4. Owen

Chapter four

Owen

B izarre. So freaking bizarre. I grabbed the keys that were in the folder before I followed the guy out of the office to his Honda Accord. Sure enough, he had the company's logo on the side, telling me he was at least legit.

I almost got in the back since the situation was a little freaky, but I forced myself to get over it and ride up front with him, especially since he was one of our wealthiest clients now. I should at least try to make a good impression.

"So, you drive professionally, and now you're a millionaire?" I asked, then cringed. "Sorry, don't answer that. I shouldn't have asked."

He laughed. "You've about summed it up. I'm waiting for the reality TV guy to pop out of the woodwork to tell me this has all been a hoax."

"It'll be on both of us, then. I mean, I didn't even know you could pass all your worldly possessions to someone who owned a ring. "

Damian chuckled. "I didn't either. I…well, I had a strange experience this morning, so I could also be losing my mind or having some bizarre drug trip. I've not quite figured out what's true."

"If you're high, you probably shouldn't be driving."

"If my app hadn't turned back on by itself, I wouldn't be."

"Yeah," I said and laughed. "Okay, so it's bizarre for both of us."

Conversation stalled as he navigated the busy side streets between the office and his new home. He pulled up in front of a gigantic Victorian house, and both of us just stared at it. "Um, this is it?" he asked.

I looked at the file and the address, then back at the address on the street. "Yes, I-I think so."

"Okay, you're the attorney. You go first."

I glanced over at him and wanted to argue because the place totally appeared to be haunted, but I couldn't. I represented the firm that represented him. He wasn't wrong. We got out, and I walked toward the iron gate separating the house from the sidewalk, and sure enough, there was a key that fit. I slipped it in and turned.

Nothing happened. "It…it doesn't seem to work," I said.

"Here, can I have a try?" he asked, and I stepped back. When he twisted it, the gate slid open and didn't even squeak.

"That's so strange," I said, but he just shrugged and walked through. When he tried to return the key to me, I lifted my hands. "No, it's yours, clearly," I said, making him laugh .

I didn't even try the front door. Instead, I handed him the other key from his package and let him open it. The giant home and garden television–style wooden door opened just as smoothly for him as the gate had, and I followed him into the house, standing beside him as we gawked.

"This is gorgeous," I said, watching him as he swallowed hard.

"Um, is this really mine?" he asked.

I nodded. "According to the paperwork you just signed, yeah, it is. Okay, well, I'm going to go."

"Oh, hell no," he said and grabbed my arm. "You are so not leaving me alone in a haunted mansion. You're my attorney, right? You gotta stay."

I would've chuckled if he hadn't looked so terrified. "Don't you have a friend you can call?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"Molly, but she's in Portland. Just, you know, stick around while I check it out. I mean, it's creepy, right? It's not just me?"

I took in the foyer. Dark red velvet wallpaper hung from the walls. Old wooden furniture that looked like it'd been here since the house was built gleamed beautifully along the perimeter. An equally beautiful staircase flowed from this floor to what appeared to be a landing above us.

"I mean, it appears old but it's not creepy. It's clean, at least. I have more dust in my apartment, and I've only lived there three months," I said as I observed a beautiful table across from the staircase, an ornate vase sitting on it that showed evidence of years holding fresh flowers .

"Come on," I said, leading him into the room to our right. "My uncle owns a house like this. He and his husband run a bed and breakfast back in my hometown. This should be the parlor or the library," I said, pulling the pocket doors back and leading him inside. "A music room, also pretty classic for the time frame."

I opened another set of pocket doors on a far wall, and sure enough, a library appeared. "This was where the men used to gather back in Victorian times. See." I pointed to the windowsill where someone had burned it with what might have been a cigar.

There was a door leading back to the hallway. "Come back up front because the house was meant to be seen in sections. This should be the parlor," I said, opening a door. Sure enough, a beautiful sitting room came into view. I crossed to the fireplace. "Hey, look, the fireplace appears to be still useable. It's really rare to have one of these intact. I'd have it checked out by a chimney sweep though. If it's not been cleaned properly, you could cause a fire."

I was in my element now. I'd loved watching property restoration shows, and all their historic renovations since I was a kid. After my father left, my mom and I would watch the shows to console ourselves. "Ah, as I suspected, here's the dining room. Oh wow, this is spectacular, don't you think? And that chandelier? I bet that's Tiffany glass too. Jeez, this is an amazing place," I said, intrigued by the over-the-top beautiful mansion, and forgetting I was actually with a client .

We walked into a butler's pantry, and I oohed and aahed over all the storage. Then, even though I was expecting it, I cringed when we entered the tiny kitchen. "Yeah, this is typical for older homes. When this was built, only the servants used the kitchens. You could probably have this redone. Now, if I'm not mistaken, this—" I said, leading the way through a small exterior hallway that wound around the back and pointing out a dark room with ugly 1970s paneling, "—is the servant's quarters. Most of the time, servants lived in the basement or top floor, but I'm guessing this one has a ballroom up there instead. Shall we go see?" I turned and saw a very green-looking client who'd followed me through the house. "Oh, wow, sorry. Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "No, no, I'm not. I don't understand any of this. Why would a stranger give this to me? And just because of a ring. Something isn't making sense," he said.

"Hey, come here," I led him back into the kitchen, and we sat at the bar. "Listen, I don't know. I just know this is a real home, and no one lives here, at least not that I can see. Did you notice there are no family photos and no personal items lying around? It's almost as if it was staged for a TV show. Come here," I said, pulling open the drawers on either side of the stove. "There's nothing personal in here either. Follow me." I led him into the dining room and pulled open drawers there as well. "All of it—empty. Someone prepared this for its new owner. I'm guessing it was for you."

"Yeah, but why? Why me? "

"I don't know, but," I said, shrugging, "there's nothing wrong with this house. It's not creepy or haunted, or if it is, no more than any house this age. Come on, let's explore the rest, then you can lock it up until you speak with my bosses tomorrow. I'm sure they'll be able to shed more light on the situation."