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The House of Secrets
Terry Lynn Thomas
Sarah Bennett has two secrets: she sees ghosts, and she is in love with a spy. When Sarah takes a job with occult expert Dr Matthew Geisler, he promises to help her understand the sorrowful spirit that seems to have attached itself to her. As Sarah struggles to cope with the ghostly presence, she runs into Zeke, the man who left her six months earlier and is recovering from injuries suffered in an alleged accident. But Zeke has secrets of his own, and when an attempt is made on Geisler’s life, Sarah finds herself caught in a struggle between the living and the dead. Unsure who she can trust, Sarah must solve the mystery of the soul determined to haunt her, and save Dr Geisler and herself from an unknown threat. This book was previously published as WEEPING IN THE WINGS Get ready for another gripping read from USA Today bestselling author of THE SILENT WOMAN! Readers LOVE Terry Lynn Thomas: ‘Intriguing and page-turning. ’ ‘I really enjoyed this fascinating historical thriller. ’ ‘an absorbing novel’ ‘a marvellous historical suspense that had me engrossed from the start. ’ ‘I read it in just one sitting. ’



About the Author (#uf3930fad-0f65-5752-9c3e-2e5fa103f04a)
TERRY LYNN THOMAS grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, which explains her love of foggy beaches and Gothic mysteries. When her husband promised to buy Terry a horse and the time to write if she moved to Mississippi with him, she jumped at the chance. Although she had written several novels and screenplays prior to 2006, after she relocated to the South she set out to write in earnest and has never looked back.
Terry Lynn writes the Sarah Bennett Mysteries, set on the California coast during the 1940s, which feature a misunderstood medium in love with a spy. The Drowned Woman is a recipient of the IndieBRAG Medallion. She also writes the Cat Carlisle Mysteries, set in Britain during World War II. The first book in this series, The Silent Woman, came out in April 2018 and has since become a USA Today bestseller. When she’s not writing, you can find Terry Lynn riding her horse, walking in the woods with her dogs, or visiting old cemeteries in search of story ideas.

Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas (#uf3930fad-0f65-5752-9c3e-2e5fa103f04a)
‘Intriguing and page-turning’
‘I really enjoyed this fascinating historical thriller’
‘An absorbing novel’
‘A marvellous historical suspense that had me engrossed from the start’
‘I read it in one sitting’
‘A fabulous page turning, mildly paranormal whodunnit’
‘A good read, difficult to put down!’
‘Brilliant! Thoroughly enjoyable read’
‘I look forward to reading the next in the series’
‘A real page turner!’

Also by Terry Lynn Thomas (#uf3930fad-0f65-5752-9c3e-2e5fa103f04a)
The Drowned Woman
The Silent Woman
The Family Secret

The House of Secrets
TERRY LYNN THOMAS


HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Terry Lynn Thomas 2019
Terry Lynn Thomas asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008328894
Version: 2019-02-06
For Bonnie Tombaugh. Always missed. Never forgotten.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u3850ca02-9c2d-5d21-8868-6ffc31e2b96f)
About the Author (#u1890258f-3be1-56d0-840d-2dc67f04f290)
Praise for Terry Lynn Thomas (#u09020dfb-3add-5c86-a085-82c7d34ff18d)
Also by Terry Lynn Thomas (#u373611a4-cf5e-52e3-a4b9-d4c9513b5b7a)
Title Page (#u39644535-7138-51d2-a0f7-12414c070f4e)
Copyright (#u90f7f795-dddd-53fa-a379-7e510582ad95)
Dedication (#uea8148c5-c997-5017-a6b5-8cb35c2fb8ac)

Prologue (#u43fe4a30-94e2-57e7-88f9-0abf8f1f6b92)

Chapter One (#u15ed047a-da3d-5a0b-8881-5eb3417efbfe)

Chapter Two (#u7aee2e87-fa3d-5277-8de5-3f378f0130c7)

Chapter Three (#ua9c12011-ad47-5cea-bd4e-a9be0d3fd351)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Turn the Page for an Extract From Terry Lynn Thomas’s Gripping The Silent Woman (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

The Next Book From Terry Lynn Thomas Is Coming in 2019 (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading … (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Prologue (#ulink_403d53f9-4d86-5153-ab19-5a87aedbdfdd)
I knew loving Zeke could be dangerous …
Within seconds, strong arms reached around me from behind, encircling my waist. I held fast to my hat with one hand and clutched my purse with the other as the man lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of sugar. He knocked the hat out of my hand, and I watched, unable to do anything, as it blew away on a gust of the March wind.
The Viking hauled me to the waiting car. He opened the rear passenger door and threw me onto the smooth leather seat with such force that I slid across it and hit the door on the opposite side. The giant stayed outside the car, leaning on the car, trapping me. I sat up and pulled my skirt back down over my legs. My purse had fallen to the floor, its contents scattered everywhere.
‘Collect your things. Be quick about it.’
The fat man who sat across from me expected me to obey. I almost defied him. A quick glance at the Viking, who had pushed away from the car door, changed my mind. With shaking hands, I stuffed my belongings back into my purse. I dropped my lipstick. It slid under the seat.
‘Bit of a klutz.’ The man who sat across from me had jowls like a bulldog and soulless eyes.
‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’
‘No. I know who you are, Miss Bennett. Your boyfriend has something of mine.’

Chapter One (#ulink_399bb6d2-eef5-526f-aab2-5f95eb2c4e3b)
March 1943
The weeping started when the foreman read the ‘not guilty’ verdict.
The sobs played like background music as I sat numb, unable to fathom how my adoptive father, Jack Bennett, had got away with so many crimes. I remained in my seat as the audience in the gallery, the jury, the judge, and, finally, the attorneys filed out of the courtroom, their expressions running the gambit from pity to loathing and all the emotions in between.
The weeping echoed off the oaken walls of the courtroom, a solemn reminder of all that I had lost. Zeke. He crept into my mind. I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I had experienced my share of auditory hallucinations since falling from the second-storey landing at Bennett House last October. The fall had killed my stepmother. By some fortuitous stroke of luck, I had survived. Dr Upton, my psychiatrist, blamed the stressful situation for my current state of mind. I didn’t tell him everything that I had seen and heard since the fall. Dr Upton had been so kind to me during the trial, I didn’t have the heart to burden him with the truth.
In the days following the trial, I took the morphine drops that he prescribed for me, but they did little to quell the baleful tears. I tried to ignore the weeping and function as though nothing were wrong. I needed a job. I needed a place to stay. No small feat in San Francisco. Thousands of enlisted men flooded the city each day. The housing shortage had become so severe, many of these young men were forced to sleep in the lobbies of the over-booked hotels and in the seats of the theatres.
When Miss Macky, the proprietress of the school where I studied typewriting, referred me to the Geisler Institute for a secretarial position – good pay, room and board – I jumped at the opportunity without a second thought. I knew that my presence at the school distracted the other girls, and that Miss Macky wanted to get rid of me. This job would provide me an income and a chance to remove myself from the public eye.
As the taxi pulled up to the big house on the corner of Jackson and Laguna, I wondered what I had got myself into. We coasted to a stop just as the first rays of sun sliced through the morning fog. My driver, an old man with gaps in his smile where teeth should have been and a wad of chewing tobacco jammed behind his bottom lip, spat into a chipped coffee mug that rested on the dashboard. I got out of the cab, pulling my coat tight against the gust of wind that whipped around my ankles, while the driver retrieved my carryall – a scuffed Hermès leather case that had belonged to my adoptive mother – and hoisted it onto his hip with ease. I followed him as he limped up the walkway.
Halfway towards the house I stopped and tipped my head back, taking in the well-maintained exterior, the curved corner windows, and a front door so large it could have graced a castle.
The driver stopped by the front door. With a quick glance, he observed my unpolished shoes, shabby coat, and misshapen hat. ‘You staying here?’
‘Working here.’
‘Excuse me, Miss High and Mighty.’ He spat his tobacco on the sidewalk. ‘Ain’t this a nut house?’ He squinted at the tasteful brass placard attached to the door at eye level. The Geisler Institute, Dr Matthew Geisler, Ph.D., M.D. The driver narrowed his beady eyes into slits and stared at me. ‘I know you. You’re the girl what accused her father of murder. Jack Bennett. You his daughter, Sarah?’
‘I didn’t accuse him of anything—’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, testifying against your own flesh and blood. You’ve ruined that man’s life. A daughter ain’t supposed to do that.’
What about my life? I wanted to shout at him, never mind that Jack Bennett was not my actual flesh and blood.
He dropped my suitcase. When it hit the ground, the lid popped open and everything I owned, including my undergarments, spilled out onto the wet walkway. He looked at my clothes – my linen underwear, my garter belts, and my last precious pair of silk stockings – as they lay scattered about then turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Wait a minute,’ I shouted. ‘You get back here—’
I stopped myself. I didn’t want him to come back and help me. I didn’t want him to touch my things.
‘Buzz off, lady. If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have let you in my cab.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to pay.’
‘I’d starve in the streets before I’d take money from the likes of you.’
He took one final glance at the house, spat again, jumped in his taxi, and screeched off.
I bent down and started stuffing my clothes back into my suitcase, casting a glance at the big windows on the front of the house, praying that no one watched me. The cold concrete hurt my knees. As I stood up, the snag that started at my kneecap crept up my thigh. Another stocking ruined. Soon I would be forced to forego stockings altogether and use pancake make-up on my legs. I could always switch to trousers, but I hadn’t any money for clothes. Just as the case snapped shut, the front door opened. A young woman with grey eyes framed in dark lashes welcomed me.
‘Miss Bennett, I presume? They’re expecting you. Won’t you follow me, please?’ She picked up my suitcase and led me into a grand foyer. Two staircases, one on each side of the room, swept up to the second floor. The vast room had floors of marble, walls of honey-coloured wood, and not one stick of furniture save a tiny desk near the front door and a grand piano tucked into a corner. ‘This way, please.’ The young woman’s voice echoed as she set my suitcase down near the desk.
I followed her down a short corridor lined on each side with wooden doors. We stopped before one of them, and she knocked upon it twice.
A man’s voice said, ‘Come in.’
The young woman opened the door and I followed her into a sitting room of sorts, where a man and a woman sat on an overstuffed brocade sofa facing a fireplace filled with a sweet-smelling wood. When we entered the room, they both stood, but the woman covered the stack of papers that sat before her with a writing tablet, as if she didn’t want me to see them. A plate with crumbs and a half-eaten pastry sat on a tray on the low coffee table. At the sight of the pastry, my stomach rumbled. If either of them heard it, they gave no indication. A coffeepot with an unused mug, along with a creamer and sugar bowl, also sat on the tray.
‘Thank you, Chloe,’ the woman said.
The woman stood three inches taller than the man. Her brown hair was laced with grey. It curled around her face, softening her strong jaw, prominent nose and full lips. She had the clear skin of someone who ate well and took plenty of exercise. She reached out to the man, who grabbed her hand, squeezed it, and let it go. All of this happened in an instant. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all had I not been paying attention.
‘Sarah Bennett.’ The man walked towards me with his hand extended. He took mine and shook it. ‘I’m Matthew Geisler. We’re so glad that you’ve come. This is my wife, Bethany.’
‘How do you do, Sarah? Please, sit.’
Bethany waved at the sofa across from them. On the couch between them lay yesterday’s newspaper. A horrible picture of me coming out of the courthouse graced the front page, with a caption underneath that read Jack Bennett Found Not Guilty!
Jack Bennett’s picture had been placed next to mine. He sat on a chair, dressed in a tweed blazer, holding his latest best seller in his hand. He smiled in that unique way of his that had disarmed everyone who had ever come in contact with him. He didn’t look like a murderer. I couldn’t argue with that sentiment, especially since the side-to-side placement of our photographs showed me in such a bad light. My pale face and gaunt cheeks accentuated the haunted look in my eyes. To the casual observer, I looked like a young woman burdened by the task of living, while Jack Bennett looked like the beloved son of the City by the Bay.
Jack Bennett’s books continued to fly off the shelves. The murder trial had fuelled the publicity fire that raged around him, and he had been exonerated of murdering his wife and his mother-in-law. The sensational trial had garnered him notoriety and wealth beyond measure. Jack Bennett had been tried and set free. His fans had sentenced me to a lifetime of contempt and loathing. Waitresses refused to serve me. Shop girls turned their noses up at me.
‘Let’s not worry about that, Sarah.’ Dr Geisler turned the paper over. ‘I know what that man did to you. That is of no concern to me. I believe we can help each other.’
Bethany Geisler poured thick, black coffee into the empty mug. ‘Cream and sugar?’
I nodded and took the mug when she handed it to me, hoping that the milky beverage would stave off the hunger pangs. If I didn’t get this job, I would have to use the last of my money to get out of town and go somewhere where no one recognized me.
Dr Geisler watched me as I sipped. The hair at his temples had started to turn grey. His cheeks were sharp, as if he hadn’t had enough to eat in quite some time. His dark hair came to a widow’s peak, making him look like a romantic character from a gothic novel. Bethany sat next to him, fidgeting with her wedding ring. She didn’t speak, but her gaze lay heavy upon me.
‘Zeke is here, Sarah.’ Dr Geisler watched me as he spoke.
Time stopped. The mug slipped out of my hand and onto the rug. Hot coffee burned my legs. A dark stain spread on the carpet near my feet. My mind raced back to the previous October, and the circumstances that had thrown Zeke and me together. He had saved me then, and I liked to think that I had helped him in some small way. I thought we had fallen in love and that our feelings for each other were mutual.
Zeke had been honest about himself. He had a job that he couldn’t discuss with me, a job that took him to unknown places for long periods of time. At least he had left me a note explaining why he had to leave. I, in my naivety, had accepted his conditions, thinking that I could love him and move on with my life when his mysterious job took him away to places unknown. I had been wrong. I had spent six months trying to forget him, making a practice of pushing all thoughts of him to the back of my mind. My efforts had been in vain. One mention of his name, and all the emotions came rushing back. ‘I’m sorry.’ I reached down to pick up the broken mug.
‘Don’t worry,’ Bethany said. ‘We’ll get that cleaned up. My husband didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘Forgive me for being blunt, my dear,’ Dr Geisler said.
Zeke. Here. Tears welled in my eyes. I wiped them away just as they threatened to spill over onto my cheeks. I cursed the desperation that drove me to be here. I needed a job. I needed Dr Geisler.
Bethany stacked the broken pieces of porcelain on the coffee tray.
‘You need to know that he’s been in an accident,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘He came here to recuperate.’
‘What kind of an accident?’
‘It’s complicated.’ Dr Geisler hesitated, as if measuring his words, careful not to say too much.
‘He’s hurt his knee badly, and he has two broken ribs, which are healing,’ Bethany said, with a quick glance at her husband. ‘He’s got a nasty cut across his face, and another cut on his arm that may have caused some nerve damage.’
‘We can treat Zeke’s injuries with rest, diet, and exercise,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘He’ll be fine, Sarah. But he’s weak and tired. I don’t want you to panic when you see him.’ He picked up one of the notebooks that were stacked on the table next to him. He thumbed through it, as if looking for something important about Zeke. I knew that Dr Geisler was allowing me the time necessary to compose myself.
After a few seconds, he set the notebook back on the table and crossed his legs. ‘I’m sure you have many questions, Sarah, and I will answer all of them, but let me tell you a little bit about the job and what I would like you to do. I am a medical doctor, a psychiatrist. My specialty is healing severe psychological shock and trauma with hypnotherapy. I endeavour to do that at this hospital, although I have some patients – such as Zeke – who simply come here for a rest cure.
‘I’ve written a series of textbooks that need to be typed. I understand you have had some difficulty finding a suitable position. I also discovered you were taking typewriting classes at Miss Macky’s Secretarial College and were doing quite well. Zeke suggested I hire you for the job.’
‘You know an awful lot about me.’ Irritation crept into my voice.
‘It should come as no surprise that Zeke made arrangements for someone to watch over you during his absence. He read the newspapers during the course of the trial, but his hands were tied. For myriad reasons, he couldn’t come forward to help you. Although he couldn’t testify against Mr Bennett, he did want to see to your wellbeing.’
A woman slipped into the room, shutting the door behind her. She had thick, snow-white hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore an ankle-length black dress, a relic from a bygone era.
‘Excuse me. Miss Bethany, the nurse asked me to fetch you. Mr Collins thinks there’s an intruder and he’s become quite agitated.’
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Bethany said. ‘Sarah, I hope to see you later.’
She rushed out of the room with the white-haired woman, leaving me alone with Dr Geisler. He smiled at me. ‘I’m sure we can come to an understanding about your salary—’
‘Dr Geisler, I saw you at the trial. You were there every day, in the front row of the gallery. Not only did you watch my every move, you also took copious notes the entire time. While I appreciate the job offer – God knows I need it –I feel like you’re not telling me the whole truth. Why am I here?’
The room grew cold. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. The soft touch of invisible fingers caressed my cheek.
‘I know a secret.’ The voice came in hushed tones, an ephemeral vibration no one but I could hear. I tried to put it out of my mind and focus on Dr Geisler, but the room was icy. I shivered.
In one fluid movement, Dr Geisler had moved to my side. ‘What is it?’
Too close.
I recoiled, embarrassed at my spontaneous response. That’s when I heard the laughter.
My mind went to my pocket book where the glass bottle that held the opium tincture waited for me, the panacea for situations such as this. Two drops in eight ounces of water, and whatever I heard, whomever I saw, would disappear.
‘Are you cold?’ Dr Geisler grabbed my hand, a look of burning desperation in his eyes, as though he longed for something I did not want to give him. I realized then that Dr Geisler knew all about me. He knew what happened last October, when I encountered the spirit of my dead mother, Grace Kensington.
I jumped up, clutched my pocketbook, and walked with firm deliberation towards the door.
‘Sarah, please wait. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
I ignored him. When I reached the door, I grabbed the knob, driven by the desire to get away.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you. I believe you are sane.’
I opened the door, ready to flee the Geisler Institute, the chance for employment, and even Zeke, until he said the words that stopped me in my tracks.
‘I can help you with your visions.’
I stood for a moment with my back to him, swallowing my tears. They came anyway, flowing out of my eyes, running in a salty trail down my cheeks. I wiped them away with the sleeve of my sweater before I turned back around.
‘Come sit with me, Sarah. We have much to talk about.’ Dr Geisler had moved back to his seat and gestured for me to return to mine. ‘Forgive my eagerness, but I do want to help you get your life back.’
Clutching my purse to my chest as if it were a shield, I returned and perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘I followed your case when you were at the asylum. I knew full well that you didn’t push your mother – Jessica Bennett – down those stairs. I am also certain she didn’t fall. Jack Bennett tried several times to have you declared insane and get you committed. He used his guile to convince my colleagues that you were insane. I am familiar with you because I am on the board at The Laurels. It was I who convinced my colleagues that Jack Bennett was sorely mistaken. Despite the horrible time you had on the witness stand, I don’t believe for one minute that you attempted to hurt yourself, ever. I don’t know what happened to you at Bennett House last October, but I would like to find out.’
My well-honed defences locked into place. The events at Bennett House were in the past. There they would stay. Nothing would ever induce me to revisit that fateful night last October.
‘Not now, my dear. Not today. Not until you are ready. Are you familiar with hypnosis?’
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
‘I’ve an idea why you see things. I’ve an idea what you see. After all you’ve been through, you don’t trust people. I don’t blame you. The people who you loved and trusted, the very people who should have cared for you, tricked you into the asylum. You had no business being there, of that I am certain. I give you my word that no harm will come to you here.’
‘How can you help me with my visions?’
‘I don’t think they are visions,’ Dr Geisler said. ‘I think you see through the veil.’ He paused, and watched me, gauging my reaction. ‘Ghosts. I think you see them. And if you do, there are things you need to learn so you can have a normal life. You must learn to keep the spirits at bay. They want to be heard, for whatever reason, and if they discover that you can see them, they will never give you a moment’s peace.’
The knowledge that this strange man spoke the truth welled up from some hidden place deep within.
‘Picture two worlds: that of the living and another world across the veil, where souls go,’ he continued. ‘They aren’t up in the sky or down below. They’re around us all the time. Some souls hover between the two worlds. They need help crossing over.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘I’ve had a lot of death in my life. My mother died giving birth to my sister, my father died of pneumonia, my sister died in 1919 of the influenza. I have much to be grateful for, but there was a melancholia about me, a sadness which, I believe, came from all that death. I came to a realization not too long ago that this sadness resulted from the loss of my family and caused me to rethink my priorities. The occult has always intrigued me. Injustice infuriates me. I believe that you are a medium who has been treated unfairly by a society that doesn’t even know people with your abilities exist. I want to help people like you.’
‘How?’
‘I would like to hypnotize you. I can teach you to control what you see by making suggestions to your subconscious mind while you are in a deeply relaxed state.’
‘Hypnotize me? I don’t know if that’s a good idea. Would I be awake?’
‘You would be wide awake, just relaxed. You will remember everything. There’s no secret or hidden agenda.’
I shook my head.
‘You don’t have to decide now. I don’t want to do anything until you trust me and want to participate. Meanwhile, I do have a job for you. If you get to know me better, start to feel comfortable, and you want my help, we can discuss this further. I do need a typist, so let me tell you about that. Let me tell you about the job, what I expect of you, and we can go from there. Does that sound fair?’
‘Can you tell me about Zeke?’
‘Of course.’ At Dr Geisler’s earnest tone, I relaxed and melted back into the sofa. ‘My wife doesn’t know about Zeke’s work. As far as she’s concerned, he’s here to recuperate and rest. You know his work – well, he can’t be in the public eye. It’s not safe for him to be in a regular hospital, as you can imagine.’
‘He’s not suffering from any psychiatric injuries?’ My voice came out like a croak. ‘He suffered from nightmares before.’
‘He has no psychiatric injuries. He needs rest and physical rehabilitation. My wife is a skilled rehabilitative nurse. She will do all she can to help Zeke.’
‘How come he never—’ I couldn’t say it out loud, couldn’t acknowledge with words that Zeke never contacted me directly.
‘I’m sorry. That is a question best directed to Zeke.’
Dr Geisler crossed the room to where a pitcher and several glasses rested on a bureau. He poured a glass of water and brought it to me. I took a few sips, not realizing how thirsty I’d become until the cold water hit the back of my throat.
‘Will you stay? I’ll pay you one hundred and fifty dollars a month, plus room and board. We’ve a nice room for you. You’ll be close to Zeke, and Mrs McDougal’s a good cook. I think you might be happy here.’
‘Yes, I will stay.’ What other choice do I have?
‘I’ll have Mrs McDougal show you to your room. She will fix you some breakfast, and we can get started right away.’
We shook hands to seal our arrangement. As if on cue, Mrs McDougal appeared.
I had found a place to hide.
* * *
I followed Mrs McDougal into the foyer. The desk by the front door stood empty now. She led me up the far staircase, wide enough for four people to walk abreast. A large window at the landing and the sconces that were situated along the walls provided the only light in the second-floor corridor. With a flick of the switch, Mrs McDougal turned the lights on. The walls up here were the same honey-coloured wood as downstairs. I counted the closed doors as we passed them, so I wouldn’t end up in someone else’s room when I navigated the corridors by myself.
‘Has this house always been a hospital?’ I asked Mrs McDougal.
‘Oh, no. It used to be Dr Geisler’s family residence. When Dr Geisler and Bethany married, they decided to turn it into a hospital. Bethany is very passionate about helping people. She’s a nurse, you know. Dr Geisler wants to cure their minds. They are both very noble people.’
When we came to a stop at the sixth door, Mrs McDougal pulled a skeleton key out of her pocket, slid it into the lock, and pushed the door open. The boarding house where I had been staying had two or three beds crammed into tiny rooms no bigger than closets, and one bathroom, with no hope of hot water, shared by a gaggle of complaining women. This room was large enough to dance in, with floral wallpaper in pale shades of yellow. I walked across wool carpet the colour of sweet cream to the window that took up the entire wall, and pushed aside the heavy curtains.
Below me, San Francisco pulsed with its own life. A milk truck drove by, a woman pushed a baby carriage, the mailman passed her, nodding as he lifted his cap. I walked through another tall door into a bathroom with a claw-foot tub deep enough to float in. I wondered if there would be enough hot water to fill it.
‘The hot water heater is turned on at three o’clock every afternoon, so you can bathe after that time. We’ve plenty of hot water once the heater is turned on, so go ahead and fill your tub. You’ll have hot water until we wash up after dinner. If you require hot water before that, you’ll have to ask one of the girls to bring it up to you from the kitchen. I keep a kettle on the stove at all times.’
‘I’m sure I’ll be fine with the cold water,’ I said.
‘I’ve seen to the unpacking of your things. Once you decide where you’d like to hang your paintings, I’ll make arrangements to have them hung for you.’ Mrs McDougal took a gold watch from her pocket. ‘It’s nine o’clock. Would you like some breakfast? You look like you could use a good meal. We eat well here, despite the rationing and the shortage of meat. My sister keeps chickens and has a nice victory garden on her roof. She lets me plant what I need for the house there too. Even though I can’t, for the life of me, get meat, we do have plenty of fresh vegetables.’
‘Breakfast would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘I’ll leave you to freshen up. Can you find your way downstairs? Just follow the corridor to the back stairs and that will take you to the kitchen.’ Mrs McDougal paused at the door. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Miss Bennett, but you were so brave, the way you testified at the trial. Jack Bennett got away with murder, just as sure as the day is long, but never mind that. You’re here now, and that is all that matters.’
Hot blood rushed to my ears.
‘Oh, I’ve gone and embarrassed you. Forgive me.’
‘I’ve had a hard time getting settled—’
‘You’ve no reason to worry. You’re in good hands. Dr Geisler is very easy to work for. You come down to the kitchen, and I’ll have some food ready for you.’
I splashed icy cold water on my face and reached for one of the plush ivory towels, surprised to find that my hands shook.
‘Take a drop or two, Sarah. They won’t hurt you, and they will help you cope.’I could hear Dr Upton’s voice. Enough of those thoughts. I had been given a new beginning. Hard work and the satisfaction that comes from a job well done would see me through.
With fresh resolve, I went to unpack, only to find that, true to her word, Mrs McDougal had already seen to it. My suitcase had been taken away and my meagre belongings had been arranged in the armoire that rose all the way to the ceiling. The seascapes I had taken when I fled Bennett House were now on top of the highboy, propped against the wall. One depicted the blue-green sea and the summer sky, while the other captured the dark blues and greys of the winter sea.
The books that I carried with me, Rebecca, The Murder at the Vicarage, and The Uninvited – last year’s best seller by Dorothy Macardle – had been placed in the small bookcase nestled in the corner of the room. I ran my fingers over the familiar worn spines, glad to have a touchstone from my past during this new phase of my life. A small writing desk rested in front of the window. I opened the drawer to it, and saw the pile of letters from Cynthia Forrester, held together with a white ribbon, all unopened.
Cynthia Forrester, the reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle, had told my story after Jack Bennett’s trial with a cool, objective voice. I took a chance and trusted her. She now had a byline and a promising career as a feature writer, and the hours we spent together while she interviewed me had kindled a friendship between us. After the story was published, Cynthia had reached out as a friend, with phone calls and invitations to lunch and dinner, all of which I declined. She wrote several letters, which I never opened. One of these days, I promised myself, as I pushed the drawer shut.
Not ready to go downstairs yet, I moved over to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass. Below me, the traffic on Jackson Street moved along. I studied the houses across the street, noting the blue stars in the windows, the indication of how many sons and fathers were overseas fighting. Every day, mothers, sisters, and wives scoured the newspaper, hoping their loved ones would not make the list of fatalities. Every day, some of those same mothers, sisters, and wives would receive a visit from the Western Union boy, bearing dreaded news, and the blue stars that hung in the windows would be changed to gold.
I shook off thoughts of the injured and dead soldiers and watched as a diaper truck stopped in front of the house across the street. A white-coated deliveryman jumped out of the driver’s side, opened the back of the truck, and hoisted a bundle of clean diapers onto his shoulder. Just as he reached the porch, a woman in a starched maid’s uniform opened the door. She took the bundle from the driver, set it aside, and rushed into his open arms. They fell into a deep kiss. The woman broke their connection. The man kept reaching for her, but she smiled and pushed him away. She handed him a bulky laundry bag, then stepped into the house and closed the door behind her.
As the deliveryman climbed back into his truck, a young woman dressed in a stylish coat and matching hat pushed a buggy up to the front of the house. The maid stepped out to meet the woman, smoothing down her apron before taking the baby from the woman’s arms.
I wondered what the mistress of the house would think of her maid’s stolen kiss with the diaper deliveryman.
‘Excuse me.’ A woman stood in my doorway. Her eyes darted about my room. ‘Did you see a tall, dark-haired man pass by?’
‘No. I’m sorry.’ She must be a patient, I realized.
She stepped into the room, surveying the opulent surroundings. ‘Your room is much nicer than mine. I’m an old friend of Matthew’s – Dr Geisler’s. I thought I saw … oh, never mind. My mind plays tricks on me. You must be the new secretary?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Minna Summerly. Nice to meet you.’ She extended her hand and stepped close to me, moving with the lithesome grace of a ballet dancer.
‘Sarah Bennett.’
‘Oh, I know who you are. I knew that you’d take the job. In fact, I told Matthew – Dr Geisler – you would agree to work here.’
She noticed my bewildered expression.
‘Oh, I’m psychic. It’s a gift and a curse, if you want the truth. That’s why I’m here. Dr Geisler is trying to prove that mediums exist. I happen to be one. Truth be told, all of us here are big fans of yours. We followed the trial, you see. Everyone in the house has been cheering you on. I can’t imagine what it must have been like, testifying like that, being called mad by the toughest defence attorney in San Francisco. The newspapers were relentless, weren’t they? I swear those journalists would do anything for a story.’ She rattled on, impervious to my discomfort. ‘It’s going to be nice having someone young here. Dr Geisler and Bethany are good company, but they are a little focused on their work. Were you going downstairs?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Mrs McDougal has promised me breakfast.’
‘Allow me to show you the way.’ Minna tucked her arm in mine, and together we made our way along the corridor to the back staircase, which led to the kitchen. ‘I’m glad you are going to help Matthew. He’s a good man who cares deeply for those he treats. He needs someone to help him, so he can be free to pursue his other interest.’
‘Other interest?’
We came to a rest on a landing with two corridors leading off it. A man stood in the foyer, dressed in a cardigan with leather patches at the elbows. His glasses had slid down his nose, so he tilted his head back to look at us.
‘Mr Collins, do the nurses know you’re roaming around?’
‘You have light coming off you.’ Mr Collins spoke in a reverential whisper.
‘This is Sarah Bennett, Mr Collins. She is going to be working here.’
‘I know. She has light coming off her.’ Mr Collins turned and shuffled away, staring at his feet as he went.
‘He’s harmless,’ Minna said, as if she could read my thoughts. ‘Just pretend you’re speaking to a 2-year-old. Ask him to leave you alone, and he will. There’s no need to be afraid of him.’
‘I know. I’m just not used to …’
Not used to what?Having a job? A roof over my head? Having one single person say that they appreciate and understand the toll Jack Bennett’s murder trial has taken on me?
‘You’ll be fine here, Sarah. We’re all glad to have you. We’re going to be friends, I’m sure of it.’ When my stomach rumbled, Minna laughed. ‘If you go that way, you’ll find the kitchen. I’ll see you later.’
She walked down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving me to find my way to the kitchen.
* * *
I followed the enticing aroma of cinnamon and coffee and wound up in a large, modern kitchen. One entire wall consisted of tall windows, with French doors leading into a courtyard – a nice surprise for a house in the city. On a bright sunny morning these east-facing windows would fill the kitchen with morning light. A chopping block big enough for several people to work on stood in the centre of the room. A young girl, dressed in a grey cotton uniform with a white apron tied around her waist, kneaded dough under the watchful eyes of Mrs McDougal. When the girl saw me, she smiled.
‘Pay attention, Alice. Don’t work it too hard, my girl, or the dough won’t rise.’
‘Yes, Mrs McDougal,’ Alice said.
‘Miss Bennett, come in.’ Mrs McDougal beckoned me to sit at the refectory table in the corner, where a place had been laid for me. ‘I didn’t know if you like tea or coffee, so I made both.’
Indeed there were two pots by my place. I sat down and poured out coffee, just as Mrs McDougal took a plate out of the oven and put it down before me. Two eggs, browned toast, and a piece of bacon graced my plate. Real bacon. I could have wept.
‘However did you get bacon?’ I asked in awe, reluctant to touch it. California’s meat shortage had been in the headlines for weeks now, with no relief in sight, despite promises from the meat rationing board. Although sacrifices were necessary for the troops who fought overseas, I craved bacon and beef just as much as the next person.
‘It’s the last piece,’ Mrs McDougal said. ‘I just read that the food shortage is going to get worse. I can’t imagine it.’
‘They need farmers,’ Alice said. ‘My momma says that all the men who harvest the food have gone off to war.’
‘Pretty soon the women will be working in the fields,’ Mrs McDougal said.
‘Unless they join the WACS or the WAVES,’ Alice said. ‘My sister tried to volunteer, but they wouldn’t take her. She has bad vision.’
Mrs McDougal and Alice chatted while I ate. Every now and then Mrs McDougal would look at me, nodding in approval as I cleaned my plate. I hadn’t eaten this well since I left Bennett Cove. Dr Geisler came into the kitchen just as I finished my meal and reached for the pot to pour another a cup of coffee.
‘Ah, Sarah. Your timing is perfect,’ said Dr Geisler. He nodded at Alice. ‘Mrs McDougal, would you please bring another pot of coffee into the office for Sarah and me?’ He rubbed his hands together, eager as a schoolboy. ‘Come along. We’ve much to do.’
* * *
We walked through the foyer and up the staircase opposite that which led to my room. I gasped when we entered the room, not because of the view of the San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz, which was stunning. My fascination lay with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered every wall, all of the shelves filled to the brim with books of all sorts.
‘May I?’ I gestured at the shelves.
‘Please.’ Dr Geisler nodded his approval.
Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, a well-worn edition of Balzac in its original French, James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell, and a series of blue leather books that were too big to fit on the shelves were stacked on a library table.
Books. Books. Everywhere books. There were leather-bound tomes with golden letters on the spine, classics, some so old they should have been in a museum. There were medical textbooks, music books, art books, books about birds, and architecture, and cooking. A small section of one shelf held a stack of paperbacks by Mary Roberts Rinehart, Margery Allingham, and Lina Ethel White.
‘The mysteries belong to my wife. She has her own library upstairs, too.’ He came to stand next to me. ‘Books are my indulgence. I love to be surrounded by them.’
‘You have a remarkable collection,’ I said.
‘Consider my books at your disposal, Miss Bennett.’
I sat in the chair opposite him. Alice brought in a tray of coffee. Dr Geisler poured us each a cup.
‘I’ve arranged the handwritten notes for you to type into sections and put them in folders on your desk. You can work at your own pace, but I hope you can finish at least one of the folders, approximately five pages, each day. After you have typed up the pages, if you could handwrite a short summary of what you’ve typed, that will be helpful. Does that make sense?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘I think I’ll just let you get to it. If you have any questions or difficulties reading my handwriting, you can let me know. You need to be mindful of my spelling, as it is not my forte. There’s a Latin dictionary and a medical dictionary on that shelf.’ He pointed to two books on the credenza. ‘Does that arrangement suit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Follow me, please.’
Dr Geisler walked over to the corner of the office, where another door was nestled between two bookcases. He opened it and led me into the small room, with its own bookcase, but unlike the shelves in Dr Geisler’s office, these shelves were jammed full of files, stacks of paper, and scientific journals, all in a state of chaos. My desk sat under a large mullioned window. In the middle of it sat a new Underwood typewriter. The promised handwritten notes lay next to it, anchored in place with a bronze dragonfly. A fountain pen, a bottle of ink, and a brand-new steno pad lay next to the notes. Dr Geisler flicked on one of the lamps.
‘Is this all right? I thought you might want some privacy, and I’ve always liked this room.’ He eyed the chaotic shelves. ‘Once you’ve settled in, I’ll get someone to deal with this mess.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I sat down at the desk.
‘Well, I’ll let you get to work then,’ he said.
‘Dr Geisler,’ I called out to him before he left the room. ‘Thank you.’
‘I believe we are going to help each other a great deal, Miss Bennett.’
‘Call me Sarah, please.’
‘Very well. And you may call me Matthew.’
He nodded and closed the door behind him.
And so I spent my first day at the Geisler Institute. The work proved interesting. Dr Geisler’s handwriting wasn’t schoolroom perfect, but I managed. The new typewriter was exquisite, especially in comparison to the rattle-trap machines at Miss Macky’s. Those relics had many keys that were stuck or missing and ribbons that were often as dry as a bone. A student had to type fifty words a minute before they were allowed access to the precious ink bottles that would bring the desiccated ribbons back to some semblance of life.
On this machine, the keys were smooth and well oiled, the ink crisp and black on the page. I started to work and fell into a routine. I would type three pages, proofread them, write a short summary, and move on. At two-thirty, when my stomach growled, I had finished eleven pages and felt very proud indeed. I pushed away from my desk, stood up, and started to stretch out my arms and neck, when Bethany came into the room.
‘I see you’ve settled in.’ She hovered around my desk. ‘Is everything to your liking? I wasn’t sure what sort of a chair you’d want. We’ve many to choose from, so if you aren’t comfortable, I hope you’ll speak up.’
‘Everything is fine,’ I said.
‘We’ll be going out for dinner this evening, so you can either have a tray in your room or eat in the kitchen with Mrs McDougal. Just let her know your preference.’
After a few minutes, I grabbed my purse and stepped into the now empty office. Remembering Dr Geisler’s offer to use his library, I perused the books on offer and had almost reached for Middlemarch, but settled instead on The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie. I tucked the book under my arm, ready to head to my room for a few hours of reading time.
‘Hello, Sarah.’
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Zeke sat in one of the chairs that angled towards the window. A thin scar, shiny as a new penny and thin as the edge of a razor, ran from his cheekbone down to the edge of his full lips. I wondered who had sliced him so. His right arm was bandaged and held close to his body by a sling. A wooden cane leaned against his chair. A smattering of new grey hairs had come in around his temples, making him even more handsome.
‘I know. I look horrible. I didn’t mean to surprise you, but I get the distinct impression that you’re avoiding me.’
I sat down in the chair opposite him. ‘No, it’s not that.’
‘You don’t have to say anything. Just sit with me. We can figure out what to say to each other later.’ He reached over and took my hand in his. The heat of him came over me in waves, knocking me off guard.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.
‘I know.’ My words were but a whisper. I couldn’t find my voice. ‘I know that I got the job because of you. I’ll repay you somehow,’ I said.
A look of hurt flashed in his eyes. ‘You owe me nothing, Sarah.’
I nodded at him, mumbled some feeble excuse, and fled to the safety of my own room.
* * *
I spent the afternoon with the Agatha Christie mystery, trying without much success to push thoughts of Zeke to the back of my mind. When the clock struck five, I filled my claw-foot tub to the brim with piping hot water, and soaked until my skin wrinkled and the water turned tepid.
I spent a quiet evening with Mrs McDougal. We ate our meal together – potatoes au gratin, salad with green goddess dressing, and green beans – chatting like old friends, while various nurses and orderlies who worked the night shift came into the kitchen for tea or coffee.
Mrs McDougal didn’t ask prying questions, but every now and then I caught her staring with an inquisitive look. We both liked Inner Sanctum Mysteries, and after dinner we retired to the cosy sitting room where Mrs McDougal spent her free time. We listened to the show together on the new Philco radio with a mahogany cabinet, a gift from Dr Geisler.
Back in my bedroom, I made quick work of my evening ablutions. I took the drops of morphine and crawled into bed exhausted from my long day, confident that the tincture would continue to stave off the merciless sobbing.
I dreamed that Zeke had recovered from his injuries. In my dream we were on a picnic in Golden Gate Park. Zeke put his sandwich down and reached out his hand to touch my face. ‘I’ll never leave you, Sarah,’ he whispered to me. He morphed into someone different, someone who stroked my face, saying strange words I did not understand. I awoke, disoriented, not sure where I was.
As my eyes adjusted to the light, the shape of a man standing near my bed came into focus. This was no dream. A flesh-and-blood man stood at the end of my bed. When he moved close to me and reached out to touch my face, I screamed.

Chapter Two (#ulink_9bcb97de-1641-5342-a79f-6edfa8d9fc7d)
My scream pierced the silence. When my eyes adjusted to the light, I recognized Mr Collins as he scurried crablike to the corner of my bedroom. He squatted there, shielding his face with his hands, rocking back and forth.
A nurse stood in my bedroom doorway, the light from the hallway forming a halo behind her. She took one look at Mr Collins and at me and called out. ‘Staff, please.’ When no one responded she said, ‘Now.’
Soon another nurse with mousy brown hair joined us.
‘Miss Joffey, please see if you can get him settled down.’
The nurse who arrived first stood aside to let the woman into the room. She motioned for the two orderlies who stood in the corridor to wait outside. When she turned on the lamp, I saw her red hair, the smattering of freckles across the nose. The nametag on her chest said Eunice Martin. She grabbed my robe from the chair where I had thrown it the previous night and wrapped it around my shoulders. Miss Joffey knelt next to Mr Collins. She spoke to him in a soothing voice until his breathing quieted and the rocking motion stopped. Mr Collins took his hands away from his face and gazed at us, a befuddled look on his face.
‘What’s going on?’ Bethany hurried into the room. She had wrapped a flannel dressing gown over her pyjamas. In her haste, she hadn’t noticed that the dressing gown was inside out.
‘It’s Mr Collins,’ Eunice Martin said. ‘He’s been wandering again.’
‘Mr Collins, you need to go back to your room now.’ Bethany spoke with a sure authority. ‘Let Nurse Martin and Nurse Joffey take you back to bed. It’s time to go back to sleep.’
Mr Collins allowed the nurses to help him to his feet.
‘You know it’s not polite to go into anyone else’s bedroom without permission.’ Bethany spoke in the same tone she would use to speak to a child.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Bethany. I just wanted to touch the fire in her hair.’
‘Mr Collins, you mustn’t sneak into other people’s rooms, no matter the reason. You owe Miss Bennett an apology.’
‘I’m sorry, but the light—’
‘That’s all right, Mr Collins. But I would prefer if you would knock before you enter my room.’
He grabbed Eunice’s arm and pointed to me. ‘Can you see the light?’
‘You may take him,’ Bethany said.
‘Yes, ma’am.’ Miss Joffey put her arm around Mr Collins and led him away.
He followed like an obedient puppy.
‘Sarah, are you okay to go back to sleep? I can give you something, if you need it,’ Bethany said.
‘No thank you.’
‘I’m sorry if you were frightened. Mr Collins should not have entered your room. He’s never done anything like that before. I can’t imagine what has got into him.’
‘I’ll be fine. Thank you.’
‘Good night then.’
‘Good night,’ I said.
After Bethany shut the door behind her, I opened the window. I took the chair from the writing desk and dragged it over to the door, where I wedged it underneath the knob. Only then, secure in the knowledge that no one else could get in, was I able to sleep.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning, a shroud of fog had settled over the city. The wind blew against my windows, rattling them like a witch’s curse, causing the grey mist to swirl like waves. I dressed and headed downstairs, anxious to begin my day. In the foyer, two maids swept the marble floor. Chloe, the young woman who answered the door for me yesterday, had her head bent over some sort of ledger, copying numbers from a pile of receipts. She nodded at me as I passed her desk.
Once again, I followed the smell of coffee and cinnamon to the kitchen, where Alice laboured over something that smelled like heaven. She rolled out dough onto the section of the chopping block that had been covered in flour. Mrs McDougal stood near her, arms across her chest, supervising the girl’s efforts. Both women nodded at me when I came into the room.
The young woman twisted the dough and with expert fingers, dusted it with cinnamon and sugar from the bowl that rested near her elbow. She then placed the twisted dough onto a cookie sheet, waiting its turn in the oven.
‘There are cinnamon rolls, toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee.’ Mrs McDougal nodded to the table, where a breakfast buffet had been laid out. ‘We won’t have butter until tomorrow, so you’ll have to use jam.’ I grabbed a mug, filled it with coffee, took two pieces of toast, and sat down to watch the women tend to the baking.
Under Mrs McDougal’s watchful eye, the young girl went to the oven and took out a cookie sheet laden with half a dozen cinnamon rolls. She set these on a cooling rack, slid the sheet of uncooked rolls into the oven, shut the door, and set the timer.
‘Those look beautiful,’ Mrs McDougal said with pride. ‘Now glaze them with the icing, and I bet Miss Bennett will volunteer to taste one for you.’
‘Two for me, please. I’m famished.’ Dr Geisler burst into the room. He poured himself a cup of coffee and loaded a plate up with toast, scrambled eggs, and two of the cinnamon rolls – a surprising amount of food for a man so slight of build. He sat down across from me, put his linen napkin on his lap, and dug into his breakfast.
‘You’re probably wondering why we eat in the kitchen. The dining room has been converted to a visiting area. I’m hopeful that when our beds are full, the patients’ families will come to visit them. There’s something warm and cosy about eating in the kitchen, don’t you think?’
He didn’t give me a chance to answer.
‘We dine formally in the alcove across the hall. We can seat eight people, and that is sufficient for our needs.’ He picked up the newspaper that lay folded on the table near his plate. ‘I’m sorry about Mr Collins. You’ll have a key to your room by lunchtime. I should have had the foresight to give you one when you first arrived. Did you sleep well after your interruption?’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Although I confess I wedged a chair under the doorknob.’
‘Mr Collins is quite taken with you, Sarah. I assure you he’s harmless, so if you come across him just know that he will not hurt you.’
‘What do you do with patients like Mr Collins? Has he always been like that? Can you cure him?’
‘Mr Collins used to be a prodigious piano player, a respected professional. He suffered a horrible tragedy, which pushed him over the edge. He hasn’t played the piano since.’ Dr Geisler set his fork down and used his toast to mop up the last of his eggs. He didn’t speak until he finished chewing and dabbed his mouth once again with his napkin.
‘I have no idea if I can do anything for him at this point. He seems to be a different person when he is under hypnosis. But when I bring him back, he regresses. When Mr Collins’s brother brought him here, he mentioned that he had no idea what to do with his brother’s piano. I suggested he bring it here, just in case it might trigger a memory. Music is great therapy.
‘But to answer your question, I’ll just say that I remain hopeful. You’ll learn more about his story when you transcribe my notes. I read what you did yesterday. Commendable job.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, pleased with myself for a job well done.
‘I’ve left a pile of handwritten pages on your desk. You will find the date they were written in the upper right-hand corner. If you would organize them chronologically, current date on top, that is the order I would like them in when you type them up. They aren’t going to be included in the book, but I need them typed today.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m glad you’re here, Sarah. I will see you later. I must check on my patients. Oh, and get you a key.’
Dr Geisler thanked Mrs McDougal for breakfast and left me sitting at the table with the San Francisco Examiner. The headlines RAF Rips at Berlin: Fires Rage and Jap Fleet Nears New Guinea jumped out at me.
Here I was, worried about mundane matters, while our soldiers faced the ravages of war and, somewhere in this city, someone’s wife, mother, or daughter was receiving a dreaded visit from a Western Union man.
* * *
Someone had left a flower arrangement on the desk in my office, a simple Mason jar filled with yellow roses, white tulips, and a spray of baby’s breath. There was no card, and I wondered if they were from Zeke. They brightened the room, a singular attempt to override the endless grey outside my window.
The promised pile of notes lay on my desk, waiting for me to sort them. I opened the curtains and the window, turned on the banker’s lamp, and set about my task.
I couldn’t help but read the notes as I organized them. They were written accounts of Dr Geisler’s hypnotherapy sessions dating as far back as 1938. I read of patients who had lost weight, controlled pain, and overcame chronic phobias. Dr Geisler had even cured two children of bedwetting.
I had just settled into a routine, sorting by year, then month, when Bethany came into the room.
‘I’ve come to see how you’re doing today,’ she said. She eyed the pile of papers on my desk and the vase of flowers.
I stretched my neck and flexed my fingers, using the exercises that Miss Macky had taught us to treat the inevitable cramps that arose after long hours of typewriting.
‘Beautiful flowers,’ Bethany said.
‘I don’t know who they’re from. I used to grow roses at my house in Bennett Cove.’
‘Do you miss it there?’ Bethany sat down in the chair next to my desk.
‘No. My memories of Bennett Cove are not good. But I love the beach.’
‘Sometimes it’s difficult to leave the past behind.’ She stood up. ‘I’ll see you at lunchtime.’ She left my office, closing the door behind her.
Through my window, I could hear her enter Dr Geisler’s office. The conversation between them latched on to the spring breeze and flowed into my office, allowing me to hear it as though I were in the same room.
‘Did you buy Sarah flowers?’ Bethany asked.
‘I did. The poor girl deserved a little something. She’s alone in the world, and Jack Bennett’s trial has taken a horrible toll on her. She’s upset over Zeke. You can tell by looking at her.’
‘She’s doing a good job of avoiding him. They met yesterday in the library. They were very intimate at first. There’s no denying they are in love. You can see it between them. But Sarah’s jumpy. I wonder if she knows her own mind, Matthew. She’s at least ten years younger than he.’
‘Sarah’s 26 and Zeke is 34, but Sarah’s an old soul. I think they are good for each other. There’s no need for you to watch her every move, darling. Let’s try to make her feel at home. We must get her a key—’
‘Matthew, don’t try to placate me. We need to finish our conversation. As I told you last night, I’m concerned that you would turn away paying patients, when we are so low on funds. There are patients ready to check in to this hospital and pay us to be here. In order to make the hospital pay for itself, we need to have patients in the beds.’
‘But I don’t have the time to give to them, not now. Can you not see that?’
‘Because you’re off on these séances with Minna? Matthew, darling, please. I love you, but I am so worried. You’ve become obsessed with Alysse, and for some strange reason you think that Sarah Bennett is connected to her. Don’t you realize how absurd you sound? Alysse is dead. This obsession of yours is not healthy.’
I heard the sound of a chair moving on the wood floor. In my mind’s eye, I saw Dr Geisler moving around the desk to sit next to his wife.
‘I can’t explain what I saw at the trial, darling. And as crazy as it sounds, Alysse was there. I know it.’
‘Have you seen her, Matthew? Have you seen her with Sarah?’
‘Well, no, not really. I just—’
‘I can’t talk to you about this, Matthew. Not now. We need to take the patients. These are soldiers with psychiatric injuries, soldiers who need peace and quiet. They need our help, now. The hospital needs the income. We can charge them, and I can get Dr Severton to see to their care. Don’t you see, you need to work, darling? You can pursue this new interest of yours at the weekends.’ Bethany couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice.
‘Dr Severton could see to the patients. That’s a splendid idea. You know, Bethany, you do have a remarkable business sense. Whatever you think, darling. I trust you implicitly. I know this hospital means the world to you. That’s why you’re the business manager.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll see to it right away. How’s Sarah doing? Will she be able to do the job?’
‘She is doing very well,’ he said.
‘Matthew, you realize if the newspapers discover you’ve hired Sarah, they will stake this place out. We’ll get no peace. The sanctuary we offer our patients will be compromised.’
They murmured and for a moment I couldn’t hear what was said between them.
‘What’s bothering you, darling? Something tells me that your worries have nothing to do with Sarah or my interest in the occult.’
‘It’s Minna,’ she said. ‘I’m worried about her. I know that she believes she has a newfound psychic ability, and I realize how interesting that is to you. She thinks that Gregory is alive and has come to get his revenge. She needs more help than we can provide. I know how much you care for her, but I think we are doing her a disservice by allowing her to stay here. This house can only remind her of the past. You don’t believe that Minna is truly a medium, do you? Darling, you are risking your career.’
‘You’re shivering,’ he said.
‘Close the window, please. It’s freezing in here.’
He closed the window. And that was that. I couldn’t hear them any longer.
Try as I might, I couldn’t focus on the stack of notes that needed to be sorted. Rather than sit at my desk, I stood by the door that led into Dr Geisler’s office with my ear pressed against it. I could have left, gone upstairs, packed my things, and slipped out the front door with no one any the wiser. But I had no place to go and no money to get there. I listened until I heard Bethany leave. When the door shut behind her, I slipped into Dr Geisler’s office. He uncapped his pen and started to make some notes on one of the yellow pads that were scattered all around the office.
‘Excuse me,’ I said.
‘Finished?’ Dr Geisler put his pen down.
‘No.’
‘Are you able to read my handwriting?’
‘Yes.’
He studied me and something in my expression must have led him to ask, ‘Is everything okay?’
I pointed at one of the guest chairs that faced his desk. ‘May I?’
‘Please.’ He studied me. ‘Sarah, whatever is the matter?’
‘I can hear everything that is said in this office when the windows are open,’ I said. ‘Since I’m one of those people who needs fresh air, I had my window open this morning.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Dr Geisler would not make a good poker player. Regret, followed by the flush of embarrassment, washed over his face.
‘Who is Alysse?’
The seconds passed, marked by the ticking of the brass ship’s clock that rested on the shelf behind the desk. He closed his eyes and used his forefinger to massage the furrow that had formed between his brows.
‘Forgive me for being blunt, but I heard everything you and Bethany said. I know no one named Alysse, and I would like you to explain yourself. You said she’s attached herself to me. What does that mean?’
‘Alysse is the sister I lost in the influenza epidemic. She didn’t want to die.’
‘Does anyone?’
‘I’ve seen her. Not like a ghost, white and shimmery like the gothic fiction that my wife loves. I’ve felt her essence, seen glimpses out of the corner of my eye. She’s come to me in dreams, and just when I see her, just when I think I can speak to her, I wake up. I think she is trying to communicate with me.
‘I know you are the key. Sarah, what happened last October? There were no fingerprints found on the gun, and based on Jack Bennett’s shoulder wound, the weapon couldn’t have been fired by you.’
A shiver ran down my spine. I grabbed the arms of my chair, bracing myself as the room started to spin.
‘Take a deep breath,’ Dr Geisler said in a soft voice.
I did as he instructed. The dizziness passed.
‘Sarah, I’m familiar with your case file. I’ve spoken to Dr Upton about your testimony at Jack Bennett’s trial. I’m well aware of your position and the things that you witnessed, the things that the jury didn’t hear. I also have spoken to Zeke, and he told me what he saw. Would you like me to tell you what I think?’
I must have nodded, for he continued to speak.
‘I think your biological mother, Grace Kensington, came to you in spirit form, with the sole mission of protecting you from Jack Bennett. I’m willing to bet that you haven’t seen her again. Have you?’
I shook my head, ignoring the implication of his words, not trusting him enough to confide in him about the weeping noises that had plagued me for weeks.
‘So she fulfilled her quest and crossed over. That’s not so unusual. Spirits are with us all the time. We’re separated by something that no one understands.’ He opened his desk drawer, took out an old picture, and slid it across the desk to me. The picture showed a young woman dressed in a floor-length evening dress. The tilt of her head gave her an air of self-assurance. Her smile radiated warmth. I turned the photo over. On the back, someone had scrawled Alysse, June 1917.
‘Why do you think she’s here?’ I asked.
‘Because I’ve heard her weeping.’ Dr Geisler watched me. ‘You’ve heard it too?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It started after the foreman read the “not guilty” verdict.’
‘She was at your trial, as God is my witness. I felt her presence hovering around you, and I make no claim to any special ability in that regard. I’m afraid she wants me to do something for her, and she wants to use you as the conduit. I know it’s a lot to take in, but all I’m asking is that you listen for her. If she comes to you, please tell me. I give you my solemn word that I will not send you to an asylum. I won’t breathe a word of what you say to anyone. I will treat our communication as sacrosanct. I know you experience things.
‘Zeke knows there’s no way you could have shot Jack Bennett. He’s worried about you. In fact, he approached me about your psychic ability. He thinks you may be a medium. I know that you took a terrible fall off the second-storey landing at Bennett House. Did you know an incident like that can trigger latent psychic abilities?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Does Zeke believe your theory?’
‘Zeke is an educated, open-minded man, with a healthy dose of scepticism that will keep me honest. You need to talk to him. He wants to know why you experience these things. You can’t blame him for that, can you? If you were in his shoes, wouldn’t you want as much information as possible?’
I didn’t get a chance to answer. The door burst open and Minna rushed in, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes wild, her breathing hard and fast.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Matthew, I swear I’m going mad.’
Matthew got up and went to Minna. He put his arm around her, and led her to the small love seat in the corner of his office.
‘I’ve seen him, Matthew. I swear on my life that your brother is alive.’ Minna sat down in the chair and buried her hands in her face. ‘He’s going to kill you. He’s coming after us.’
‘Minna, Gregory’s dead.’ Dr Geisler met my eyes. I motioned towards the door. He nodded his head. I flung the door open, ready to flee to the safety of my own room, but I collided with Bethany. We almost toppled over, but Bethany remained upright and held me fast.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t realize—’ I didn’t realize you were eavesdropping.
‘I wanted to see my husband, but Minna—’ The skin on her cheeks blossomed into an unbecoming shade of red.
‘She’s quite shaken.’
‘That woman is going to be the end of us.’ She shivered and rubbed her arms. ‘She’s clearly worked herself into a frenzy. Do you know what’s wrong?’
‘She mentioned someone named Gregory. I thought it best I leave.’
‘Good thinking. I need to speak to them. I’m sorry you had to witness that, Sarah. My sitting room is just a few doors down from your room. I’ve got shelves of books in there. Help yourself. Borrow anything you like. Lunch will be served in half an hour. I’ll see you then.’
She rapped twice on the door and let herself in.

Chapter Three (#ulink_fe093744-b6e4-50ec-bc0b-f8156f3ea55c)
After a simple lunch of potatoes au gratin and broccoli I went back to my typewriter. I had just settled into my work when Dr Geisler knocked on my door. He stepped into the room. Energy crackled off him like bolts of lightning. He rose up on the balls of his feet and rocked back down on his heels.
‘Sarah, would you like to come with Minna and me to visit a house?’ He stood before my desk, rocking and bobbing.
‘Visit a house?’
‘A woman named Virginia Wills is turning her house over to the City to house servicemen. She doesn’t want to live there anymore, but can’t bear to part with it. She believes her grandfather is angry with her. She wants to try to reach him.’
‘Why can’t she talk to him herself?’ The minute I uttered the words I knew the answer to my question.
‘Because he’s dead. Don’t you see what an opportunity this is? I’ll bring you and Minna. If we’re lucky, one of you will sense something. This could be the breakthrough I’ve been waiting for. Don’t worry, there’s no pressure. Mrs Wills won’t even know that you have the ability to see ghosts. She thinks that Minna is the psychic, and we won’t disabuse her of that idea, unless, of course, you see something.’
I hesitated.
‘Of course, if you’d rather not, I understand. I just thought you might be interested.’
‘I’ll just get my coat,’ I said as I pushed away from the desk.
Minutes later, I stood before my vanity, trying to tuck my flyaway curls into some semblance of order when there was a rap at my door.
‘Yes.’ I pinched my cheeks, trying to force some colour into them. The pinching didn’t work.
‘It’s Minna.’
She glided into my room in one graceful motion. Her hair had been swept up into a subtle but elegant French twist, and held into place by a silver-filigreed comb. Her black dress flowed over her sinewy body in waves.
‘I come bearing gifts.’ She held out a burlap sack that smelled of lavender and tangerine. ‘It’s soaking salts. I wanted to apologize for bursting in on you today.’
She wore no shoes, so her white feet, with their high arches and callused toes, stood out against the black of her hemline. I recognized those calluses. I had seen them on my adoptive mother, Jessica Bennett, the result of many years spent en pointe as a principal for the San Francisco ballet, a career sidelined after a knee injury.
‘I bought them at City of Paris. There’s a seashell in the bag that you use as a scoop.’
‘They smell wonderful. Thank you,’ I said.
‘You know, Magnin’s victory window broadcasts KYA live each day at noon. Would you like to go some time?’
The radio station’s victory window was quickly becoming famous. Last week Lana Turner showed up and broadcast live on the air, while an enthusiastic crowd gathered outside the window. Was I ready to face a crowded Union Square? The thought of it raised my heart rate.
Not wanting to explain myself, I pretended to hesitate. ‘I’d like to, I’m just not quite ready to be out in public yet. The trial – I encounter hostility at times.’
‘That will pass.’ She moved over to my dresser and stood before my seascapes that lay on top of it. She leaned close and studied them.
‘This room suits you. Its colours are warm and bright. Like you.’ She reached out a finger and traced a slow, sensuous line over one of the paintings. ‘Did you paint these?’
‘No. I brought them from home. They were done by a Bennett Cove artist.’
‘The brush work is remarkable.’ Minna took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Sarah, I wanted to explain what happened to me earlier, if you don’t mind. It’s rather strange and no one believes me.’
‘There’s no need to explain. I understand.’
‘But you don’t.’
I watched with dismay as she sat on my bed, folded her hands on her lap, and kept her eyes riveted on them as she spoke. ‘Twenty-seven years ago I stood Matthew’s brother up at the altar. I left Gregory standing there, rejected him at Grace Cathedral with 200 people as witness. He never forgave me. Two days later he crashed his car, probably on purpose. They said that it was completely incinerated in the fire. The body was burned to ashes. But I think Gregory is here. I’ve seen him. He’s either a ghost come back to get revenge on me for leaving, or he didn’t die at all. I’ve seen him, and I’m frightened.’
I recognized her look of desperation. I had experienced it myself when I had seen things that no one wanted to believe.
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Where have you seen him? If he’s alive, the police should be called.’
‘I’ve called the police,’ she said. ‘I filed two reports, but they dismissed me. They had the audacity to tell me I was seeing things and blamed it on the war, if you can believe that. I’m afraid if I call again, they will make good on their threat to have me committed to an asylum. I couldn’t bear that.’
‘But where have you seen this man? Has he spoken to you? Has he threatened you?’
‘I haven’t seen him directly.’ She shivered. ‘It’s the small things. I catch glimpses of him in a crowd. I saw him in Union Square today. I’m certain of it. I smelled his aftershave on my pillow last night.’ Minna shook her head and stood. ‘I’ve said too much. There’s nothing you can do. I just wanted to apologize.’ She stood up. ‘You’re a good listener, Sarah Bennett.’
I grabbed my coat and headed downstairs, all the while wondering what I had got myself into.
* * *
Dr Geisler drove a black Chevy sedan. His medical licence allowed him unlimited quantities of gasoline, which had become so precious since the outbreak of the war. He and Minna sat in the front. Since I didn’t have a very good vantage point in the back, I leaned back and listened to their small talk.
We arrived at a large house situated on Russian Hill and fashioned after an Italian villa. There weren’t any places to park, but that didn’t matter, as a man waited for our arrival. When he saw our car, he waved to Dr Geisler, who pulled up to him and rolled down his window.
‘Dr Geisler? I’m to take your car for you, sir. I’ll park it around the back of the house.’ He opened the door for Minna. I opened my own door and joined Dr Geisler and Minna on the sidewalk in front of the house. ‘Mrs Wills is waiting for you. You can go on up to the house.’
As we got close, the shabbiness of the house became more apparent. It had become difficult in this time of war to find maintenance men, which explained why the paint had faded and greyed in spots. Tall weeds grew in the small lawn, giving the house a look of disrepair, as though no one had cared for the exterior in quite some time. As we approached the front door, I noticed two blue stars, and one gold.
A middle-aged woman dressed in a wool gabardine suit that must have cost the Earth opened the door for us. She wore too much make-up, but had a kind smile that put me at ease. ‘Dr Geisler?’ She spoke in a breathy voice as she extended her hand to him. ‘I’m Virginia Wills. Won’t you come in?’
We stepped into a world of white – white walls, white window frames, and white ceilings – balanced out by a floor constructed of dark wood. An old sideboard, too massive to move, held an old oil lamp. Bright spots on the walls marked the places where the rest of the furniture used to be. A large window encompassed the entire western-facing wall, filling the room with light.
When I moved into the beams that shone through the window, the room grew so cold that my breath came out in curlicues of fog.
Dr Geisler and Minna were busy with Mrs Wills, so they didn’t notice me, shivering and freezing as though I were outside in a snowstorm.
‘Most of the furniture’s been moved out already,’ Mrs Wills explained, ‘but I’ve got tea ready in here.’
The room warmed once again, and I lingered for a moment in a beam of sunlight.
‘This way, please.’
We followed Mrs Wills as she led us down a dark corridor into a sitting room with a bay window that overlooked the street. Two armchairs and two dining chairs had been arranged in a circle, so we would have a place to sit. A tea trolley on rollers held a silver coffee service. Mrs Wills busied herself pouring for the three of us.
‘I’m getting a feeling,’ Minna said. She stood in front of the bay window, bathed in the late morning light, and touched the back of her hand to her forehead.
Mrs Wills gasped.
Dr Geisler narrowed his eyes as he watched Minna turn in a slow circle.
He doesn’t believe her.
‘Somebody has died in this house,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Wills said in awe.
Minna held her hands out and tipped her head back. Everyone held their breath. Minna dropped her hands to her sides and shook her head.
‘It’s no good. It’s gone. I’m sorry.’
Minna floated with a dancer’s grace over to one of the chairs. Mrs Wills offered her a cup of coffee, but Minna waved her off, opting to tip her head back and close her eyes in quiet repose.
Mrs Wills set the cup she had offered Minna on the tray. She pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. Dr Geisler waited, sipping his coffee, as though we had all the time in the world. When he spoke, his gentle voice echoed off the walls.
‘Would you like to tell us what’s happened, Mrs Wills?’
‘You’re a psychiatrist, correct?’
‘Yes, madam. I am a licensed medical doctor, whose specialty is psychiatry.’
‘I think I’m going mad, Dr Geisler.’ The hand that held the cup started to tremble. Mrs Wills set it down. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
‘My great-grandfather built this home, and my family has lived in it ever since. My mother was born in this house, and so was I. My children and I are going to move into the housing at Hamilton Air Force Base. My husband’s a pilot.’ Fresh tears welled in her eyes. ‘That’s not important. We are going to put beds in here and make a place for servicemen to live before they ship out. I’ve seen the pictures in the newspaper, with the poor men sleeping in hotel lobbies. I want to do my part, and this house is empty, so I don’t know why this is so hard for me.’ She paused and smoothed out a non-existent wrinkle in her skirt. ‘Things have been moving.’ Her gaze met Dr Geisler’s, as if to gauge his reaction to the words she found so shocking.
‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mrs Wills.’
‘Silverware started going missing. At first, I thought the workmen were stealing, but I discovered the missing items tucked into the old sideboard. Last week, I came to let the painters in. I turned my back for just a minute, not even that. My purse and car keys disappeared. I found them in the sideboard as well. I didn’t put them there, of that I am certain. Why would I?’
‘How did you come to look in the sideboard to find the items?’
‘It’s the only piece of furniture in the house. It’s too big to move, and it doesn’t fit anywhere in my new home. The painters worked all morning and went to lunch. When they came back, all of their paintbrushes had been cleaned and dried, as though they were brand new. We found them in the sideboard.’
Dr Geisler spoke, but his voice faded away. I gulped the weak coffee, but my throat tightened as I swallowed it.
‘Excuse me,’ I heard myself say as I stood up.
The walls had started to undulate. When I giggled out loud, Dr Geisler put his coffee cup down and turned to face me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Minna try to stand up, but Dr Geisler shook his head, and she sat back down. All eyes were upon me as I clung to the back of my chair, gasping for breath. Why couldn’t I get enough air? The floor moved beneath my feet, and then everything went still and quiet.
I floated in blissful peace, in a tunnel of pure love. It was warm here, warm to heart, warm to soul. The shape of a man formed near me. As he got close, I could make out his thinning grey hair. He wore a tweed suit, complete with vest and watch fob, reminiscent of the early twentieth century. He stood before me, surveying the room. I couldn’t see Dr Geisler anymore. The light in the tunnel blinded me to everyone but the man. I didn’t fear him. I didn’t fear anything. I had never experienced such perfect bliss.
He surveyed the room. His gaze lit on Mrs Wills. His love for her radiated off his body and enshrouded her in the same white light that encircled me now. So that’s what love looks like. When the man turned his attention to me, the white light around Mrs Wills vanished.
‘Can you see me?’ the man bellowed, frustrated, begging to be heard.
I nodded, not daring to try to speak.
‘By God, you can.’ He moved towards me. ‘Tell her I didn’t mean to scare anyone. It’s my gold watch. It fell behind the sideboard. I don’t want her to lose it. Do you understand me?’

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