was different. In her earlier nightmares, Darlene had remained the same sweet, red-haired child. This time the victim had been a woman. What did it mean? Was the evil back? Was it inside Violet?
Or was her subconscious aging Darlene so she could see what her friend might have looked like if she’d lived? Violet dropped her head into her hands. Or maybe her grief and guilt had finally robbed her senseless, and she’d lost her mind.
Outside, ocean waves crashed against the Savannah shore. The wind howled off the coast, rain splattering against the roof of the cottage she and her grandmother had rented a few months ago when they’d moved to Tybee Island.
The wind had seeped through the thin panes and weathered wood, causing the whistling sound. That was the logical explanation.
The only explanation.
Sweat-soaked and shaking, Violet tugged the quilt around her legs. The clock chimed midnight. The steady crashing of the waves faded into a hypnotic drone. But her heart pounded in her chest like ancient Indian war drums. The last time she’d had a psychic vision or heard voices in her head had been twenty years ago. The day her father had sent her away. The day her best friend had died.
It couldn’t be happening again.
Although a few times in a crowded room she’d experienced strange sensations—odd snippets of a stranger’s voice whispering in her head—she’d written them off as her overactive imagination. And on a date in Charleston, she’d sensed something dangerous about the man. It was almost as if she’d met him before. As if he’d known more about her than he was telling.
She tossed aside the covers and padded barefoot across the braided rug, then stared through the windowpane at the moonless night. Her fingers toyed with her half of the Best Friends necklace she had shared with Darlene. The rain and fog rolling off the shore obliterated the normally crystal images of the cove and the constellations. Ominous shadows tore at her self-control. It was almost as if someone was watching her.
As if the past had returned to haunt her.
No. Tomorrow marked the twentieth anniversary of Darlene’s death. Thoughts of Darlene always dominated Violet’s mind at this time of year. Like an obsession that grew stronger, the incessant guilt dogged her like a demon.
Yet as she looked into the inky sky, fear snaked through her and she sensed that it was only the beginning. That just as the tides changed in the ocean, they were about to change in her life.
Just like everything had changed that horrible day when she was eight years old, and she’d stood by and let her best friend die.
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT this morning, dear?” With gnarled fingers Violet’s grandmother gripped the coffee cup painted with magnolia blossoms, and slid into a kitchen chair. “You look tired.”
Violet shrugged, pushing away her half-eaten piece of dried toast. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Having nightmares again?”
She nodded, her gaze straying to the rain still drizzling in soft sheets onto the beach sand outside. “It’s that time of year, I suppose.”
Sympathy lined her grandmother’s face. “I know it’s hard, Violet. Try not to dwell on the past, though.”
Violet nodded, resigned. She wouldn’t upset her grandmother by confessing about the voices. She was twenty-eight now, independent and strong. She’d even invested in a gift shop in downtown Savannah, Strictly Southern, determined to plant roots and build a life here. She’d save some money, buy this cabin and fix it up for herself and her grandmother. In fact, she’d already mapped out the first decorating plans: she’d paint the fading, chipped walls yellow; sew some frilly curtains; add a window seat by the bay window so she could bask in the sunlight there to read and draw.
And maybe she would finally escape the ghosts. “I’m going to the shop for a while. Do you need anything?”
Her grandmother pointed to the list on the butcher block counter. “Thanks, dear. I hate that I can’t get about like I used to.”
“You’re doing fine, Grammy.” Violet patted her hand, then scraped the dry toast into the trash, a twinge of anxiety pulling at her. The doctor had cautioned Violet about her grandmother’s high blood pressure and irregular heartbeat. Occasionally she suffered memory lapses, and her arthritis was becoming more of a problem.
At one time, Violet had told her grandmother everything. Had shared her fears, all her nightmares, the bitter sense of loss that had eaten at her over the years when her father had never called or visited.
“Maybe you’ll find a nice young man here in Savannah,” Grammy said with a teasing smile. “Get married, make me some great-grandbabies.”
“Maybe.” Violet feigned a smile for her grandmother’s benefit, although she didn’t foresee marriage or a man in her near future. If her own father hadn’t loved her, how could someone else? Besides, her failures with men were too many to count. The psychologist she’d finally spoken with about her phobia of the dark had suggested she was punishing herself for Darlene’s death by denying her own happiness. So she had forced herself to accept a few dates.
But Donald Irving, the man in Charleston, had given her the creeps. When she’d refused to see him again, he started showing up at odd times, calling at all hours of the night. Then the hangup calls…
Her grandmother had become so distraught, Violet had finally agreed to move.
Violet had no plans for marriage or men. She had been a loner most of her life.
And she probably always would be.
“Oh, my goodness.” Her grandmother paled. “Did you see this, Violet?”
Violet leaned over her shoulder and stared at the newspaper, her stomach knotting at the headlines.
Twenty-five-year-old Woman from Savannah College of Art & Design Reported Missing. Police Suspect Foul Play.
GRADY MONROE STACKED the files on his desk, wishing he could rearrange his attitude and life as easily. He traced a finger over the edge of Darlene’s photo. She’d been so damn young and innocent, just a freckled-faced kid with a heart-shaped face, who’d liked everyone. And trusted them.
But she’d died a violent death.
He pressed the pencil down to scribble the date on the file, his gaze shooting to the desk calendar. The pencil point broke. The date stared back at him, daring him to forget it, the red circle around the fifteenth a staunch reminder of the reason he couldn’t.
The single reason he’d studied law himself. Only so far he had no clue as to who had committed the vile crime or how the killer had eluded the police for two decades. The police referred to it as a cold case—a dead file.
The file would never be shut until he found his half sister’s killer.
Jamming the pencil in the electric sharpener, he mentally sorted through the recent cases on his desk. Crow’s Landing had the usual small-town upheavals. Traffic citations. Domestic crimes. A complaint against a stray dog that might be rabid. Not like crime in the big cities. A man murdered in Nashville two days ago. A drive-by shooting in an apartment complex in Atlanta. And this morning, reports of a woman missing in Savannah.
