Liana

The small lake house was dead and silent. Maire felt like an intruder as she moved through its quiet halls. Clearly no one had been here since the accident; dust lay thick on the furniture and there was a suspicious smell of mold in the kitchen. Frail shards of sunlight drifted through the dirty windows, and dust-motes danced in the light.

The living room was sparsely furnished in what Reagan would have called “rental unit chic” – a plain brown sofa and matching loveseat, a low coffee table with many battle scars, two nondescript end-tables bearing mildly ugly lamps. There was no television in here; Reagan would have the TV in the bedroom, so she could indulge in her favorite guilty pleasure: watching late-night talk shows in bed, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees.

Maire felt a pang at the memory. She would deal with the bedroom later.

There wasn’t too much more to the little house; a tiny front hall with a coat closet, the living room (badly furnished but moderately spacious), a microscopic dining nook, galley-style kitchen; then, in the back, the bedroom and bathroom.

And the attic.

Maire climbed the narrow staircase to the attic, which her sister had been using as an art studio.

Crap – she’d thought the bedroom would be bad; this was a thousand times worse.

Ten or so canvases were arranged in a circle around the room, all bearing paintings that were approximately three-quarters of the way finished, set up on easels. This was how Reagan worked: she could never finish a single painting all by itself. She always had to work in a series. In the center of the room was Reagan’s work table, a mess of brushes, paint thinner, and tubes of oil paints. Maire could hardly stand to look at the familiar mess; her heart ached as images of Reagan flashed into her mind.

She could see why her sister had raved about the little lake house. The attic was a wide open space with a huge bay window facing the water; the ceiling sloped up probably nine feet, maybe ten. Out the window Maire could see the sunlight glancing off the surface of the lake. She hadn’t been in favor of Reagan moving so far away; the little town was about a half hour’s drive southwest of Terre Haute, Indiana, making it about four hours from Chicago. Four hours away from Maire.

The move was painful. They were close; closer than sisters usually are. They’d been raised by a single mother who was constantly sick. Maire took care of Reagan. That was how it had always been.

“I need my independence,” Reagan had said to a tearful Maire on the evening before her move to the tiny town of Mason’s Cove. “I need to be my own person.”

“You are your own person. But you’ve never been alone before, Reagan. Since Mom died, I’ve always been there to –“

“That was five years ago. I’ve learned a lot since then. I’m a grown-up!”

Maire had laughed bitterly. “Just the fact that you used the term ‘grown-up’ – look, I know you’re a – an adult. Okay? You’re twenty-five years old. You’re also all I have.”

Reagan had embraced her sister then; from that one hug, Maire knew she wouldn’t change her sister’s mind. “You’re the best sister ever,” Reagan had whispered. “But you aren’t Mom. Please don’t try to be. I just need you to be Maire.”

Oh, Reagan …

Maire closed her eyes for a moment; she had a job to do, and now wasn’t the time to melt into a nostalgic pile of tears. When she opened her eyes, they were bright and green as emeralds; hiding a few unshed tears, maybe, but focused.

She turned her attention to Reagan’s series of paintings, never to be completed. They were eerie, very different from her usual pastoral landscapes. They featured a young woman in a variety of different settings; each possessed haunting details that unnerved Maire. In one, the woman was sitting in a porch swing. On her lap was a small white cat; on closer inspection, the cat was dead, its fur stiffening with dried blood. In another painting, the woman was floating on her back in the lake; beneath her, skeletal hands reached up from the murky water.

Maire walked over to a third painting, frowning as she scrutinized it. This one was particularly nasty – it was the same young woman, but her face yawned into a demonic leer. She seemed to be reaching out of the painting, toward the viewer. She wore a heart-shaped gold locket. The image was awful; Maire couldn’t look at it for long.

No, this was most definitely not Reagan’s usual style. Maire felt the first twinge of fear in her belly, a new emotion to accompany the raw grief she’d felt since hearing about the accident.

The woman in the paintings bore a passing resemblance to Maire’s dead sister, but it clearly wasn’t Reagan. The pale skin was the same, and the dark hair; but the painting-woman had very long hair, past her waist. Reagan had worn her hair short and spiky. Also, the woman in the paintings had ice-blue eyes; Reagan had shared Maire’s green eyes. Maire leaned closer to one of the pictures, searching for an explanation.

“Hello? Who’s here?”

She uttered a thin, high scream and stumbled backwards; her foot slipped on the steps and she started to fall back, but instead of tumbling down the stairs, she collided with a warm, solid object.

“Whoa – careful there. You okay?”

She twisted her head around at the male intruder. “I – I’m fine. At least I was. What the heck are you doing here? You’re trespassing.”

“I could say the same of you.” He turned her around and guided her firmly to steady ground, away from the rickety staircase. Face to face with the interloper, her initial flare of anger bled away; he was the poster-child for ruggedly handsome: tall, broad-shouldered, heartbreakingly blond and blue-eyed. He flashed a smile at her and she couldn’t help smiling back.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m Maire Byrnes; my sister Reagan was renting this house. She … she died in a boating accident a few weeks ago. I’m here to clear out her things.”

His warm blue eyes were sympathetic. “Crap, I’m sorry. I knew her a little; she was sweet.” He held out a hand. “Sloan Kirby. I live up the road. Sorry for the intrusion; we’re a pretty tight-knit community around here, and … well, I saw an unfamiliar car.”

Maire shook his hand. “No problem. So – you knew Reagan?”

“Not as well as I wanted to,” he admitted. “She was an extraordinary person, from what I could tell. And beautiful. I can see it runs in the family.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Well – thank you. Can I ask you something? Did Reagan seem … I don’t know, depressed at all? These paintings she was working on – they baffle me. She never did anything like this before.”

“Let me take a look.”

He brushed past Maire, close enough so that she could feel the heat of his body. It made her heart flutter, and she was instantly disgusted at herself; here she was, in the aftermath of her sister’s tragic death, getting hot and bothered over a local guy. Well, heck; she was only human. And he was exactly her type.

Sloan made his slow way around the room, examining each painting. Finally he turned his blue-eyed gaze back to Maire. He looked visibly shaken.

“I don’t like them; they’re creepy,” he said. “Your sister did seem distracted toward the end. The last time I saw her was probably a week before she died; we had burgers at the Mason’s Cove Diner. Only restaurant in town. Hey, speaking of which – want to join me for a bite? It’s about dinnertime, and I can tell you more of what I know; it’s not much, but maybe it’s something.”

She hesitated. She’d wanted to get this unwelcome chore done today, to avoid spending the night in this one-horse town. But she’d gotten a late start this morning on her long drive from Chicago; now it was nearly four thirty in the afternoon, and she hadn’t really even started cleaning out Reagan’s things.

Besides, Sloan was beyond charming. And she could use a distraction right now.

“Sure,” she said. “That sounds great.”

He rewarded her with his dazzling smile. “Great; let’s take my truck. I’ll just bring you back out here afterwards.”

. She followed him outside, locked up the house, and climbed into his shiny Ford truck. It was a new model; the interior was as plush as a luxury car. She caught him watching as she pulled on her seatbelt; he grinned sheepishly and backed the truck out of the driveway.

“Sorry if I’m staring,” he said. “I’m terrible at this. If you weren’t so pretty … at least I could talk to your sister. But you’re prettier than she was – not that I mean to speak ill of the dead – oh heck, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I?”

She laughed. “You’re doing fine.”

“Well, thank you. I doubt that, but thank you.”

Maire glanced sideways at him. “What’s your story, Sloan? From what I understand, most of the lakeside houses out here are the summer homes of rich townies.”

He shook his head. “I’m an exception. I’m a local; I just happen to be well-off enough to afford some of this gorgeous lakefront property. We’re about to pass my place, as a matter of face; look out your window.”

He slowed down so she could get a good eyeful. It was a stunning two-story house, all wood and glass; in the front yard was a huge weeping willow. Behind the house she could see a dock and a small boat house. Then Maire gasped; there was a pale, terrible face peering out of a second story window.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Where?” He leaned over her, peering out her window. “I don’t see anyone.”

She looked again; the face was gone. “I … I saw someone in your house. Looking out a window; on the second floor.”

“Must be Mrs. Becker,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “My cleaning lady. She usually comes on Tuesdays, though. Then again, she’s about as predictable as a summer storm: that is to say, not at all. I’m sure that’s who it was.”

Maire glanced at him uncertainly. “You’re sure? You don’t want to check and make sure it’s not a trespasser?”

He laughed. “I’m not worried about trespassers.”

“You were worried about me being a trespasser.”

Sloan hesitated. Was he searching for an answer? Or was his brief pause only suspicious in her imagination?

“My place is burglar proof,” he said. “I have a state of the art alarm system. I’m very protective of my property. It’s my pride and joy. I’m in computers; I grew up here in Mason’s Cove, left for college, and came back here with my bride. I built the house for her.” A shadow drifted across his handsome face. “She died several years ago. Another life claimed by the lake, I’m afraid.”

Maire gulped. “I’m … so sorry.”

He smiled at her. “Time heals all wounds. I feel for you; your sister’s death reminded me of Liana’s. The lake can be very dangerous if you aren’t careful.”

“Liana,” she repeated. “Pretty name.”

“She was a pretty lady.” He was silent after that. She realized that he had succeeded in changing the subject entirely. She couldn’t shake the image of that face; it hadn’t looked like a housekeeper of any kind. It had been starkly white, with pale staring eyes. Almost inhuman. But if Sloan said it was nothing, who was she to argue? Most likely it was just her overworked imagination, coupled with her still-fresh grief.

Before long they pulled into town, and within moments Sloan was parking his Ford in front of the diner.

“And here we are,” he said. “This town … blink and you miss it. You can’t get lost in Mason’s Cove.”

“I can see that,” said Maire as they walked into the diner. “Let me guess; a bank, a post office, a bar, and this lovely burger joint.”

Sloan chuckled. “There’s also a church; oh, and a gas station with an attached grocery store on the other side of town. And by ‘other side’, I mean a few blocks away, at the end of Main Street. Booth or table?”

“Booth,” she said.

They seated themselves and a tired-looking waitress approached them. She eyed Maire with mild curiosity; but then her gaze turned to Sloan, and her face tightened with naked hostility. She whipped out a pad and pencil.

“What do you want?” she asked in a low, harsh smoker’s voice.

Sloan turned his warm blue eyes in her direction. “Why, the usual, Suzie, of course. Bacon cheeseburger, extra cheese; an extra-large order of fries; and a Coke. Hold the ice. You know the drill.”

Suzie scribbled down his order and turned her flat gaze toward Maire. “And you?”

“Uh – the same. But with iced tea. Thanks.”

The waitress turned and stalked away; Maire glanced at Sloan with raised eyebrows.

“Old girlfriend?”

He winced. “Come on – she’s got to be fifty, at least! No, she’s not an old girlfriend; she’s just a crazy local who listens to too much gossip.”

“What kind of gossip?”

“You know how people can get in small towns.” He disarmed her with another blinding smile. “Believe me, it’s nothing. Didn’t you want to talk about your sister?”

She smiled back; she couldn’t help herself, it seemed. “Yes, of course. You were saying that before she died she was – how did you put it, distracted?”

“Distracted,” he confirmed. “When she first came out here, she was relentlessly cheerful; she loved the house, she loved the lake, she loved my house – she loved everything. Everything was beautiful, magical; she just seemed like a very innocent and optimistic person.”

Maire blinked back sudden hot tears. “She – she was.”

Their drinks came, accompanied by a sullen glare from the waitress, Suzie; then she was gone and Sloan resumed.

“But then she changed somehow. She would stay up painting until the early hours of the morning. She lost weight; she got terribly haggard. The last time I saw her, when I was telling you about, I had to practically twist her arm to drag her away from her paintings to get some chow. Then, when we got here, I had to bully her into eating! She just wasn’t hungry, she said; too much work to do.”

“Did she say anything about her work?” Maire asked, toying with the straw in her iced tea. “Those paintings are so strange, so unlike her.”

Sloan shook his head. “She didn’t want to talk about it much. I asked, of course; curiosity, mostly. Asked if I could see what she was working on. No dice. She wouldn’t let me in the attic for anything. I guess she was pretty particular about unfinished works.”

Maire frowned. That, too, was unlike Reagan: she loved showing off her works in progress, to get opinions and critique.

Then their meal came, and the conversation drifted to other topics; what Mason’s Cove was like in the winter, the current cost of lakeside real estate … and Liana.

“It was such a shock to me when I heard about Reagan,” Sloan said. “It wasn’t the exact same thing that happened to Liana; with Reagan, it was the sudden storm that did it. And apparently she couldn’t swim.”

“Very true,” Maire agreed. “I just can’t believe she wasn’t wearing a life vest.”

“Well, she was a nonconformist, right?” He shrugged. “Anyway, Liana … well, she could swim like a mermaid. But she made a fatal mistake: she trusted the lake. You just can’t do that. A lake is deep, dark … unpredictable. She took her little motorboat out to the middle of the lake; it was April, and she was sure the water was warm enough to swim in. But she hit a pocket of ice-cold water … hypothermia. She was too far away from the boat to reach it, and she – she drowned.”

Maire reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

He was silent a moment; then he met her gaze and offered a small, sad smile. “Like I said, time heals all wounds … but it still leaves a scar sometimes.”

Not long after that, they had finished dinner; Sloan went up to the counter to pay, and Maire excused herself to the restroom before the drive back out to the lake. The restroom was a two-stall affair; someone was in the handicap stall, so she let herself into the other one.

Then she heard a whisper from the other stall.

“No accident.”

Maire jerked. “What? Are you talking to me?”

“No … accident.”

The voice was faint; Maire wondered if the woman was in trouble. She knocked hesitantly on the stall wall. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”

Silence; then, the whispering voice, fainter than ever:

“Murder.”

Disturbed, Maire knocked again on the wall. “Hey, who’s there? Are you okay?”

Nothing.

Maire sat stock-still on the toilet, listening for any sound from the other stall. She got nothing but silence. After a minute or so she bent down to peer under the divider into the other stall.

No one was there.

She gasped and jumped up; she opened the door and stumbled out into the main part of the restroom. The door to the other stall hung open; it was empty.

“What the heck,” she whispered.

Imagination. Nothing more. Her emotions had taken a brutal battering since receiving the news of Reagan’s death; her mind was playing tricks on her. A light sweat had sprung up on her forehead; she moved to the sink and splashed some cold water on her face. She looked up at the mirror, smoothing her dark brown hair back from her face.

In the mirror, she saw a woman standing behind her.

Maire spun around but no one was there. She slowly turned back to the mirror; only her own pale, frightened face looked back at her.

“Nerves,” she told herself in a soft voice. “That’s all.”

On the ride back, Sloan commented that Maire was quiet and withdrawn; she opened her mouth to tell him what she’d seen in the bathroom, maybe to make a light joke out of it; but she thought better of it. Did she really want to tell this gorgeous man, whom she was becoming more and more attracted to, that she was losing her mind? Maybe not.

“I’m just tired,” she said with a smile. “It was a long drive out here from where I live in Chicago. And I got lost a couple times this morning when I was trying to find the place, so that made the drive even longer.”

“You do look tired,” he said. “Say, do you have a place to spend the night? There’s no hotel in Mason’s Cove; the nearest place would be the little inn over in Wicketville, but that’s a forty-five minute drive. Or were you going to stay at your sister’s place?”

Maire shuddered. “I hadn’t really thought about it. I had vague hopes of getting the place cleaned out this afternoon, and heading back to the city tonight; but now I’m dreading the thought of driving four hours in the dark. I guess I will stay at Reagan’s.”

Sloan gave her a considering look. “Sounds a bit creepy.”

“Darn right,” she agreed forcefully. “But I’m not thrilled about that forty-five minute drive; besides, I’d probably get lost.”

“You know,” he said – and he tried to sound casual, but she could tell he’d been planning this invitation, “I have a really nice guest room. You’d have your own bathroom; it’s really private. I’ll be a perfect gentleman. I promise.”

She glanced at him; the early shadows of evening danced on his face, emphasizing his strong features. She felt a little lurch in her stomach; he was gorgeous. They could have dinner together … and she’d have her own room. That was important. She absolutely wasn’t sleeping with the guy.

“That’s very sweet of you,” she said. “I’d be delighted; that is, if I’m not imposing.”

His smile widened. “Not at all. It gets lonely out here by the lake. I guess I didn’t realize how isolated it was when I bought the property. But then … I had a wife, and we wanted kids. It wouldn’t be so lonely with a family.”

Maire reached across the seat and took his hand. She didn’t say anything; there was nothing she could say more eloquent than a simple touch.

A few minutes later they pulled into the driveway of the little rental house. Maire hopped out of the truck and grabbed her overnight bag from her car, then rejoined Sloan in his truck. It wasn’t far to his place; soon they were parked beside the weeping willow. Sloan went ahead of Maire to disable his security system; then he welcomed her into his house.

The inside was even more impressive than the outside. The foyer was open to the second story; the floor was a gorgeous swirl of black and white marble, and an ornate chandelier provided soft lighting. A curved oak staircase led to the second floor. Off the foyer was a sunken living room with a huge fireplace.

“This is amazing,” Maire gasped. “What a beautiful house.”

Sloan grinned proudly. “Thank you. I admit, I love to show it off. Your sister liked it, too. She came over for a little party I held for some friends from out of town. That’s the only time she was here; I invited her a few other times, but she was too absorbed in her work. Especially toward the end.”

“That’s odd,” said Maire. “If she was so wrapped up in work, why would she take a whole day off from painting to take that boat out?”

“My guess would be for inspiration. When I dragged her out for burgers, she told me that she was having trouble finishing her current series. Like writer’s block; but painter’s block, I suppose.”

Maire sighed. “That sounds like her. She did get painter’s block. That’s why she moved out here, you know – she said she couldn’t concentrate in the city. Too many distractions.”

“Well, I’m no artist, but I’d have trouble with those paintings, too. They were pretty weird. But that was all she would say – that she couldn’t seem to finish the series. And she wanted to, it seemed; finishing those paintings was all she cared about. Hey, follow me; I’ll show you your room. Then we can pick this conversation back up in the living room. Perhaps over some wine?”

“I don’t drink.”

He shrugged. “Hot cocoa?”

“Perfect.”

He showed her to the guest room upstairs. It boasted a huge four-poster bed, all dark polished wood that gleamed with well-oiled beauty. The bedspread was a pastel quilt in delicate shades of cream, pale pink, and mint green. The windows were hung with lace curtains in a coordinating cream color.

“This room is gorgeous,” Maire said. “It has a woman’s touch; I’m guessing your wife Liana decorated this room before … before her accident?”

Sloan smiled poignantly. “You guess right. She had a knack, huh?”

“Absolutely.” Maire dropped her overnight bag and her jacket on the bed. “Now, how about that hot chocolate?”

Downstairs in the living room, Sloan started a fire while Maire got comfortable on the plush sofa, sipping at the sweet cocoa he had provided. Once he got the fire blazing, he popped a CD into a Bose stereo system. Maire smiled in private amusement; he had to show off his expensive stereo, too; he was really trying to impress her.

He joined her on the sofa and raised his own mug of hot chocolate. “To Mason’s Cove … for whatever that’s worth.”

Maire laughed. “Cheers.”

“So … how long are you in town for?”

Her expression grew more serious. “Not long. In fact, my plan is to get Reagan’s place cleaned out tomorrow morning, then head back to Chicago by early afternoon.”

Sloan leaned toward her, blue eyes glittering in the firelight. “Are you absolutely sure you can’t stay just a little longer?”

Maire raised her eyebrows and smiled slightly. “Why do you ask?”

“I should think it’s fairly obvious.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips, never breaking eye contact. It was Maire who finally dropped her eyes.

“I live in Chicago,” she demurred. “I think we both know that nothing could really happen … aside from a one night stand. And I don’t do that.”

He moved a bit closer to her. “I wouldn’t dare to suggest such a thing. Truly. I told you’d I’d be a perfect gentleman. But … I don’t know. I’m so drawn to you. Long-distance relationships are hard, but … maybe? Just maybe?”

Maire set her warm mug aside; her head was spinning a bit from his nearness.

“I …” She gulped. “I feel drawn to you, too. I mean … maybe if -”

He leaned in and kissed her while the words were still on her lips. She leaned into him; his mouth was warm and tasted of cocoa. Finally she pulled back.

He grinned. “So … maybe?”

She laughed, a little breathless. “Maybe.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. Exhausted. Sorry if that’s rude.” But I need to be able to control myself … and not do something I’ll regret …

“Let me walk you back to your room.”

She slept restlessly. Her dreams were vague; disturbing, but unclear whenever she awoke. She kept drifting back to sleep; but around four in the morning she needed the restroom. She slid from the bed and tiptoed to the bathroom.

The soft white glow from the nearly-full moon shone in the window, illuminating the bathroom so that she didn’t have to turn on the light. She “made water”, as her oh-so-proper grandmother would have said; then she moved to the sink to wash her hands.

There, in the mirror, was a woman standing beside her.

Maire froze. She knew that if she turned around, there would be nothing. And, in a sense, that was right: there was nothing. Nothing corporal, anyway. Maire was either dreaming or …

Or what?

The woman was dead-pale; her face was delicate, elfin, and framed by long dark hair. Her eyes were shut. As Maire watched, they slowly opened. And they were ice-blue.

The woman from Reagan’s paintings.

Surely I’m dreaming, she thought. I don’t believe in this kind of thing.

But no. She knew the difference between asleep and awake. She heard her own shallow breathing, echoing off the bathroom tiles. She felt her skin goosebump in the chilly air. The floor was icy under her bare feet. It was May, but it suddenly felt like January.

She thought with wild logic that reality, defined, was the sensation of cold feet.

The woman came closer; Maire felt a draft around her shoulders as the woman’s hands closed over Maire’s upper arms. The ghost-woman’s face drew next to Maire’s, close enough to kiss her cheek.

She whispered in Maire’s ear: “No accident.”

Maire realized she’d been holding her breath. She let it out slowly, carefully. “Who are you? Are you the woman in Reagan’s paintings?”

The woman did not answer either question, but her ice-blue eyes seemed to grow both very sad and very frightened. In that moment Maire lost her own fear – whoever this lonely specter was, she meant Maire no harm. But she did want something.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

The woman began to float backwards; as she did so, she lost her definition and began to fade. She said a single word – “Murder.”

She was gone.

Maire was shaking. She felt something hot and wet on her face; she raised a hand to touch her cheek and found that she was crying. She took a Kleenex from the box next to the sink and slowly dried her eyes and cheeks. She fumbled around for the trash can, and found it next to the toilet seat.

It was full.

She frowned; why did that strike her as wrong? The small, politely-sized bathroom trash can was full of the usual odds and ends – empty toilet paper rolls, Q-tips, Kleenex, a few cough drop wrappers. This was the guest room; Sloan hadn’t mentioned recent guests, but she didn’t know him. He might have had a girl over the night before for all Maire knew.

But the trash shouldn’t be full. Why?

Because, according to Sloan, the mysterious face Maire had seen earlier that day belonged to Mrs. Becker, the cleaning woman. As a teenager, Maire and Reagan had worked for a summer cleaning houses for some of the wealthier families in their neighborhood. When they cleaned a house, one of the most important chores was to go around to every room and empty the trash cans.

Maire slipped over to the bathroom door, closed it, locked it. She flipped on the light. There were streaks on the mirror and a light film of greasy dust on the back of the toilet seat. This bathroom hadn’t been cleaned since … oh, probably last Tuesday, nearly a week ago. Mrs. Becker usually comes on Tuesdays, that’s what Sloan had said.

I saw a face; he thought it was the cleaning lady. Clearly not. He doesn’t know – how am I supposed to tell him that I think his house is haunted?

She shook her head, as though to clear the thought. What was she thinking? She didn’t believe in ghosts. Reagan had – but Reagan was dead, and her foolish artistic ideas were gone with her. Maire had always been the practical one, the logical one. Now her vision was swimming with images of a mysterious woman – one who seemed to be crying out for help.

Reagan would have done something. Reagan would have solved the mystery, to put the spirit at rest.

But I’m not Reagan.

Maire gasped.

Reagan had been trying to do something.

The paintings.

Maybe it wasn’t Sloan’s house that was haunted. After all, Maire had seen the woman at the Mason’s Cove Diner. And apparently Reagan had seen her in the little rented lake house. Maybe it was Reagan who had been haunted … and now it was Maire.

She was so cold.

She turned off the light and slipped back into bed. Her tired mind eventually thought itself out and she lost herself in sleep.

She awoke to the faraway sound of whistling, and the mouthwatering smell of fresh pancakes. The morning sun streamed into the room; its brightness banished last night’s fears, and by the time Maire had dressed, she had all but convinced herself that last night’s vision had been nothing more than a bad dream.

She went downstairs to find Sloan in the kitchen, making a huge breakfast: eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, fresh coffee, and orange juice. She went straight for the juice and drank down a whole cup before she could even get out a “good morning”.

“Thirsty?” Sloan asked with a grin.

“Very,” she panted. “Wow, everything smells incredible – you cook, too! I think I’ll wrap you up and take you back to Chicago with me.”

He chuckled and crossed the kitchen to kiss her gently on the lips. “Don’t tempt me. Maire … I hate that your sister died, but – I never would have met you otherwise. Life’s funny, huh?”

She kissed him back, allowing herself to gaze briefly into his beautiful blue eyes. “Yeah. Pretty funny. Why couldn’t I have met you in Chicago?”

A slow smile played across his face. “I don’t know, Maire; an awful lot of big-city dwellers end up moving to peaceful little towns like Mason’s Cove. You never know, it may just grow on you.”

She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

“You did say maybe, right?”

“Yes …”

He cupped her face in his hands, his eyes serious. “I have to confess to you … I’ve never taken to someone so quickly before. Even Liana; we were just friends for ages before I even thought about asking her out. Look, I hope I’m not freaking you out; it’s just such a strong feeling. Like I was meant to meet you.”

“You aren’t freaking me out,” she whispered. “Okay, maybe a little – because I feel the same way.”

He let his breath out jaggedly. “So – now what? You’re going back to Chicago. Four hours away from me. And I can’t be okay with that. This morning I saw you walk into my kitchen, and I … I felt like my house could be a home again. I haven’t felt that way since Liana died.”

Her heart pounded; she didn’t know what to say.

“Is there any way,” he said slowly, “that you could extend your stay here in Mason’s Cove? Maybe we could spend some time together … figure out if we could have something here. What do you say? Turn that maybe into something more definite?”

“I think I could do that,” she said after a moment. “I have some vacation time coming; I could call the office, get my assistant to cover a few things … I think it’s doable. That way I wouldn’t have to rush going through Reagan’s things, too.”

He hugged her; his breath was warm on her cheek. “Well, that’s settled; now for breakfast. Have a seat – let me serve you. By the way, what do you do?”

“Interior design,” she said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.

“Another artist.” He set a plate stacked high with bacon and eggs in front of her; another smaller plate bore a fluffy pile of pancakes.

“Reagan was the artist,” she said. “This looks amazing – I’m starved! Thanks for cooking; that was going above and beyond.”

He grinned and joined her with a plate of his own. “Just another friendly service here at the Sloan Kirby Bed and Breakfast.”

After breakfast he dropped her off back at Reagan’s rental house. Maire brought her overnight bag with her. They’d agreed to have lunch together, and probably dinner, too; but she couldn’t spend another night in his house if they were considering a romantic relationship. Too much temptation.

“So I’ll pick you up in a couple hours for lunch,” he said.

She smiled warmly at him. “That sounds perfect.”

He reluctantly pulled away and drove off. She watched him go, feeling like an infatuated schoolgirl. When his truck had passed out of sight, she turned and went into Reagan’s house. After the almost over-the-top opulence of Sloan’s house, the rental seemed very small and shabby. Maire stood in the living room for a moment, undecided; then she headed up to the attic. She had to inspect those terrible pictures again.

She didn’t anticipate a very enjoyable experience in Reagan’s studio; but she was utterly unprepared for what she found.

The easels were overturned; the art-supply table lay on its side, surrounded by fallen tubes of paint and stray brushes. The paintings had been heaped up in a pile in the corner of the room. Each one had been slashed and cut to the point where the pictures were beyond recognition. Maire felt tears rush to her eyes; as awful as the paintings had been, they were Reagan’s last work. To see them destroyed – who the heck would do this?

She wondered if the rest of the house had been disturbed.

She rushed down the stairs and went into Reagan’s bedroom. She stopped in the doorway, confused; nothing looked out of place. The bed was made, though a bit sloppily (Reagan was never much for chores); the closet door hung open, and Maire could see her dead sister’s clothes hanging neatly inside.

There wasn’t much furniture: the bed, nightstand, a dresser, and a table with no chair. The nightstand was messy, cluttered, and heartbreakingly Reagan: a Heather Graham novel, a half-eaten bag of M&M’s, a Hello Kitty alarm clock. Maire sighed and sat down on the bed, listlessly sorting through the junk on the nightstand. Where would Reagan hide a journal? Did she even keep one anymore? She tried to think; Reagan was famous for stashing things in hidey-holes, where only she could find them.

“The tickets,” she murmured, and went to the closet.

When she was seventeen and Reagan fifteen, Maire had desperately wanted to attend a Backstreet Boys concert; due to a fender bender, though, all her cash had gone towards replacing the fender on her first car. Reagan had surprised her with tickets to the concert, saved up from babysitting money. Maire was delighted and shocked; she asked Reagan where she’d been hiding the tickets.

“In the corner of the closet,” Reagan had said with her typical impish grin. “I just peeled back a bit of carpet and pop – a perfect hidey-hole!”

Now Maire got down on her hands and knees, crawling to the back of the closet. She felt around; and sure enough, a corner of the carpet came free. She felt underneath it and pulled out what looked like a photo album.

“Bingo,” she whispered, and spread it out on the bed.

The album was full, not of photos, but of newspaper clippings and notes written in Reagan’s scribbled handwriting. And sketches – they looked like rough drafts of the hideous paintings that now lay destroyed in the attic.

Throughout the scrapbook, if that’s what it was, one word kept appearing, over and over again: Liana.

Maire felt chills as she picked up the first newspaper article. The paper was yellow and brittle; it was from six years ago, and the headline was “Local Woman Drowns in Freak Accident”. Liana had been found floating face up in the middle of the lake; apparently she’d been swimming (she’d been found in a polka-dot swimsuit) and had suffered hypothermia, as Sloan had said.

Accompanying this article in Reagan’s scrapbook was a hideous sketch: the pale, dark-haired woman floating in the lake, with hands reaching up to grab her. Across this disturbing drawing was the word MURDER.

With trembling fingers Maire turned the page in the album. Another article: “Local Man Questioned in Wife’s Drowning Death”.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “Not Sloan.”

The police had been suspicious of the dead woman’s husband, Sloan Kirby; apparently he was dry-eyed and almost cheerful at Liana’s funeral. Not the face of a grieving man. He denied allegations that he and Liana had a terrible fight the night before she died; neighbors (oddly enough, townies who’d been renting Reagan’s little lake house) reported hearing a loud argument from Sloan’s house. He said they were playing music, nothing more.

Maire wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe him. But Reagan’s scrapbook of the dead grew more and more disconcerting. On the same page as the article about Sloan, Reagan had taped in another sketch: the dark-haired woman again – presumably Liana – looking forlorn and wearing a heart-shaped gold locket. Maire recognized the necklace from one of Reagan’s paintings, now destroyed. Reagan had scribbled two words at the bottom of this drawing: NOT GONE.

No accident. Murder. Not gone.

The next article was five years old, about a girl who had gone missing from the next town over, Wicketville. There was a photo: she was very young, probably just a teenager, with fair skin, dark hair, and a wide, vulnerable mouth. Across her photo Reagan had written in red ink: MURDER.

Another article, another missing girl; this disappearance had been three years ago. She could have been the Wicketville girl’s sister: pale skin, light grey eyes, dark hair. She reminded Maire of Reagan. And Liana. She was from someplace in Indiana, but had been vacationing by the lake with her family.

In Mason’s Cove, young women had a tendency to turn up missing … or dead. At least, women of a specific type – Liana’s type.

A soft meow jerked Maire out of her concentration. She jumped and spun around. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom was a cat: white, with long, soft hair. Its eye shone strangely, appearing as golden discs of light. The cat looked familiar but Maire couldn’t place it. It took a step toward her on its velvet paws; it opened its mouth to mew softly again. Maire could see its sharp white teeth and small pink tongue. She felt a sense of disorientation.

It turned and slowly walked away. Maire rose and followed it; it didn’t look like a stray. It was wearing a blue collar with a jingling ID tag, and its fur was clean and brushed, like that of a well-loved pet.

“Here, kitty kitty,” she called, keeping her voice low so as not to frighten the animal. “How’d you get in here, kitty?”

It paused and looked back at her, meowed again; then trotted briskly through the house, to the sliding glass doors that led from the breakfast nook out onto the small back porch. It butted its head against the glass, then looked back at Maire. Its eyes glinted green-gold in the sunlight.

“Do you want out?” she asked.

Uttering another plaintive mew, the cat lifted a soft paw and batted it against the glass door. Maire slowly moved toward it; the cat didn’t appear afraid of her in the least. It merely regarded her with its eerie golden gaze as she slid the door open. The cat hopped through the open door and trotted briskly across the porch and down the steps, heading toward the lake.

Maire followed.

The cat reached a clump of tall weeds down by the water’s edge. It thrust its face into the foliage; Maire heard a muted clinking sound. She dropped to her knees, watching. When the cat reemerged, it held something in its mouth that glinted dimly; it padded over to Maire and dropped the object in her lap.

A gold necklace. Heart-shaped locket. Flecked with dirt, bits of grass tangled in the chain. With trembling fingers Maire popped it open and was horrified but not completely surprised to see a tiny photo of Liana looking back at her.

Maire looked back at the cat. Its eyes were pure reflected light as it regarded her. She suddenly realized that she could see the lake and the weeds through the cat. It opened its mouth to meow, but no sound came out; the cat was fading. As she watched, it vanished. She realized where she’d seen the cat before: in Reagan’s now-destroyed painting. In the picture, the cat was dead.

The grass was lightly batted down where the cat had been standing. And the locket in her hand was hard and cold reality. Against her own will, Maire was beginning to put together the pieces in the puzzle.

Sloan had murdered Liana, his wife. For whatever reason, that wasn’t enough; whenever he saw a girl that looked like Liana, he was driven by some sick desire to kill her, too. As far as she knew, the count was up to four – Liana, Reagan, and the two missing girls.

Not missing. Dead. Murdered. No accident.

Her mind reeled. She was hazily aware that Sloan would be coming back very shortly. Was she his next intended victim? She was the right physical type: slim, not too tall, with pale skin, dark hair, and light eyes. And she was Reagan’s sister. He had to know that she would be poking around, asking questions, wondering more and more about Reagan’s supposed accident. She already had asked him dangerous questions: if Reagan was so obsessed with finishing her paintings, why would she abandon them for a day of boating? Why wasn’t she wearing a life-vest?

For that matter, why was she so obsessed with finishing the paintings of Sloan’s dead wife?

Was it because Liana was haunting her, begging for justice?

Maire remembered Sloan’s reaction when he’d seen Reagan’s paintings. His face was full of shock. He’d passed it off with some excuse – that they were disturbing – but it was more than that. They were disturbing to him; and no wonder: he was looking at ghostly images of his murdered wife. No wonder he was shocked. And who but Sloan could have – would have – broken into the lake house to destroy the paintings?

She remembered the waitress at the diner, her hateful reaction to seeing Sloan Kirby. What had he said about her? “She’s just a crazy local who listens to too much gossip.” Gossip about how Sloan had murdered his wife and somehow gotten away with it. Maybe even gossip about those two missing girls, about Reagan.

Gossip that could be true.

Maire’s heart was racing. She looked at her watch; it was approaching lunchtime. Sloan would be here any time. She had to get to the diner, talk to Suzie – more importantly, she had to get to a safe place.

She shoved the necklace into her pocket, lurched to her feet, and ran back to the house. Her purse was sitting on the kitchen counter; she snatched it up, fumbling for her car keys. Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a truck motor outside.

Her heart froze for an instant.

Crap.

She couldn’t move; it was like the nightmare where your feet are stuck to the ground; even though you know a terrible danger is approaching, you can’t move. She heard the truck door open, the slam shut. Heard the jingle of Sloan’s keys. He paused, muttering something that she couldn’t discern.

She bolted.

The sliding glass door was still open; she slipped through it and barreled down the steps. She heard the front door open, heard Sloan calling her name. She edged her way around the outside of the house; she just had to get to the front, where her car was. She heard his footsteps as he moved through the house, still calling for her. There was a tinge of panic in his voice: he knows that I know.

Now the footsteps were more hollow, distant; he was going up to the attic.

She broke into a run. She rounded the house and flew through the driveway; but she tripped over something and went flying into the gravel. Intense, white-hot pain in her leg; she clamped her teeth down on her tongue to keep from screaming. She twisted around to find the source of the pain – a huge chunk of glass was sticking out of her calf.

What the crap –

Then she saw her car, and she understood where the glass had come from.

Her car was destroyed.

The windows were smashed in, the tires slashed, and the hood was up, revealing that someone had taken a hammer or a crowbar to the car’s guts.

Sloan.

That bastard – but how? She would have heard the sounds of smashing glass and crunching metal. It wasn’t possible – but there was no other explanation. Her chances of escape were growing slimmer and slimmer. Biting back the tears, she turned her attention to her leg; the glass shard was a foot long, and had plunged nearly all the way through her calf.

She yanked off her shirt and wrapped it around the piece of glass. She bit down on the leather strap of her purse, and yanked. Fire exploded in her leg; the edges of her vision grew grey and spotty. Can’t faint. If she fainted, he would find her, and she would die. She slapped her own face until the grey tinges faded back to normal vision. Her leg was bleeding like a stuck calf. She would pass out from blood loss if she didn’t stop it. She took her already blood-soaked shirt and tied it around her leg, tight as she could, for a makeshift tourniquet.

Now she couldn’t run. She would have to hide.

Maire dragged herself to her feet, leaning on the wrecked remains of her car. She cast her gaze about wildly; there was a small storage shed down by the water’s edge. Maybe not the best hiding place in the world, but there was at least a chance of finding a weapon inside – an ax would come in extremely handy right now. Wouldn’t it? She tried to see herself attacking Sloan, with whom she’d just spent an intensely intimate night; she tried to imagine swinging the ax until it connected with a dull thud as it sank into his flesh. She could almost see the pained surprise on his face. She shuddered. She wasn’t sure she would have the stomach.

She began her journey to the shed, limping and almost hopping, trying to keep the pressure off her injured leg but unable to stay off it completely. She gritted her teeth against the pain, telling herself that this was nothing compared to whatever awful murder Sloan had in mind for her. Suddenly something turned over in her heart; maybe it was the pain, maybe it was for Reagan, but all at once she had no trouble with the concept of sinking an ax into Sloan’s chest. Or an ice pick. Whatever she could find. Maybe she’d cut off his murdering hands before she killed him. Rage burned white-hot within her; she knew she was capable, after all.

She didn’t waste time looking over her shoulder at the lake house; either he was coming after her or he wasn’t; all she could do was try her best to get to safety. Or some level of safety. She reached the shed and then almost screamed aloud – it was locked up with a padlock. She peered around the edge of the shed toward the house; Sloan had come back out the front door and was looking at her car. He bent down and picked up a large piece of glass; even from where she crouched, she could see it was slick with her blood. Crap – he could follow the trail of blood to where she hid.

Had to get inside.

She looked closer at the padlock. It seemed to be fairly new; but surely it belonged to the landlord, not to Reagan. She checked the wood around the door, but it was sturdy and she had nothing to try and break it with. Oh no – he had to be coming!

Snowmobile.

Hope leapt up within her. Reagan had a snowmobile. She’d written to Maire last winter about riding the snowmobile over the frozen lake. She kept it in a shed. The combination lock did belong to Reagan. But what would she use as a code? Maire could hear Sloan calling her name. She had no time. She spun her own birthday into the lock and almost fell over in relief when the lock popped open.

She wrenched the door open and stepped inside. It was hot and musty and dark; a tarp covered the shape of Reagan’s snowmobile. No good to her in May. Why couldn’t you have something useful, like a moped – or a four-wheeler? Maire wondered, stifling a crazed laugh. Using the feeble light that streamed in the open door, Maire rummaged around in the dusty junk, hoping for something sharp – an ax, a machete. Her hands closed on the handle of an old rake. That was all, folks – rake or nothing. She seized it, and not a moment too soon: the door to the shed, which she had partially closed, slowly creaked open. Maire took a deep breath and faced the doorway.

“Don’t come any closer, Sloan,” she began – but the face that appeared was not his.

Liana – or, more accurately, her ghost – stood in the too-bright slat of sunshine. Maire could see right through her. Her icy blue eyes stared impassively straight forward; her skin was marble pale; her dark hair floated around her head, as though she were still adrift in the cold waters of the lake.

Maire drew in her breath, a sharp hiss. “Liana,” she whispered. “I found the secret. I know your husband killed you. I’ll try to bring him to justice – if I make it out of her alive. Can you understand me?”

The specter’s terrible, beautiful eyes slowly focused on Maire. Her lips parted and though she did not speak, Maire felt her voice in her mind: Come to me.

Liana floated backward. Her bare feet dangled inches above the ground. Maire followed her, unable to do anything else. The rake dropped quietly from her senseless fingers. She found her hand stealing into her pocket, pulling out the gold locket, fastening it around her neck. She did not know why, and she did not question. Liana stretched out her hand, promising truth, promising redemption. Everything but Liana faded from Maire’s vision. She could not see the grass beneath her feet; could not see the tall lakeside weeds brushing her legs; could not see the water’s edge approaching –

Strong arms gripped her and dragged her back, away from the water.

“No!” Sloan shouted in her ear. “No, you dead psycho! Not another one!”

Maire struggled against him but her limbs were limp, the strength drained out of her. Liana’s face morphed into something Maire had seen once before: the leer of a demon, her jaw gaped open, her eyes filled with darkness. Another of Reagan’s paintings.

“Enough of you,” Sloan snarled. He groped for the locket around Maire’s neck, ripped it off, flung it into the lake. The ghost of Liana uttered a bone-wrenching inhuman shriek and exploded into a million bits of light. Maire was left gasping in Sloan’s arms. She felt her legs give way; she started to slump to the ground, but he picked her up.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “You’re going to be all right.”

She felt that creeping gray edging around her vision again, and fought it off by biting the inside of her cheek. She tasted the coppery tang of her own blood; the pain felt good, in a harsh way; it was better than the floating faintness.

Sloan carried her into the house and laid her down on the mud-brown sofa. Maire saw Reagan’s chilling scrapbook lying on the coffee table; Sloan had found it. But Reagan had been wrong. About everything. And now Maire intended to know the truth. She opened her mouth to start asking questions; but Sloan hushed her.

“Just wait,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything – at least, what I know, what I’ve managed to figure out – but I want to get a drink inside you. You still look awfully close to fainting, and we don’t need that, right?”

“I - I don’t -”

“I know you don’t drink alcohol. Soda. Sugar. It’ll help.”

She nodded. He went into the kitchen; she heard the fridge open and immediately smelled a fetid rot; Sloan cursed under his breath. She heard the door close, and the fresh pop of a soda can lid. He brought it in to her, helped her sit up to take a sip.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thanks.” She looked at him shyly. “I … I guess I jumped to some conclusions.”

He sighed. “Understandable. The whole town thinks the same thing. The police, however, disagree; but cops, heck, what do they know?” He laughed bitterly. “Mason’s Cove has already tried and condemned me. If this were the old days, I’d have already been strung up, probably. But it’s bull. I didn’t kill anyone. She did. And I don’t know how to make her stop.”

Maire forced herself into a sitting position. “Tell me.”

He heaved a deep, unhappy sigh and sat beside her. “I guess I should start with our marriage. We married only weeks after we’d met. It was … strange. Wrong. She put some kind of spell on me … I pursued her mindlessly, begged her to be my wife. It wasn’t until the wedding night that I realized – I knew nothing about her: where she came from, anything about her family, even what she was doing in Mason’s Cove. I knew nothing – except desire. My mind was stamped with desire for her, and no other sane thought seemed able to permeate that.

“Well, we married. I built the house for her. And I learned not to ask questions, because when I asked questions … Liana got angry. When she got angry, bad things happened. I woke up one morning with a broken arm, and no idea how I’d broken it. Another time I woke up with burns on my neck … like someone had taken a rope and choked me. Or things would wind up broken – windows, furniture, whatever.

“But I had questions. Burning questions. Like where she disappeared to several nights a week. She came back dirty, her hair wild, always bare feet covered with mud. I had questions about the dead animals I found in the woods. Murdered animals, their guts strewn everywhere. And things – symbols, ugly, wrong things – written in the grass, on the trees. She was a witch of some kind. I never really found out; like I said, I wasn’t allowed to ask questions.

“I was afraid of her. She had a terrible temper, and I wondered how long she’d actually need me around, or when she would decide that I was no longer necessary. I came to believe that she needed me for shelter, she needed the protection of my name – maybe wherever she’d come from, people were looking for her. Maybe she’d killed something besides animals. I could believe that of her. Easily.”

Maire met his gaze. “But you didn’t kill her.”

Sloan’s eyes dropped. “Not exactly, Maire. But … I let her die. I could have saved her, and I didn’t. Maybe that’s why she’s still here – maybe that’s why she still has power.”

“Tell me.”

“We did have a huge fight the night before. I lied about that. I had to. The truth wasn’t safe, you see. Who would believe that my wife was insane, evil? That she was controlling me? That night I had a lot to drink – enough, I think, to temporarily break her spell. I told her I wanted a divorce, that I hated her, that I wanted her out of my house. She … acted like a normal girl, for once. She cried, said she was sorry, tried to explain about her strange religion. She talked until I’d sobered up … until I was sober enough to succumb to her desire again.

“The next morning, I saw her leave on the boat. She swam often; she seemed to love the lake. At least, as much as she was capable of loving anything. I knew it was too cold that day, but I let her go. I wanted her to drown. I wanted to be free. But in the end, I couldn’t trust the lake. I needed to be sure. So I – I took our second boat out. I saw her swimming, about twenty-thirty feet away from her boat. Some kind of miracle – she didn’t see me. I pulled up next to her boat – linked it up with mine – and towed it away. She was alone in the middle of the lake with no boat to retreat to, no way to escape from the cold.

“I didn’t kill her. But I sure as heck didn’t help her.”

Maire felt cold all over. “I saw her – her ghost – vanish. When you threw her locket into the lake, she disappeared. But she isn’t gone … it’s not that easy, is it?”

“Don’t I wish.” He laughed, a short, humorless bark. “She’s not gone. She’s still very much here. A year after she died, a girl came to my door; the girl claimed to be a runaway from a nearby town. She looked a lot like Liana; she creeped me out, but I couldn’t turn her away; it was dark, raining, and she looked desperate.”

“The girl from Wicketville. The one who disappeared.”

“As far as I know, she’s dead. She has to be. I let her into my house, said she could use the phone, but that I couldn’t help her beyond that. She tried to seduce me; I turned her down. heck, for all I knew, she was underage – jail bait. I told her again – use the phone and leave. Then … Liana came out. She’d possessed the kid. She attacked me; I fought her off. I forced her out of my house and locked her out. I … I think Liana made her go into the forest. I think Liana killed her somehow. She’s dead, but still dangerous.

“The other girl … I never saw her. I heard about her, saw her picture in the paper. She looked so much like Liana … I had a clue about her fate, too. Liana can possess certain women. Or lure them, or something. She possessed your sister. When Reagan died, I broke into this house and found those paintings. I destroyed them … but they came back. You saw them. Last night I slipped out while you were sleeping and destroyed the paintings again. I was just upstairs … they’re back. Again.”

Maire shuddered. “I’ve seen Liana a few times. The first time was right after I met you, when we were driving into town. Remember, we passed your house, and I said I saw a face in the window? You thought it was the housekeeper.”

“I knew it wasn’t the housekeeper,” he said grimly. “I just hoped against hope that Liana was merely threatening, that she didn’t mean to have you. I was wrong. When else did you see her?”

“At the diner – in the bathroom. There was something in the other stall … then there was no one. And I saw her in the mirror. Then – at your house – in the middle of the night, I went to the bathroom. I saw her again.”

“Where did you find that cursed locket?”

“Liana had a cat, didn’t she?”

Sloan frowned. “How’d you know that?”

“A cat – well, a ghost cat, I guess – led me to the locket. It had on a blue collar. White, fluffy. Liana’s, right?”

“Liana’s,” he affirmed. “It wasn’t an ordinary cat, either. If she was some kind of witch, that cat was her familiar.”

“It was in one of Reagan’s paintings. In the painting, it was dead.”

“Now, that murder I’ll admit to,” he said. “After Liana died, I wanted to take the cat to the pound. Just to get rid of it. I tried to catch it; it attacked me, left a scar.” He brushed aside the hair on the left side of his head; above his ear was a long, twisted white scar. “I guess that was the final straw. I put the cat in a bag with two bricks, and tossed it into the lake.”

“When I put on the locket,” Maire said, “I felt like someone was controlling me. I was going to walk into the lake and … and I don’t know. Liana was trying to drown me, wasn’t she?”

Sloan met her eyes; his gaze was heavy, terrible. “Yes.”

“And my car –“

“That was her. I’m sure at the time you thought it was me; but let me guess – you never heard the sounds of smashing glass or anything, did you?”

She slowly shook her head. “No. I … I did think it was you, but I wondered how you did it without being a sound.” She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sloan. You can see how I would think –“

“I know. Don’t worry about it.”

“So … now what?”

“Now,” he said, “we take you to the hospital before you bleed to death.”

“But what about –“

“The ghost?” His face was angry. “I don’t know, Maire. I’ve been living with it for six years now. She haunts me; as revenge for letting her die, I’m sure. But she doesn’t dare kill me, and that I don’t understand. She would rather possess these innocent girls and lure them into drowning themselves. Or whatever. I don’t know how those other two girls died; I assume it was drowning, but it could have been something worse. Heaven only knows.”

Maire thought a moment. “I think … I think she’s doing it as the ultimate revenge. I mean, if she killed you, that’s it. But instead she’s keeping you alive; and she’s killing innocent girls, and you know it’s Liana, and you can’t stop her. Isn’t that a worse revenge?”

“Yes,” he said. His voice was faint. “That is worse.”

“We have to do something. She killed my sister. She may have killed more people than we even know about. She’s after me, and I doubt she’ll stop.”

He shook his head and stood up. “You’re leaving Mason’s Cove. Today. I’m taking you to the hospital over in Terre Haute; it’s the closest. And it’s far enough away from here so that you’ll be safe. I think. I hope.”

He scooped her up in his arms and carried her out to the truck. The half-hour drive was silent; each was lost in their own thoughts, and the pain in her leg was starting to wear on Maire. She felt exhausted, drained both physically and emotionally. Her mind spiraled around in disorienting circles. She felt powerless. She hated that feeling.

Sloan helped her into the emergency room of the Terre Haute Regional Hospital. Maire checked in. The girl at the front desk looked at her and Maire jumped backwards: the girl’s eyes were a clear, icy blue.

Liana’s eyes.

The girl blinked; then she was looking at Maire with confused brown eyes. Maire wondered how she could have ever mistaken them for blue. Must be the blood loss, she thought. Sloan helped her to a chair in the waiting room; mercifully, it wasn’t long before her name was called. The nurse took a look at the bloody shirt wrapped around Maire’s leg.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Let me get you a wheelchair. That looks nasty!”

She did so; Maire sank thankfully into it and allowed herself to be wheeled into one of the emergency intake rooms. The nurse and Sloan helped her onto the hard, narrow hospital bed. Maire allowed her taut muscles to relax. She was safe. No place was safer than a hospital: it was one of those places fixed solidly in reality. A supernatural being could feel at home haunting the dark shores of the Mason’s Cove lake, but it had no place within the sterile walls of a hospital.

The nurse was talking to Maire, but after the first few words she heard nothing. The all-encompassing gray was edging out her vision again; the world degenerated into different colored spots, and then there was comforting darkness.

She awoke to a feeling of pervasive cold; she was trembling. The lights were dim; she became gradually aware of the soft, polite beeps of machinery – and the warmth of a hand curled around hers.

“Sloan,” she murmured. “Is that you?”

He leaned over her. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead endearingly. “I’m here, Maire. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a truck.”

He chuckled. “You passed out, but the nurse said that was okay. They put stitches in your leg, and you’re getting a blood transfusion. They said it would take four hours, and you’ve been out for a little over three.”

She turned her head and saw the needle in her arm. “Yuck. I’m glad I was passed out for that; I hate needles.”

“I don’t blame you there.”

“Have you been here all this time?”

He smiled and leaned down to kiss her lips gently. “Of course. I wanted to be here when you woke up.”

“I think I may be falling for you,” she murmured.

“Ditto.”

“How eloquent.”

He laughed. “Hey, now that you’re awake and I feel reasonably sure you’re going to live, I’m going to run down to the vending machines and grab some food. Or a reasonable facsimile. You know hospital food.”

Maire smiled. “Go forth and eat. You should really go down the street and get some real food. I saw a Kentucky Fried Chicken on our way here.”

“Oh yeah, that’s real food,” he said with a grimace. “I’ll survive on Snickers bars for now, babe. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“Won’t they make you leave after visiting hours?”

He scowled. “Yes. But that’s a couple hours away. I’ll get a hotel and come back in the morning.”

“You don’t have to –“

“I want to,” he said firmly. “This is my fault, Maire, and you know it. Indirectly, maybe, but still – there it is. Now, look – tonight, I want you to keep your call-button close at all times. If you feel anything – sense anything – call for a nurse. Ask for an Ambien, too – if you’re asleep, you’re safe.”

“Am I?”

“From what I’ve been able to discern, her power comes from possession. If you’re sleeping, she can’t do anything.”

“You think.”

“I think.” He kissed her again. “I desperately need caffeine; I’ll be right back, okay?”

“I really don’t believe she can reach me here,” said Maire. “It’s so far from the lake; she can’t be everywhere, can she?”

His face was grim. “I wish I knew.”

“I’ll be okay. Go get some chow and caffeine.”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.”

She watched him go and was amused to feel butterflies rise up and dance in her stomach. In just a short time she’d come to feel a connection with Sloan Kirby. She already felt more joined with him than her ex-boyfriend, whom she’d dated for nearly three years. Something about Sloan’s ready smile, his bright eyes, and his easy manner had captivated Maire. So he was haunted by the vengeful ghost of his dead wife. Hey, all relationships have their issues. Maybe he would consider moving to the city, and leaving his demons behind in Mason’s Cove.

Maire closed her eyes and tried to relax; at her side, the machine pumping blood into her body whirred and hummed. The sound was oddly soothing. She heard the door open; she opened her eyes and smiled at the nurse who’d just come in.

“How are we doing?” the woman asked.

“Pretty good, I guess. How much longer for the transfusion?”

The nurse checked the machine. “About a half hour. Can I get you anything? The doctor doesn’t want you to eat yet, but I can get you clear liquids – water, Sprite?”

“I’d love some Sprite. Diet Sprite, actually.”

“No problem.” The nurse smiled and suddenly a chill went down Maire’s spine. The woman had fair skin and raven black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her eyes were hazel but swiftly they flickered blue. For a moment they were hazel again, and Maire almost dismissed it as a trick of the light. But then the nurse’s smile faded. Her face became blank and her eyes became the color of blue frost.

Maire opened her mouth to scream but nothing came out. I’m dreaming. That’s all. Sloan will come back in a minute and I’ll wake up.

The nurse

Liana

moved to stand over Maire’s bed. Her icy eyes locked with Maire’s and Maire saw nothing but death and hatred in that gaze. Without breaking eye contact, the nurse/Liana raised her left hand, extending her arm toward Maire’s face.

“I’ve been using the wrong element,” she hissed. “Not water. Need fire.”

Maire felt heat in her legs. It started as a warm glow, like stretching out before a cozy fireplace.

Then she smelled her own flesh burning.

Her throat was frozen by whatever power the dead witch possessed, channeled through the captive body of the nurse. Maire could not even scream as she burned. Her legs were engulfed in flames; then it spread to her torso, her arms, her face. Plumes of black smoke filled the room; but the smoke alarms were dead lumps of metal and plastic, already melted by Liana’s magic.

The blaze faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving the bed sheets, blankets, and pillows completely untouched. The only thing devoured by the flames was Maire.

The lights flickered; went out; then came back on. The nurse - the former nurse - stood quietly over the bed.

Sloan came back into the room, bearing a Mountain Dew and a Snickers bar. He stopped short at the door; his eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. The nurse was still standing over Maire’s bed, silent. Her eyes still glowed pale blue. She looked at Sloan and a slow smile spread across her face.

“For you,” she said.

He went to her and kissed her upturned face. “Very good, my love. Your powers are growing.”

Liana set the fire extinguisher on the ground and rose, wrapping her arms around her husband. “It was fire all along. Right spell; wrong element. It is done. This body is mine now. Take me home.”

He took her hand and they walked out of the hospital together, the high priest and the spirit of his priestess. Back to Mason’s Cove, back to the lake.

Back home.