Trinity strained her ears without turning around. The whole of the almost-empty house was at her back. No whisper. No cry. No mischievous laughter.
It was daylight. If it had been after sunset…It was worse after dark. Much worse.
With a burst of speed, she strode to the dresser and put the lone matchstick in the box with its fellows. Then she carried the matchbox into the bathroom, dropped it in the sink and turned the tap on full blast. Only when the cardboard box was a sodden, ruined mess did she turn off the spigot. Matchsticks floated to the surface of the water as the box disintegrated. They swirled around and around as the water wassucked down the drain.
But their hypnotic cyclone ride wasn’t what made Trinity dizzy.
It was the horrible realization that The Girl in Blue was still haunting her after all these years and that she’d somehow found a way to follow Trinity to Boston. In her effort to become a nurse, had she instead brought death all the way from Scarlet Falls to her friend’s door?
She scooped up the ruined matches and threw them in the trash.
She’d seen The Girl in Blue and her matchsticks for years, but the ghost of the little girl had seemed like nothing compared to the much more aggressive entities that threatenedthe town.
Her earliest childhood memories were filled with pain. Jeremy Wyatt had fallen from a rusty swing and broken his arm. She’d seen the push that had sent him to the ground only inches away from a sharp rock that would have broken his head instead. Susan Witcherhad ridden her bike off of Bald Knob and had needed fourteen stitches to repair her knee. Trinity had seen Susan’s helmet slide over her eyes, as if someone had wanted to blind her to the danger of the cliff’s edge.Thomas Craighad “accidentally” ingested a peanut in an ice-cream sundae and almost died. She’d seen him scoop up the deadly nut and place it on his tongue as if he’d been in a trance.
But she’d always been afraid to label the things she’d seen.
She would never be able to forgive herself if the fire in Boston hadn’t been an accident. They had wanted to treat her like a hero, when the reality of what she might have done made her much more the villain.
Chapter Three
Creed had taken over several upstairs rooms. He had watched her from one of them while she was in the courtyard. She was afraid The Girl in Blue might not be finished with her games. Once Trinity changed into a gray-fitted sweater with a matching scarf shot through with silver threads that almost made her eyes look bright, she went to check on him even though she shouldn’t have.
Surprise dispelled some of her fear.
Her parents had only been out of the country for a few weeks, but the rooms were filled—boxes of files, stacks of rolled, yellowed paper that proved to be maps when she fingered their edges, books, newspapers and magazines.
Trinity slowed, walked around each room astonished by all the paraphernalia. Added to the reference materials were other things—memorabilia, knick knacks and photographs.
There was an old rusty wagon with dented sides that squeaked when she nudged it with her foot. In the wagon, a glass jar sat full of the tiny tear-shaped rocks diligent beach combers could find on the shores of High Lake. People called the stones “Maiden’s tears.” Trinity was pretty sure every house in town had a few. There was a lone, scuffed black Mary Jane shoe small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. She held it for only a second because its petite size and its missing companion gave her imagination too many gruesome directions to go. A rag doll with a dingy gingham dress and button eyes forbade her touch by simply being too freaky with its blank sewn-on stare. There was also a stuffed crow with oily black feathers and beaded eyes that glittered as they “watched” her wherever she moved.
Trinity edged away from the bird, not liking the wicked sharpness of its beak forever frozen in a silent caw.
In her need to put distance between herself and the bird’s impossible peck, she bumped into a stack of books piled on a desk almost hidden beneath its load. The stack swayed, but she grabbed the top book and shored up the column of dusty tomes before it could topple.
The name “Chadwick” caught her attention and she looked closer at the glossy jacket of the book. It was all about the witch trials of the seventeenth century. She flipped through its pages. The crudely drawn pen and ink illustrations left her oddly shaken. Hanging. Drowning. Burning at the stake. Rendered in a simple hand with slashing finesse that somehow captured the pain and horror on the faces of the persecuted “witches.”
One drowning bothered her most of all.
It was of a bound woman being doused in a lake whose banks were lined with townspeople watching and waiting for her to die in order to prove her innocence. The “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” hopelessness and savagery of the scene made her chest tighten.
While she’d been trying to forget Scarlet Falls for three long years, Samuel Creed literally surrounded himself with the town and its dark history.
“I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working,” Creed said gruffly from the doorway.
Trinity carefully closed the book and placed it back where she’d found it. As she did so she saw the author’s name—Samuel Creed. She didn’t turn to face him. She felt like she’d disturbed a dragon in his lair, but Creed’s treasured horde wasn’t gold and precious gems. It was the dusty remains of lives long gone and the shadowed memories of souls whose restless wanderings might be responsible for her darkest fears.
“I don’t like an audience when I meditate,” she replied.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” Creed said.
Trinity straightened the stack of books again to busy her hands. Beautiful? She was short and mousy. Her dark eyebrows were prominent on her face, making her skin porcelain pale. Her eyes were a light hazel and they clashed with her chestnut hair that grew so fast and so wild she constantly fought to tame it.
No one would ever call her a beauty, least of all someone as striking as this man—this author—who had caught her rifling through his things.
“Seen any out-of-place matchboxes lately?” wouldn’t roll off her tongue.
She felt his presence closer behind her even though his feet hadn’t made a sound. She turned. Shewould not be afraid to face him, even if the flush on her cheeks and the quickened beat of her heart warned her otherwise. Considering all else she had to fear, her trepidation was ridiculous.
“You couldn’t have accumulated all of this in only a few short weeks,” she said to his open collar. He’d come that close.
She looked up from the intimacy of that small glimpse of skin at his throat. She met his eyes.
The room was lit by dust-mote filled sunbeams streaming through the windowsmuted by soft red drapes. His eyes matched the onyx chip in his ear despite the light surrounding them.
Looking at him made her feel as if she was about to fall.
His irises were that dark, that limitless.
Her stomach anticipated the drop. Her lungs hitched in a breath to prepare.
“Three
