She dropped the paper on top of the others and rested her head back on the sofa, closing her eyes.
Her grandmother whispered in a voice only Heather could hear, Attic, my angel. The answers are there. Find them.
In her empty living room, she didn’t have to worry about anyone questioning her sanity, so she replied out loud. “I’ve been up there, Gram. There are old pictures, the hope chest, and dusty Christmas decorations.”
You can’t sell this house. Don’t let your sister take this from you.
Heather massaged her temples. “Maybe she’s right. It wasn’t fair for you to leave it to me. It’s rightfully half hers, too.”
Speaking with the dead, even her own relatives, wasn’t an exact science. The connection faded in and out, sometimes a whisper or images, and occasionally emotions, but right now her grandmother’s voice was crystal clear. You’re in danger.
“Me?” Heather frowned. “From who?”
A knock at the door broke the connection. She got up from the couch and opened it to find Drake standing on her porch. His tan skin looked ashen, his eyes puffy, and sweat glistened on his forehead.
She blinked. “How did you…”
He held up her business card. “Are you busy? I know it says appointment only, but this couldn’t wait.”
Was he the danger her grandmother was warning her about? Surely it wasn’t Ashley. They weren’t close, but they were still sisters. She’d protect Ashley with her life.
She didn’t move to open the door any wider. “Why are you here?”
“I was an asshole, but that’s not who I am, or at least not who I used to be.” The pain in the depths of his blue eyes tugged at her stupid heart. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I haven’t slept, either. Something evil is on the wind. I’m…worried about you.”
“Worried enough to trust me?” She raised a brow.
He straightened a little, that stubborn jaw clenching. “I can trust you with my truths, but I won’t expose anyone else without their consent.”
“Sorry. I can’t do this.” Heather crossed her arms around her middle. “I think I told you that I consult with David.” She cleared her throat and corrected herself. “Agent Bale. That much is true. But I also dated him. I thought we were in love until I realized a part of him will always be more committed to his job than to me. In the end, he broke my heart, and I promised myself I’d never be second best to someone’s secrets.”
Something flashed in his eyes at the mention of her relationship with David, but it was gone so fast, maybe she’d misinterpreted it. “Not askin’ ye to love me, lass.” His tone softened, deep and raw, and she caught a trace of that nautical accent she’d heard the other night, only this time it wasn’t playful, it seemed…sincere. He swallowed, searching her eyes. “When ye warned me of danger at the Juliette Gordon Low house, it was a banshee’s wail that dropped me to my knees.”
Being in the metaphysical community, Heather had cursory knowledge of banshees. As the legends went, they usually signaled a future death. Her pulse kicked up a notch. Maybe Drake really was the danger her grandmother cautioned her about.
But staring into his tormented eyes, there was an odd familiarity there. From the depths of her soul, she knew he would never hurt her. She wasn’t sure how just yet, but she had a sneaking suspicion the vision of him bowing to her without a scar on his forehead was the key.
She stepped back, opening the door for him to come inside. He nodded and crossed over the threshold. His scent filled her lungs, and another vision flashed through her mind. He was waving from the riggings of a ship that looked remarkably like the one she’d driven him to the other night. Just as quickly as it came on, it was gone. She checked the street outside. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but every shadow appeared ominous.
He took a chair at the draped table she kept set up for readings. Under the fabric, the glass table was etched with a heart. A precious gift from her grandfather to her grandmother. Most of the antiques in the house were woven into the tapestry of her family. Every piece told a story, and they were all she had left of them now.
Heather sat across from him and took a deep breath. Time to see if he would really trust her with his truths. Whatever the hell that meant.
“You told me how you got the scar on your forehead, but I don’t think you mentioned when it happened.” He started to open his mouth, but she raised a finger to stop him. “Wait. Before you decide whether or not I can handle the truth, I need to tell you something.” She leaned in closer, her gaze rising to the scar over his brow. “Since we’ve met, I’ve had more than one vision of you. We’ve known each other before. You were dressed in clothes similar to the ghost boy who called you uncle. You bowed to me and offered your hand, and you didn’t have that scar.”
Chapter Seven
Drake rubbed his forehead, stunned and confused. He’d never met this woman before the night at the cemetery, and he definitely had the scar then. He’d acquired it during one of their voyages across the Atlantic from England to the colonies, around 1790 if he had to guess.
They didn’t have cell phones to check the date and time back then.
“That’s impossible. I’ve had the scar for…years. We met in the Bonaventure a couple of months ago.”
She laid her ivory hands on the table, all her attention on his face. “You can believe in a banshee’s wail, but you can’t believe our souls have met before?”
“Our souls?” He accepted his verbal communication skills were rusty, but
