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Season of Secrets
Marta Perry


As a teenager, Dinah Westlake had witnessed the murder of her pregnant cousin, but a concussion blocked her memories of that night.Now, ten years later, her cousin's widower, Marc Devlin, had returned to Charleston to give his young son a true Southern Christmas. It was a chance to make amends in a family torn apart by the tragedy–and the suspicion that Marc was responsible for his wife's demise.But when several dangerous "accidents" occurred amid the colorful holiday celebrations, Dinah's recollections of that past dark night began to resurface. Would she discover a killer inside the man she'd grown to love?









Dinah heard a thud somewhere in the house.


Then it came again-a faint, distant creaking this time. She listened another moment. Nothing.

A shrill sound broke the silence, and she started, heart hammering. Then, realizing what it was, she shook her head at her own foolishness, snatched her cell phone out of her bag and pressed the button.

“Hello?” Her voice came out oddly breathless.

“Is everything all right?” Marc asked. “You don’t sound quite yourself.”

“It’s nothing. Really. I was just scaring myself, thinking I heard someone in the house.”

“Get out. Now.” The demand was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip.

Holding the phone clutched tightly against her ear, Dinah raced across the room, through the hallway, and plunged out the door.




MARTA PERRY


has written everything from Sunday school curriculum to travel articles to magazine stories in twenty years of writing, but she feels she’s found her home in the stories she writes for Love Inspired.

Marta lives in rural Pennsylvania, but she and her husband spend part of each year at their second home in South Carolina. When she’s not writing, she’s probably visiting her children and her beautiful grandchildren, traveling or relaxing with a good book.

Marta loves hearing from readers and she’ll write back with a signed bookplate or bookmark. Write to her c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. E-mail her at marta@martaperry.com, or visit her on the Web at www.martaperry.com.




MARTA PERRY

Season of Secrets








For now we see in a mirror, darkly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I shall know full, even as I am known.

—1 Corinthians 13:12


This story is dedicated to my granddaughter,

Greta Nicole Wulff, with much love from Grammy.

And, as always, to Brian.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Questions for Discussion




One


“Why is he coming back now?”

Aunt Kate put her morning cup of Earl Grey back in the saucer as she asked the question for what had to be the twentieth time since they’d heard the news, her faded blue eyes puckered with distress. December sunlight streamed through the lace curtains on the bay window in the breakfast room, casting into sharp relief the veins that stood out on her hand, pressed to the polished tabletop.

“I don’t know, Aunt Kate.”

Love swept through Dinah Westlake, obliterating her own fears about Marc Devlin’s return to Charleston. She covered the trembling hand with her own, trying to infuse her great-aunt with her own warmth. Anger sparked. Marc shouldn’t come back, upsetting their lives once again.

“Maybe he just wants to sell the house since the Farriers moved out.” Aunt Kate sounded hopeful, and she glanced toward the front window and the house that stood across the street in the quiet Charleston historic block.

Annabel’s house. The house where Annabel died.

Dinah forced herself to focus on the question. “I suppose so. Do you know if he’s bringing Court?”

Her cousin Annabel’s son had been three when she’d seen him last, and now he was thirteen. She remembered a soft, cuddly child who’d snuggled up next to her, begging for just one more bedtime story. It was unlikely that Courtney would want or need anything from her now.

“I don’t know.” Aunt Kate’s lips firmed into a thin line. “I hope not.”

Dinah blinked. “Don’t you want to see Courtney?” This visit was the first indication that Marc would let his son have a relationship with his mother’s kin that consisted of more than letters, gifts and brief thank-you notes.

Tears threatened to spill over onto her great-aunt’s soft cheeks. “Of course I do. But that poor child shouldn’t be exposed to the house where his mother died, even if it means I never see him again.”

“Aunt Kate—” Dinah’s words died. She couldn’t say anything that would make a difference, because she understood only too well what her aunt felt. She, too, had not been back in that house since Annabel’s funeral.

Except in the occasional nightmare. Then, she stood again on the graceful curving staircase of Annabel and Marc’s house, looking down toward the dim hallway, hearing angry voices from the front parlor. Knowing something terrible was about to happen. Unable to prevent it.

“Everyone will start talking about Annabel’s death again.” Aunt Kate touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes, unable as always to say the uglier word. Murder. “Just when it’s forgotten, people will start to talk again.”

Something recoiled in Dinah. It seemed so disloyal never to talk about Annabel. Still, if that was how Aunt Kate dealt with the pain, maybe it was better than having nightmares.

She slid her chair back, patting her aunt’s hand. “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m sure people are so busy getting ready for the Christmas holidays that Marc will have been and gone before anyone takes notice.”

Her aunt clasped her hand firmly. “You’re not going to the office today, are you? Dinah, you have to stay home. What if he comes?”

It was no use pointing out to her that Dinah was going to police headquarters, not an office. Aunt Kate couldn’t possibly refer to her as a forensic artist. In Aunt Kate’s mind, a Charleston lady devoted herself to the church, charity and society, not necessarily in that order.

“I thought I’d check in this morning.” As a freelance police artist she only worked when called on, but she’d found it helped her acceptance with the detectives to remind them of her presence now and then.

“Please, Dinah. Stay home today.”

Her hesitation lasted only an instant. Aunt Kate had taken care of her. Now it was her turn. She bent to press her cheek against Aunt Kate’s.

“Of course I will, if that’s what you want. But given the way he’s cut ties with us, I don’t expect Marcus Devlin to show up on our doorstep anytime soon.”

Was she being a complete coward? Maybe so. But she’d fought her way back from the terror of the night Annabel died, and she had no desire to revisit that dreadful time.

Please, God. Please let me forget.

That was a petition that was hardly likely to be granted, now that Marc Devlin was coming home.



After helping her aunt to the sunroom that looked over her garden, where she would doze in the winter sunshine, Dinah cleared the breakfast dishes. It was one of the few things Alice Jones, her aunt’s devoted housekeeper, allowed her to do to help.

Alice was nearly as old as her great-aunt, and the two of them couldn’t hope to stay on in the elegant, inconvenient antebellum house on Tradd Street if she weren’t here. She wasn’t even sure when she’d gone from being the cosseted little girl of the house to being the caretaker, but she didn’t see the situation changing anytime soon, and she wouldn’t want it to.

A sound disturbed the morning quiet. Someone wielded the brass dolphin knocker on the front door with brisk energy. It could be anyone. Her stomach tightened; the back of her neck prickled. Instinct said it was Marc.

Heart thudding, she crossed the Oriental carpet that had covered the hall floor for a hundred years or so. She turned the brass doorknob and opened the door.

Instinct was right. Her cousin’s husband stood on the covered veranda, hand arrested halfway to the knocker. A shaft of winter sunlight, filtered through the branches of the magnolia tree, struck hair that was still glossy black.

For a moment, Dinah could only stare. It was Marc, of course, but in another sense it wasn’t. This wasn’t the intent, idealistic young prosecutor her teenage dreams had idolized.

“Dinah.” He spoke first, his deep voice breaking the spell that held her silent. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not by our choice,” she said, before thinking about the implication.

The lines around his firm mouth deepened. “I know.” He quirked one eyebrow, and the familiar movement broke through her sense of strangeness. “Are you going to let me come in?”

She felt her cheeks warm. What was she doing, keeping him standing on the veranda like a door-to-door salesperson? No matter how much his return distressed Aunt Kate, she couldn’t treat him as anything but the cousin-in-law he’d always been to her.

She stepped back. “Please, come in.” She grasped for the comfort of ingrained manners. “It’s good to see you again, Marc.”

He stepped into the wide center hallway, the movement seeming to stir the quiet air, and she had to suppress a gasp as pain gripped her heart. Forgotten? No, she hadn’t forgotten at all. His presence brought her ten-year-old grief surging to life.

Was being here doing the same for him? She thought it might—his face had tightened, but that was all. He was better at hiding his feelings than he used to be.

She had to say something, anything, to bridge the silence. She took refuge in the ordinary. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

He shrugged. “Not bad. I’d forgotten how warm South Carolina can be in December.”

“That just shows how much of a Northerner you’ve become. Everyone here has been complaining that it’s too cold.”

His face relaxed into a half smile. “Wimp. You should try a Boston winter sometime to see what cold really is.”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

He had changed. He was ten years older, of course. Ten years would change anyone. He looked—successful, she supposed. Dress shirt, dark tie, a tweed jacket that fit smoothly over broad shoulders, a flash of gold at his wrist that was probably an expensive watch. Being a corporate attorney instead of a prosecutor must suit him.

But it wasn’t so much the way he was dressed as the air about him—the air of a successful, accomplished man.

“Well?” He lifted that eyebrow again. “What’s the verdict, Dinah?”

She wouldn’t pretend to misunderstand him. “I was thinking that you talk faster than you used to.”

He smiled. “I had to learn because no one would stick around long enough to hear what I had to say.”

The smile was a reminder of the Marc she’d known. Dear Father, this is harder than I’d imagined it could be. Please, get me through it.

“Come into the parlor.” However much she might wish he’d leave, she couldn’t stand here in the hall with him.

She turned and walked into the small, perfectly appointed front parlor. He’d find this familiar, she supposed. Aunt Kate hadn’t changed anything in seventy years, and she never would. Anything that showed wear was replaced with an exact duplicate. Aunt Kate didn’t bother to decorate for Christmas much in recent years, but the white mantel bore its usual evergreen, magnolia leaves and holly, studded with the fat ivory candles that would be lit Christmas Eve.

Dinah sat on the Queen Anne love seat, gesturing to the wing chair opposite. Marc sat, leaning back, seeming very much at ease. But the lines on his face deepened, and his dark eyes hid secrets.

“You’ve changed.” His comment startled her, but it shouldn’t. Hadn’t she just been thinking the same about him? No one stayed the same for ten years.

“I’m ten years older. That makes a difference.” Especially when it was the difference between an immature teen and an adult woman.

He shook his head. “It’s not just that. You’re not shy anymore.”

“I’ve learned to hide it better, that’s all.”

Marc would remember the shy, gawky teenager she’d once been. She could only hope he’d never noticed the crush she’d had on him.

“It’s easy to see that you’re blooming. How is Aunt Kate?”

And how, exactly, was she going to explain the fact that Aunt Kate wasn’t coming in to greet him?

“She’s…older, obviously. She’d deny it vehemently, but she’s begun to fail a little.”

“So you’re taking care of her.”

“Of course.”

That’s how it is in families, Marc. We take care of each other. We don’t walk away, the way you did.

He frowned slightly, and she had the uncomfortable sense that he knew what she was thinking.

“Is she too frail to see me?”

Her careful evasion had led her just where she didn’t want to be. “No. She just—”

She faltered to a halt. There wasn’t any good way of saying that Aunt Kate didn’t welcome his return.

“She just doesn’t want to see me.” His mouth thinned. “Tell me, does she think I killed Annabel?”

The blunt question shook her, and mentioning Annabel’s name seemed to bring her into the room. For an instant Dinah heard the light tinkle of Annabel’s laugh, caught a whiff of the sophisticated fragrance that had been Annabel’s scent. Grief ripped through her, and she struggled to speak.

“I—I’m sure she doesn’t think that.” But did she? With her firm avoidance of the subject, Aunt Kate had managed never to say.

His dark gaze seemed to reject the feeble words. “What about you, Dinah? Do you think that?”

Before she could find the words, he shook his head.

“Never mind. I don’t suppose it matters.”

She found the words then, at the pain in his voice. “I don’t think you could have hurt Annabel.”

How could anyone have hurt Annabel, have struck out and destroyed all that life, all that beauty?

His face seemed to relax a fraction. “Thank you. I’m selling the house. I suppose you guessed that.”

“We thought that was probably why you’d come back,” she said cautiously, not wanting to make it sound as if that was what she wanted.

“It’s time. Having the Farriers rent the place all these years let me drift, but when they decided to move, I knew I had to do something about the house.”

“You won’t be here long, then.” She was aware of a sense of relief. He would go away, and the terrible wound of Annabel’s death would skin over again.

His brows lifted. “Are you eager to see the last of me, Dinah?”

“No.” He was making her feel like that awkward teen again. “I just assumed you’d be in a hurry to get the house on the market and go back to your life, especially with the holidays coming.”

“The holidays,” he repeated, something a little wary in his voice.

“I suppose you and Court have all sorts of plans for Christmas.” She was talking at random, trying to cover her embarrassment.

“Well, he’s past the Santa stage, but he still gets excited.”

“Does he?” For a moment she had a vivid image of the three-year-old he’d been—big dark eyes filled with wonder at the smallest things—a butterfly in the garden or a new puzzle she’d bought him, knowing how much he loved working them. “I’d love to see him.”

Again the words came out before she considered. Marc had made his wishes clear all these years, limiting their contact to cards and gifts. Just because he’d come back didn’t mean anything had changed.

“You’ll get your wish,” Marc said abruptly. “He’s over at the house now, unloading the rental car.”

She could only stare at him. “You’ve brought Court here, to the house where—” She stopped, unable to say the words.

“You think I’m crazy to bring Court back to the house where his mother died.” Marc’s voice was tinged with bitterness, but he could give voice to the thought she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” She sought refuge in platitudes. “I’m sure you know what’s best for your son.”

“Do I?” Vulnerability suddenly showed in his normally guarded eyes, disarming her. “I wish I were sure. I thought I knew. I thought the best thing for Court was a whole new life, with nothing to remind him of what he’d lost.”

“So you kept him away from us.” Did he have any idea how much that had hurt?

“Away from you, away from this place.”

Marc surged to his feet as if he couldn’t sit still any longer. He stalked to the window, then turned and came back again. The room seemed too small for him. He stopped in front of her.

“I did what I thought I had to,” he said uncompromisingly. “And it worked. Court was a normal, bright, happy kid, too happy and busy to worry about the past.”

She caught the tense. “Was?”

“Was.” He sat down heavily.

She waited, knowing he’d tell her, whatever it was. She didn’t want to hear, she thought in sudden panic. But it was too late for that.

“Maybe this would have happened anyway,” he said slowly, sounding as if he tried to be fair. “He’s thirteen—it’s a tough age. But when school started in September, one of his teachers assigned a writing project on family history. He started asking questions.”

“About Annabel.”

He nodded. “About her, about her family. About our life here in Charleston. He became obsessed.” He stopped, as if he’d heard what he said and wanted it back. “Not obsessed—that’s not right. I don’t think there’s anything unhealthy about it. He’s curious. He wants to know.”

She swallowed, feeling the lump in her throat at the thought of Annabel’s child. “I remember. He was always curious.”

“Yes.” His face was drawn. “He has to know things. So he told me what he wanted for Christmas.”

He paused, and she had a sense of dread at what he was about to say.

“He wanted to come back to Charleston. That’s all he asked for. To come back here and have Christmas in the house before I sell it.”

“And you said yes.”

“What else could I do?” He leaned toward her, his dark eyes focusing on her face, and that sense of dread deepened. “But it’s more complicated than I thought.”

“What do you mean?”

His hand closed over hers, and she felt his urgency. “I realized something the moment I saw the house again—realized what I’ve been evading all these years. I have to know the truth about Annabel’s death.”



He had shocked Dinah, Marc realized. Or maybe shock wasn’t the right word for her reaction. His years as a prosecutor had taught him to find body language more revealing than speech, and Dinah was withdrawing, protecting herself against him.

Protecting. The word startled him. Dinah didn’t have anything to fear from him.

He deliberately relaxed against the back of the chair, giving her space. Wait. See how she responded to that. See if she would help him or run from him.

He glanced around the room with a sense of wonder. It hadn’t changed since the days when he’d come here to pick up Annabel, and he’d thought it caught in a previous century then. Clearly Kate preferred things the way they had always been.

But Dinah had changed. He remembered so clearly Annabel’s attitude toward her shy young cousin—a mixture of love and a kind of amused exasperation.

She’s such a dreamer. Annabel had lifted her hands in an expressive gesture. She’s impossibly young for her age, and I don’t see how she’s ever going to mature, living in that house with Aunt Kate. Let’s have her here for the summer. She can help out with Court, and maybe I can help her grow up a little.

His heart caught at the memory. I feel it more here, Lord. Is that why I had to come back?

Dinah had certainly grown up. Skin soft as a magnolia blossom, blue-black hair curling to her shoulders, those huge violet eyes. He couldn’t describe her without resorting to the classic Southern clichés. Charleston knew how to grow beautiful women.

Dinah seemed to realize how long the silence had grown. She cleared her throat. “I don’t know what you hope to accomplish at this late date. The police department considers it an unsolved case. I’m sure someone looks at the file now and then, but—” The muscles in her neck worked, as if she had trouble saying those words.

“They’ve written it off, you mean. I haven’t.” He wasn’t doing this very well, maybe because he hadn’t realized what he really wanted until he’d driven down the street and pointed out the house to his son. “Court hasn’t.”

Dinah’s hands were clasped in her lap, so tightly that the skin strained over her knuckles. “There’s nothing left to find after ten years. No one left to talk to about it.”

“There’s you, Dinah. You were there.”

Her face went white with shock, and he knew he’d made a misstep. He shouldn’t have rushed things with her, assumed she’d want what he wanted.

She pushed the words away with both hands. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. You, of all people, should know that.”

A vivid image filled his mind, fresh as if it had happened yesterday—Dinah’s small form crumpled on the staircase of the house across the street, black hair spilling around her. He’d found her when he’d come home in the early hours of the morning from a trip to track down a witness in one of his cases.

He’d rushed downstairs to the phone, shouting for Annabel, and seen the light in the parlor still burning. He’d pushed open the half-closed door—

No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts go any farther than that. It was too painful, even after all this time.

“I know that you fell, that you had a concussion. That you said you didn’t remember anything.”

“I didn’t. I don’t.” Anger flared in her face, bringing a flush to her cheeks that wiped away the pallor. “If I knew anything about who killed Annabel, don’t you think I’d have spoken up by now? I loved her!”

The words rang in the quiet room. They seemed to hold an accusation.

“I loved her, too, Dinah. Or don’t you believe that?”

She sucked in a breath, as if the room had gone airless. “Yes.” The word came out slowly, and her eyes were dark with pain. “I believe you loved her. But there’s nothing you can do for her now. She’s at peace.”

“The rest of us aren’t.” His jaw tightened until it was difficult to force the words out. “Court knows I was a suspect in his mother’s death. My son knows that, Dinah.”

“Oh, Marc.” The pity in her face was almost worse than her anger had been. “I’m sorry. Surely he doesn’t believe you did it.”

“He says he doesn’t.” He tried to look at the situation objectively, as if he were a prosecutor assessing a case again. “Most of the time I think that’s true.”

But what if there was a doubt, even a fraction of a doubt? Could he stand to see his close relationship with his son eroded day by day, month by month, until they were polite strangers?

“I’m sorry,” she said again, looking at him as if she knew all the things he didn’t say. “I wish I could help you. I really do. But I don’t know anything.”

He studied her troubled expression. Dinah certainly thought she was telling the truth, but there might be more to it than that. She’d been there, in the house, that whole summer. There far more than he had been, in fact. If there’d been any clue, any small indication of trouble in the events of that summer, Dinah could have seen.

He wouldn’t say that to her, not now. He’d shaken her enough already, and if he wanted her cooperation, he’d have to step carefully.

“I understand.” He stood, seeing the relief she tried to hide that he was leaving. He held out his hand to her. After a moment she rose, slipping her hand in his. Hers was small and cold in his grip. “But you can still be a friend, can’t you? To me and to Court?”

She hesitated for a fraction of an instant before she produced a smile. “Of course. You must know that.”

“Good.” He made his voice brisk, knowing he had to pin her down while he could. “Come and see us tomorrow. We should be settled enough by then to entertain a guest. I want you to meet Court.”

Again that slight hesitation. And then she nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to start with. If Dinah knew anything, eventually he’d know it, too.




Two


“I just wish you wouldn’t go over there.” Aunt Kate followed Dinah to the front hall the next day as if she’d bar the door.

Dinah stopped, managing a smile for her great-aunt. “I wish I didn’t have to.” She hadn’t told Aunt Kate about Marcus’s intention of looking into Annabel’s death. That would only distress her more.

“Well, then—”

“I must, don’t you see?” Obviously Aunt Kate didn’t, or they wouldn’t be having this conversation again. “You’re the one who taught me about the importance of family.”

Aunt Kate’s lips pursed into a shape reminiscent of a bud on one of her rosebushes. “Marcus Devlin is not a member of our family.”

“Annabel was.” She struggled to say the words evenly.

Aunt Kate’s eyes misted. “Does he know you haven’t been in that house since Annabel died?”

“No. And you’re not to tell him.” She clutched Aunt Kate’s hand. “Promise me.”

“Of course, dear. But if it bothers you that much, it’s all the more reason not to become involved with Marcus’s visit.”

“This isn’t about Marcus. I have to go over there for Court’s sake.”

Aunt Kate gave in at that—she could see it in her eyes. It was a good thing, because Dinah couldn’t bear to argue with her.

“I suppose if you must, you must.” She touched Dinah’s hair lightly. “You’re as stubborn as I was at your age.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She bent to kiss her aunt’s cheek.

“We’ll deal with the gossip somehow, I suppose.” Her aunt tried one last volley.

“Darling, you know they’ll gossip anyway. What I do or don’t do won’t change that.”

“I suppose. It’s just…” She caught Dinah’s hand as she opened the door. “Be careful, Dinah. Please.”

The intensity in her aunt’s voice startled her. “Careful of what?”

“Marc. Just be wary of Marc. There may be more to his return than he’s telling you.”

Dinah could think of nothing to say to that. She slipped outside, closing the door quickly.

Aunt Kate, through some instinct, seemed to know more than she’d been told. Marcus did have an agenda, and it certainly wasn’t one of which Aunt Kate would approve.

Well. Dinah stood on the piazza for a moment, pulling her jacket a little tighter around her. How had Aunt Kate stumbled upon that? Had she sensed something from Dinah’s reaction?

She’d tried to hide her feelings after Marc had left the previous day. This idea of his that he’d look into Annabel’s death—well, it might be understandable, but she couldn’t help him. She had to make him see that.

She went out the brick walk to the gate in the wrought-iron fence that enclosed Aunt Kate’s house and garden. The gate, like most of the others on the street, bore a wreath of magnolia leaves in honor of the season.

She touched the shining leaves. Maybe Court would like to make one, if he was determined to observe a real Charleston Christmas. Charlestonians were justifiably proud of their Christmas decor.

Crossing the quiet street, she had to will her steps not to lag. She took the step up to the curb, facing the gate in the wrought-iron fence. Marc’s gate was similar to Aunt Kate’s, but the black iron was worked into the shape of a pineapple in the center—the traditional symbol of Southern hospitality.

The house beyond, like Aunt Kate’s and most other old Charleston houses, was set with its side to the street, facing the small garden. According to local lore, the houses were laid out that way because in the early days of the city, home owners were taxed based on how many windows faced the street. The truth was probably that they’d been clever enough to place the piazzas to catch the breeze.

Open the gate, go up the brick walk. Her breath came a little faster now. Ridiculous, to hear her heart beating in her ears because she neared her cousin’s house. She should have faced this long ago. If Aunt Kate hadn’t sent her away so quickly after the tragedy—

She stopped herself. Aunt Kate had done what she thought was best when confronted with the death of one great-niece and the emotional collapse of the other. She couldn’t be blamed.

Dinah had come back to Charleston as an adult. She could have gone into the house at any time, but she’d successfully avoided every invitation.

Her first instinct had been right. Marc’s return would change all of them in ways she couldn’t imagine.

She reached for the knocker and then paused. In the old days, she’d run in and out of Annabel’s house as if it were her own. She shouldn’t change things now. She grasped the brass knob, turned it and let the door swing open.

Please, help me do this. Slowly, she stepped inside.

The spacious center hallway stood empty, the renters’ furniture gone with them. Weak winter sunshine through the stained-glass window on the landing cast oblongs of rose and green on the beige stair carpet. The graceful, winding staircase seemed to float upward.

The space was different, but the same. Even without Annabel’s familiar furnishings, it echoed with her presence, as if at any moment she would sail through the double doors from the front parlor, silvery blond hair floating around her face, arms outstretched in welcome.

A shudder went through Dinah, and she took an involuntary step back.

“I know.”

She turned. Marc stood in the doorway to the room that had once been his study. He’d exchanged the jacket and tie he’d worn the previous day for jeans and a casual ivory sweater. His eyes met hers gravely.

“I know,” he said again. “I feel it, too. It’s as if she’s going to come through the door at any moment.”

“Yes.” She took a shaky breath, oddly reassured that his memories were doing the same thing to him. “I thought it would seem different to me, but it doesn’t.”

He moved toward her. “I thought I’d already done all my grieving.” His voice roughened. “Then I found the grief was waiting here for me.”

She nodded slowly. For the moment, the barriers between them didn’t exist. Her throat was tight, but she forced the words out.

“I haven’t been in here in ten years. I couldn’t.” Her voice shook a little. “Or maybe I was just a coward.”

Marc grasped her shoulder in a brief, comforting touch and then took his hand away quickly, as if she might object.

“You’re not a coward, Dinah. It’s a natural reaction.”

Ironic, that she’d just done what she’d told Aunt Kate not to do. Still, the confession of her weakness seemed to have eased the tension between them.

“What about Court? Is he having trouble with being here?”

He shook his head. “He doesn’t seem affected at all. It’s unnerving, somehow.”

It would be. She had a foolish urge to comfort Marc. “He was only three, after all. He slept through everything. He doesn’t have the memories we do.”

“No.” He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. “I’m grateful for that.”

“Maybe that makes it right that you kept him away from us.” She couldn’t help the bitterness that traced the words.

His jaw tightened. “I thought it was best for him.”

“Obviously.” Unexpected anger welled up in her. Both Marc and Aunt Kate had done what they thought was best, regardless of the consequences. “Are you sorry for the pain that caused us? Or do you just not care?”

Marc looked as startled as if a piece of furniture had suddenly railed at him. His dark eyes narrowed, and she braced for an attack.

Footsteps clattered down the stairs. They both jerked around toward the stairwell.

“Hey, Dad, can I go—”

The boy stopped at the sight of her, assessing her with a frank, open gaze. She did the same. Tall for thirteen—he had his father’s height, but he hadn’t broadened into it yet. He had Marc’s dark eyes and hair, too, and for a moment she thought there was nothing of Annabel about him.

Then he trotted down the rest of the steps and came toward her, holding out his hand. “I know who you are.” He smiled, and it was Annabel’s smile, reaching out to clutch her heart.

“I know who you are, too.” Her voice had gotten husky, but she couldn’t help that. “Welcome home, Court.”



Marc still couldn’t get over how quickly Dinah had bonded with his son. He finished dusting the desk he and Court had carried from the attic to his study and put his laptop on it. That’s where Dinah and Court were now, happily rummaging through the attic’s contents to see what should be brought down for their use over the next few weeks.

At some point, he’d have to take a turn going through the attic. The thought of what that would entail made him cringe. He hadn’t sorted a thing before he left Charleston. Now the reminders of his life with Annabel waited for him.

And, as Dinah had pointed out, he should make the house look furnished if he intended it to show well to prospective buyers. That hadn’t occurred to him, and he could see already that Dinah would be invaluable to him. And to Court, apparently.

Court surely couldn’t remember her. He’d only been three that summer. Still, Dinah had spent a lot of time with him. Maybe, at some level, Court sensed that they already had a relationship.

He opened his briefcase and stacked files next to the computer. The vacation time he’d taken to come here had been well earned, but it was impossible to walk away completely from ongoing cases. He’d have to spend part of each day in touch with the office if he expected to make this work.

His mind kept drifting back to that summer, unrolling images he hadn’t looked at in years. Annabel hadn’t felt well much of the time, and she’d been only too happy to turn Court over to Dinah. Face it, Annabel had been annoyed at being pregnant again, and each symptom had been a fresh excuse to snap at him about it.

He should have been more sympathetic, and he knew that painfully well now. He’d been absorbed in prosecuting a big case and relieved to escape the tension in the house by the need to work late most evenings.

What he hadn’t expected was how devoted Dinah became to Court, and how well she’d cared for him. Maybe she’d loved him so much because she’d always been alone, the only child being raised by an elderly aunt, shipped off to boarding school much of the time.

That was one thing he’d been determined not to do with Court. The boy had lost his mother, but his father had been a consistent presence in his life. He’d thought that was enough for Court, until the past few months.

“Are you stacking those files, or shredding them?” Dinah’s voice startled him.

He glanced down at the files he’d unconsciously twisted in his hands. He put them down, smoothing the manila covers.

“I was thinking about something other than what I was doing. Where’s Court?” He turned away from the desk, the sight of Dinah bringing an involuntary smile to his lips. “You have cobwebs in your hair.”

She brushed at the mass of dark curls. “He found the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and he’s busy going through them. Your attic needs some attention.”

“That’s just what I was thinking.” He crossed to her, reaching out to pull the last wisp of cobweb from her hair. Her curls flowed through his fingers, silky and clinging. “I can’t close on a sale until I clear the attic.”

“I guess it has to be done.” The shadow in her eyes said she knew how difficult that would be.

“Maybe you could help sort things out.” There was probably every reason for her to say no to that. “There might be some things of Annabel’s that you would like to keep as a remembrance. I’m sorry I didn’t think of that sooner.” He’d been too preoccupied with his own grief to pay sufficient heed to anyone else’s.

She made a gesture that he interpreted as pushing that idea away with both hands. “I don’t need anything to help me remember Annabel.”

Once he’d been amused at how Dinah idolized his wife. Now he found himself wondering how healthy that had been.

“You might help me choose some things to keep for Court, then,” he said smoothly. Court was probably a safe way to approach her. She’d been crazy about him when he was small, and he’d certainly returned the favor. “I remember him running down the hall full tilt, shouting ‘Dinah, Dinah, Dinah.’”

A smile that was probably involuntary curved her lips. “I remember him singing ‘Someone’s in the Kitchen with Dinah.’ You taught him that to tease me.”

They were smiling at each other then, the image clear and bright between them. He leaned forward.

“You see, Dinah. We do have something in common.”

Her eyes darkened. “If anything, too much.” She took a breath, as if steadying herself. “Court really wants to have Christmas here.”

He nodded. He was playing dirty pool, getting at her through Court, but he’d do what he had to. Any excuse to keep her in the house might help her remember.

“A Charleston Christmas with all the trimmings.” He grimaced. “Thanks to the Internet, he has a calendar of every event through to First Night. If I try to skip a thing, he’ll know it.”

“Blame the tourist bureau for that.” Her smile flickered. “They wouldn’t want to miss a single visitor.”

“Anyway—” He reached out, thinking to touch her hand, and then thought better of it. “Anyway, will you help me do Christmas, Dinah? For Court’s sake?”

Aunt Kate had schooled her well. No one could tell from her expression the distaste she must feel, but somehow he knew it, bone deep.

“For Court’s sake,” she said. Then, cautioning, she added, “But we’ll have to work around my job.”

“You have a job?” He couldn’t help the surprise in his tone.

“Of course I have a job.” Her voice contained as much of an edge as she probably ever let show. “Did you think I sat around all day eating bonbons?”

“No. Sorry.” He’d better not say that he’d assumed she’d been like Annabel, doing the round of society events and charity work until she married. “I am sorry. I guess I’m still thinking of you as a schoolgirl.”

“I haven’t been that in a long time.” She seemed to accept the excuse, but those deep violet eyes were surprisingly hard to read.

“Sorry,” he said again. “So, tell me what you do.”

“I’m a forensic artist. I work for the Charleston Police Department primarily, but sometimes I’m called on by neighboring jurisdictions.”

He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d said she was a lion tamer, but he suspected it wasn’t a good idea to show that.

“That’s—”

“Surprising? Appalling? Not a suitable job for a well brought up young lady?”

Her tone surprised him into a grin. “That sounds like what Aunt Kate might say.”

“Among other things.” Her face relaxed. “She still has trouble with it. She doesn’t think I should be exposed to—” She stopped suddenly, her smile forgotten on her face.

“To violence,” he finished for her. “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Much too late.” It sounded like an epitaph.



If she let herself think about Marc’s intentions for too long, Dinah could feel panic rising inside her. She’d forced herself to hold the subject at bay but now, driving to police headquarters the next day, she took a cautious look.

How could Marc possibly expect to learn anything new after ten years? Did he really think he could find the solution that had eluded the police?

Obviously, he did. In a sense, she could understand his determination. He saw a possible harm to Court in the unanswered questions, and he’d do anything for his son.

Ten years ago he’d loved his son, of course, but he’d been so preoccupied with his work that he hadn’t been as available to Court as he should have been. Apparently, after he left Charleston, he’d turned his priorities around completely. She had to admire that.

But she wasn’t so sure he was right about Court. Knowing more about his mother’s life was admirable, but knowing more about his mother’s death could only cause pain. She should know. She’d lived with that pain for too long.

What if Marc imagined she knew something about the night Annabel died that she’d never told? Everyone else had long since accepted the fact that she hadn’t seen or heard anything. The dream was just that, a dream.

But Marc tended not to accept something just because everyone else did. She remembered that about him clearly. It had made him a good prosecutor. She wasn’t sure it made him a safe friend.

She pulled into a parking place near the headquarters building on Lockwood Boulevard. Across the street, the black rectangular monument to fallen officers gleamed in the winter sunshine, making her heart clench. She pushed Marc into the back closet of her mind. She’d go inside, find Tracey, and concentrate on some complicated police case instead.

She hurried inside, clipping her identification to the pocket of the blazer she wore with tan slacks. She still smiled at the memory of Detective Tracey Elliott taking one look at her the first time they’d met and telling her not to come to headquarters again looking like a debutante.

At the time, Tracey had resented having a civilian artist foisted off on her by the chief of detectives, who’d been influenced in turn by an old friend of Aunt Kate’s on the city council. Dinah had never regretted using influence to get in the door. She could prove her abilities only if they gave her a chance to try.

Nodding to several detectives who’d eventually accepted her, she wove through the maze of desks and file cabinets to where Tracey sat slumped over a thick sheaf of papers.

“Good morning.”

Tracey shoved one hand through disheveled red curls, her green eyes warming with welcome. “Don’t tell me it’s good unless you’ve got some decent coffee stashed in that bag of yours.”

It was a long-standing joke between them. Dinah set her tote bag on the desk and lifted out two foam cups, handing one to Tracey. She sat in the chair at the side of the gray metal desk and opened hers.

Tracey inhaled, seeming to gain energy just from the fragrant aroma. “You’re my hero.”

“Not quite. Just a hardworking forensic artist. Do you have something for me?”

She hoped. It had been a longer than usual time between assignments, and even though she didn’t have to depend on her income from her work, that occasional paycheck gave her a sense of accomplishment, validating her professional status.

Her relationship with the department was still prickly. Some officers viewed any civilian on their turf with suspicion. The fact that she produced good results with difficult witnesses didn’t necessarily change that.

“I’m not sure.” Tracey frowned, shoving a manila folder over to her. “We have a witness to a knifing, but she’s all over the place. We know she has to have seen something, but she’s not admitting it.”

Dinah scanned through the file, relieved to have something to think about besides Marc. “Is it gang-related?”

“Could be, but there’s something about it that doesn’t fit. The victim was a sixteen-year-old—parochial schoolkid, no gang involvement. The witness is her best friend. They were on their way home from a movie and took one shortcut too many.”

She nodded, registering the site of the crime. It wasn’t an area where she’d walk at night, alone or with a friend.

“Will the witness talk to me?”

“That’s the problem.” Tracey’s expression spoke of her frustration. “Yesterday she would. That’s why I called you. Today she says no. She knows nothing, saw nothing. And her friend won’t be going to any more movies.”

The words might have sounded flippant, but Dinah knew they weren’t. She and the rough-edged detective had developed a friendship that probably surprised Tracey as much as it did her, and she knew the depth of pain that any death brought Tracey.

“I’m sorry.” She wanted to say more, but knew she shouldn’t cross that line. “Maybe she’ll change her mind. Call me anytime.”

Tracey nodded but gave her a probing look. “I thought you might be too busy since your cousin-in-law is back in town.”

“How on earth did you hear about that?”

“He was a suspect in an unsolved murder. Word gets around, believe me.”

“He didn’t kill Annabel.”

Tracey raised an eyebrow. “You sure of that?”

“Of course I am.”

“Nice to be sure.”

She swallowed irritation. “All right, Tracey. What’s this all about? Did you get me down here to talk about Marc?”

“No.” She shrugged. “But you’re here. I couldn’t help asking what you think about Marcus Devlin’s return.”

The irritation faded away. Tracey was just being Tracey. She couldn’t blame her for that.

“I was surprised.” That was honest. “I didn’t think he’d ever want to come back, because of the tragedy.”

“Why did he?”

“His house has been rented all these years. The renters recently moved out, so he came to make arrangements to put it on the market.”

“A good Realtor could have taken care of that for him.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?”

Tracey grinned. “That makes me a good detective. Why did he really come back?”

“Because of Court. His son. My cousin’s son. Court wanted to see the house before it was sold. They’re staying through the holidays. Not that it’s police business.”

“It’s an open case,” Tracey said gently. “Dinah, you must know that most often, a pregnant woman is killed by a husband or boyfriend.”

“Not even you can believe Marc would bring his thirteen-year-old son back to that house if he killed the boy’s mother. Besides—” She stopped.

“Besides what?” Tracey prompted.

“Marc wants to find out the truth.”

“I’ve heard that line before.”

“Tracey, he didn’t kill Annabel. He couldn’t have.”

“In that case, why does his return bother you so much?” Tracey held up her hand to stop a protest. “You’re not that good at hiding your feelings.”

“I was in the house that night,” she said slowly. “I suppose you know that.”

Tracey nodded. Of course she knew. She’d probably read all about the case before she’d ever agreed to work with Dinah.

“I don’t want to have to relive the pain again. I loved Annabel. I want to protect her memory.”

“Why does her memory need protecting?”

Dinah could only stare at Tracey, aghast that the words had come out of her mouth. She wasn’t even conscious of thinking them, but now that she’d spoken, she knew it was true.

She wanted to protect Annabel’s memory. And she didn’t know why.




Three


“We need to get a big tree, Dad. One that reaches the ceiling, okay?” Court leaned forward in the back seat of Marc’s car, propping his arms on the back of Dinah’s seat.

Marc didn’t take his eyes off the road, but Dinah saw the slight smile that touched his lips. She thought she knew what he felt—that it was good to see Court enjoying himself so much.

She’d like to think so, too, but this tree-buying trip could turn out to be a disaster. She eyed Marc. Did he really not know what he could be walking into?

“How exactly do you expect to get a tree that big back to the house?” Marc asked, as if it were the only concern on his mind.

“We can tie it on top.” Court twisted to look out the side window, bouncing Dinah’s seat. “Hey, is that the water over there?”

“Charleston’s a peninsula—we’re practically surrounded by water. Your dad is taking us to the Christmas tree sale via the scenic route.” As far as she was concerned, the longer it took to get there, the better. “Fort Sumter is there at the mouth of the harbor. We should take the boat trip out one day while you’re here.”

“Cool.” Court pressed his face against the glass for a better look.

His absorption in the view gave her the opportunity for a carefully worded question aimed at Marc. “Are you sure you want to go to this particular tree sale?” she said quietly. “There are several others.”

Marc’s jaw tightened until it resembled a block of stone. “The Alpha Club sale still benefits charity, doesn’t it?”

She nodded, not wanting to verbalize her concerns within Court’s hearing.

“Then that’s where we’re going.” Marc’s tone didn’t leave any room for argument.

Stubborn. He had always been stubborn, and that hadn’t changed. He’d been a member of the Alpha Club once and active in the civic and charitable activities of the group of young professionals. They’d been fellow attorneys, fellow Citadel graduates, movers and shakers in Charleston society. Did Marc think he’d find a welcome there now?

Her stomach clenched. She wanted to protect both him and Court from any unpleasantness, but she could hardly do that if he insisted on walking right into the lion’s den.

Protect. She’d told Tracey she wanted to protect Annabel’s memory. The truth probably was that she couldn’t protect any of them, including herself.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, they drew up then at the parking lot that had been transformed into a Christmas tree paradise—decorated trees, garlands, lights, live trees, cut trees, trees of every shape and size. The Alpha Club did its sale in style.

“Wow.” That seemed to be Court’s favorite expression. He slid out of the car as soon as it stopped. “I’ll find just the right one.” He loped into a forest of cut trees, disappearing from sight.

Dinah got out more slowly and waited while Marc came around the car to join her. “He definitely hasn’t lost his enthusiasm, has he?”

“Not at all.” His smile was automatic, and she thought some other concern lay behind it. “He was asking me questions today about your family history,” he said abruptly. “I tried to answer him, but I’m probably not the best source for Westlake family history.”

She knew what he was looking for. “Aunt Kate is.” Aunt Kate was the repository of family stories that would be lost when she was gone unless someone cared enough to hear and remember them.

“I know she doesn’t want to see me.” The words were clipped. “Do you think she’d talk to Court about the family?”

She could only be honest. “I don’t know. I’ll ask her.”

“Thanks, Dinah. I appreciate it.”

His hand wrapped around hers in a gesture of thanks. It lasted just for an instant. It shouldn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything. So why did she feel as if the touch surged straight to her heart?

It was nothing. A hangover from the teenage crush she’d had once. She took a breath, inhaling the crisp scents of pine and fir, and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets.

“We’d better find Court, before he picks out a twenty-foot tree.”

They moved into the mass of trees. And mass of people, too. It seemed half of Charleston had chosen this evening to search for the perfect tree. Surely, in this crowd, it would be possible to find a tree and leave without encountering any of Marc’s one-time friends.

They rounded a corner of the makeshift aisle through the tree display, and she saw that she’d been indulging in a futile hope. Court, pointing at a huge fir, was deep in conversation with a salesman. The man didn’t need to turn for her to recognize him. And judging by the quick inhalation Marc gave, he knew him instantly as well.

He hesitated, and then he strode forward, holding out his hand. “Phillips. You’re just the person I was hoping to see.”

Phillips Carmody turned, peering gravely through the glasses that were such a part of his persona that Dinah couldn’t imagine him without them. Then his lean face lit with a smile.

“Marc.” He clasped Marc’s hand eagerly. “How good to see you. It’s been too long.”

“It wouldn’t have been so long if you’d come to Boston to see us.”

So Phillips had been welcome to visit, while Annabel’s family had not. Anger pricked her, and she forced it away as she approached the two men and Court, who looked on curiously, the tree forgotten for the moment.

“Phillips can’t leave Charleston,” she said. “The city’s history would collapse without him.”

She tilted her face up to receive Phillips’s customary peck on the cheek. He always seemed to hesitate, as if remembering that it was no longer appropriate to pat her on the head.

“Dinah, dear, you’re here, too.” He focused on Court. “And so you must be Courtney. Annabel’s son.” His voice softened on the words. “I’m Phillips Carmody, one of your father’s oldest friends.”

Court shook hands. “I’m happy to meet you, sir.” He gave the smile that was so like Annabel’s, and she thought Phillips started a bit. It came as a shock to him, probably, as it had to her.

“How long are you staying?” Phillips glanced at Marc. “I heard you were putting the house on the market.”

“I see the grapevine is still active.” Marc seemed to relax in Phillips’s company, his smile coming more easily now.

Dinah felt some of her tension dissipate as the men talked easily. It looked as if her fears had been foolish.

Marc had handed over a shocking amount of money and they’d negotiated when the tree would be delivered when the interruption came.

“Phillips! What are you doing?”

Dinah didn’t have to turn to know who was there. Margo Carmody had an unmistakable voice—sugarcoated acid, Annabel had always said. How someone as sweet as Phillips ended up married to a woman like that was one of life’s mysteries.

Dinah pinned a smile to her face and turned. “Hello, Margo. Are you working the sale as well?”

Margo ignored her, the breach in etiquette announcing how upset she was. Margo never ignored the niceties of polite society. Except, apparently, when confronted by a man her acid tongue had proclaimed a murderer.

“Look who’s here, my dear.” Nervousness threaded Phillips’s voice. “It’s Marcus. And his son, Courtney.”

Margo managed to avoid eye contact with both of them. “You’re needed back at the cash desk, Phillips. Come along, now.” She turned and stalked away, leaving an awkward silence behind.

“I’m sorry.” Faint color stained Phillips’s cheeks. “I’m afraid I must go. Perhaps I’ll see you again while you’re here. It was nice to meet you, Court.” He scuttled away before Dinah could give in to the temptation to shake him.

“That woman gets more obnoxious every year.” She could only hope Court would believe Margo’s actions were motivated by general rudeness and not aimed at them. “How Phillips stands her, I don’t know.”

“He seems to come to heel when she snaps her fingers.” Marc’s dry tone was probably intended to hide the pain he must feel.

“Would you expect anything else?” The voice came from behind her.

Dinah turned. Not James Harwood. It was really too much that they’d run into both of the men who’d been Marc’s closest friends in the same night. Still, James and Phillips ran in identical social circles, and they were both mainstays of the Alpha Club, regulars at the elegant old building that graced a corner of Market Street near The Battery.

“Hello, James.” This time Marc didn’t bother to offer his hand. It was clear from the coldness on James’s face that it wouldn’t be taken.

“James, I—” A lady always smoothes over awkward situations. That was one of Aunt Kate’s favorite maxims, but Dinah couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“You shouldn’t have come back.” James bit off the words. “You’re not welcome here.”

Court took a step closer to his father. The hurt in his eyes cut Dinah to the heart. Court shouldn’t have to hear things like that. Marc should have realized what might happen when he brought him here.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Marc’s tone was cool, the voice of a man meeting rudeness with calm courtesy. But a muscle in his jaw twitched as if he’d like to hit something. Or someone.

“I think we’re ready to leave now.” She’d better intervene before they both forgot themselves. “We have what we came for, don’t we, Court?”

Politeness required that Court turn to her, and she linked her arm with his casually. “Ready, Marc?”

Please. Don’t make matters worse by getting into a quarrel with James. It’s not worth it.

Whether he sensed her plea or not, she didn’t know. He flexed his hands, and she held her breath. Then he turned and walked steadily toward the car.



“Hey, wouldn’t it look cool if we strung lights along the banister?” Court, standing halfway up the staircase, looked down.

Struck by a sudden flicker of resemblance to Annabel in his son’s face, Marc couldn’t answer for a moment. Then he managed a smile.

“Sounds great. What do you think?”

He turned to Dinah, who was dusting off the stack of ornament boxes they’d just carried down from the attic. In jeans and a faded College of Charleston sweatshirt, her dark curls pulled back in a loose ponytail, she looked little older than the sixteen-year-old he remembered.

She straightened, frowning at the stairwell. “What do you think of twining lights with an evergreen swag along the railing? I think I remember several swags in a plastic bag in the attic.”

“I’ll go see.” Court galloped up the steps, managing to raise a few stray dust motes that danced in the late-afternoon light. A thud announced that he’d arrived at the attic door.

Marc winced. “Sorry. Court doesn’t do much of anything quietly.”

“I’d be worried about him if he did.” Dinah glanced up the stairwell, as if following Court in her mind’s eye. “At least he’s not showing any signs that being here bothers him. And if he’s not upset after what happened last night—”

“I know. I guess I haven’t said you were right, but you were. We should have gone somewhere else for the tree.”

“I wish I hadn’t been right.” Her face was warm with sympathy.

Maybe it was the sympathy that led him to say more than he intended. “I expected antagonism from Margo. She never liked Phil’s friendship with me, and she and Annabel were like oil and water.”

“I remember.” Dinah’s smile flickered. “Annabel had a few uncomplimentary names for her.”

“Which she shouldn’t have said in front of you.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Margo doesn’t matter. But Phil and James—”

He stopped. No use going over it again. No use remembering when the three of them had been the three musketeers, back in their Citadel days. He’d thought the bonds they’d formed then were strong enough to survive anything. Obviously he’d been wrong.

“Phillips is still your friend. He’s just not brave enough to stand up to Margo. He never has been.”

“Maybe.” He’d grant her Phil, and his patent knuckling under to the woman he’d married. But…“James thinks I killed Annabel.” He checked the stairwell, but Court was still safely out of hearing, rummaging in the attic.

Dinah started to say something. Then she closed her mouth. It didn’t matter. Her expressive face said it for her.

“You think I should have been prepared for that. You tried to warn me.”

“I thought it might be awkward. I didn’t expect outright rudeness.”

She sounded as primly shocked as Aunt Kate might have, and he couldn’t suppress a smile.

“You don’t need to laugh at me,” she said tartly. “They were all brought up to know better.”

“Next you’ll say that their mothers would be ashamed of them.”

“Well, they would.” She snapped the words, but her lips twitched a little. “Oh, all right. We’re hopelessly old-fashioned here. I suppose James has been in politics too long to have much sense left. And besides, you know how he felt about Annabel.”

That startled him. “Do I?”

She blinked. “Everyone knows he was crazy about her.”

“I didn’t.” Had he been hopelessly stupid about his own wife? “How did Annabel feel about him?”

“Oh, Marc.” Dinah’s eyes filled with dismay. “Don’t think that. It never meant anything. Just a crush on his part.”

“And Annabel?” Dinah wanted him to let it go, but he couldn’t.

“Annabel never had eyes for anyone but you. She just—I think she was flattered by James’s attention. That was all. Honestly.”

She looked so upset at having told him that he didn’t have the heart to ask anything else. But he filed it away for further thought.

He bent to pick up the stack of boxes. “We may as well take these to the family room. If I know my son, he’ll drag everything out, but he won’t be as good about putting things away.”

Dinah went ahead of him to open the door to what would be the back parlor in most Charleston homes. They’d always used it as a family room, and he and Court had managed to bring down most of the furniture that belonged here. By tacit agreement, they’d avoided the front parlor, the room where Annabel died.

“Court looks so much like you. Looking at him must be like looking at a photo of you at that age.”

He set the boxes down on the wooden coffee table that had been a barn door before an enterprising Charleston artisan had transformed it. “Funny. I was thinking that I saw a little of Annabel in his face when he looked down from the stairs.”

“I know.” Her voice softened, and he realized he hadn’t done a good enough job of hiding his feelings. “I see it, too—just certain flashes of expression.”

He sank onto the brown leather couch and frowned absently at the tree they’d set up in the corner. He’d told Court it would be too big for the room. The top brushed the ceiling, and he’d have to trim it before the treetop angel would fit.

“Maybe it’s because we’re back here. My memory of Annabel had become a kind of still photo, and she was never that.”

“No, she wasn’t.” Dinah perched on the coffee table, her heart-shaped face pensive. “I’ve never known anyone as full of life as she was. Maybe that’s why I admired her. She was so fearless, while I—” She grimaced. “I always was such a chicken.”

“Don’t say that about yourself.” He leaned forward almost involuntarily to touch her hand. “You’ve been through some very bad times and come out strong and whole. That’s something to be proud of.”

“I’m not so sure about that, but thank you.”

For a moment they were motionless. It was dusk outside already, and he could see their reflections in the glass of the French door, superimposed on the shadowy garden.

He leaned back, not wanting to push too hard. “Being back in the house again—has it made you think any more about what happened?”

“No.” The negative came sharp and quick, and she crossed her arms, as if to protect herself. “I don’t remember anything about that night.”

“That summer, then. There might have been something you noticed that I didn’t.”

She shook her head. “Do you think I didn’t go over it a thousand times in my mind? There was nothing.”

And if there was, he suspected it was buried too deeply to be reached willingly. Dinah had protected herself the only way she could.

He’d try another tack. “You’re connected with the police. If there’s any inside information floating around, people might be more willing to talk to you than to me.”

Dinah stared at him, eyes huge. “Someone already talked to me. About you.”

“Who?” Whatever had been said clearly had upset her.

“A detective I work with.”

He was going to have to drag the words out of her. “What did he say?”

“She. She said…”

He could see the movement of her neck as she swallowed.

“She reminded me that the case is still open. And that you’re still a suspect.”

He should have realized. He, of all people, knew how the police mind-set worked. And this detective, whoever she was, wanted to protect one of their own. Wanted to warn her off, probably, too.

“Dinah, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t think. I’ve put you in an untenable position. I shouldn’t have. If you want to back off…” He shook his head. “Of course you do. I’ll make some excuse to Court.”

As if he’d heard his name, Court came into the room, arms filled with evergreen swags. “I found them,” he announced happily. “But we don’t have nearly enough lights, Dad. We need to go get some more before we can do this. Want to come, Dinah?”

She stood, smiling at Court. “You two go.” She glanced at Marc, the smile stiffening a little. “I’ll unpack the ornaments while you’re out. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He understood the implication. She wasn’t going to run out on them, although she had every reason to do so. He felt a wave of relief that was ridiculously inappropriate.

“Thank you, Dinah.”



Was she crazy? Dinah listened as the front door clicked shut behind Marc and Court. Marc had understood. Or at least he’d understood the spot he’d put her in professionally, if not personally. He’d given her the perfect out, and she hadn’t taken it.

She couldn’t. She may as well face that fact, at least. No matter how much she might want to stay away from Marc and all the bitter reminders, too many factors combined to force her to stay.

She’d been thirteen when he married Annabel, the same age Court was now. With no particular reason to, he’d been kind to her, putting up with her presence when he’d probably have preferred to be alone with his bride, inviting her to the beach house at Sullivan’s Island, even teaching her to play tennis. She’d told herself she didn’t owe Marc anything, but she did.

And Annabel—how much more she owed Annabel, her bright, beautiful cousin. She’d loved her with a passion that might otherwise have been expended on parents, siblings, cousins her own age. Since she didn’t have any of them, it all went to Annabel.

Finally there was Court. Her lips curved in a smile, and she bent to take the cover off the first box of ornaments. Court had stolen her heart again, just as he had the first time she’d seen him staring at her with unfocused infant eyes when he was a few days old.

Whatever it cost her, she couldn’t walk away from this. All her instincts told her Marc was wrong in what he wanted to do, but she couldn’t walk away.

She began unpacking the boxes, setting the ornaments on the drop-leaf table near the tree. They were an odd mix—some spare, sophisticated glass balls that Annabel had bought, but lots of delicate, old-fashioned ornaments that had been in the family for generations.

One tissue-wrapped orb felt heavy in her hand, and an odd sense of recognition went through her. She knew what it was even before she unwrapped it—an old, green glass fisherman’s weight that she’d found in an antique shop on King Street and given to Annabel for Christmas the year before she died.

For a moment she held the glass globe in her hand. The lamplight, falling on it, reflected a distorted image of her own face, and the glass felt warm against her palm. She was smiling, she realized, but there were tears in her eyes.

She set the ball carefully on the table. She’d tell Court about the ornaments, including that one. That kind of history was what he needed from this Christmas in Charleston.

She’d been working in silence, with only an occasional crackle from a log in the fireplace for company, when she heard a thud somewhere in the house. She paused, her hand tightening on a delicate shell ornament. They hadn’t come back already, had they?

A few quiet steps took her to the hallway. Only one light burned there, and the shadows had crept in, unnoticed. She stood still, hearing nothing but the beat of her own heart.

Then it came again, a faint, distant creaking this time. She’d lived in old houses all her life. They had their own language of creaks and groans as they settled. That had to be what she’d heard.

She listened another moment. Nothing. She was letting her nerves get the better of her at being alone in the house.

A shrill sound broke the silence, and she started, heart hammering. Then, realizing what it was, she shook her head at her own foolishness and went in search of her cell phone, its ring drowning out any other noise. Marc hadn’t had the phone service started. She’d given him her cell-phone number in case he needed to reach her.

The phone was in the bottom of her bag, which she finally found behind the sofa in the family room. She snatched it up and pressed the button.

“Hello?” Her voice came out oddly breathless.

“Dinah? You sound as if you’ve been running. Listen, do you think a string of a hundred white lights is enough? Court put two strings in the cart when I wasn’t looking.”

Her laugh was a little shaky. “You may as well get two. If you don’t use the second one, you can always take it back.”

“I guess you’re right.” She heard him say something distantly, apparently to the cashier. Then his voice came back, warm and strong in her ear. “Is everything all right? You don’t sound quite yourself.”

“It’s nothing. Really. I was just scaring myself, thinking I heard someone in the house.” When she said the words, she realized that was what she’d been thinking at some deep level. Someone in the house.

“Get out. Now.” The demand was sharp and fast as the crack of a whip.

“I’m sure I just imagined—”

“Dinah, don’t argue. Just get out. And don’t hang up. Keep talking to me.”

Logic told her he was panicking unnecessarily, probably visited by the terrible memory of coming into the house and finding Annabel. But even if he was, his panic was contagious.

Holding the phone clutched tightly against her ear, she raced across the room, through the hallway and plunged out the door.




Four


Dinah slid back on the leather couch in the family room, cradling a mug of hot chocolate between her palms, and looked at Court. He’d collapsed on the couch next to her into that oddly boneless slouch achieved only, as far as she could tell, by adolescent boys. His mug was balanced precariously on his stomach.

“More cocoa?”

He shook his head, the mug wavering at the movement. “I’m okay.” He watched her from under lowered lids. “How about you? You feeling okay? Anything you want?”

He was attempting to take care of her, obviously. The thought sent a rush of tenderness through her. She tried to keep the feeling from showing in her face. He wouldn’t appreciate that when he was trying so hard to be nonchalant about the prospect of an intruder in the house.

Marc’s footsteps sounded, far above them. He was searching the attic, probably. She was convinced he wouldn’t find anything. She’d simply overreacted to being in the house alone, and, in turn, he’d overreacted. There’d been no one in the house.

It was probably best not to talk to Court about that. She nodded toward the bare tree, propped in its stand in the corner. “Do you always have a big tree at home?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, making him look very like his father. “Not big enough. We have a town house. It’s plenty big enough for the two of us, but Dad always says there’s not room for a big tree.” He sent a satisfied glance toward the tree. “This is more like it.”

“Aunt Kate—well, I guess she’s actually your great-grand-aunt—hasn’t had a real tree since I grew up. She’s content with a little artificial one on a table.”

Court’s great-grand-aunt. Aunt Kate had to be made to see that she must talk with Court about his ancestors. She didn’t have to discuss his mother, if she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t deny a relationship with the boy.

“Yeah, that’s what my grandma and granddad do, too. They say real trees are too expensive in Arizona, anyway.”

“Do you see them much?” Marc’s parents had left Charleston within a year of Annabel’s death, moving to Arizona supposedly for his mother’s health. It might have been that, of course, but she doubted it. Did they feel they were living in exile?

“We were out for Thanksgiving.” Court maneuvered himself upright, letting the mug tip nearly to the point of no return before grasping it. “Maybe I should go see if Dad needs any help.”

“I don’t think—”

“Dad doesn’t.” Marc came in on the words. “Everything’s fine.”

Dinah sensed some reservation behind the words, and her stomach tightened. There was something he didn’t want to say in front of Court.

“You sure? I could check the cellar.” Court obviously considered that he should have been included in the search.

“Already done.” Marc glanced at his watch. “If you want to e-mail your buddies before we call it a night, you’d better go do it.”

“How about the tree? I thought we were going to decorate.”

“Tomorrow’s time enough for that. Dinah has to go home.”

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, but went toward the door. “You’ll help tomorrow, won’t you, Dinah?”

She was absurdly pleased that he wanted her. “I have to go into work in the morning, but I’ll come and help in the afternoon.”

Court lifted an eyebrow in Marc’s characteristic expression. “I wouldn’t mind seeing police headquarters, you know.”

“Dinah’s going to work, not giving tours.” Marc gave him a gentle shove. “Go on, and don’t stay online too late. I’m walking Dinah home.”

Court disappeared across the hall, raising his hand in a quick goodbye. Dinah waited until the office door closed behind him.

“Did you find anything?”

“Nothing to take to the police.” His level brows drew down. “Anyone could have popped the back door with a screwdriver, though. I blocked it tonight with a two by four, but I’ll put a new lock on tomorrow.” He picked up her jacket, holding it for her. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

“That’s not necessary.” She slid her arms into the jacket. He adjusted it and then clasped her shoulders.

“Maybe not, but I’m going to.”

The sense of being protected and taken care of was entirely too tempting. But she wasn’t the little cousin any longer. She was a big girl now. She took a deliberate step away, putting some space between them.

“You’re overreacting. All that was wrong was a creaking old house and my overactive imagination. There was no need for you to come rushing back here like a…a superhero, out to rescue the damsel in distress.”

“Is that what I did?” His face had gone still.

“Yes.” Marc had to understand that their relationship had changed. They were never going back to the way things had been between them. “I didn’t need rescuing.”

He frowned at her for a long moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He pulled something from his pocket and held it out to her.

“Probably you’re right. But I didn’t feel like taking it for granted after reading that.”

She smoothed out the crumpled sheet of yellow tablet paper. The message on it was printed in pencil, in block letters. It informed Marc, with the embellishment of considerable profanity, that he was a killer and that he would be punished.

She resisted the urge to drop it and scrub her hands. “Where did you get it?”

“It was shoved in the mailbox sometime today. Luckily I found it, not Court.”

“In the mailbox—not mailed?”

“No.” His expression became grimmer, if that was possible. “That means the author of that missive was on my veranda today. If I overreacted when you thought someone was in the house, I had good reason.”

“I guess I would have, too. But people who write anonymous notes don’t usually act on them.”

“Is that the police consultant speaking?” He shook his head, taking the paper back and tucking it into his pocket. “Sorry. I know you mean well. I know what you say is true. But it’s not easy to be rational when—”

She knew what he was going to say. “When someone you love has been killed in this house.”

He gave her a baffled, angry look. “Exactly. Irrational or not, that’s what I felt. And maybe it’s not so irrational. The person who killed Annabel is still out there, remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget. But if he has any brains at all, he’ll stay as far away from you as possible.”

“Maybe so. Still, I’m not taking any chances. So tomorrow I’ll put a new lock on the back door. And tonight I’ll walk you home.”

There was more that she wanted to say, but she didn’t think he was in the mood to hear it. So she went ahead of him to the front door, stepping out onto the piazza where she’d fled so precipitously earlier, listening to him lock the door carefully.

The air was chilly, and she stuffed her hands into her pockets. A full moon rode low in the sky, sending spidery shadows across the walk. She heard Marc’s footsteps behind her, and he reached out to push the gate open when she reached it.

She paused on the walk. “You could just watch me to my door, you know.”

“I could. But I’m not going to.” He slid his hand into the crook of her arm.

The street was still and deserted. She glanced up at him as they crossed. “Are you sure you want to stay, after all this?”

“Court would never agree to leave now. And I keep my promises to my son. Besides—”

He paused, and she couldn’t make out his expression in the moonlight.

“Besides?”

He shrugged. “I told you. Now that I’m here, I know I can’t go back to being content with the status quo.” His fingers tightened on her arm, and she felt his determination through their pressure. “Do you know why I went into a private firm when we moved away?”

The change of subject bewildered her. “Well, I suppose I thought you wanted a change. Or to make more than you could as a prosecutor.”

“There’s certainly that.” There was a certain grim humor to his tone. “I’ve done far better financially. But that’s not why. I went into a firm because no prosecutor’s office or state’s attorney’s office would have me. Not with the shadow of my wife’s murder hanging over me.”

The bitterness in his tone forbade any facile answer. For a moment she couldn’t say anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I didn’t realize. I should have.” She hesitated, feeling her way. “I guess I’ve continued to look at what happened then as if I were still sixteen.”

“You’re not sixteen anymore.” They’d reached the gate, and he opened it for her. “Now you can face what happened as an adult.”

Marc sounded very sure of that, and he didn’t seem to expect a response. That was just as well, because she wasn’t sure she could give one.




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