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Of course, she too had doubts about moving here. The project she planned to tackle—renovating the place to its former grandeur before selling it—was daunting, perhaps impossible. Even when she'd been living here with all her siblings, the huge house had been sinking into disrepair. Since her father had died, things had really gone downhill. Paint was peeling from the siding, and many of the shiplap boards were warped. The wide porch that ran along the front of the house seemed to be listing, rails missing, and there were holes in the roof where there had once been shingles.

“It looks evil, you know,” Jade threw over her shoulder before hauling her rolling bag out of the cargo space and reluctantly trudging after her sister. “I've always hated it.”

Sarah managed to hold back a hot retort. The last time she'd brought her children here, she and her own mother, Arlene, had gotten into a fight, a blistering battle of words that precipitated their final, painful rift. Though Gracie was probably too small to remember, Jade certainly did.

Gracie was nearly at the steps when she stopped suddenly to stare upward at the house. “What the . . . ?”

“Come on,” Jade said to her younger sister, but Gracie didn't move, even when Sarah joined her daughters and a big black crow landed on one of the rusted gutters.

“Something wrong?” Sarah asked.

Jade was quick to say, “Oh, no, Mom, everything's just perfect. You get into a fight with that perv at your job and decide we all have to move.” She snapped her fingers. “And bam! It's done. Just like that. You rent out the condo in Vancouver and tell us we have to move here to a falling-down old farm with a grotesque house that looks like Stephen King dreamed it up. Yeah, everything's just cool.” Jade reached for her phone again. “And there's got to be some cell phone service here or I'm out, Mom. Really. No service is like . . . archaic and . . . and . . . inhumane!”

“You'll survive.”

Gracie whispered, “Someone's in there.”

“What?” Sarah said, “No. The house has been empty for years.”

Gracie blinked. “But . . . but, I saw her.”

“You saw who?” Sarah asked and tried to ignore a tiny flare of fear knotting her stomach.

With one hand still on the handle of her rolling bag, she shrugged. “A girl.”

Sarah caught an I-told-you-so look from her older daughter.

“A girl? Where?” Jade demanded.

“She was standing up there.” Gracie pointed upward, to the third story and the room at the northwest corner of the house, just under the cupola. “In the window.”

Theresa's room, The bedroom that had been off-limits to Sarah as a child,
The knot in Sarah's gut tightened. Jade again caught her mother's eyes in a look that silently invoked Sarah to bring Gracie back to reality.

“Maybe it's a ghost,” Jade mocked, “I hear there are lots of them around here.” She leaned closer to her sister, “And not just from Becky. You told me you'd been doing some ‘research' and you found out the first woman who lived here was killed, her body never found, her spirit roaming the hallways of Blue Peacock Manor forever.”

Gracie shot her mom a look. “Well . . . yeah . . .”

“Oh, please,” Jade snorted. “The second you step foot here, you see a ghost.”

“Angelique Le Duc did die here!” Gracie flared.

“You mean, Angelique
Stewart
,” Jade corrected. “She was married to our crazy homicidal, great-great-great-not-so-great-grandfather or something. That's what you said.”

“I read it on the Internet,” Gracie responded, her mouth tight at being corrected.

“So then it must be true,” Jade said. She turned her attention to her mother. “The minute you told us we were moving, she started in on all this ghost stuff. Checking out books from the library, surfing the Net, chatting with other people who think they see ghosts. And she didn't find out about just Angelique Le Duc—oh, no. There were others too. This place”—she gestured to the house and grounds—“is just littered with the spirits who've come to a bad end at Blue Peacock Manor!” Jade's hair caught in the wind as the rain picked up. “Do you see how ridiculous this all is, Mom? Now she's believing all this paranormal shi . . . stuff and thinking we're going to be living with a bunch of the undead!”

“Jade—” Sarah started.

“Shut up!” Gracie warned.

“You sound like a lunatic,” Jade went right on, then turned heatedly to Sarah. “You have to put an end to this, Mom. It's for her own good. If she goes spouting off about ghosts and spirits and demons—”

“Demons!” Gracie snapped in disgust. “Who said anything—”

“It's all a load of crap,” Jade declared. “She's going to be laughed out of school!”

“Enough!” Sarah yelled, though for once Jade seemed to be concerned for her sister. But Sarah had enough of their constant bickering. Forcing a calm she didn't feel, she said, “We're going inside now.”

“You don't believe me,” Gracie said, hurt. She looked up at the window again.

Sarah had already glanced at the window of the room where she knew, deep in her soul, dark deeds had occurred. But no image appeared behind the dirty, cracked glass. No apparition flitted past the panes. No otherworldly figure was evident. There was no “girl” hiding behind the grime, just some tattered curtains that seemed to shift in the dreary afternoon.

“I saw her,” Gracie insisted. A line of consternation had formed between her brows.

“It could have been a reflection or a shadow,” Sarah said as the crow cawed loudly. Deep inside she knew she was lying.

Gracie turned on Jade. “
You
scared her away!”

“Oh, right. Of course it's my fault. Give me an effing break.”

“She'll punish you, you know.” Gracie's eyes narrowed. “The woman in the window, she'll get even.”

“Gracie!” Sarah's mouth dropped open.

“Then you'll see,” Gracie declared, turning to the front entrance and effectively ending the conversation.

 

“Here's the latest,” Rhea announced as she stepped through the door of Clint's cramped office in the small quarters that made up Stewart's Crossing's City Hall. As city building inspector, he checked on all the jobs currently being constructed or renovated within the city limits and beyond, and contracted with the county for the outlying areas. “You might find one particularly interesting.” She raised her thinly plucked eyebrows high enough that they arched over the frames of her glasses. “A neighbor.”

“Don't tell me. The Stewart place.”

“The Jewel of the Columbia?” she said dryly, shaking her head, her short, red hair unmoving.

His insides clenched a bit. “Maybe Doug wants to take this one.”

“I thought you hated Doug.”

“Hate's a strong word,” Clint said. “He just wouldn't be my first choice to become my replacement.” He wasn't sure why he didn't trust Doug Knowles, but the guy he was training to take over his job seemed too green, too eager, too damned hungry, to give each job its proper attention. There was something a little secretive about him as well, and Clint had a suspicion that Doug would take the easy way out, maybe let some of the little details slide on a job. “On second thought, I'll handle the Stewart project.”

“Figured,” she said, her red lips twisting a bit. “Oh, and wait!” She hurried out of the room and returned a few seconds later with a candy dish that she set on the corner of his desk. “Halloween candy for your clients with sweet tooths, er, teeth.”

“I don't need these.”

“Of course you do. It's that time of year. Don't be such a Grinch.”

“I believe he's associated with Christmas.”

“Or whatever holiday you want. In this case, Halloween.” She unwrapped a tiny Three Musketeers bar and plopped it onto her tongue.

“Okay, so I'm a Grinch. Don't hate me.”

Laughing, she gave him a wink as she turned and headed through the door to the reception area of the building that housed all the city offices. Built in the middle of the last century, the structure was constructed of glass and narrow, blond bricks; it had a flat roof and half a dozen offices opening into the central reception area. The ceilings were low, of “soundproof” tile, the lights fluorescent, the floors covered in a linoleum that had been popular during the 1960s. Now, it was showing decades of wear. “Just take a look.” Rhea clipped away on high heels as a phone started jangling. She leaned over her desk and snagged the receiver before the second ring. She did it on purpose, he suspected, knowing he was still watching her as she gave him a quick glimpse of the skirt tightening over her hips.

“Stewart's Crossing City Hall,” she answered sweetly. “This is Rhea Hernandez.”

She had a nice butt, he'd give her that, but he wasn't interested.

Attractive and smart, Rhea had been married and divorced three times, and was looking for husband number four at the ripe old age of forty-two.

It wasn't going to be Clint, and he suspected she knew it. Rhea's flirting was more out of habit than sincerity.

“. . . I'm sorry, the mayor isn't in. Can I take a message, or, if you'd like, you can e-mail her directly,” Rhea was saying as she stretched the cord around the desk and took her seat, disappearing from view. He heard her start rattling off Mayor Leslie Imholt's e-mail address.

Clint picked up the stack of papers she'd dropped into his inbox. Plans for the complete renovation of Blue Peacock Manor, the historic home set on property that backed up to his own ranch, was the first request. No surprise there, as he'd heard Sarah was returning to do a complete renovation of the Stewart family home. The preliminary drawings were already with the city engineer for approval; these had to be renovations to the original plans. A helluva job, that, he knew, and to think that Sarah was taking it on and returning to a place she'd wanted so desperately to leave. He eyed the specs and noted that he needed to see what work had already been accomplished on the smaller residence on the property—the guesthouse, as the Stewart family had called it.

Until the mayor had hired Doug Knowles, Clint had been the only inspector in this part of the county and had checked all the work himself. Now he could hand jobs off to Doug if he wanted. Clint had already decided that was generally a bad idea. It certainly would be in this case, he thought.

But if he took on Blue Peacock Manor, no doubt he would see Sarah again.

Frowning, he grabbed one of the damned bits of candy, and unwrapping a tiny Kit-Kat bar, leaned back in his chair. He and Sarah hadn't seen each other for years, and if he were honest with himself, he knew that their split hadn't been on the best of terms. He tossed the candy into his mouth, then wadded up the wrapper and threw it at the waste can.

High school romance, he thought. So intense, but in the larger scheme of things, so meaningless, really.

Why, then, did the memory of it seem as fresh now as it had half a lifetime ago?

His desk phone jangled, and he reached for it willingly, pushing thoughts of Sarah Stewart and their ill-fated romance to the far, far corners of his mind.

“T
hat's it. I'm outta here,” Rosalie Jamison said as she stripped off her apron and tossed it into a bin with the other soiled towels, aprons, jackets, and rags that would be cleaned overnight, ready for the morning shift at the three-star diner. She slipped her work shoes onto a shelf and laced up her Nikes, new and reflective, for the walk home. “I'll see you all later.”

Located a few blocks from the river, the restaurant had been dubbed the Columbia Diner about a million years ago by some hick with no imagination. It was located at one end of the truck stop about a half mile out of Stewart's Crossing. Rosalie had spent the past six months here, waiting tables for the regulars and the customers just passing through. She hated the hours and the smell of grease and spices that clung to her until she spent at least twenty minutes under the shower, but it was a job, one of the few in this useless backwoods town.

For now it would do, until she had enough money saved so she could leave Stewart's Crossing for good. She couldn't wait.

“Wait!” Gloria, a woman who was in her fifties and perpetually smelled of cigarettes, caught up with Rosalie before she got out the door where she stuffed a few dollars and some change into Rosalie's hand. “Never forget your share of the tips,” she said with a wink, then continued, “They keep me in all my diamonds and furs.”

“Yeah, right.” Rosalie had to smile. Gloria was cool, even if she continually talked about how long it would be before she collected Medicare and Social Security and all that boring stuff. A frustrated hairdresser, she changed her hair color, cut, or style every month or so and had taken Rosalie under her wing when a couple of boys, classmates from high school, had come in and started to hassle her with obscene comments and gestures. Gloria had refused to serve them and sent them out the door with their tails between their legs. The whole scene had only made things ugly at school, but Rosalie had solved that by cutting classes or ditching out completely.

“If you wait a half hour, I'll give you a ride home,” Gloria said, sliding a fresh cigarette from her pack as she peered outside and into the darkness. “I just have to clean up a bit.”

Rosalie hesitated. It would take her at least twenty minutes to walk home on the service road that ran parallel to the interstate, but Gloria's half hours usually stretched into an hour or two, and Rosalie just wanted to go home, sneak up the stairs, flop on her bed, and catch an episode of
Big Brother
or
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
or whatever else she could find on her crappy little TV. Besides, Gloria always lit up the second she was behind the wheel, and it was too cold to roll down the windows of her old Dodge. “I'd better get going. Thanks.”

Gloria frowned. “I don't like you walking home alone in the dark.”

“It's just for a little while longer,” Rosalie reminded her, holding up her tips before stuffing the cash into the pocket of her jacket, which she'd retrieved from a peg near the open back door. “I'm gonna buy my uncle's Toyota. He's saving it for me. I just need another three hundred.”

“It's starting to rain.”

“I'm okay. Really.”

“You be careful, then.” Gloria's brows drew together beneath straw-colored bangs. I don't like this, y'know.”

“It's okay.” Rosalie zipped up her jacket and stepped into the night before Gloria could argue with her. As the diner's door shut behind her, she heard Gloria saying to Barry, the cook, “I don't know
what
her mother is thinking letting that girl walk alone this late at night.”

Sharon wasn't thinking. That was the problem. Her mom wasn't thinking of Rosalie at all because of crappy Mel, her current husband, a burly, gruff man Rosalie just thought of as Number Four. He was a loser like the others in her mother's string of husbands. But Sharon, as usual, had deemed Mel “the one” and had referred to him as her soul mate, which was such a pile of crap. No one in her right mind would consider overweight, beer-slogging, TV-watching Mel Updike a soul mate unless they were completely brainless. He owned a kinda cool motorcycle that she could never ride, and that was the only okay thing about him. The fact that Mel leered at Rosalie with a knowing glint in his eye didn't make it any better. He'd already fathered five kids with ex-wives and girlfriends that were scattered from LA to Seattle. Rosalie had experienced the dubious pleasure of meeting most of them and had hated every one on sight. They were all “Little Mels,” losers like their big, hairy-bellied father. Geez, didn't the guy know about waxing? Or man-scaping or, for that matter, not belching at the table?

Soul mate? Bull-effin'-shit!

Sharon had to be out of her mind!

Rosalie shoved her hands deep into her pockets and felt the other cash that she'd squirreled away in the lining of her hooded jacket, a gift from her real dad. The jacket was never out of her sight, and she'd tucked nearly nine hundred dollars deep inside it. She had to be careful. Either Mel or one of his sticky-fingered kids might make off with the cash she was saving for a car. Until she could pay for the Toyota outright, as well as license and insure it for six months, she was forbidden to own one.

All around, it sucked.

Her whole damn life
sucked,

As rain began to pelt, striking her cheeks, splashing in puddles, peppering the gravel crunching beneath her feet, she began to wish she'd waited for Gloria. Putting up with a little cigarette smoke was better than slogging through cold rain.

She couldn't wait to get out of this hole-in-the-wall of a town where her mother, chasing the ever-slippery Mel, had dragged her. Kicking at the pebbles on the shoulder, she envied the people driving the cars that streaked by on the interstate, their headlights cutting through the dark night, their tires humming against the wet pavement, their lives going full throttle while she was stuck in idle.

But once she had her car, look out! She'd turn eighteen and leave Sharon and hairy Mel and head to Denver, where her dad and the boyfriend she'd met on the Internet were waiting.

Three hundred more dollars and five months.

That was all.

A gust of wind blasted her again, and she shuddered. Maybe she should turn back and take Gloria up on that ride. She glanced over her shoulder, but the neon lights of the diner were out of sight. She was nearly halfway home.

She started to jog.

A lone car had turned onto the road and was catching up to her, its headlights glowing bright. She stepped farther off the shoulder, her Nikes slipping a little. The roar of a large engine was audible over the rain, and she realized it wasn't a car, but a truck behind her. No big deal. There were hundreds of them around Stewart's Crossing. She expected the pickup to fly by her with a spray of road wash, but as it passed her, it slowed.

Just go on,
she thought. She slowed to a walk, but kept moving until she saw the brake lights glow bright.

Now what?

She kept walking, intent on going around the dark truck, keeping her pace steady, hoping it was only a coincidence that the guy had stopped. No such luck. The window on the passenger side slid down.

“Rosie?” a voice that was vaguely familiar called from the darkened cab. “That you?”

Keep walking,

She didn't look up.

“Hey, it's me.” The cab's interior light blinked on, and she recognized the driver, a tall man who was a regular at the diner and who now leaned across the seat to talk to her. “You need a ride?”

“No, it's only a little farther.”

“You're soaked to the skin,” he said, concerned.

“It's okay.”

“Oh, come on. Hop in, I'll drive you.” Without waiting for an answer, he opened the door.

“I don't—”

“Your call, but I'm drivin' right by your house.”

“You know where I live?” That was weird.

“Only that you said you're on Umpqua.”

Had she mentioned it? Maybe. “I don't know.” Shaking her head, she felt the cold rain drizzling down her neck. She stared at the open door of the pickup. Clean. Warm. Dry. The strains of some Western song playing softly on the radio.

“You'll be home in three minutes.”

Don't do it!

The wind blasted again, and she pushed down her misgivings. She knew the guy, had been waiting on him ever since she took the job. He was one of the better-looking regulars. He always had a compliment and a smile and left a good-sized tip.

“Okay.”

“That-a-girl.”

Climbing into the truck, she felt the warm air from the heater against her skin and recognized the Randy Travis song wafting through the speakers. She yanked the door shut, but the lock didn't quite latch.

“Here, let me get that,” he said, “Damned thing.” Leaning across her, he fiddled with the door. “Give it a tug, will ya?”

“Okay.” The second she pulled on the door handle, she felt something cold and metallic click around her wrist. “Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?” she demanded, fear spreading through her bloodstream as she jerked her hand up and realized she'd been cuffed to the door handle.

“Just calm down.”

“The hell I will! What is this?” She was furious and scared and tried to open her door, but it was locked. “Let me out, you son of a bitch!”

He slapped her then. Quick and hard, a sharp backhand across her mouth.

She let out a little scream.

“There'll be no swearin',” he warned her.

“What? No what?” She swung her free hand at him, across the cab, but he caught her wrist.

“Ah-ah-ah, honey. You've got a lot to learn.” Then, holding her free wrist in one hand, he gunned the engine and drove toward the entrance to the interstate.

“Let me out!” she screamed, kicking at the dash and throwing her body back and forth, screaming at the top of her lungs. The heel of her shoe hit the preset buttons of the radio and an advertisement filled the interior.

Dear God, what was this? What did he plan to do to her?

Panicked, she tried to think of a way out of this. Any way. “I—I have money,” she said, thinking of the cash in her pocket, all the while struggling and twisting, to no avail. His grip was just so damned strong.

“It's not your money I want,” he said in that smooth, confident tone she now found absolutely chilling. His smile was as cold as the wind shrieking down the Columbia River Gorge. “It's you.”

 

“Mom!” Gracie's voice rang through the house. “
Mom!
”

Sarah's eyes flew open. Her heart hammered. “Gracie?” she called, sitting bolt upright from her sleeping bag on the floor. The room was dark, dying embers of the fire casting a blood-red glow on the walls. “Gracie?” she said, one hand searching the flattened sleeping bag beside her, the other reaching for the flashlight. “Where are you?”

The bag was empty.

A shiver slid down her spine.

“Grace?” Scooping up the flashlight, she was on her feet in an instant. “Grace?” she called again, her heart hammering.

“Here!” was the panicked cry, and Sarah followed the sound, the beam of her flashlight sweeping the floor and hallway ahead of her, her heart hammering in dread.

“I'm coming!”

“Mom, hurry!” Gracie cried. “Up here!”

Sarah reached the stairs, flipped on the switch, and took the steps two at a time as the dim light from the sconces gave off a soft, golden glow. “Gracie! Where are you?”

“On the stairs,” her daughter responded, and she sounded less panicked, more in control.

Sarah rounded the landing at the second floor and found her daughter lying on the steps leading to the third floor. Pale, shaking, eyes wide, Gracie was huddled against the wall, which was still covered in faded, peeling wallpaper. Her right hand gripped the railing over her head, as if she needed support to keep from sliding down the worn wooden stairs.

“Are you okay?” Sarah said, grabbing her child and holding her close. “What happened?”

“I saw her.”

“Who?”

“I saw the ghost.”

“The ghost?” Sarah repeated.

“Yes!” Gracie was insistent, and her little body quivered in Sarah's arms. “I got up to go to the bathroom, and I saw something up here, and I . . . I just followed.”

“And it was a ghost?”

“Yes! I already said.” There was a higher pitch to Gracie's voice, a desperation that Sarah didn't recognize. “She was dressed in white, a long dress, and hurried up the stairs. It was like she was flying. 0I . . . I followed her, and she disappeared and . . .” She sagged against her mother. “It was freaky.”

“It's okay,” Sarah said, her gaze traveling up the stairs to the third floor of the house, an area that she'd avoided most of her life. She understood about freaking out, about fears, and about believing in seeing a ghost on the premises.

“You don't believe me.”

“Of course I do, honey. I know you saw something, but I'm not sure what it was. You have nightmares,” she reminded Gracie softly, “and sometimes you sleepwalk.”

“This was different.”

“That's what you always say. Come on, let's go downstairs.” Sarah helped her daughter to her feet, and Gracie dared to look over her mother's shoulder to the upper floors.

“She's real, Mom,” she said, sounding more like herself. Normally, in broad daylight, Gracie was a kid who had few fears. A tomboy, she played sports ferociously and held her own in arguments, even with some of her teachers. “A bit of a loner,” “definitely an individual,” and “certainly knows her own mind” were some of the comments they had made, along with “stubborn” and even “refuses to take orders.” If Gracie hadn't been such a good student who devoured books, those same traits would have landed her in trouble in school.