for it.”

“Probably pretty hefty ones too,” Candy said, “despite the economy.”

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been out here in a while, though,” Ben observed.

He was right. Beyond the gate, they saw no tire tracks in the snow, no footprints, nothing to indicate anyone had visited recently.

“I’ll check the gate.” Ben put the transmission into park but left the engine and the heater running as he opened the driver’s-side door and hopped out. Despite the higher elevation, the snow wasn’t too deep, probably because a good bit of it had melted down during the warming trend of the past week and a half.

Ben walked to the gate and peered through the iron bars, some of which were showing rust and disrepair. He reached out a gloved hand and grasped one of the bars, giving the gate a tentative shake. Its age and appearance belied its condition, for it held solid, giving no indication that it would give way or allow them to gain entrance to the property beyond.

A heavy chain and lock wrapped around and through several bars further prevented entry.

Ben studied it all before returning to the Range Rover. He climbed inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. “The place is locked up tight,” he said, “but I think I saw a break in the fence back over that way. We’re going to have to trudge through knee-deep snow. You up for it?”

Candy checked her watch. In his esoteric message, Preston had said he’d meet her here at ten. It was already quarter past. Had they missed him?

Whitefield at 10. Ben will know the way, the posting had said. Had she misread it? Had it been meant for someone else? Or was someone just leading her along?

She opened her door and climbed out, the determination clear on her face. “Let’s check it out.”

Ben took only a few items with him before locking up the vehicle: his 3G cell phone with GPS, which was having trouble getting a signal out here; a flashlight he’d scrounged out of the back; and a tire iron (“Just in case,” he told her). She pulled a flashlight from her tote, which she’d brought with her, but left everything else in the bag on the backseat.

“All right,” Ben said, turning toward the mansion on the hill, “let’s see if this lady is willing to give up some of her secrets today.”

Forty-Seven

“There’s nothing here,” Ben said forty-five minutes later.

The place was abandoned—just as it had looked from the outside.

They’d trudged through the knee-deep snow to the mansion’s expansive front porch, then circled around the back, soaking their jeans from midthigh down in the process, until they’d found a side door curiously unlocked. It had given them entry into a narrow passageway with a few steps that led up to the main floor. “Servants’ entrance,” Ben said as he pushed his way through.

The place smelled old, moldy, and unhealthy. Trash was strewn about. It was obvious squatters had been here, taking advantage of the old building as shelter and leaving their detritus behind. Ben and Candy had searched the place cautiously, thinking someone might still be here, but the place was empty—and without heat. The cold seemed to come out of the walls, as if the weather had seeped into the building’s very bones.

Remembering a discovery in another old house, though one not nearly as grand as this, Candy said, “Maybe there’s a hidden room, or passage or alcove—someplace where documents might be hidden.”

But if there was such a place in this old mansion, they did not find it this day.

Ben looked eminently disappointed as they arrived back on the first floor after checking the upstairs bedrooms. “I was hoping we’d find something,” he said, “but if this old house is still keeping secrets, she’s not telling us.”

Candy checked her watch again. It was just past eleven. Preston Smith—or whoever had posted that message to her—had never showed.

As if reading Candy’s thoughts, Ben said, “You know, I did a quick Internet search on Preston Smith’s name last night, after you sent me that message. I found a few things about him, but most seemed recent—within the past six months or so.”

Candy nodded. She’d found the same thing. “Whatever’s going on,” she said in a resigned tone, “we’re not going to find the answers here.”

Ben made a quick turnaround, looking out through the windows in various directions. “There are a few more buildings outside. I’ll go have a look. Want to come along?”

Candy studied the piles of snow outside and then looked down at her still-wet jeans, which had her shivering. “No thanks. I’ll check upstairs again. Just swing back and get me when you’re ready to go.”

He told her he would, and walked back toward the rear of the building, to access the servants’ entrance through the kitchen.

Candy was alone.

The house creaked around her. Outside, a frozen branch banged against a window, driven by a sudden gust of wind. She thought she heard a low moan, somewhere in the bowels of the house. And then… a footstep.

It seemed to have come from one of the rooms off to her right.

She heard a door close somewhere behind her.

She twisted around. “Ben?”

“Ben seems to be occupied at the moment,” another voice said. “Which is just as well. You and I, we need to have a little talk.”

Candy froze. She knew the voice. She’d heard it before.

Preston Smith stepped out of the shadows near her. “Hello, Ms. Holliday. We meet again.”

Forty-Eight

“You!” Candy said in an accusatory tone. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

Preston gave her a broad grin and waved an expansive hand. “Why, I’ve been here all along.”

“But we searched the house.”

“You missed a few spots. It’s a big house. It’s easy to do if you’re not familiar with it.”

That made Candy pause. She looked at him with scrutinizing eyes. “What kind of game are you playing, Preston?”

“Hmm. Interesting choice of words.” He took a few steps toward her, and she backed away.

“Come any closer and I’ll scream,” she warned.

But the smile did not leave Preston’s face. “Well. We wouldn’t want that, would we? With Ben so nearby, just outside?”

He held up a small, thin metallic object in his hand. It was a black key.

“Unfortunately, you see, I’ve locked the servants’ door,” Preston said. “But there’s no need to panic, Ms. Holliday. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just here to talk.”

Candy backed away a few more steps, casting a glance out one of the nearby windows, hoping to catch sight of Ben. But she saw no sign of him.

“The outbuildings are quite extensive,” Preston said by way of explanation. “It’ll take him a while to search them all. And as I recall, Ben Clayton is a very thorough individual. I’d say we have ten or twelve minutes, at least. That should be enough.”

“For what?” Candy asked warily.

“As I said. For us to talk.”

“And what do we have to talk about?”

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