Sarah’s brows drew together. She stole a look out the window as the wind kicked higher. No lightning, and she’d yet to hear any thunder. “Why should that matter?”
“I thought you might be interested in the name of someone scheduled to check in today.” Eve paused, allowing Sarah to absorb the thought before continuing. “A man by the name of Quentin Marsh.”
“Um…” Sarah tried to think. “Why?”
Eve laughed. “You don’t remember? Last fall, the sleepover I had. You, me, Katie, wine, and a Ouija board?”
“Oh.” The light dawned. Katie Lynch was the manager of Eve’s hotel and a good friend. Together, the three of them formed a tight-knit group. “That was such a silly thing. As if a game could really tell me the initials of someone I’d become involved with. Q.M.” She scoffed at the idea.
“And no one in Point Pleasant we know has those initials.”
Sarah shook her head. “Eve, it was a Ouija board.”
“Which you insisted on bringing. Plus, the predictions it made about Katie and Indrid Cold all came true.”
Sarah fidgeted, not certain she wanted to think about Cold or the strange events that had taken place last fall. She’d only been on the fringe; Katie and Caden’s brother, Ryan Flynn, at the center. And Caden, of course. In her opinion, he was the one around whom everything revolved. “So did the mysterious Q.M. show up?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping he gets here before the storm kicks in.”
A distant rumble of thunder.
“Speaking of storms…” Her grandmother had insisted lightning could travel through phone lines during an electrical storm. The thought only added to her already heightened anxiety.
“I know. I won’t keep you. I just had to tell you about Quentin. Nice name, huh?”
“Odd name. Hey, would you mind if I dropped something off at the hotel for safekeeping tomorrow?” She eyed the plastic tub on the floor. “I told Shawn Preech about the stuff Suzanne gave me. He sounded like he couldn’t care less, but I don’t want to hang onto anything that belongs to him. He said he was going to be at the River, so I thought I could leave it for him to pick up.” The River Café was part of the hotel, a regular hangout for locals, and a casual pub/eatery to accommodate the hotel’s guests.
“Sure, no problem.”
“Great. It’ll save me a trip driving out to his place. I want to wash my hands of it.” Her gaze strayed to the flat oblong case perched on the end of her desk. She wondered if Suzanne even knew it had been buried in the carton.
“I thought you liked snooping around old documents and building genealogy charts?” Eve’s voice brought Sarah back to the present.
“I do.” She glanced at the case again. The wood was dark and weathered, infused with the lingering scent of oak. An elaborate faceplate with an old-fashioned lock held the lid secure, but she’d been unable to locate a key in the carton. Part of her was grateful to never know what the box contained, the other part curious. Squiggles and lines resembling hieroglyphs had been carved along the top, offset with the crude etching of a spider. Sometimes when she looked at the case her stomach turned over, a feeling that grew worse when she touched it.
“I just don’t want Shawn coming back and saying I have his property.” She tried to explain her reluctance. Thunder grumbled, closer this time.
“Is it because of Obadiah? You told me you’d discovered something disturbing about him.”
“Not him.” Obadiah Preech was the first of Shawn’s line to settle in Point Pleasant. Sarah had confirmed he’d taken part in Lord Dunmore’s War of 1774 and had been present at Fort Randolph when Chief Cornstalk was killed. But that wasn’t what bothered her.
“It wasn’t so much about Obadiah, as others. There are references about him in a letter I found. I made a copy to show you. I’ll bring it tomorrow, but right now I want to get off the phone.” A trickle of sweat broke out on the back of her neck. The rain had stopped but an oppressive weight hung in the air, warning of a brewing squall.
“Okay.” Eve understood her fear. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Sarah breathed a sigh of relief when she returned the phone to its cradle. Lightning severed the sky in a white flash and zigzagged to the ground. She counted the seconds until thunder rattled the windows. Storms always seemed worse in a mobile home, but the rent was reasonable and the timing had been right when she’d taken it over.
Her attention shifted to a framed photo on her desk. Her grandparents, arms around each other, smiling back at her. They’d raised her after the death of her parents, but each had suffered fatal illnesses within the last five years, leaving her on her own. A bittersweet smile curved her lips as she touched her fingertips to her mouth, then the photograph. “Miss you guys.”
Time to finish packing the items for Shawn. She put the remaining documents in the carton, most newspapers and items that had been saved from the 1920s and ’30s. There were a few tin-type photographs dating back to the Civil War era, letters exchanged between family members during World War II, and the snippet of the letter she’d told Eve about.
A letter that mentioned Obadiah and something that still induced a chill when she thought of it—a towering winged demon with glowing red eyes.
* * * *
Quentin stepped into the lobby of the hotel and shook rain from his hair. The place was open and inviting, with thick braided rugs over a hardwood floor. A large fireplace dominated the far right wall, the left taken up by a row of towering windows with deep sills and built-in seats. Woodwork, floorboards, even the turned staircase with its thick landing newels and deep risers reflected the construction of a bygone era.
A woman with shoulder-length brown hair stood behind the reception counter. She looked to be close to his age, somewhere in her mid- to late twenties.
“Hi.” She smiled a friendly greeting.
“Hi.” Quentin approached the desk and set his duffel bag on the floor. Despite booking his stay open-ended, he’d packed fairly light, hoping to wrap his business within a week. “Checking in. I’m Quentin Marsh.”
The woman gave him a quick once-over while trying to be unobtrusive. He knew he looked bedraggled, his wavy brown hair plastered to his neck with rain, his jeans faded and worn at the knees. He’d grabbed his most comfortable pair for the drive, knowing he’d be stuck in the car for hours.
“I see you beat the storm. At least the worst of it.” The woman’s smile stayed in place as she flipped a ledger around for him to sign. “It looks like you’re planning on being with us for a while, Mr. Marsh.”
“Quentin.” He scribbled his signature where she indicated.
“Oh my.” Her breath hitched at the sight of deep purple scars road-mapped across the back of his hand.
He should have been prepared. The accident was over two years old, but the reaction of others still caught him off guard. “It’s all right.” His mouth stretched in a jaded grin. “It’s a normal response.”
“I’m
