in her body. But no sooner had the thought sprung to mind than she remembered her foster mom Mrs. Bickford kicking the family dog, Lucy, a golden retriever, in the ribs. Not once but twice, yelling at the dog until she peed right there on the kitchen floor, setting the woman off again. Ten-year-old Shannon had screamed, begged her to stop hurting Lucy. Finally, she picked up her water glass and threw it at the woman, barely missing her head. The glass hit a cupboard and shattered.

Red in the face and angrier than Shannon had ever seen her, Mrs. Bickford told her it was no wonder her mother had given her away. Who would want a ferocious child with evil eyes? As she grew older, Shannon knew it would serve her well to come to terms with the fact that her mother had given her away, but it was a constant struggle. “It’s not true,” she told Rosella now. “I’m not vindictive or spiteful.”

A subtle shrug of Rosella’s shoulders made her appear doubtful, which caused Shannon to question her own character. She was afraid of making mistakes and letting people down. Oftentimes she felt inadequate, incompetent, and even unloved.

A swirl of emotions swept through her, taking her back to sixth grade. In her mind’s eye, she saw Alex, a redheaded boy who was fond of tripping her at school. She had spent the entire school year wishing him dead. And what about the mean girls in high school? And the night she forgot to lock her bedroom door and Mr. Ferguson, the only man she’d ever called Dad, climbed into bed with her, his breath reeking of liquor.

Maybe she was resentful. And vindictive and spiteful, too. Her head fell forward. She listened to her breathing, thought of Trey and Mac and all the love the three of them had for one another. No, she inwardly scolded. Rosella is wrong. Shannon was a good mother and wife. She was a good person. She raised her head and met Rosella’s gaze. “All I ever wished for when I was young was for my mother to find me and take me home. That’s all I ever wanted.”

Rosella’s eyebrows pulled together. “I’m prepared to offer you triple the pay we discussed over the phone.”

Shannon frowned. Had Rosella even heard what she’d said? Shannon rarely talked about her deepest feelings. The woman was completely absorbed in herself.

Rosella took the skeleton key that dangled from a miniature bronze statue of a small boy pointing at the sky and fiddled with her desk drawer. After a moment, she lifted her head and asked Shannon to look away.

“Lance loved his antiques,” Rosella said, still talking after Shannon turned away, her view now of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with Rosella’s extensive collection of biographies and history books.

“My husband never allowed anyone to touch his seventeenth-century desk with all these silly doodads and secret compartments. ‘If they can’t find it, they can’t steal it,’ he was fond of saying.”

Shannon heard a drawer somewhere within the desk being opened. From the sounds of it, Rosella was struggling. “Damn lever,” Rosella muttered right before what sounded like a compartment popping open. Thinking it was over, Shannon turned around in time to see Rosella jabbing her finger at something, maybe a button. A whir and a click sounded, followed by another pop.

“There we go!” Rosella produced a large manila envelope. “Here’s some information to help you get started.”

“But—”

Rosella held her arm straight out, the manila envelope grasped tightly in her hand. “No buts. I’m being followed. Everywhere I go, I feel their eyes burning into the back of my skull. A chilling note was left in my mailbox. Someone tried to break into my home. They are taunting me, and I’m convinced danger lurks in the shadows. Prove me wrong, dear. If you have the courage.”

Rosella had lost her mind. Shannon’s wish to decline working with the journalist sat firmly on the tip of her tongue, but the words refused to take the jump. Instead, a reluctant sigh escaped as she took hold of the offered envelope. She wasn’t vindictive or spiteful. She was weak. And Rosella knew it.

Rosella’s hands came together in one resounding clap. “We’ll meet again tomorrow. Same time. Don’t be late.”