10

I woke the next morning, after a restless night of lucid, disturbing dreams, with the music of that incendiary reel playing

in my head in exacting detail, each instrument, every voice, and especially the crazy-making beat of those relentless, lust-inciting

drums.

I felt as if I'd dreamed the song, on repeat, all night. Rolling over in bed, I grabbed my phone and googled the lyrics, as

best I could decipher them.

After a few minutes of video-surfing, I found it. The closest version to what I'd heard at the Shadows was by the Dolmen:

"Witches Reel," although the band's drumming didn't compare. Last night, each thunderous crash had felt as if it was reverberating

in my bones, rattling my soul, jarring me painfully, luminously awake and alive.

I'd certainly felt witchy dancing to it, I thought with a wry smile, then grief slammed into me. I'd been too exhausted from

physical exertion (and more than a bit inebriated) last night to cry and had passed out the instant I'd slipped into bed.

Anger wasn't far behind this morning, assaulting me with such ferocity, it would have doubled me over on the verge of puking

if I'd been standing.

My mother had burned alive, and I knew how it felt. Somehow, I'd experienced it with her, though likely at a tenth of how

hellish it was for her to endure. How had I experienced her death? Was that terrible moment we'd shared yet another mysterious facet of our "bloodline"? If Mom had been able to probe people like I could, she'd not only concealed the truth from me, but tried to make me believe I was imagining things. Had she ever planned to tell me? Was my strange ability, or "deep sight," one of those "things about the Greys" she'd promised we would

discuss before she died, believing we had plenty of time?

She'd been taken far sooner than either of us had expected, ruthlessly murdered. The thought of my frail, gentle mother dying

even more excruciatingly than she already was from cancer—by someone's deliberate design—was enough to make a mushroom cloud

of bloodlust obliterate all capacity for linear thought. I pounded my pillow with a fist until my arm was trembling, then

buried my face in it and wept until it was soaked with tears.

When the storm finally abated, I lay there, wondering how such a gentle, temperate woman could have given birth to the firestorm

that was me lately. If Joanna Grey had ever felt a dragon stirring in her belly, you'd never have guessed it. More like a

graceful, soft-eyed doe who ran and ran because the hunters were after us, always after us, and she'd hobbled me with blinders,

telling me nothing, permitting their identities to remain a complete mystery to me. Instead of educating me, she'd taught

her fawn to flee in ignorance, and we'd darted fearfully from town after town, erasing all trace of ourselves, over and over

again.

No more.

Grief had consumed me from the moment I'd lost her. Now I felt the first stirrings of another emotion, one far more disturbing.

Anger.

At my mother.

For raising me in ignorance of what were clearly countless things I needed to know. For sharing nothing of our past, which had patently terrified her. If that past had managed to find its way into my present—it was a threat to which she'd left me blind. Unless, I mused, the safe, which she'd never once mentioned, held information she'd wanted me to have so badly that she'd told my best friend about it. Fact was, if I'd known it existed, I'd have snooped, and Mom knew me well enough to know that.

Impatient, I phoned the station again. When Tommy Jr. answered, I asked if Tom could give the package to Este, so she could

bring it down to me Friday.

"Dunno. I'll talk to him. I know he's got to fill out a bunch of paperwork in order to release evidence, follow protocol."

"It's not evidence," I protested. "It's personal stuff."

" Anything recovered at the scene," Tommy clarified. "I'll have him call you as soon as possible."

Irritated, I thumbed off. I understood the pain of caring for a loved one with cancer, but I wanted that damn safe, and I

wanted it now.

If I was to be doe or hunter, I wanted to be the one holding the crossbow.

A heavy duty, compound bow capable of ending life cleanly with a single arrow.

Despite my anger with my mother, she was and would always be my world, and whoever had burned her would also burn, I vowed

so fiercely it disturbed me, made me wonder: Could I actually do that—kill someone deliberately?

It disturbed me even more deeply that I had no ready answer. The way I felt at the moment, yes, I would kill the person that

had killed my mother; sight up from deep cover and take the bastard down.

Sighing, I pushed up from the bed, padded naked into the shower, and turned the spray on hot.

I'd forgotten to let Rufus out last night, I realized as I hurried down the stairs thirty minutes later, but someone had. I supposed Devlin must have done it while I'd changed last night, because the Stygian owl was perched in his cubby outside the greenhouse, waiting to be let in. I smiled up at him, glad he'd not been trapped inside all night. "Hello, you handsome thing," I gushed, wondering if he'd ever be willing to perch on me again when I'd taken such a wild punch at him the night we'd met. I'd like that, walking around with this splendid, albeit rather demonic-looking beast riding on my shoulder.

He cocked his head, regarding me with pumpkin eyes.

I opened the door to the greenhouse and stepped back so he could fly in, but he didn't move. Then, after a moment, he ducked

his head to push something off the ledge.

A small, bloody fox landed with a limp thud at my feet. Throat ripped open from ear to ear, the juvenile was clearly dead.

The thought Wow, good for you, a fox, what a kill, big boy! collided with Oh, the poor little fox ! in my head, and the latter won. Narrowing my eyes, I scowled up at him. "Kill to eat. I need no gifts. I can feed myself."

Rufus stared at me unblinking for a long moment, then pushed aloft and circled the garden twice before ducking into the greenhouse,

where he settled on his perch in the jackfruit tree, still staring at me, round-eyed.

"If it was a gift, thank you. But please don't bring me things that don't need to die. I love animals. All of them. More than

people," I added frankly. Animals were pure, instinctive beings, devoid of malice, incapable of lying. I could stare into

an animal's eyes all day without being buffeted by anything unpleasant, or even particularly complex.

He blinked slowly, and I suffered the fanciful thought he'd acknowledged my words. I had witches on the brain and was devolving into all manner of fantasy. "A bird is a bird is a bird," I muttered, laughing at myself as I tugged the door closed behind me. Nothing more.

Still, just as the latch began to click into place, I could have sworn he whuffed something that sounded suspiciously like

pretty girl .

After a breakfast of cheesy shrimp grits and a pork chop, plus two more of those fluffy lard biscuits warmed in the microwave

and smothered with jam (I might actually need the size six clothing at this rate), I decided to continue my exploration of

the manor, starting with Juniper's office.

So up the main stairs I went. I nodded to the Lady of Cameron Manor as I passed, humming softly—that damn song I couldn't

get out of my head. After purging myself of anger and grief this morning, my mood and step were buoyant, and I supposed my

emotions were just going to be all over the place for a while.

My night at the Shadows had done something to me. On the rare occasions I'd gone to bars back home (rarely going to the same

one twice, unwilling to risk encountering a prior lover), I'd been hunting a man to share my bed. Last night, rather than

refusing surnames, I'd actively sought them, committed them to memory as best I could, along with faces, because I planned

to return to the club. I planned, at long last, to stay .

In so doing, I'd experienced the first faint stirrings of how it must feel to be part of a community. Though Mom and I had lived in Frankfort longer than we'd lived anywhere else, I'd had no time to make friends. Any and all precious free hours were spent by her side. I knew my neighbors, but not really, and mostly through gossip, not interaction.

I didn't delude myself that entry into local life here would be easy, but it was my nature to work hard, and I'd seen more

than enough receptivity to my presence last night to make me cautiously optimistic. I could envision a future for myself here,

and I wanted it.

I also wanted that elusive genetic testing so I could heave a sigh of relief and believe I truly deserved to be here and that

all of this—home, community, financial security—was indisputably mine.

With money, I could hunt my mother's killer far more easily than without. At that thought, I checked my phone for the dozenth

time. Still no call from Tom. I wanted to know where the accelerant had been found and how much of it there was, if the job

was professional or sloppy. I was willing to allow a 2percent possibility a gang of delinquent youth had done it just to

watch something burn (believing no one was home), and details of the burn would, I felt, clarify the nature of the arsonist.

Professional equaled intentional, which implied our past had caught up with us. Sloppy? Hmmm. Wasn't so sure what that meant.

Cresting the final step to the third floor, I circled the balustrade and was about to turn left into the southwest wing directly

above Juniper's suite when I felt a curious tug to the right. Pausing, I glanced in that direction, down the corridor that

led into the wing the maids avoided but for an annual cleaning, which was at least partially fire damaged and had rested abandoned

for nearly seven decades.

For reasons I couldn't fathom, my desire to explore the gloom-filled corridor that traversed the front of the manor, closed doors lining both sides of the hallway, was abruptly stronger than my desire to find Juniper's office, and I'd not have believed that possible.

With a will of their own, my feet turned right. I moved to the mouth of the corridor and craned my neck to peer down it. The

air here, at the entry, smelled old and stale, stagnant, hazed with dust and smoke. The hall seemed to stretch deceptively

longer than possible, given the size of the house. The amber sconces that glowed invitingly in other parts of the manor were

extinguished here, and I realized fire must have damaged the wiring and that the electricity was shut off in this wing. The

only end to the corridor I could discern was a sort of telescopic dwindling to utter darkness.

Fire. Was I really ready to look at parts of a house that were charred? Would I weep again?

"Sorry to be disturbing you, ma'am."

I jerked, whirling to find Alice behind me, wearing a frown.

"I'd not be going into that wing, ma'am. It's best avoided. Didn't mean to startle you but there's a man below said there's

some sort of problem at the barn. I could send Clyde, but, well, he has a bit of a bad leg, you know. Well, you don't know,

but now you do." Hastily, she added, "It doesn't keep him from performing his duties. We're just... Well, the last ma'am

knew and made allowances, not that Clyde ever expected allowances or special treatment, nor would any of us be asking such things of you, merely that—"

"No worries," I said hastily, to save her from what had devolved quickly into nervous babbling. Good grief, how many carts I was tethered to! And all were, understandably, apprehensive about whether I'd be making sweeping changes. Hastening to alleviate her fears, as well as those of the rest of the staff, I said, "Any exceptions made by Juniper will continue. If Clyde has a troublesome leg, we'll work around it. Nothing will change. The barn?" I didn't even know there was a barn, but there had to be a place to store the machinery used to maintain the land.

"Behind the garage, through the Midnight Garden. You can't miss it."

"Did he say what kind of problem?"

She shook her head.

"I'll take care of it."

"Thank you, ma'am. And thank you about Clyde. He's a good man. He'll not disappoint you."

Past the greenhouse, through the south gate, behind the garage, through another elaborate cast-iron gate welded into a towering

brick enclosure, lay the Midnight Garden, which so thoroughly dazzled me, I briefly forgot about the barn. Dozens of mighty

oaks bearing the aged, circular wounds of amputated lower limbs, stretched tall and smooth as graceful dancers, leafy parasols

held aloft, fashioning a nearly impermeable ceiling of green through which scant sky peeked.

I felt as if I'd entered a secret world, a verdant, elemental place, spanning acres, where I'd have been unsurprised to find

fairies tending the flowers and nymphs guarding the mirrored surfaces of stone-rimmed, moss-edged pools. Birdsong filled the

air; squirrels leapt and played in their leafy homes.

The moment I entered those fourteen-foot-tall brick walls, time ceased to exist. As if in this garden there was no past or present or future. The very concept seemed silly here; time was obviously malleable, not linear, and one could as easily slip side ways as backward or forward. I fancied I might be standing in any century, in any country, perhaps one yet undiscovered—so apart and separate from the outside world did the Midnight Garden feel.

Holy, I thought. There was something very old and powerful here. The soil seemed to teem with life and possibility, thrumming

with such energy I fancied I could feel a gentle vibration in the soles of my feet, as if the ground within these walls possessed

a... knowing, an awareness... while the dirt that lay beyond was lifeless, inert. Here, things seeded would grow into

their most abundant selves. Here, magic might be done, spells worked with the soil, so rich and full of life did it feel.

In the far corner, past a long, narrow reflecting pool circled with yet more smooth, flat stones, was what could only be the

Sylvan Oak, with an inviting stone bench beneath it. I moved toward it, awed; I'd never beheld such a tree in my life, possessing

such presence. It was nearly a hundred feet tall, the trunk a good thirty feet in circumference, and its branches, many of

which rested heavily on the ground before thrusting back up to the sky, were so thick, so wide, Este and I might stretch on

our backs side by side on a single limb, staring up at the canopy. This tree had suffered no amputations, limbs rambling from

sky to earth before vaulting skyward again, unscarred. Enormous fringes of silvery moss drenched branches covered with ferns,

ivy, and feathery vines. Here, a flower poked a shy head from a crevice. There, an owl had made its home; there, cocoons stuck

delicately to the tender underbellies of leaves. The shimmering strands of a vast web (with a rather terrifyingly large yellow

and black spider in the center) spanned a dozen feet, limb to limb. The Sylvan Oak was its own untouched ecosystem.

"Aren't you majestic?" I exclaimed, moving to the trunk, pressing my palms to the warm bark, as if I might feel the centuries of life pulsing in the sap that fed its bright, giant heart.

And, for a moment, I could have sworn I actually did feel a heartbeat of sorts. I jerked reflexively, backing away, eyeing it uneasily. Surely I'd imagined that.

I considered striding aggressively forward and pressing my hands to it again, then reconsidered. Mom always said, Only ask a question, Zo, if you are fully prepared for any possible answer. I had no interest in encountering even one more oddity to deal with. My psychic abilities that were shared by others in this

town, Althea's nearly immobilizing fear of someone or something, Mom's murder, the countless unusual characteristics of the

manor—it was all more than enough to keep me on a kind of constantly uneasy edge. If this tree somehow had a heartbeat, I

was having an ostrich moment; head buried in the sand, I'd rather not know.

I shook myself. "The barn," I muttered, wondering just what kind of trouble could happen in a barn. Surely not anything too

dramatic. It was just a barn, after all.

Right?

Then again, nothing else in Divinity seemed to be just anything. There were layers upon layers to unravel in this place.

To my left, another cast-iron gate, the exit from the garden. I hurried through it, toward the sprawling, rectangular, metal-roofed

structure beyond.

As I entered the outbuilding via the large double doors, I inhaled deeply of sweet-clover hay, leather and saddle soap, and something bright and lemony. The barn was enormous and gloomy but for shafts of diffuse sunlight splintering through weathered siding, with a poured concrete floor upon which hulked combines, tractors, and trailers. Dusty stakes of forgot ten tobacco hung on high tiers, and horse stalls ran the length of both sides. The outbuilding had a partial second floor stuffed to overflowing with bales of hay and sacks of seed and fertilizer. Far above, at the apex of the steeply sloped roof, suspended from timbers by thick ropes, hung ancient farming implements, clearing room for modern equipment on the floor.

"Hello?" I called. "Is anyone here?"

When there was no answer, a chill of foreboding licked up my spine.

Retreat , that chill demanded. But the senses I'd been raised to rely upon—things like sight and sound—were unable to discern cause

for unease, and with pragmatism ingrained in me at a young age, I called again, "Hello!" and took a few more steps into the

dimly lit outbuilding, skirting a combine, to peer deeper into the shadows of the barn.

I don't know what tipped me off, but something did. I decided later I must have heard a creak as the implement above me shifted,

groaning on its ropes. My head whipped up, and I saw one of those archaic pieces of farm machinery, a sort of heavy, antiquated

hay raker, shuddering on its tethers. Then it was plunging straight for me, its countless long, curved prongs saber-sharp.

I staggered back, whirling to evade it, and three enormous black mastiffs sprang savagely at me, snapping and snarling, foam

frothing their muzzles. I whirled to go the other way, only to find three more slavering mastiffs there. I was trapped between

them.

My gaze whipped back up, and I saw death on those shining blades. Something inside me ignited, as time suspended and my life

flashed before my eyes, and I realized I'd had no life yet and I was, by God, not dying in a barn, killed by a farm implement, hemmed in by savage dogs.

The mushroom cloud I'd felt this morning was back, a thing of unspeakable breadth and violence, white-hot and radioactive,

shot through with an endless cry of injustice that my time here would be cut so short, just when good things had finally started

happening to me. The cloud saturated every atom of my being, smoking, searing, charring me from within, and just when it became

unbearable, when I felt it might scorch my soul from my body, driven by basest instinct, I pushed at the cloud, trying to

thrust it out of me, driven by the sudden conviction my inner nuclear bomb might obliterate me before the machinery did.

I pushed at the radioactive mess with all my might, trying to scrape it into one great ball of poison and eject it from my

body—I shoved and shoved , consumed by fury at the thing that sought to end my life, that damned machine—then the cloud was gone and I was woozy, on

the verge of collapse. The machinery was almost on me when, abruptly, the lethal implement veered sharply to the left and

landed on the combine with a grinding screech of metal against metal and an explosion of fiery sparks. It flattened the roof

of the combine like an accordion, crushing it to the cab, vicious saber claws slamming to the floor where they gouged up chunks

of concrete. Then, shivering and jerking, it collapsed in a conjoined heap of twisted metal and went still.

I stumbled backward, sobbing with fear and relief, a hand pressed to my chest, then spun and raced from the barn as fast as

my trembling legs would carry me.

Only when I was nearly back to the house did I think—where had those terrifying dogs gone?

For that matter, where the hell had they come from?

I was sitting at the kitchen island, a cup of coffee cradled in my still-trembling hands, when Alice arrived. The instant I'd returned to the house, I'd accosted the nearest maid and asked her to send Alice to me in the kitchen ASAP.

"The man who came to the door," I said sharply. "Who was he?"

Startled by my tone, she said nervously, "Truth be told, ma'am, I'd never seen him before. Is something amiss?"

I itched to return to the barn and inspect the ropes responsible for securing the equipment to the roof timbers and determine:

Cut or frayed? But there was no way I was going back out there just yet. Inconceivable that this chain of events—new heir

to immense fortune gets summoned to barn; no one's there; heavy machinery nearly kills her; and, oh, let's not forget the

mystifying appearance of slavering dogs—was coincidence.

I locked eyes with Alice, rules be damned, and probed. Genuine concern, worry for her job, but no idea who the man was. She

was telling the truth. If she had any awareness of my invasion, she didn't betray it.

"Do men you've never seen before often come to the door of the manor?"

"It happens from time to time. The farm crew changes. Few care to labor in the fields around these parts anymore. Our foreman,

Leith Donaghue, struggles to find good men. Though he runs background checks on new hires, the field hands can be a rough

lot, ma'am."

"Do I own dogs? Are there any here at the manor?"

She looked at me blankly. "No, ma'am. Juniper didn't have dogs."

"Thank you, Alice. That's all."

She didn't move. "Was I wrong to come to you, ma'am?" she said, anxiously twisting her hands in her apron.

"Not at all."

Still she didn't move, and I realized she wasn't going to. My tone had worried her, and in future dealings with the staff,

I would take care to modulate my voice more carefully. Each word I uttered carried enormous weight here. Though I'd spent

my life in service, I was boss to this staff. It was a new role for me and would take getting used to. Alice would stand there,

certain she'd done something wrong, until I offered her an explanation. Even then, I suspected, she'd fret about it the rest

of the day.

"There was no one in the barn," I told her.

"Apologies for wasting your time, ma'am," Alice said in a strained voice.

"You did nothing wrong. But if that man comes back again, please let me know immediately."

"Yes, ma'am." With a duck of her head and a near curtsey, she backed hastily from the room.

Backed. What was I—the queen? I sighed. To them, quite possibly. This town had certainly revolved around Juniper as if she

were their royal mistress.

There were a few conclusions I could draw from what had just happened. Someone (with well-trained, terrifying dogs) had made

an attempt on my life. The man who'd come to the door had gotten me sent to the barn so the attempt could be made. The man

who'd done the luring was not necessarily the one who'd done the attempted killing. He might have simply been the messenger.

There might be a pair of them after me.

Did people so detest my inheriting Cameron Manor they were willing to kill me to get rid of me? The most obvious suspects were the alternate heirs—the Alexanders. They stood to gain the most. But I'd met them last night, and unless I couldn't read people at all without using my invasive ability, they'd struck me as fine ones. As a server, I'd gotten a feel for the tiniest of details, ticks, gestures, the subtle shifting of a gaze that offered insight as to whether I would get a good tip, get stiffed, or have to fend off a grab for my breast or ass. I'd not gotten a single cue from the Alexanders that alarmed me. Nor, however, had I spent protracted one-on-one time with them. I intended do so in the near future, preferably in a public place, with loads of witnesses.

One hundred and fifty million dollars was a lot of money. People killed for far, far less. What had I gotten myself into?

Would a wiser woman walk away? And return to what? Indiana, crushing debt, incessant work, no idea who'd burned our house

and killed my mother, and neither money enough nor time to search for those answers.

Icy resolve filled me.

Not the doe. Never the doe.

Mine was the compound bow.

I was not running. I would never run again.

If the spirit of Juniper Cameron lingered somewhere in the manor, it was in her office. A sense of masterful competence pervaded

the serene room where, for decades, she'd overseen the care of the estate and the needs of Divinity.

The room felt so calm, so good to me, that I stood in the center of it for a few moments, eyes closed, absorbing the tranquility.

After the morning I'd had, I needed it.

I'd decided, after finishing with Alice, to resume my search for the genetic testing, partly because I wanted to shove it in Althea Bean's face, but mostly to get my mind off what had just happened. I couldn't tease at the snarl of ugliness just yet; I needed to decompress. It was a defense mechanism I'd learned caring for Mom. Each time we'd gotten increasingly worse news, I'd gone somewhere, done something to distract myself, avoiding the topic entirely. It had sometimes taken me days to face and digest the latest blow.

An hour ago, death had loomed above me, flashing on lethal blades, and I had no idea how I'd escaped it or why the machinery

had abruptly shifted trajectory, crushing the combine, not me. And that was the least of the many things disturbing me.

Shoving thoughts of the event from my mind, I assessed the room. Towering bookcases flanked the perimeter, broken only by

a mammoth fireplace with an ornate, pillared surround. Books stretched up more than twice my height, the upper shelves accessed

by an anchored, rolling ladder. The ceiling was coffered with inset squares of gleaming copper, etched with more of those

swirling triskelions.

The room was soothingly dark, brooking no distraction from the manor beyond the heavy and, I suspected, sound-proofed doors

through which I'd entered. Here, as in Juniper's master suite, there was no trace of technology, no flat-screen television,

no phone, no fax. Polished mahogany, embossed ivory carpet, and walls of midnight blue wove a spell of peace and clarity.

A vase of those spicy-scented blue and cream roses perched atop the mantel of the fireplace, before which the desk was positioned.

The drapes were ivory velvet, pulled tightly shut, the lighting soft, the furnishings elegantly inviting, with a tufted sofa

and matching wingchairs.

I moved to the desk and, after divining nothing of interest atop it other than bills, the standard accessories, and an exquisite

stained-glass lamp, opened the drawers and began rifling. Twenty minutes later, with nothing to show for it, I moved to the

file cabinets built into the lower shelves of the bookcases.

Blueprints and plans, ledgers and accounts, folders of business investments so complex I didn't even bother trying to decipher them. Endless files of legal documents.

No genetic testing.

Next, I began searching the shelves for the family Bible and got quickly fixated on an ancient-looking leather tome on a high

shelf, which not even tiptoeing on the ladder made me tall enough to reach.

I eyed the enormous fireplace a moment, decided the thick mantel would support me, and might well grant me the few inches

I needed to reach the book. Easing onto it, I found myself a scant inch or two shy of success.

But, I mused, studying the ornate surround, if I clung to the ornamental header, I could leverage myself up onto the plinth

supporting the right column, which would give me another four inches, more than I needed.

Clutching the header, I wedged my toe into the nook between the fluted cleft and centerboard, and was about to step up when,

abruptly, there was a loud click, and to my astonishment, a wide panel of books swung soundlessly back to my right, revealing

a cavernous darkness beyond.

I wanted to smack myself in the head for so swiftly forgetting the concealed doors in the manor. I eased back onto the ladder,

practically slid down it, and peered into the opening that, aside from a faint pool of light spilling from behind me, was

black as pitch. Leaning forward, I fumbled along the wall for a light switch but found none.

As my eyes acclimated to the darkness, I could have sworn I saw the faintest outline of a woman standing in the dark room,

staring straight at me!

Backpedaling, I demanded sharply, "Who's there?" When there was no reply, I spun and darted from one window to the next, yanking open the drapes, ushering the light of day into the midnight room. As I'd hoped, shafts of sun streamed through the door, into the hidden chamber.

Squaring my shoulders, I stalked back to the entry, peered in, and shook off a shudder, exhaling with shaky relief.

A life-size painting perched on an easel amidst dozens of other portraits and photos positioned on tables and affixed to walls.

I entered the room slowly—finding a light switch!—then began perusing the tables. Here, tucked into a shrine of sorts, were

the Ladies of Cameron Manor. There were hundreds of photos and miniatures, some hanging, others atop graceful consoles and

pedestal tables, along with an assortment of knickknacks; here, a highly polished silver hand mirror with the engraved initials

EJC, there, a fancy, jeweled hair comb, a fringed clutch, a pocket-sized book of poetry.

I had no idea where these women fell in succession throughout the years but could determine the approximate era of their reign

by the clothing and format in which they'd been rendered. I studied their faces intently, seeking resemblance, assurance that

I was one of them. But other than hopeful imaginings that my nose, indeed, resembled this one's, or my eyes seemed to slant

the same as another's did, I found none of the certainty for which I hungered. Not one of them, not even the one who'd startled

me, who I decided had to be Juniper herself, as she was clad in the most modern attire, had amber eyes or any other particularly

defining Grey feature that I could, with firm conviction, claim as my own.

My benefactor appeared to have sat for her portrait in her early thirties. Young and willowy, with strong bones, high cheeks, and a quirk of a smile at her mouth, blond hair twisted back in a chignon, Juniper radiated strength, humor, and resilience. She was the kind of woman one would never call pretty—it was too small and common a word—although she was stately and handsome in the way of a fine seafaring ship or an elegant pedigreed racehorse. There were dozens of smaller photos of her, too, documenting the passage of years, ending with one in which she must have been nearly a century old. Blue eyes still twinkled with mirth, in nests of deep wrinkles, beneath a wispy cap of thin, snowy curls. Though her face had collapsed to soft jowls and sagging skin, her cheeks remained round and red and smooth. A darling Mrs. Claus. It was no surprise the townsfolk adored her.

Wondering if one day my photos might also find their way here (assuming I survived that long), and inspired by Juniper's graceful

strength and resilience, I decided to tackle the morning's unpleasant event and phone Mr.Balfour for his thoughts.

I didn't see the door until I was walking out and caught the barest glimpse of it from the corner of my eye, so subtly and

seamlessly was it set into the wall between portraits, framed by nearly nonexistent trim, sporting a low-set crystal doorknob.

I hurried over to it, turned the knob, and pushed, surprised to find the crystal icy cold.

When it didn't budge, I realized it must be a pull-door, so I tugged. Still didn't budge. Stooping, I inspected the bizarrely

cold knob for a locking mechanism, but found none. I examined the frame and decided the door was definitely an outie, so I

pulled again. It felt as if the thing was glued to the wall, and I wondered if it was decorative but couldn't fathom the purpose

of a decorative door. It didn't look particularly artistic to me.

Irritably, I tugged again, then, feeling a bit foolish and pigheaded, braced my foot against the wall, and (half expecting to go flying backward once it gave, crash into the paintings, and make a godawful mess) yanked on the door with all my strength.

It may as well have been set in stone.

Sighing, rubbing my hands together to warm them, I made a mental note to ask Mr.Balfour if he knew anything about it. Though

he said he'd never toured the entire manor, surely in their decades of working together, he must have been in Juniper's office

a time or two.

I pulled the drapes as I exited but left the door to the concealed room ajar and the light on. Something about the hidden

room made me uncomfortable, but I couldn't put my finger on what. Why was a room that was clearly a tribute to the women who'd

governed the manor so private? Why weren't the photos proudly displayed in an accessible area of the home? It struck me as

odd and of almost... sinister intent, a sort of "these are the ladies, but they must be hidden away." Then there was the

door with the icy knob that wouldn't open, which I found inexplicably eerie.

As I was passing through the southwest parlor, my phone rang with the call I'd been waiting for. Perching on a sofa, I answered

it swiftly. "Hi, Tom. How's Dottie?" When you've watched a loved one drown in the brutal waves of a terminal illness, that's

the first question out of your mouth to someone in the same boat.

"As well as she can be," he said wearily. "Thanks for asking."

I knew that weariness well. After a bit of small talk about her treatment and my assurance that we'd stored nothing flammable

on the property, Tom told me the gas was concentrated in the basement, that one of the ancient casement windows had likely

been broken for access, and he was disturbed by the quantity of accelerant found in the debris.

"Fact is, Zo, the moment the fire started, we could have been blocks away and not had a hope in hell of putting it out."

"Any leads?"

"Not one. We don't get fires like that around here. Normally, I'd look at the owner, but Ray's mortgage was paid off, and

he carried no insurance. He had nothing to gain and a lot to lose. I'll keep an eye peeled for similar fires in surrounding

cities and towns, but apart from that, we got ourselves a dead case. No one to question, nothing to investigate."

"Ray called and threatened me. Said he was going to sue."

Tom snorted. "I'll have a talk with him. He's been off the wagon again for months. You know how he gets. You got nothing to

worry about, honey; you were in an interview when it happened, and nobody, but nobody , would ever believe you'd harm a hair on your mother's head. You devoted your whole life to her. Ray's a bitter, angry man.

I'll handle him."

"Thank you," I said quietly. "Would you mind giving the contents of the safe to my friend, Este, who's coming to see me this

weekend?"

"Where are you? Thought you were staying at that studio."

"Louisiana."

"Sorry, Zo. Wish I could, but I got to document proof of release only to next of kin, or executor of the estate."

"But I don't know when I'll be back," I protested. "What about shipping it to me?"

He was silent a long moment.

"It could be months before I'm in Indiana," I pressed determinedly.

Sighing, he said, "Technically, I'm supposed to hand it off."

"Surely if you UPS it to me with tracking, that's sufficient documentation. Please ," I added fervently. "Mom was my world. Don't make me wait months."

Another sigh, then, "I expect I can make tracking proof enough."

"Oh, thank you!" I exclaimed, releasing a breath I'd not even realized I was holding. I wasn't certain it would arrive at the manor without street numbers, so I gave him the address of the Balfour and Baird Law Firm (without telling him it was a law firm, making a mental to note to apprise Mr. Balfour that a package for me would be arriving there). Tom promised to drop by the station sometime tomorrow and take it to UPS himself, which meant it would be here by Saturday, Monday at the latest.

After thanking him and wishing him the best, I was about to thumb off when he said, "Count your blessings it wasn't one of

your days off, Zo, or you'd have died in that fire, too. Neighbors said they heard explosions, then the whole place was engulfed

in flames. Happened pretty much instantly."

I sat frozen, holding the phone to my ear after he'd hung up.

I'd been so consumed by grief, so overwhelmed by the sudden, drastic change in my circumstances, and so enraged that someone

had intentionally set the fire that had killed my mother, that I'd failed to recall it was supposed to be one of my days off.

I should have been home that day, too. I would have been, if I'd not gotten fired. We'd likely have been in Mom's bedroom,

with an assortment of whatever treats I'd been able to afford at the grocery store that week, talking or watching a movie.

Had whoever'd doused the basement with gasoline also crept silently up the stairs and barricaded the door to her room? Would

we have both died, clutching each other, screaming? Had whoever burned the house expected me to be home? Was that day the first of what were actually two attempts on my life? Was I the target all along, and Mom merely collateral damage?

That thought enraged me even more. How long ago had Juniper Cameron informed people in Divinity that she'd located an heir, mentioned my name? Althea Bean had known details about me. Had it been long enough for an arsonist to put a plan in motion? Was I being sighted up and hunted? If so, what next?

"Pardon, ma'am?"

Scrambling to collect my wits, I turned to find a maid I'd not yet met framed in the doorway, wringing her hands and shifting

her weight from foot to foot.

Oh, God, what now? "Yes?" I managed.

"Sorry to disturb you, but Leith is wondering what to do with the body."

I had to replay the question through my mind several times; still I wasn't entirely certain I'd heard her correctly. "The

body?" I said carefully, nearly inaudibly, in case I'd heard her wrong. Surely I'd heard her wrong.

"Yes, ma'am."

Well, that wasn't informative. "What body?"

"The one in the barn."

"There's a body in the barn?" I said, even more carefully, keeping my face impassive, which was a feat, given my dawning horror.

She nodded, clearly uncomfortable.

"A dead body? As in a dead person ?" Seriously? What the hell?

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'm sorry. I must be missing something. Why is there a dead person in the barn?"

She shrugged, looking miserable.

I opened my mouth, closed it again. There'd been no one there when I was, at least not that I'd seen. Finally, I said, faintly,

"Is this a common occurrence?" Had I inherited a haunted, murderous barn that, while it had failed to kill me, had succeeded

in killing someone else?

"No, ma'am. This is a first."

Facts, I reminded myself—a technique I'd learned at repeated doctor's appointments where the news just kept getting worse and worse—divorce emotion, wed wit to facts. "Do we know whose body it is?" That should shed some light.

"Alice said it was the man who came to the door earlier, ma'am."

I gaped. "How did he die?" Savage dog attack? Another piece of equipment fell?

"I was asking for Leith, ma'am. He's not certain what to do with it."

"Yes, but how did he die?" I repeated, voice rising despite my efforts to project calm assurance and control.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she said. "Leith didn't say."

I was silent a long moment, then said, "Would you mind bringing Leith here? Alice, too."

"Yes, ma'am."

Again, I got the deferential nod, the near curtsey, the backing away. I wasn't sure what horrified me more: that there was

a dead person in the barn or that when the staff found dead bodies, they sent maids to ask me how to dispose of them.

When once again she was framed in the doorway, with an extremely uncomfortable-looking Alice in tow, along with a stocky,

ruddy-faced man who could only be the foreman, Leith, I motioned for them to come in.

They filed into the room and stood side by side, facing me and looking as if they'd rather be facing a firing squad.

"I understand you found a body in the barn," I said carefully to Leith.

"Yes, ma'am."

To Alice, "Was it the man who came to the door earlier?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely, ma'am."

I felt like the Inquisition, with all these nervous people and ma'am s. I felt also like the subject of one. As lady of the manor, this was my problem, and I was leagues out of my depth. I queried Leith, "Was he crushed by machinery?"

He looked startled by the question. "No, but a piece had fallen. The ropes gave. Hit the combine, damaged it badly."

"Were the ropes frayed or cut?"

"I didn't inspect them."

Feigning confidence that I certainly didn't feel, I said, "Please do so, then bring them to the house. How did the man die?"

"I didn't see any injuries, ma'am. I just wanted to know what to do with the body."

Warily, I decided to fish. "What are the options?"

He said tightly, "Bury it. Burn it. Sink it in one of the lakes. Call the coroner."

Okay, now we'd moved beyond horrifying. He'd listed the coroner last and hadn't mentioned the police at all. "Have you had

to dispose of bodies on the estate before?" I said sharply.

"I'm only saying I'll handle it however you wish, ma'am."

"Have you had to dispose of bodies on the estate before?" I said again, not about to let him evade the question. Just what

kind of place was this?

"Never, ma'am," he said heatedly, with an unmistakable sheen of accusation in his gaze. "There were no bodies needing disposing."

I heard Then you came along, and presto, we've got one. Things certainly weren't run so slipshod when Juniper was here!

"I'd like you to call the coroner. I want to know who the man is, why he was here, and how he died. I take it he's not one

of your hires?"

"No, ma'am. Never seen him before. Not from around these parts."

"Have the coroner call me when he's picked up the..." I couldn't finish the sentence. The same man who'd lured me to the

barn to be killed had somehow met his own death there.

"Yes, ma'am," Leith said. "I'll place the ropes at the south porch door. Will that be all, ma'am?"

When I nodded, they had a bit of a Three Stooges moment, tripping over each other in their haste to leave my presence.

I sat motionless after they'd gone, flexing my hand in that old, impossible-to-break habit, as if reaching for assurance or

comfort, but finding none, only an absence where I seemed to expect, or hope, for something to be. I'd often wondered if it

was the unconscious, instinctive act of a little girl reaching for a father she'd never known, a strong hand to hold, something

to make her feel safe.

Forcing myself to stop, I inhaled slowly and exhaled even more slowly, steadying myself. I'd only just gotten my brain wrapped

around the fact that a man had set me up to be killed, possibly even tried to kill me himself, that there may have been (likely

had been!) a prior attempt on my life in Indiana, that my mother had been murdered—and now I had a dead body on my hands and

yet another question on what was rapidly becoming a long and terrifying list.

Who on earth had killed him ?