professional concern. Twenty years ago he’d had a crush on her the size of California. In a kid-sister kind of way. He knew it was crazy, but the old attraction was still there, as clear and sharp as the dawn sky after a storm. Only now, there wasn’t anything kid-sister about it. Nick wasn’t happy about it. He had a sixth sense when it came to trouble. Sara Douglas had trouble written all over that shapely body of hers in big, bold letters.
As he pulled onto Wind River Road and started for town, he decided it would be best for everyone involved if she let the ghosts of the past rest in peace. The citizens of Cape Darkwood—including him—would rest a hell of a lot easier when she went back to San Diego where she belonged.
Chapter Three
She saw blood, stark and red against pale flesh. The metallic smell surrounded her, sickened her. Horror punched through layers of shock. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.
“Mommy,” she whimpered. “Wake up. I’m scared. Wake up!”
Sara shook her, but her mother didn’t stir. Feeling something warm and sticky between her fingers, Sara looked down at her hands.
Blood.
Her child’s mind rebelled against what she saw. Against what she knew in her heart. Against the terror of knowing her mommy wasn’t ever going to open her eyes again.
Ten feet away her daddy lay on the floor, his head surrounded by a slick of red. Next to him, Uncle Nicholas lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were open, but when she called out to him he didn’tanswer. Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why wouldn’t he wake up and tell her everything was going to be okay? That they were just playing? Making a movie?
Thunder cracked like a thousand gunshots. Sara screamed and crawled to her mother’s side, curled against her. “Mommy,” she choked out the name and began to cry. “Please wake up. I’m so scared.”
Outside the French doors lightning flashed, turning night to day. Beyond, a man in a long, black coat stood in the driving rain, staring at her. He held something dark in his hand. A gun, she realized. It had a shiny white grip, like the ones cowboys used in movies. But he was no Lone Ranger; he was a bad man.
Her heart beat out of control when he raised the gun and pointed it at her. For an interminable moment, the storm went silent. All she could hear was the freight-train hammer of her pulse. Somewhere deep inside she knew he was going to hurt her, the same way he’d hurt her mommy and daddy. She didn’t want to go to sleep and never wake up. Closing her eyes, Sara buried her face in her mother’s shirt.
Another crack of thunder rattled the windows.
When she opened her eyes and raised her head, the bad man was gone.
And she began to scream.
Sara sat bolt upright, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. The old fear thrashed inside her like the reemergence of a long-dormant illness.
Blowing out a shaky breath, she lay back in the pillows and willed her heart to slow. It had been a long time since she’d had the nightmare. After the deaths of her parents, it had taken more than six years of therapy before she could sleep through the night. But as she’d entered her teens, Sara had finally begun to heal. Slowly but surely, her mind had shoved the horrors of that night into a small, dark corner where they had remained.
Until now.
This particular dream had been incredibly vivid, conjuring all of her senses and a barrage of emotions. In the past, the nightmare had evolved around her finding the bodies of her parents and Nicholas Tyson. She’d never dreamed of the man with the gun.
Twenty years ago, a detective by the name of Henry James had investigated the case. He gave her a cherry lollipop every time he questioned her. As days spun into weeks and Sara began to understand what happened, she’d realized Detective James believed she’d witnessed the murders.
It had been a heavy burden for an eight-year-old. Sara spent years trying to remember. She’d even undergone hypnosis. But the memory—if there was one—refused to emerge. She never understood how she could forget something so vitally important, especially if the real murderer got away scot-free.
Eventually, the police pieced together the events of that night, ruled the crimes a murder-suicide and the case was closed. Now, Sara was left to wonder if they’d been wrong.
Was the man in the long black coat a figment of her imagination? Perhaps it was her mind’s way of redeeming her father? Or was he part of a blocked memory resurfacing?
Troubled by the notion of a killer getting away with the murders of three good people, Sara slipped into her robe, crossed to the French doors and flung them open. Beyond, the Pacific churned in a kaleidoscope of blue and green capped with white. The beach sang to her with the crashing notes of a well-remembered and much-loved ballad. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head and savoring the scent of last night’s rain.
She craved coffee as she descended the staircase and was glad she’d had the foresight to tuck a few single servings into her bag. After brewing coffee, she carried a steaming mug to the redwood deck.
The Adirondack furniture that had belonged to her parents had long since been sold. But the view was the same and so stunning that for a moment she could do nothing but stare. Whitecaps rode a violent sea of midnight blue. Leaning against the rail, she looked out over the rocky cliff at the battered rocks below. Mesmerized, she watched the fog bank retreat into the sea like the spirits of long-lost sailors.
She wasn’t sure why the scene reminded her of Nick Tyson. Something about his eyes and the ocean. Sara wasn’t given to noticing inconsequential details about men. But even in last night’s darkness, she’d discerned the reckless male beauty lurking beneath a mild facade that would be dangerous to an unwary woman. Sara was glad she didn’t fall into that category.
The ringing of the phone in the kitchen drew her from her reverie. Surprised, taking her mug with her, she went through the French doors. Expecting her sister, she picked up on the third ring. “Checking up on me?”
“You came.”
Shock rippled through her at the familiar, electronically-altered voice. “How did you get this number?”
“I have resources, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Who are you?” She posed the question, but knew he wouldn’t answer.
“All that matters is finding the truth.”
“What truth?”
“About what really happened that night.”
“The police investigated and closed the case.”
“The police don’t know everything.”
Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you know.”
He was silent for so long she feared he’d hung up. “Find the manuscript, Sara. It will explain everything.”
“What manuscript?” It was the first time she’d heard of a manuscript. “What are you talking about?”
“Find
