âWhenâs the last time you had somebody who cared about you?â
She asked gently, even as she was painfully afraid she knew the answer.
âIt doesnât matter. I donât need anybody.â
âI donât believe you. And itâs too bad, because you have me.â
His eyes tracked over her face, lingering at her mouth, his own working slightly. She knew what was about to happen. And this time she didnât step away.
Maggie Harper âHer determination to restore an infamous old house puts her at odds with an entire townâand a killer who would do anything to stop her.
John Samuels âThe stranger in town offers Maggie his helpâbut not the truth about his identity or his motives.
Greg and Emily Ross âTheir murders continue to cast a long shadow over the town where they livedâand died.
Annie Madsen âMaggieâs closest friend in town. Even she disapproves of Maggieâs plans for the house.
Irene Graham âAnnieâs mother is full of answers. Are they the ones Maggie is looking for?
Dalton Sterling âThe builder wants Maggieâs house. How far will he go to get it?
Clay Howell âHe doesnât like people who ask questions about the Rosses.
Janet Howell âA woman who seems to be keeping secrets. Her own or someone elseâs?
Paul Winslow âA man whose temper hasnât calmed in thirty years.
Teri Winslow âThe babysitter was close to the Rosses. Does she possess information that could lead Maggie to the truth?
In the dark of night, the house appeared no different from the others on the street. The lack of lights masked its details, making it nothing more than another shapeless silhouette on the block. The trees bracketing the property provided concealing shadows that hid the rest of the lot from view.
It was only when the clouds briefly parted, allowing the pale moonlight to shine down upon it, that it became clear just how different this house was. Several of its windows had cardboard covering jagged, gaping holes in the glass. The roof sagged in more than one place, as did the railing on the wide front porch. Its front lawn was patchy and choked with weeds. Without the sheltering darkness, it was obvious that unlike every other house on this quiet residential street, this one hadnât been occupied for some time.
Nearly thirty years now. Ever since the murders.
No one wanted to live in a place where two people had been brutally killed. Few even wanted to look at it, preferring to ignore its existence entirely, as though it would be so easy to forget what had happened within its walls.
For others, such blissful ignorance wasnât possible.
Standing in the shadows on the other side of the street, a lone figure stared at the structure and imagined what it would be like to watch the house burn to the ground.
It wouldnât take much. Perhaps only a single match. A flick of the wrist to create the flame and another to toss it into the building. Then it would be done. A house that old, that decaying, would likely go up in an instant and burn just as quickly. It would happen so fast no one would be able to stop it. Not the neighbors who did their best to ignore the houseâs existence and had no interest in seeing it remain standing. Not the volunteer firefighters who would take their time coming to a vacant house no one cared about. Not even the woman currently sleeping inside, the woman whose stubborn, ridiculous insistence on trying to restore the house had brought back so many painful memories.
It should have been done years ago. Only the fear of being caught, of returning to the scene of the crime, had prevented it.
But now, no matter how fierce the need to avoid it, it was impossible not to return. Night after night. A compulsion that would remain as long as the house stood, as long as there was somewhere to return to.
No. Determination surged, hard and desperate and unrelenting. It had to end.
The woman had proven difficult to scare off so far. That would change. No matter what it took.
The woman had to be stopped. The house had to be destroyed.
Only then would it be possible to forget exactly what had happened here.
And why.
2:00 a.m.
Maggie didnât have to check her watch to know what time it was. Sheâd felt every minute ticking away from the moment sheâd crawled into the sleeping bag and settled in for the night.
Staring into the darkness, she waited. Not for sleep.
For trouble.
She didnât know what form it would arrive in. The shattering of glass. A beam of light piercing the dark. A floorboard creaking from the weight of a foot that shouldnât be there.