silence. “You saw him, after all.”
Her heart pounded harder, like a frightened animal trapped in her chest. “I—I didn’t see anyone.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare—and the man with the gun.
“Be careful,” the voice whispered. “Trust no one.”
“Please, tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re calling, dredging all of this up now.”
The line went dead.
Uneasiness climbed over her, like a scatter of ants over her body. Frustrated and uneasy, Sara cradled the phone. “Crackpot,” she whispered.
But she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t have taken a week off and flown from San Diego to Cape Darkwood on the word of some prankster. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the police had made a mistake. But how did the caller play into all of this? Was there some type of manuscript that would prove her father had been falsely accused? How was she supposed to find it?
She’d come back to this house, this town, to uncover the truth. She owed it to herself. To her sister. To her parents. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew where she had to start. She knew the key to unlocking the truth might very well lie in the nightmares of the past.
THE CORNER NOOK was exactly the kind of shop Sara would have frequented had she been on an antique-buying excursion. She’d inherited her love of old things from her mother. Even as a child, she’d enjoyed browsing the stores and wondering about the history of the trinkets they brought home.
Sandwiched between a coffee shop and the Red Door Bed-and-Breakfast, the Corner Nook was as inviting as a tropical beach on a hot day. But Sara felt no anticipation as she parked the rental car curbside. Dread curdled in her gut as she started down the cobblestone walk.
The bell on the door jingled merrily when she entered, the aromas of vanilla and citrus pleasing her nose. Having recently furnished her first home, Sara had spent hours perusing antique shops. But she’d never seen such an eclectic collection in one place. To her right an entire wall was dedicated to Hollywood nostalgia. A nice collection of celebrity cookbooks jammed the top shelf. Beyond, a dress once worn by Marilyn Monroe flowed elegantly over an ancient wooden mannequin. Sara was so caught up in admiring the wares, she didn’t hear the proprietor approach.
“Are you looking for something special?”
She spun at the sound of the rich voice and found herself facing a tall, elegantly dressed woman. She caught a glimpse of silver hair and midnight-blue eyes before recognition slammed home.
LaurelTyson pressed a slender, ring-clad hand to her chest and stepped back, her face going white. “Alex.”
The name came out as little more than a puff of breath, but Sara heard it. Her mother’s name was Alexandra, but everyone had called her Alex. “Mrs. Tyson, it’s Sara Douglas.”
The woman blinked as if waking from a nightmare. Something dark and unnerving flashed in her eyes. “What earthly reason could you possibly have for coming into my shop?”
“If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Sara hesitated, surprised by the degree of the woman’s hostility. But she hadn’t traveled six hundred miles to give up at the first sign of resistance. “I want to talk to you about what happened….”
Laurel’s eyes went flat. “I have nothing to say to you about that night.”
“I know this is difficult. It’s been hard for me, too. But if you’d just hear me out.”
“Difficult is not the right word, Sara. Your family has hurt mine enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”
There weren’t any other customers in the shop. Sara didn’t want to upset her, but she desperately needed information. Laurel had been her mother’s best friend. She might know something that could help her sort through the mystery. If only she could get her to listen.
“I may have new information about what really happened,” Sara said.
“What really happened?” The woman choked out a sound that was part laugh, part grunt. “I already know what happened.”
“I think the police may have made a mistake.”
“How dare you.” Laurel’s lips peeled back in an ugly parody of a smile. “You have some nerve walking into my place of business and making wild insinuations.”
“All I want is to find the truth,” Sara said honestly.
“The truth, darling, is that your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.”
Sara recoiled at the viciousness of the words. A knot curled in her chest. Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off, found another source of information. But Laurel Tyson was Sara’s strongest link to her parents and what might have taken place that night. “I know you were hurt, but if you’d just give me a minute—”
“I’ve given you enough.” Laurel turned away. “Get out.”
Sara reached out to touch the other woman’s arm. Laurel spun with the speed of a striking cobra. She shoved Sara’s hand away with so much force that Sara’s fingers brushed a porcelain figurine and sent it crashing to the floor. The delicate china shattered into a hundred pieces.
“See what you’ve done?”
“Mrs. Tyson, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sara looked down at the broken statuette, truly sorry, and wondered how the situation had spiraled out of control so quickly. “Please, let me pay for—”
“You’ll never be able to pay enough.” Angrily, Laurel gestured toward the door, her hand shaking. “Now, get out or I’ll call the police.”
Vaguely, Sara heard the bell on the door jingle as another customer entered the shop. In a last-ditch effort to get the woman to listen, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father didn’t kill anyone that night.”
The woman’s hand shot out so quickly Sara didn’t have time to brace. Laurel’s palm struck Sara’s cheek hard enough to snap her head back. The sound was like the crack of a bullwhip in the silence of the shop.
Sara reeled backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t caught her from behind. “Easy,” came a familiar male voice. “I’ve got you.”
Nick Tyson steadied her, then quickly thrust himself between the two women. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his angry gaze flicking from Sara to his mother.
Laurel thrust a finger at Sara. “She’s not welcome here. I want her to leave. Now.”
Nick’s gaze went to Sara. He tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. His eyes narrowed to slits, and she got the sinking sensation that he was going to take his mother’s side. He surprised her by asking, “Do you want to press charges?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Laurel breathed.
“Try
