Dinah heard a thud somewhere in the house.
Then it came again-a faint, distant creaking this time. She listened another moment. Nothing.
A shrill sound broke the silence, and she started, heart hammering. Then, realizing what it was, she shook her head at her own foolishness, snatched her cell phone out of her bag and pressed the button.
“Hello?” Her voice came out oddly breathless.
“Is everything all right?” Marc asked. “You don’t sound quite yourself.”
“It’s nothing. Really. I was just scaring myself, thinking I heard someone in the house.”
“Get out. Now.” The demand was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip.
Holding the phone clutched tightly against her ear, Dinah raced across the room, through the hallway, and plunged out the door.
MARTA PERRY
has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.
Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.
Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. E-mail her at [email protected], or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.
MARTA PERRY
Season of Secrets
For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know full, even as I am known.
—1 Corinthians 13:12
This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,
Greta Nicole Wulff, with much love from Grammy. And, as always, to Brian.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Questions for Discussion
One
“Why is he coming back now?”
Aunt Kate put her morning cup of Earl Grey back in the saucer as she asked the question for what had to be the twentieth time since they’d heard the news, her faded blue eyes puckered with distress. December sunlight streamed through the lace curtains on the bay window in the breakfast room, casting into sharp relief the veins that stood out on her hand, pressed to the polished tabletop.
“I don’t know, Aunt Kate.”
Love swept through Dinah Westlake, obliterating her own fears about Marc Devlin’s return to Charleston. She covered the trembling hand with her own, trying to infuse her great-aunt with her own warmth. Anger sparked. Marc shouldn’t come back, upsetting their lives once again.
“Maybe he just wants to sell the house since the Farriers moved out.” Aunt Kate sounded hopeful, and she glanced toward the front window and the house that stood across the street in the quiet Charleston historic block.
Annabel’s house. The house where Annabel died.
Dinah forced herself to focus on the question. “I suppose so. Do you know if he’s bringing Court?”
Her cousin Annabel’s son had been three when she’d seen him last, and now he was thirteen. She remembered a soft, cuddly child who’d snuggled up next to her, begging for just one more bedtime story. It was unlikely that Courtney would want or need anything from her now.
“I don’t know.” Aunt Kate’s lips firmed into a thin line. “I hope not.”
Dinah blinked. “Don’t you want to see Courtney?” This visit was the first indication that Marc would let his son have a relationship with his mother’s kin that consisted of more than letters, gifts and brief thank-you notes.
Tears threatened to spill over onto her great-aunt’s soft cheeks. “Of course I do. But that poor child shouldn’t be exposed to the house where his mother died, even if it means I never see him again.”
“Aunt Kate—” Dinah’s words died. She couldn’t say anything that would make a difference, because she understood only too well what her aunt felt. She, too, had not been back in that house since Annabel’s funeral.
Except in the occasional nightmare. Then, she stood again on the graceful curving staircase of Annabel and Marc’s house, looking down toward the dim hallway, hearing angry voices from the front parlor. Knowing something terrible was about to happen. Unable to prevent it.
“Everyone will start talking about Annabel’s death again.” Aunt Kate touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes, unable as always to say the uglier word. Murder. “Just when it’s forgotten, people will start to talk again.”
Something recoiled in Dinah. It seemed so disloyal never to talk about Annabel. Still, if that was how Aunt Kate dealt with the pain, maybe it was better than having nightmares.
She slid her chair back, patting her aunt’s hand. “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m sure people are so busy getting ready for the Christmas holidays that Marc will have been and gone before anyone takes notice.”
Her aunt clasped her hand firmly. “You’re not going to the office today, are you? Dinah, you have to stay home. What if he comes?”
It was no use pointing out to her that Dinah was going to police headquarters, not an office. Aunt Kate couldn’t possibly refer to her as a forensic artist. In Aunt Kate’s mind, a Charleston lady devoted herself to the church, charity and society, not necessarily in that order.
“I thought
