feet and closed the drapes. But the memory of the nightmare—of the real events she’d survived—still sparked through her blood. The notion of sleep, of facing the uncertainty of even the next few hours, took her past her bed and back into the sitting room where she pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves and curled up on the sofa with a box of pottery shards she’d brought home from the museum. She picked up the first piece and a magnifying glass, resuming the painstaking process of identifying and dating the fragments from a dig near Hadrian’s Wall in England.
When she got up to retrieve a reference book, she saw the dusty high-school yearbooks on the shelf and briefly wondered why she thought she needed to keep any remembrance from that time in her life. She nodded and headed back to the sofa.
It was because she treasured the past. The now was a frightening thing, the future uncertain. But the past was complete. Done. Finished. Nothing could be changed. There were no more surprises.
She was safe with the past.
It was the present and future she couldn’t handle.
Chapter One
Three days later
Charlotte Mayweather eyed the canopy of gray clouds that darkened the Kansas City sky beyond her front door and shivered. She pretended the goose bumps skittering across her skin were in answer to the electricity of the storm simmering in the morning air rather than any trepidation about stepping across that threshold into the world outside.
But with a resolve that was as certain as the promise of the thunder rumbling overhead, she adjusted her glasses at her temples and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss her father. “Bye, Dad. Love you.”
Jackson Mayweather’s gaze darted to the flashes of lightning that flickered through the thick glass framing each side of the mansion’s double front doors. “Are you sure you want to go out in this? Looks like it’s going to be another gullywasher.”
“You know storms don’t bother me.” Charlotte cinched her tan raincoat a little more snugly around her waist, leaving the list of things that did bother her unspoken. “You can’t talk me out of going to the museum. I want to get my hands on those new artifacts from the Cotswolds dirt fort before anyone else does. I have to determine if they’re of Roman origin or if they date back to the Celts.”
Her trips to the Mayweather Museum’s back rooms and storage vaults—where the walls were thick, the entrances limited and locked up tight, and she knew every inch of the layout—were the closest she’d ever come to experiencing an actual archaeological dig. Unpacking crates wasn’t as intriguing as sifting real dirt through her fingers and discovering some ancient carved totem or hand-forged metalwork for herself. But it brought more life to her studies in art history and archaeology than the textbooks and computer simulations by which she’d earned her PhD ever could.
It was normal for an archaeologist to be excited by the opportunity to sort and catalogue the twelfth-century artifacts. And it had been ten long years since she’d felt normal about anything.
Her father scrunched his craggy features into an indulgent smile. “Those treasures will still be there tomorrow if you want to wait for the storm to pass. Better yet, I can arrange to have them brought here. I do own the museum, remember?”
Thunder smacked the air in answer to the lightning and rattled the glass. Charlotte flinched and her father tightened his grip, no doubt ready to lock her in her rooms if she showed even one glimmer of hesitation about venturing out into a world they both knew held far greater terrors than a simple spring thunderstorm.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stole a quick hug before pushing herself away and picking up her leather backpack. Go, Charlotte. Walk out that door. Do it now. Or she never would.
She plucked a handful of short curls from beneath the collar of her coat and let them spring back to tickle her mother’s daisy clip-on earrings. “I’ll be okay.” She pulled the check she’d written from her trust fund out of her pocket and waved it in the air. “I’m paying to have those artifacts shipped from England, so I intend to spend as much time as I want studying them.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”
She zipped the check into the pocket of her backpack. Alone was when she felt the safest. There was no one around to surprise her or betray her or torment her. There was no second-guessing about what to say or how she looked. There were no questions to answer, no way to get hurt. Alone was her sanctuary.
But he was a dad and she was his daughter, and she figured he’d never stop worrying about her. Still, when he’d fallen in love with and married his second wife just over a year ago, Charlotte had vowed to venture out of her lonely refuge and live her life somewhere closer to normal. Giving her father less reason to worry was the greatest gift she could give him. What years of therapy couldn’t accomplish, sheer determination and a loyal friend who’d survived his own traumatic youth would.
“I won’t be alone.” She put two fingers to her lips and whistled. “Max! Here, boy.”
The scrabbling of paws vying for traction on the tile in the kitchen at the back of the house confirmed that there was one someone besides her father in this world she could trust without hesitation.
A furry black-and-tan torpedo shot across the foyer’s parquet tiles, circled twice around Charlotte’s legs and then, with a snap and point of her fingers, plopped down on his tail beside her foot and leaned against her. She reached down and scratched the wiry fur around his one and a half ears. The missing part that had been surgically docked after a cruel prank had triggered an instant affinity the moment she’d spotted his picture online. “Good boy, Maximus. Have you been mooching scrambled eggs from the cook again?”
The nudge of his head up into her palm seemed to give an affirmative answer.
“Figures,” her father added with a grin. “When we rescued him from the shelter, I had no idea I’d be spending more on eggs than dog food.” He bent down and petted the dog as well. “But you’re worth every penny as long as you keep an eye on our girl, okay?”
Her father’s cell phone rang in his pocket and Charlotte instinctively tensed. Unexpected calls were one of those phobias she was working to overcome, but until her father pulled the phone from his suit jacket, checked the number and put it back into his pocket with a shake of his head, Charlotte held her breath. When he offered her a wry smile, she quietly released it. “It’s your stepbrother, Kyle.”
“You could have taken it. Maybe there’s a crisis at the office.”
“With Kyle, everything’s a crisis. That boy is full of innovative ideas, but sometimes I wonder if he has a head for business.”
“Come on, Dad.” It was easier to defend the family member who wasn’t here than it was to stand up for her own shortcomings. “How long did it take you to learn all the ins and outs of the real estate business? Kyle’s only been on the job at JM for a year.”
He understood the diversionary tactic as well as she did. “No one is going to think less of you if you decide not to go in to the museum today. I don’t want to rush your recovery.”
A sudden staccato of raindrops drummed against the porch roof and concrete walkway outside. Clutching both hands around the strap of the pack on her shoulder, Charlotte nodded toward the door.
“I’m
