He turned me toward him, showing no mercy to my wound. “Heed my words. You will not survive if anyone suspects you are not who I say you are.”
I shook off his grip. “Sorry.” I cradled my arm. “She got so defensive. I didn’t want her thinking I was here permanently.”
“Perhaps you are here permanently. We won’t know for some time.” His lips pursed under a bushy moustache as he started to walk. “I warned you about Ms. Rigg. I specifically asked you not to help her.”
I hurried to keep up, thinking back to his parting words in the car. “I had no idea she’d be so offended.”
He halted at the foot of a grand staircase. “Now you know. Don’t help unless she asks.”
I stared at a mole on his cheek. Denton certainly offered asylum-as in loony bin, not sanctuary. What had Brad been thinking? When I found the body in my basement two projects ago, the killer had been behind bars within six months. Could I last around here for six months?
I sighed and followed Denton up the stairs. It wasn’t as if I had a choice.
2
Denton jogged up the steps, speaking to me over his shoulder. “Ms. Rigg has been with my family since I was a boy. When my parents died, I continued to employ her-not only out of obligation, but also from gratitude. She served us well over the years, always treating my home and family as her own. It’s rare to find that kind of loyalty in today’s world.”
He led me down a hallway, gloomy in the fading light.
“Why was she so offended when I tried to help?” I asked. “She practically snapped my head off when I reached for that bowl.” It had been a brown bowl, deep chocolate brown, not unlike the color of Brad’s eyes.
Denton paused in front of a closed door. “She may only be the housekeeper, but Alexa Rigg fancies herself mistress of Cliffhouse. She takes her work seriously. Perhaps too seriously. Her duties have become a heavy weight on her shoulders.”
“Can’t you tell her to ease up?” I said. “I’d love to help where I could. It’s silly to have her wait on me hand and foot when I’m perfectly capable of helping myself. And I really don’t think she enjoys it.”
His hand rested on the doorknob. “Her world is one of conflict. I can’t make her choose peace when she prefers drama.”
The door swung open to reveal an airy bedroom with a row of windows along the far wall. I strode to one and peered through the blackness at a thin rose-colored glow where the water met the sky, like a view of Earth from outer space, a fringe of sunbeams defining the horizon. I drew in an awed breath. Who could embrace conflict within sight of paradise? Ms. Rigg must be living with her eyes closed.
I turned to Denton. “What about you? Don’t you prefer peace in your own home?”
Taking a step back, he smiled. “Yes. That’s why I stay out of the kitchen.” He gripped the doorknob. “Sleep well, Patricia. You’ll need it.” The door shut behind him.
I waited awhile after his footsteps died away before tiptoeing to the kitchen for a serving of Ms. Rigg’s beef stew. I erased all evidence of my meal, then took a stealth tour of the house, roaming from one amazing room to the next-avoiding those with closed doors. By the time I found my way back to my bedroom, I was convinced Cliffhouse presented the finest renovation I’d ever seen.
The next morning, lying in a big four-poster with the morning light filtering through silk curtains, I absorbed more of my new home. The room was fit for a princess. The whole house fit for a queen. Not one area seemed in need of repair. I could almost feel my muscles going limp from lack of hard labor.
The ceiling soared well past the acorn-shaped tips of the bedposts. A single imperfection in the drywall, a tiny lump of paint almost directly above me, gave my eyes a focal point as my mind drifted Brad-ward. I strained to remember the expression on his face as I drove off in his SUV, headed to Del Gloria. He must have waved. Said “I love you.” Maybe even had tears in his eyes. But all my mind could produce was white static, like snow on an off- the-air station.
What could I remember? The way his eyes sparkled like stars in a sky of midnight blue just before he kissed me on the porch and promised to pick me up a few hours later to shop for an engagement ring.
I shifted under the covers and held my left hand above my head, examining the third finger over, wondering which set I would have chosen if my world hadn’t crumbled that day. White or yellow gold? A solitary diamond or a dazzling cluster? Simple or flashy? I smiled at the thought. Simple, of course. Brad loved a woman with dishpan hands, not some ivory-skinned debutante.
I lay there a few minutes more, wishing I could pick up the phone and give him a call. Then I swung my legs over the side of the mattress. A groan accompanied my efforts. The three-day trip to Del Gloria had been excruciating with my bum arm. I rubbed at the ache near my shoulder. The bullet had torn through the flesh, but missed the bone.
A drug deal gone sour and I’d been caught in the middle. Brad had been there too… but the details were hazy. The blast of a weapon, pain knifing through my body, the steady glare of the sun as I drove west in a race for my life.
The next thing I knew I’d rammed into the back end of a mom-and-three-kids minivan somewhere this side of Minneapolis. My arm was bleeding, but other than that, no one had been hurt. I was brought in for medical attention, lucid enough to evade questions by claiming I couldn’t remember anything-including my name. Weirdly, it was mostly true at the time. I’d handed them the slip of paper in my pocket, the one that said DENTON BRADDOCK in Brad Walters’ handwriting. They dialed the phone number. Denton must have known all the right things to say because they left me alone after that.
“It appears you’re suffering from trauma-induced memory loss,” the physician told me later as he treated my injury. “Dr. Braddock is flying in from California. We’ll release you into his custody.” He made it sound like he knew Dr. Braddock personally, as if he was confidently turning me over to the care of some renowned practitioner. How could I have known he meant Dr. Frankenstein?
Now here I was. An inmate of the coastal sanatorium. I walked to a window. At least this time my prison had a view. The lawn in front of the house sloped down to meet a two-lane road flanked by guardrail. Beyond, the land dropped away into a wispy blue ocean that disappeared into the morning fog. I lifted the sash a few inches. Through the screen came the crash of water against rocks. I’d expected the sound to be soothing. But the ebb and swell along the cliffs seemed vicious. Ferocious. Unsettling. I pushed the pane back into place. The roar died, swapped for a muffled
A morning routine was out of the question. I had no soap, shampoo, or makeup. Not even a change of clothes since my own had been too bloodstained to salvage. The professor said all I had to do was ask and he’d get me everything I needed. But how foolish was that? I was thirty-three years old. I’d provided for my own needs practically my whole life. I had no intention of begging him for money or anything else.
In the adjoining bathroom, I splashed water on my face one-handed, thinking that at the very least, soap should have been provided for guests. Denton hadn’t remembered all the basics when he’d speed-shopped for my wardrobe, though his thoughtfulness let me check out of the hospital fully clothed instead of with my skivvies peeking through the gap in the back of my gown. And at least he’d remembered a toothbrush and toothpaste. Still, I wished I’d grabbed a bar of soap and a minishampoo before checking out of the Lumpy Mattress Motel yesterday.
I toweled off, pausing as I got a glimpse of myself. The woman in the mirror looked strained, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. I touched a finger to the skin. Time was catching up to me. Subtle crow’s feet splayed my temple area, a testimony to periodic heartbreak. A deeper gash across my forehead labeled me a worrywart. A crop of gray highlights tufted from the center part of my below-the-shoulder auburn hair, the effects of chronic anxiety.
I forced a smile. My bottom lids arched up. Brad told me it made me look exotic. But squinty-eyed was a more apt description.
Letting my smile fade, I ran a finger across the frown lines framing my mouth. I looked haunted, like the ghost of Tish Amble. Something more than disappointment had changed the appearance of my face.
Sure, I got frustrated with life when a visit from the Yooper Godfather put my marriage proposal on hold-
