nerves.
She could do that, she considered. Nobody could charge her with a felony and throw her into prison. And if she did that, she wouldnât have her next book, or any self-respect.
âMan up, Quinn,â she ordered. âYouâve seen spooks before.â
Steadier, she swung back out on the road, and made the next turn. The road was narrow and twisty with trees looming on both sides. She imagined it would be lovely in the spring and summer, with the green dappling, or after a snowfall with all those trees ermine drenched. But under a dull gray sky the woods seemed to crowd the road, bare branches just waiting to reach out and strike, as if they and only they were allowed to live there.
As if to enforce the sensation, no other car passed, and when she turned off her radio as the music seemed too loud, the only sound was the keening curse of the wind.
Shouldâve called it Spooky Hollow, she decided, and nearly missed the turn into the gravel lane.
Why, she wondered, would anyone choose to live here? Amid all those dense, thrusting trees where bleak pools of snow huddled to hide from the sun? Where the only sound was the warning growl of Nature. Everything was brown and gray and moody.
She bumped over a little bridge spanning a curve of a creek, followed the slight rise of the stingy lane.
There was the house, exactly as advertised.
It sat on what she would have termed a knoll rather than a hill, with the front slope tamed into step-down terraces decked with shrubs she imagined put on a hell of a show in the spring and summer.
There wasnât a lawn, so to speak, and she thought Hawkins had been smart to go with the thick mulch and shrubs and trees skirting the front instead of the traditional grass that would probably be a pain in the ass to mow and keep clear of weeds.
She approved of the deck that wrapped around the front and sides, and sheâd bet the rear as well. She liked the earthy tones of the stone and the generous windows.
It sat like it belonged there, content and well-settled in the woods.
She pulled up beside an aging Chevy pickup, got out of her car to stand and take a long view.
And understood why someone would choose this spot. There was, unquestionably, an aura of spookiness, especially for one who was inclined to see and feel such things. But there was considerable charm as well, and a sense of solitude that was far from lonely. She could imagine very well sitting on that front deck some summer evening, drinking a cold one, and wallowing in the silence.
Before she could move toward the house, the front door opened.
The sense of déjà vu was vivid, almost dizzying. He stood there at the door of the cabin, the blood like red flowers on his shirt.
We can stay no longer.
The words sounded in her head, clear, and in a voice she somehow knew.
âMiss Black?â
She snapped back. There was no cabin, and the man standing on the lovely deck of his charming house had no blood blooming on him. There was no force of great love and great grief shining in his eyes.
And still, she had to lean back against her car for a minute and catch her breath. âYeah, hi. I was justâ¦admiring the house. Great spot.â
âThanks. Any trouble finding it?â
âNo, no. Your directions were perfect.â And, of course, it was ridiculous to be having this conversation outside in the freezing wind. From the quizzical look on his face, he obviously felt the same.
She pushed off the car, worked up what she hoped was a sane and pleasant expression as she walked to the trio of wooden steps.
And wasnât he a serious cutie? she realized as she finally focused on the reality. All that windblown hair and those strong gray eyes. Add the crooked smile, the long, lean body in jeans and flannel, and a woman might be tempted to hang a SOLD ! sign around his neck.
She stepped up, held out a hand. âQuinn Black, thanks for meeting with me, Mr.
She could do that, she considered. Nobody could charge her with a felony and throw her into prison. And if she did that, she wouldnât have her next book, or any self-respect.
âMan up, Quinn,â she ordered. âYouâve seen spooks before.â
Steadier, she swung back out on the road, and made the next turn. The road was narrow and twisty with trees looming on both sides. She imagined it would be lovely in the spring and summer, with the green dappling, or after a snowfall with all those trees ermine drenched. But under a dull gray sky the woods seemed to crowd the road, bare branches just waiting to reach out and strike, as if they and only they were allowed to live there.
As if to enforce the sensation, no other car passed, and when she turned off her radio as the music seemed too loud, the only sound was the keening curse of the wind.
Shouldâve called it Spooky Hollow, she decided, and nearly missed the turn into the gravel lane.
Why, she wondered, would anyone choose to live here? Amid all those dense, thrusting trees where bleak pools of snow huddled to hide from the sun? Where the only sound was the warning growl of Nature. Everything was brown and gray and moody.
She bumped over a little bridge spanning a curve of a creek, followed the slight rise of the stingy lane.
There was the house, exactly as advertised.
It sat on what she would have termed a knoll rather than a hill, with the front slope tamed into step-down terraces decked with shrubs she imagined put on a hell of a show in the spring and summer.
There wasnât a lawn, so to speak, and she thought Hawkins had been smart to go with the thick mulch and shrubs and trees skirting the front instead of the traditional grass that would probably be a pain in the ass to mow and keep clear of weeds.
She approved of the deck that wrapped around the front and sides, and sheâd bet the rear as well. She liked the earthy tones of the stone and the generous windows.
It sat like it belonged there, content and well-settled in the woods.
She pulled up beside an aging Chevy pickup, got out of her car to stand and take a long view.
And understood why someone would choose this spot. There was, unquestionably, an aura of spookiness, especially for one who was inclined to see and feel such things. But there was considerable charm as well, and a sense of solitude that was far from lonely. She could imagine very well sitting on that front deck some summer evening, drinking a cold one, and wallowing in the silence.
Before she could move toward the house, the front door opened.
The sense of déjà vu was vivid, almost dizzying. He stood there at the door of the cabin, the blood like red flowers on his shirt.
We can stay no longer.
The words sounded in her head, clear, and in a voice she somehow knew.
âMiss Black?â
She snapped back. There was no cabin, and the man standing on the lovely deck of his charming house had no blood blooming on him. There was no force of great love and great grief shining in his eyes.
And still, she had to lean back against her car for a minute and catch her breath. âYeah, hi. I was justâ¦admiring the house. Great spot.â
âThanks. Any trouble finding it?â
âNo, no. Your directions were perfect.â And, of course, it was ridiculous to be having this conversation outside in the freezing wind. From the quizzical look on his face, he obviously felt the same.
She pushed off the car, worked up what she hoped was a sane and pleasant expression as she walked to the trio of wooden steps.
And wasnât he a serious cutie? she realized as she finally focused on the reality. All that windblown hair and those strong gray eyes. Add the crooked smile, the long, lean body in jeans and flannel, and a woman might be tempted to hang a SOLD ! sign around his neck.
She stepped up, held out a hand. âQuinn Black, thanks for meeting with me, Mr.
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