“All right,” I said. “What’s next?”
Trey checked his watch. “I need to get back to the station. Nick has asked to speak to you before you go back to your cabin. He and Addison are in 1650. Once you’re back inside your room, lock up and stay there.”
“Are you sure? I—”
“Yes, I’m sure. And don’t forget—”
“The security code. I won’t.”
There was electricity to him. I wanted to kiss him, good and thoroughly, but we weren’t supposed to be fraternizing. He still hadn’t looked in his pocket.
I hoisted my bag on my shoulder, reassured to feel the weight of my weapon in there. As I walked past Trey, I stopped shoulder to shoulder, our biceps barely touching. He was warm from his recent sprint, and I caught his scent, a potent mixture of starched cotton and evergreen aftershave and skin.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “This is me not kissing you good-bye.”
He leaned his head infinitesimally closer. “I know.”
Chapter Forty-one
I didn’t call for a club cart. Instead, I walked the winding path that led around the edge of the property, the pines slender and black against the sky. The woods thinned as I approached the back of the cabins, and the night opened up above me, wide and spangled with stars. It was cool here, fragrant with late honeysuckle and hay from the barn. I could smell the lake even if I couldn’t see it, clean and mossy.
The break in the clearing led to a simple wrought iron gate, and beyond that, a cemetery. It was very small, with rows of granite markers that glowed in the moonlight. Modest as cemeteries went, it was nonetheless immaculately groomed. I didn’t remember seeing it on the map.
My phone buzzed, and I put it to my ear. “Hey, partner.”
“How did you find out?”
I laughed. “You finally looked in your pocket.”
“How?”
“I’m not telling.”
“You have to.”
“No, I don’t. That wasn’t part of the deal. Camping was, though, so start deciding where you want to go. I heard Cloudland Canyon is nice this time of year. Well, except for the scorpions.” I tested the latch, and the gate swung open noiselessly. “Hey, did you know there’s a graveyard behind the ruins?”
“What are you doing out there?”
“It’s on the way to Nick’s.”
“No, it’s not. It’s in the woods. There are things in the woods.”
I laughed. “Now you sound like yourself again.”
He was silent for a second. I waited for him to argue some more, but he didn’t.
“This place isn’t on the map,” I said.
“Not the guest map. It is on the security map, however.”
I knelt beside one monument, plain as such went, memorializing the family and the slaves who built and tended the plantation, all of them buried together, owner and property. I looked at the gathered dead and felt the familiar punch in my gut. I knew this land had once belonged to the Cherokee, before their treaty was violated and they were driven down the Trail of Tears. And I knew that each lovely brick of the villa had been laid by dark, enslaved hands, every single one. No wonder they lit up the ruins with year-round Christmas lights, desperate attempts to drive out the shadows.
I heard the crunch of footsteps and froze. A familiar smell wafted my way. Tobacco smoke. I turned slowly and saw a figure at the gate, illuminated by the burning tip of a cigarette. I lowered my voice and switched my phone to my left hand, dipped my right into my bag. I closed my fingers around the butt of the revolver.
“Trey?” I whispered. “There’s someone here.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell.”
The figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. A man, short and stocky. He raised the hand with the cigarette. “Sorry to startle you. I didn’t realize I had company.”
The Talbots’ accountant, Oliver James. I removed my hand from the bag and walked over. “Hello again, Mr. James. We’ve met.”
He peered closer. “Oh yes. Ms. Randolph. I’m sorry I was the bearer of bad tidings that day. Care for a smoke?”
He held out the pack of cigarettes to me. I took one, and he lit it with gentlemanly grace. I took a long, deep drag. Menthols, not my favorite, but that didn’t matter. I could feel Trey’s disapproval emanating from the phone.
I sighed. “My boyfriend detests cigarettes.”
“Addison does not approve of them either,” Oliver said. “She’s designated every single square foot of this place a tobacco-free zone.”
“But not the secret graveyard?”
He shrugged. “It’s the safest spot for transgression. Nobody comes back here. One must actually ambulate and that’s beyond the ken of these guests. They prefer the fake cemetery anyway, the stage-built one out behind the barn. This one here isn’t grave-yardy enough.”
I sucked up the sweet minty smoke. Typical Hollywood, and typical Atlanta. I’d gotten used to having the dead underfoot in Savannah—that entire city was built on graves. But Atlanta did not love its real ghosts, only its imaginary ones.
“You used to do cemetery tours, didn’t you?” Oliver said.
I examined him through the haze of moonlight-laced smoke. His softness disguised a sharp cleverness.
He chuckled. “You can drop the pretense. Quint told me who you are and why you’re here.”
“I thought he wanted to keep this under wraps.”
“Quint tells me everything. He takes care of the big picture necessities, and I grind out the details.”
“Are you friends?”
He gave me a quizzical look. “Friends? No, not friends.”
“You must be very talented then. You were an accountant one year, CFO the next. That’s some career track you found. Lucrative enough to follow all the way to Atlanta.”
He blew a stream of smoke
