CHAPTER ONE

The flight lands at six in the evening. The airport is crowded, and it takes nearly an hour for us to disembark, retrieve our luggage and obtain a car. Sean will keep the car, so I allow him to drive.

The view is beautiful. Northern California has one of the most scenic stretches of Pacific coast in the world. Towering evergreens crowd on the edge of majestic cliffs. The smooth blue waters of the ocean lap against the rocky bluffs. Soft gray clouds hover over the horizon.

It's breathtaking, but as with many beautiful things, it hides a terrifying truth underneath its pristine surface. The cliffs are majestic, but at any moment, they could fall into the ocean, taking with them miles of the highway on which we now drive, along with numerous homes that people have spent fortunes to own. The clouds on the horizon will be a dense thicket of fog in the morning. The ocean that seems so peaceful seems that way because we are several hundred feet above it. At surface level, those waves crash forcefully against the rocks. Anything caught by that fury will be dashed to pieces or else pulled out to sea by the strong rip current and left to drown.

“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” Sean asks. “I’m not a lover of America, but there’s places that make for pretty postcards.”

I don’t feel inclined to a philosophical debate, so I only say, “Yes. It is beautiful.”

The drive takes another two hours, and it is nine o’clock when Sean drops me off in front of a squarish, four-story house with a gently sloped shingled roof. The house is of dark varnished wood and contains wraparound decks on each floor. The look is unusual and somewhat old-fashioned but not unpleasant. At least from the exterior, it is by far the smallest house I’ve worked in so far. That’s not to say it’s small. It appears to be around five thousand square feet, which is quite a respectable size for an oceanfront home and it’s probably nearly as expensive as the much larger Ashford estate in inland New York, my first posting as a governess.

I quite like it. Perhaps I’m superstitious, but the smaller size and more quaint appearance of the home makes it seem unlikely to me that secrets could be hidden here.

“Shall I walk you to your door?” Sean says. “He asks, knowing that you’ll refuse but unable to forget his parents’ lessons on gentlemanly behavior.”

I give him a smile. “You are a gentleman. And I do refuse. You may, however, help me remove my luggage from the trunk.”

He dutifully exits the car. “You must be the only Englishwoman I know who doesn’t call it the boot.”

“I am also American.” I remind him, “and I have lived all but twelve years of my life here.”

“Fair enough. You’re sure you don’t want me to walk you to the door? I’ve almost certainly been seen already, so if you’re trying to hide me, it seems a waste of effort.”

“I can say that you’re a rideshare driver,” I reply. “I don’t need to tell anyone that you’re a private investigator looking for my sister missing these thirty years.”

“Of course not,” he said drily. “Wouldn’t want anyone to worry. In that case, have a good night, Mary. Try to stay out of trouble. I’ll call you as soon as I have information for you.”

“Thank you, Sean. Be safe.”

He laughs. “If I were to take that advice, I’d drive straight to the airport and lose your number.”

I roll my eyes. “In that case, be good.”

“Even less possible.”

He gets in the car and pulls out with far more speed than is necessary for anyone to drive. For all Sean’s professed disdain for America, he’d fit right in here.

I walk to the front door with my luggage and knock. I told Victor I would be here late, so he should be expecting me.

No one answers. I knock again, and still, no one comes to the door.

I press my lips together. I would rather not have to call Sean back to pick me up. It’s not that I mind starting in the morning, but I don’t fancy hearing him gloat that he should have walked me to the door. He’s full of himself enough as it is, and he enjoys pointing out when I’m wrong and he’s right.

I lift my hands to knock again, but the door opens, and I get my first good look at Victor Holloway. He’s tall, well over six feet, and rail thin. His hair is a mop of unkempt gray that hangs thickly over deeply lined brow ridges and eyes as bright and gray as the fog creeping in from the horizon.

“Yes? What is it?” He snaps. “What could possibly be so important at nine o’clock at night that you need to come here and bang on my door?” Then he frowns. “Who are you?”

I take a step backward. “I… I’m Mary. Mary Wilcox.” When he continues to stare blankly at me, I add, “the governess?”

“Governess.” He blinks, then says, “Yes. Yes! Of course. Mary Wilcox. Come in, come in.”

He grabs my arm and pulls me inside without waiting for my response. He doesn’t seem to intend rudeness so much as he seems distracted and only somewhat aware of what’s happening. His eyes look everywhere but my own, and when he releases my arms, he takes six steps forward before crying out, “Luggage! Yes, your luggage. “Excuse me.”

He brushes past me, nearly knocking me over. I decide it would be prudent to stay well out of his way, so I walk into the foyer and step to the side.

This turns out to be a wise choice as he nearly runs into me again while dragging my luggage behind him. He sets the suitcases in the middle of the foyer, then stands and sighs in satisfaction. "There you are. Your luggage is inside, and so are you."

A slight smile spreads across my face. I have a fondness for eccentric people. I have a feeling that Victor and I will get along handsomely once he gets used to my presence.

He turns to me and smiles. It’s a good look for him. His wrinkles soften, his eyes brighten, and his posture no longer seems so… looming. “Welcome to Holloway House, Miss Wilcox. Or is it Mrs. Wilcox? Perhaps Ms.?”

“Miss,” I reply, “and thank you.”

“Come! Let me show you around.”

He heads into the living room and gestures around expansively. "This is the living room, of course. The sculptures are mine. Well, of course, they're mine. I mean, I made them."

The living room floor is of varnished hardwood, brown rather than the gray of the exterior. The furniture is homely but of exceptional quality and arranged in that strange combination of tasteful and devil-may-care that only artists seem to achieve. From where I’m standing, the dining room is similar, the appliances and furniture modest but of high quality.

The statues to which he refers are the only off-putting elements of the décor. They’re not ugly by any means. In fact, even my unartistic eye can see the talent Victor must possess to create them. They look like they belong in a museum.

That museum look is what makes them off-putting. The statues are of humans, I think, but they aren’t representational. They look more like fluid shapes and forms caught at the precise moment they happened to resemble something vaguely human. One towers over me with a boneless spine, its arms wide as though to embrace me. Another leans back, its arms raised as though in a warding gesture, its angular knees bent at impossible angles. Another occupies a pose that I have great trouble discerning but I guess is some sort of interpretive dance. They are all constructed of a highly polished blue-black stone that sparkles with included minerals.

They’re actually quite beautiful, but the presence of something not quite human in a house that is otherwise so cozy and quaint makes it odd. They are something to be viewed with detachment and analytical appreciation, but here in the house, I cannot detach myself from them.

Before I can settle on what exactly disturbs me about them, aside from the vague belief that they belong in a museum, Victor grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs.

“The basement just contains showers and lifejackets, towels, stuff like that. The back door leads to a private cove.”

“How wonderful!”

His smile fades a little. “Yes, I suppose. Anyway, I’ll show you that during the day. This second floor is where the home theater and study are. Oh, there’s a laundry room on the first floor, but you’ve seen those before.”

“I am familiar,” I agree with a slight chuckle.

The home theater continues the homely but elegant theme. The two dozen chairs are upholstered easy chairs with cloth bolsters. The screen is perhaps twelve feet long by seven or so high, and the lights are recessed and covered with what looks like real crystal.

"Unnecessary, I admit," Victor said. "The realtor told me this drove the price up by a full million dollars. It would have cost five times that much to have it removed, so I just kept it. Not much of a filmgoer myself, but Celeste watches them from time to time. If you care to indulge, there's a snack room through the door in the back. Evelyn keeps it stocked. Between you and me, I think she uses this more than Celeste and I do. She chooses to remain here on her days off. Odd. Not that I mind, of course."

"Evelyn, is your housekeeper?" I guess.

“Yes! Charming young woman. Lovely. Anyway, the study is through here.”

He leads me to a door on the side into a much smaller room containing a large desk in front of a wall-to-wall window and a smaller desk in front of the larger desk. A bookcase filled with precisely organized textbooks and teaching aids occupies one of the side walls.

“I don’t have a lot of books other than what the state sends for her classes, I’m afraid,” he says with a sheepish smile. “But we both have library cards, and it’s a short drive to the Shoreline branch. Do you have a car?”

“I can get one. I have a friend who lives in the area.” The library might be a good place for Sean and I to meet to touch base on his investigation into Annie’s disappearance.

“Wonderful! On to the third floor then. That’s where the bedrooms are. Mine is the one nearest the staircase. Celeste is in the middle, and yours is at the end by the window. The fourth floor is my studio. That is off limits.”

“Of course. I would never dream of disturbing you.”

He gives me another dashing smile, then says, “Celeste is sleeping right now. I’m afraid she retires early these days. She’s excited to see you in the morning, though.” He sighs and looks toward the staircase. “Anyway, I should get back to work. I’m in the middle of a very big project.”

“Of course. Thank you, Victor. I look forward to getting to know you and your daughter better.”

His smile widens. He seems genuinely touched to hear that. “Thank you , Mary. I can’t tell you how… your luggage!”

“I’ll get it,” I tell him. “Go work on your project. You’ve been very kind.”

“Nonsense. I can’t let a lady lift such heavy suitcases up the stairs by herself.”

I am about to insist, but the suitcases are very heavy, and the staircase is one of those narrow circular ones that I find quite beautiful and also quite challenging to navigate. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

He rushes down the stair, making so much noise I wonder how her daughter can sleep through it. He returns just as fast, seeming not to feel the weight of the suitcases. He might be thin, but he’s far from frail.

I can see that he intends to carry the suitcases straight to the room, so I rush ahead of him to avoid being stampeded. I open the door, and he sets the suitcases next to the bed, then turns to me and grasps my hand, shaking vigorously.

“Good night, Mary. A true pleasure to meet you.”

He rushes from the room before I can reply. I chuckle to myself and open the suitcases. As I unpack, I feel high hopes that this stay will be a break from the sorrow and intrigue of my other positions. Yet the images of those statues, not-quite-human, intrude on my mind as they intrude on the perfection of this house.

It’s as though they say to me that they are perfectly at home here. It is I who don’t belong.