6

I stood in the foyer, duffle in hand, free hand opening and closing reflexively, as if grasping at everything and nothing.

It's an old habit of mine when I'm uneasy, reaching for something that isn't there or perhaps bracing to fend something off.

Mom used to try to get me to stop, but it never worked. After a short absence, the habit always returned.

"Mommy," I couldn't help but whisper, feeling like a little girl lost, perched on the threshold of an unfathomable new world.

The interior of Cameron Manor was illuminated by amber radiance from wall sconces, and as I glanced left to right, I saw the

same soft glow in each room. It was a nice touch, just what I needed to find my way about at night without stumbling through

dark, unfamiliar rooms, crashing into furniture, especially since I had no clue what a Lutron lighting system was, and figuring

out how to work complex electronics was one of my weaknesses, as we'd never been able to afford any.

Directly ahead, beyond the table, a wide dark staircase of polished mahogany, tread carpeted with a faded Persian pattern,

ascended within an elaborately carved banister. As I approached and tipped back my head, the staircase unfurled above me in

a dizzying, seemingly endless rectangle of frames. At the top of the first landing was a large stained-glass window featuring

a woman in a grove of ancient trees standing between two young children, holding their hands, beneath which was a plaque proclaiming

The Lady of Cameron Manor.

I supposed that was me now, assuming I decided to stay.

I placed my duffle on the bottom stair and decided to turn left and navigate the main floor in a clockwise fashion until I found the kitchen, where I would heat something and take it upstairs to eat in whichever bedroom looked most welcoming. I had neither the desire nor the energy to explore the house until tomorrow in the daylight. My goal was to see as little as possible before securing the comfort of walls closing in around me and a locked door behind which I might forget the cavernous enormity of the house expanding in all directions. Forget everything. Mom's death. My current mystifying situation. A man who'd reached too far inside me and left me ravenous for more of him.

First was a sitting room, and I registered little more than that it was stylish and elegant before hurrying into a second

sumptuously furnished sitting room (how many did a person need?), ignoring, from the corner of my eye, a gloomy corridor stretching

an impossible distance, doors on both sides, that branched off into a pitch-dark corridor, ending eventually, I supposed,

at one of the turrets.

I was a woman on a mission. I wanted the kitchen and a bedroom, and I wanted them fast. I kept bearing to the right, hoping

I was corkscrewing into the center of the house and, in normal house fashion, the kitchen would be at the heart of it.

More dimly lit rooms—a dining room, a butler's pantry with cabinets all the way to the high ceiling, a second, smaller dining room—then I was at the rear of the house, staring past a bistro table and chairs, out a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows at a large illuminated pool, hemmed by a patio of cream and smoke pavers, framed by trellises of lush flowers and vines, sheltered by magnolias and oaks, their boughs bending and swaying in the ever-present breeze, strands of twinkling fairy lights and clusters of blue glass bottles dangling from their limbs. The view was magical, more than I could absorb. I was a starving street urchin, invited to a royal feast, being told not merely to eat my fill, but that I now owned everything I could see. I was rubbernecking, at breakneck speed, between disbelief and jubilation, suspicion and hope. Could all of this truly be mine?

Beyond the pool lay a flower garden, and beyond that, a garage with seven bay doors, a lacy tumble of wisteria falling from

the roof to spill down the side, and a pool house with an outdoor clawfoot bathtub and open shower. No sign of Devlin, although

I briefly envisioned him there, emerging nude from the pool, water dripping from his dark-skinned body. Once I'd quelled the

hot rush of hormones, I acknowledged that I did feel much more comfortable knowing I wasn't completely alone on the hill.

Then I pictured myself waking up here in the morning, going for an early swim, followed by an outdoor shower in the sunshine

and jasmine-scented breeze, living in this place, hiking, gardening, taming the exotic black owl, getting another pet or two

or ten, perhaps even horses. Feeling suddenly light-headed, I had to clutch the back of a chair to steady myself.

If I stayed three years, I'd inherit 150million dollars .

I'd own this mansion and the grounds, all the furniture, the pool, the garage, whatever was in the garage, along with an unfathomable

572acres. I'd hold the deed to caves and trees and an entire cemetery and wetlands, my very own nature preserve, with an

ancient oak tree that was so old and stately, it had a name: Sylvan.

I'd have staff to maintain it all.

I'd have a "nonliquid" portion, too. God only knew what that was.

There would be no limits to what I might do.

This was insanity! Could it truly, possibly be my insanity?

For the first time since I'd laid eyes on the forbidding fortress on the hill, I hungered to stay in it, tonight and for countless nights to come. Get to know every inch, claim it, love it. Cameron Manor offered the attainment of inconceivable dreams. I briefly entertained the fanciful notion that somewhere in the ether, Mom had found a magic wand to wave, granting me every wish she might have had for me. If so, her wishes were a damn sight bigger than mine. Downright gargantuan.

The house was hushed, the windows closed, the soft push of air-conditioning the only sound until I turned and my cry of delight

shattered the silence.

The room for which I'd been searching was connected to the area in which I stood, and it stretched the length of the pool.

I love to bake and grow things—passions I inherited from my mother—and the heart of Juniper Cameron's home was warm, welcoming,

a generous, dreamy affair of white countertops with gold veining, white cabinetry, and elegant, enormous appliances.

The floor-to-ceiling windows had clusters of potted herbs arranged before them on milk-paint blue stepladder benches. Dozens

more pots dotted the counters; there was rosemary, basil, thyme, lemongrass, sage, saffron crocus. Rope lighting was tucked

above crown moldings embossed with acanthus leaves; warm under-cabinet LEDs lent luminosity to polished quartz surfaces. The

floor was burnished hand-scraped dark wood. Copper pans gleamed, suspended above the sparkling island that looked to be twenty

feet long with seating on three sides. The range was eight burners with red knobs; there were two enormous refrigerators,

three dishwashers, and a pantry behind a pair of frosted glass doors.

I stood, transfixed, gazing from counters to island, appliances to potted garnishments and back again, picturing the room filled with friends talking and laughing. I imagined Este visiting, the two of us learning new southern dishes together, spending an afternoon by the pool with an icy pitcher of margaritas and salt-rimmed glasses, music playing, followed by a night out at the Gossamer or the Shadows. Dancing without a care, because my bills were paid and my thoughts weren't obsessively fixated on home, where my mother lay dying, slowly and terribly, without dignity yet with seemingly inexhaustible grace.

My God. Could I really be this dead woman's last living heir?

Surely tomorrow someone would figure out they'd made a terrible mistake and I'd be swiftly dispatched back to Indiana with

my duffle, my mother's ashes, and the bitter, all-too-brief taste of an impossible dream scalding my tongue.

Shaking myself from a stupor, I refocused on my mission. I couldn't process one thing more. I hurried to the fridge, heaped

biscuits and chicken pot pie on a plate, heated it in the microwave, grabbed utensils, then, keeping my gaze fixed straight

ahead because I was now fully on visual and emotional overload, retraced my path to the stairs, where I grabbed my duffle

and raced up to find a room to call my own for the night.

I would only be able to absorb the house in small pieces at a time, and it seemed, for a change, time was on my side. According

to James Balfour, I had three years to explore it, a lifetime, if I chose to stay, at which point I might paint the exterior

sky blue or a delicate spring green.

I was still pretending I hadn't yet made up my mind to accept, but the moment I'd seen the light, airy room where I could

bake to my heart's content, that I could fill with friends on holidays, even one day with children of my own, a thin pamphlet

of dread had been shoved aside, reshelved behind thick volumes of giddiness and wonder. So easily did the house seduce me;

my soul for a kitchen.

The bedroom I selected was directly above that space, also overlooking the pool, with a pair of French doors that opened to a cast-iron, jasmine- and bougainvillea-draped balcony with a small table and chairs where I might have coffee in the morning beneath oak branches nodding gently in the breeze. I concluded that I must have chosen the master suite of the house. It had its own sitting room, a spacious bathroom, and an opulent walk-in closet with a marble-topped dresser in the center, a lighted makeup vanity, and a wall of trifold mirrors with a pedestal upon which one might turn and assess one's outfit—all for a woman who could count her outfits on one hand and unpack using half a drawer.

I shook my head, dazed, and, after finding a light I could leave on low, hurried back out into the bedroom where the underwater

lights from the pool reflected a blue dance of water on the ceiling.

I locked the door, tenderly placed Mom's ashes on the dresser, and ate swiftly. Mr.Balfour was right; it was comfort food

and amazing. Then I dug my toothbrush from my duffle and brushed my teeth. After hungering for a shower all day, I skipped

it to fall into bed, still smelling of Kellan, so I could get my crying out of the way and wake in the morning, rested enough

to attempt to make sense of my current situation.

Within minutes and without tears, I was deeply asleep.

I woke in the middle of the night with no idea where I was, recalling my location at the precise moment I realized my mother was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at me with an intense expression. She was a younger version of herself, brimming with good health. I'd seen photos of her at this age and always found it hard to believe she'd ever been so vibrant and strong. Her warm golden eyes were clear, not bloodshot from illness and medications; her long chestnut hair, streaked with copper that shimmered metallic in the sun, so like mine, was lustrous and thick, not threaded with gray, and I was struck by how alike we looked. It had become difficult to see the resemblance by the time I started middle school. Mom had always seemed to wisp through our days, paler and frailer than everyone else. It had made me fiercely protective of her.

I blinked, knowing the illusion would vanish, but she was still there, so real I could smell her scent, no perfume, just the

way Joanna Grey always smelled, a hint of lilac and something earthy from gardening, wed to something zesty from baking back

in those days when she'd still been able to stand in the kitchen with her beloved recipe books, humming and improvising ingredients,

depending on how much money we'd had that week for groceries. "Mom!" I cried.

"Zo, my darling!" Smiling, she opened her arms, and I surged up into them, hugging her tightly.

I knew then that I was dreaming, because we don't get second chances for goodbyes. People die, and we get left behind with

broken hearts and fractured souls. Still, dreams offer comfort that can be carried into the day, and I was starved for the

comfort of my mother. Burying my face in her neck, I inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the moment, all senses engaged until I

was no longer smelling the scent of Joanna Grey but a foul putrefaction, as if the cancer had metastasized to her skin, rotting

flesh, and I was choking, retching, revolted by the odor.

Her arms tightened painfully around me, crushing the breath from my lungs so viciously I couldn't even cry out, and although I couldn't see her face, I knew she wasn't my mother and never had been, that she wasn't even human. What held me in its gelid, viselike grip was a fleshy pod roiling with greed of such staggering proportions it sucked the oxygen from the room, leaving only flat, life-stealing air. I began to suffocate, my chest working like desperate bellows, mouth wide and straining. What clutched me had no morals, no scruples, no conscience. It hungered for everything, all the time; it was parasitic, saprophytic in its sinister nature, determined to attach, break down, devour, and multiply.

What held me didn't fear the darkness. The darkness feared it .

It could eat the darkness and still be hungry for more.

It could eat me , leaving no trace that I'd ever existed.

And I suffered the strangest premonition then that, if it did, somehow, inexplicably, no one would ever notice I was gone.

I'd never be missed. Not even for one moment.

I clawed frantically toward consciousness. Wake up wake up wake up, Zo!

Then I was sitting bolt upright in bed, arms clutching nothing, the stench of rot in my nostrils, mouth wide on a breathless

scream, alone in the room. Thumping a fist to my chest, I finally managed a long, desperate inhale.

I heard something then. Or thought I did. But the faint, mocking sound was so impossible I knew it could only be nightmare

residue wed to the strangeness of my situation and location, kicking my imagination into overdrive.

For, deep within the walls of the house, I could have sworn I heard someone laugh.