Treasures aka See How She Dies

she’d taken one last swallow of her drink, then left the glass on the bedside table before stripping and heading unsteadily for the shower. That was right, wasn’t it?

Or was she mixing things up?

Why couldn’t she remember?

Why was everything so fuzzy?

Maybe she’d imagined locking the door.

Maybe she had heard someone prowling through these rooms while she’d stood under the shower’s spray.

Her throat turned to dust.

Again she sensed a presence.

Something eerily out of place.

She started for the telephone.

“Mama.”

A scared little voice.

Kat’s heart nearly stopped. “London? Baby?” The sound was coming from the verandah, through the crack in the door. This was insane. She should reach for the phone. Phone hotel security. Call the police.

Like you did before?

And have them all look at you like you’re crazy?

Have them exchange glances as they noticed the vials on the nightstand?

Have them suggest you “talk” to someone?

Is that what you want to go through again?

No.

Heart thudding, she inched her way to the exterior doors where the curtains billowed slightly and the chill of December seeped inside. Through the sheers she saw a dark shadow. Small. Shivering.

London?

Precious, precious child!

Kat yanked open the door.

A blast of winter hit her hard.

A cacophony of street noise, traffic, music, voices rushed up nineteen floors.

The huddled little figure moved.

“Oh, honey-” Kat whispered, her throat suddenly tight.

The interior light snapped off.

The figure turned a face toward her, and even through the fog in her mind and the semidarkness of the city, she recognized the face-not of her missing daughter, but of a treacherous, wicked liar.

“You,” she spat, trying to turn away. Blindly, she flailed, trying to escape.

Too late.

Strong fingers grabbed her shoulders and a fierce, intent weight shoved her closer to the short brick wall surrounding the verandah. Kat screamed. Her knees hit the century-old brickwork; she tried to grab something, anything, to no avail. The force of her body slammed against her backside-the sheer determination of her attacker propelled her forward, closer to the edge and the crumbling…“No! Oh, God, no!” Kat cried, seeing a hand in her peripheral vision. Gloved fingers clutched a bit of brick. Kat cringed.

Bam!

Pain exploded behind her eyes. Blackness pulled her under. She started to sag, but was propped up, pushed forward, the railing hitting her in her middle and disintegrating with her weight.

And then suddenly she was falling, sailing through the cold night air…

PART ONE

1993

1

If only she could remember.

If only she knew the truth.

If only she were certain she wasn’t on a fool’s mission. She glanced up at the dark October sky and felt the gentle wash of Oregon mist against her face. Had she ever tilted her head back and let the moistness linger on her lips and cheeks? Had she stood on this very corner, across the street from the old Hotel Danvers, holding onto her mother’s hand, waiting for the light to change?

Traffic rushed by, cars and buses spraying water as tires splashed through puddles. Deep in the folds of her coat she shivered, but not from the cool autumn air, or the breath of a breeze rolling off the dank Willamette River only a few blocks to the east. No, she shivered at the thought of what she was planning to do-her destiny, or so she’d been told. She knew she was in for the battle of her life.

But she was committed. She couldn’t give up now. She’d traveled hundreds of miles, been through emotional hell and back, and spent days searching her soul during painstaking, laborious hours in libraries and newspaper offices throughout the Northwest, reading every chronicle, article, or editorial she could find on the Danvers family.

Now her plans were about to come to fruition. Or ruin. She stared up at the hotel, seven stories of Victorian architecture, which had once been one of the tallest buildings in the city and now was dwarfed by its concrete- and-steel counterparts, great skyscrapers that knifed upward, looming over the narrow city streets. “God help me,” she whispered. As beautiful as it was, the edifice of the Hotel Danvers seemed sinister somehow, as if it knew secrets-dark secrets-that could change the course of her life forever.

Which was just plain silly.

Still, Adria felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind whipping through Portland’s narrow streets.

Without waiting for the light to change, she dashed across the street, the hood of her coat blowing off with a strong gust of wind. Daylight began to fade as the cloud-shrouded sun settled behind the westerly hills, hills still rich with green forests and dotted by expensive mansions.

Though the Hotel Danvers was closed to the public, as it had been for the past few months while it was being renovated and brought back to its turn-of-the-century grandeur, she walked through the lobby door that had been propped open for the workmen. The renovation was nearly complete. For the past two days she’d watched as delivery vans had brought tables, chairs, and other furniture to the service entrance. Today, linens, glassware, even some food had been delivered in anticipation of the grand opening, which was slated for the weekend.

The entire Danvers clan, Witt Danvers’s first wife and his four surviving children, were rumored to be in town. Good.

A cold fist of apprehension tightened in her stomach. Ever since learning of the hotel’s closure and reopening, she’d planned her introduction to the family, but first, to test the waters, she needed to speak with the man in charge of the hotel’s face-life: Zachary Danvers, the rebel of the family and second son to Witt. According to every article she’d read, Zachary had never quite fit in. The Danvers family resemblance, so evident in his brothers and sisters, had skipped over him, and during his youth he’d had more than one brush with the law. Only the old man’s money had kept Zachary out of serious trouble, and gossip had it that not only was he the least favorite of Witt’s children but was also nearly cut out of the old man’s will.

Yes, Zachary was the man she needed to see first. She’d studied his photographs so often, she knew she would recognize him. A little over six feet, with coal-black hair, olive skin, and deep-set gray eyes guarded by heavy brows, he was the one son of Witt Danvers who didn’t resemble his father. Leaner than his brothers or the bear of a man who had sired him, his features were as chiseled as the cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was a rugged man, rawhide-tough with a hard mouth that was rarely photographed in a smile. He bore a scar over his right ear