herself from his hostility. “I was driving along the road, just coming out of the forest. And I had a bit of an accident with Dr. Fisher.”
“The owner of the Manor,” Blake said. “Nice move.”
Though Madeline had done nothing wrong, she felt defensive. “We decided that the damage was too minor to report. Then we heard something from the forest. Voices.” With Duncan standing here, she decided not to mention Dr. Fisher’s gun. “I followed the sound of Duncan’s voice. Found him at the edge of the trees.”
“She did,” Duncan said. “She’s pretty. I thought she was Sofia.”
Blake tensed. He hunkered down so his eyes were level with his son’s. “What name did you say?”
“Poor, poor Sofia. She’s with Mama and the angels.”
“Did you see something, Duncan?”
“No,” he shouted. “No, no, no.”
“Let’s go inside,” Blake said.
Duncan spun in a circle. “Where’s Temperance? She’s my friend.”
“Time for bed, son. Back to the house. You can count the steps.”
The boy walked toward the front door in a perfectly straight line, counting each step aloud.
Without saying another word to her, Blake walked beside him.
“Hey,” she called after them. “Should I bring my car around to the front?”
“I don’t give a damn what you do.”
A scream of sheer frustration crawled up the back of her throat. This trip was cursed. Every instinct warned her to give up, to turn back, find another way.
But she was desperate.
Through the driving rain, she heard Duncan counting and singing. “She sells seashells…”
Chapter Two
Gathering up the remnants of her shredded self-respect, Madeline chased after Blake and his son. If she didn’t follow them into the house, she was certain that the door would be locked against her. Not only did she need this job, but she wanted it. She’d connected with Duncan. In him, she saw a reflection of her own childhood. She knew what it was like to be called a freak. Always to be an outsider.
As the daughter of a drug-addicted mother and an absent father, she’d been shuffled from one foster home to another until she was finally adopted by the Douglases when she was twelve. In spite of their kindness and warmth, Madeline still hadn’t fitted in with other kids. Her adopted family was poor, and she grew too fast. Her secondhand clothing never fitted properly on her long, gangly frame. And then there were the glasses she’d worn since first grade.
Most of the time, her childhood was best forgotten. But, oddly, her past had brought her here. Standing in the doorway of Beacon Manor, Madeline saw someone she had once lived with. Alma Eisen.
Eighteen years ago, Alma had been a foster parent for Madeline and her older brother, Marty. They’d stayed with her for a year—a dark and terrible year during which Alma had decided to divorce her abusive husband. Unlike the other fosters, Alma had stayed in touch with Christmas cards and birthday greetings, which Madeline had dutifully responded to.
It was Alma—now employed as Blake’s housekeeper and cook—who had told Madeline about the tutoring position. At the door to the manor, she greeted Madeline with a smile but held her at arm’s length, not wanting to get wet. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Long story.”
The years had been kind to Alma Eisen. Her hair was still blond and elaborately styled with spit curls at the cheeks. Her makeup, including blue eye shadow, almost disguised the wrinkles. Madeline figured that this petite woman had to be in her fifties. “You look terrific.”
“Thanks, hon. Wish I could say the same for you.”
Blake had followed his son—who was still counting aloud—to the top of the staircase.
Madeline called to him. “Mr. Monroe?”
He glared. “What is it?”
“I came all this way, sir. At the very least, I’d like to have an interview.”
“After I get my son to bed, I’ll deal with you.”
He turned away. Though Madeline wasn’t a betting woman, she guessed that her odds of being hired were about a thousand to one. A shiver trembled through her.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Alma said, “before you catch your death of cold.”
“I don’t have anything to change into. My car is parked way down the road.”
“Come with me, hon. I’ll take care of you.”
Though Alma had stayed in touch, Madeline didn’t remember her as a particularly nurturing woman. Her phone call about this job had been a huge surprise, and Madeline couldn’t help wondering about Alma’s motives. What could she hope to gain from having Madeline working here?
She trailed the small woman up the grand staircase and looked back down at the graceful oval of the foyer. She couldn’t see into any of the other rooms. Doors were closed, and plastic sheeting hung across the arched entry to what must have been a drawing room. Signs of disrepair marred the grandeur of the manor, but the design showed a certain civility and elegance, like a dowager duchess who had fallen on hard times.
Alma hustled her past Duncan’s bedroom to the far end of the long, wainscoted hallway with wallpaper peeling in the corners. She opened the door farthest from the staircase and hustled Madeline inside.
The center light reflected off the crystals of a delicate little chandelier. With dark wood furnishings, somewhat worn, and a four-poster bed with a faded gray silk duvet, this bedroom was the essence of “shabby chic.”
“Guest room,” Alma said as she rummaged through the drawers of a bureau. “This is where you’ll be staying after you’re hired.”
“Hired?” She scoffed. “I doubt it. Blake Monroe can’t stand me.”
“In any case, you’re staying here tonight. It’s not safe for you to be out.” She tossed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt toward her. “These ought to fit. They were left behind by one of Blake’s friends who spent the night.”
Madeline picked up the ratty gray sweatpants. “I really appreciate this, Alma.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She lowered her voice. “This little town, Raven’s Cliff, comes with a curse.”
“Superstitions,” Madeline said.
“Don’t be so sure. There’s a serial killer on the loose. A couple of weeks ago, he murdered two girls on the eve of their senior prom. One of them was the sister of a local cop. Sofia Lagios.”
Sofia. Duncan had looked at Madeline and spoken that name.
