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Praise for the novels of USA TODAY bestselling author
MAGGIE SHAYNE

“A tasty, tension-packed read.”

—Publishers Weekly on Thicker Than Water

“Maggie Shayne demonstrates an absolutely superb touch, blending fantasy and romance into an outstanding reading experience.”

—Romantic Times on Embrace the Twilight

“Maggie Shayne is better than chocolate. She satisfies every wicked craving.”

—Bestselling author Suzanne Forster

“Maggie Shayne delivers sheer delight, and fans new and old of her vampire series can rejoice.”

—Romantic Times on Twilight Hunger

“Shayne’s haunting tale is intricately woven…. A moving mix of high suspense and romance, this haunting Halloween thriller will propel readers to bolt their doors at night!”

—Publishers Weekly on The Gingerbread Man

“Shayne’s talent knows no bounds!”

—Rendezvous

“Maggie Shayne delivers romance with sweeping intensity and bewitching passion.”

—Bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“Shayne’s gift has made her one of the preeminent voices in paranormal romance today!”

—Romantic Times

MAGGIE SHAYNE
DARKERTHAN MIDNIGHT

This book is dedicated to my mom,

with all my love. All the very best

parts of me come from you.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Prologue

Fourteen Years Ago…

Cassandra Marie Jackson clutched her mother’s hand as the man who’d raped and murdered her sister rose to his feet to hear the verdict. Time seemed to stretch, and to slow. She could hear the clock in the back of the courtroom, and it seemed there was an unnaturally long pause between every tick. She closed her eyes and tried to block the past, but it came rushing at her, anyway—the memory of that moment when her life had been turned upside down.

The knock at the door came at ten o’clock. She’d been on the sofa, doing homework. Dad was going over some notes—he had to perform surgery early the next morning, and as always, he spent time double-checking everything. Mom was watching a movie and crocheting. The afghan she was working on was almost done. Purple and white. Cassie remembered it perfectly.

She’d looked up briefly when her mother went to answer the door, then frowned when she saw the policeman on the other side. Before the officer said a word, her mother turned, her face pale. Almost as if she knew. “Ben,” she called. “Ben, come here.”

Dad came in from his study, pausing halfway across the living room with a file folder in one hand. He took off his reading glasses, tucked them into his shirt pocket and went to the door.

“Dr. Benjamin Jackson?” the officer asked.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a daughter named Carrie?”

Cassie was off the sofa by then. Something clenched in her stomach when she heard her older sister’s name, and she automatically looked at the clock on the wall. It was only ten. Carrie’s curfew wasn’t until eleven. In some warped way that meant nothing could be wrong.

Her mother was clutching her father’s hand as he said, “Yes.” But there was something different about his voice that time. It was lifeless, flat.

“I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, Dr. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson, but your daughter…”

Cassie didn’t know what else he’d said, but she knew what it meant. Maybe she’d forgotten the words because of what had followed them. Her father dropped the precious notes, white sheets fluttering everywhere, like the feathers of a murdered dove. Her mother screamed; first it was the word “no” over and over again, but then it became a hoarse, choked cry that wasn’t a word at all, because there was no word that could express the pain. And with every sound she emitted, it seemed more of her life left her body, until she backed away from the door and dropped gracelessly onto the carpet, empty. Then Cassie’s father and the policeman were hovering over her, trying to help her up, to calm her. But there was no calming Mariah Jackson. Not until Dad managed to get a hypodermic from his bag and inject her with something.

Cassie knelt beside her mother on the floor, holding her as tightly as she could, and thinking how wrong it was that she was hugging her weeping mother. She’d never seen her mom like this. Not like this. It was like the end of the world. It was like everything that had ever been was gone. Torn apart, turned inside out. But she held her mother, because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, until, still sobbing, Mariah fell asleep in Cassie’s arms, right there on the floor.

Dad had been standing nearby, watching, helpless, and speaking in low tones to the police. There were two of them. Cassie had only seen one at first.

Bending, Dad scooped her mother up and carried her to the sofa.

Cassie had to let her go, but for some reason she couldn’t get far from her. She felt as if she might fall into some bottomless pit if she did. Nothing was real, things seemed like a dream—a nightmare. Her sister couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t be.

And even then she hadn’t known the true horror that had visited her family. She thought it must have been a car accident, and wondered which of Carrie’s friends had been involved and whether they were hurt, too.

“Will you be all right?” her father asked. “I have to go with the officer….”

To identify the body, Cassie thought, the phrase floating into her mind from countless TV cop shows.

“Officer Crowley can stay with them,” the policeman said. And Cassie looked up to see that the second cop was a woman in uniform, standing just inside the doorway, battling tears. She wasn’t very old, Cassie thought. Not more than a few years older than Carrie.

Cassie met her father’s eyes, nodded to tell him it was all right for him to go. He hugged her hard. Told her he loved her.

She spent the next hour in a state of shock, mostly staring at Carrie’s senior-class picture in its frame on the wall. She kept thinking she should be crying. But she couldn’t, because it wasn’t real. She still expected Carrie to come walking through the front door, asking what all the fuss was about. Cassie remembered the lady cop telling her that they would catch the man who did it. She made it a promise, a vow, and there was fire in her eyes when she said it.

It was only in that moment that Cassie realized her sister hadn’t died in some senseless car accident. Someone had killed her.

Killed her.

Somehow, Cassie got through that night. She would always think that lady cop had a lot to do with it. Her promise that they would get the man had given Cassie a focus—a dark, faceless him to hate and wish dead. The man who’d killed her sister. A target for her rage. She hoped the cops wouldn’t arrest him—surely they would just shoot him instead. How could they not? He’d killed Carrie.

They hadn’t, of course. They’d arrested him.

Jeffrey Allen Dunkirk had been their neighbor for more than a year. A seemingly harmless, always friendly, forty-five-year-old divorced father, who used to pay Cassie and Carrie to watch his twin sons from time to time. He only had the boys every other weekend. The cops said he’d spotted Carrie walking home from her best friend’s house, three blocks away, and had stopped and offered her a ride. Then he’d driven her to a park five miles out of town, raped her, strangled her and left her lying in a ditch, with her clothes and her purse tossed in beside her broken eighteen-year-old body. There was no question. His semen was inside her. Her hairs and fingerprints were all over his car. He had no alibi.

In the courtroom, the man standing there, waiting for the verdict to be read, was not the man Cassie knew. He was jittery, jerky, fidgety. Throughout the trial he’d alternated between sitting in a zoned-out stupor, and fidgeting as if he were going to jump out of his chair, while occasionally talking to himself in urgent whispers.

All an act designed to support his claim of insanity, because it was the only defense his lawyers could come up with. It made Cassie angry enough to claw out his eyes. And maybe that was good, because the anger took the edge off the grief.

A slip of paper was passed from the jury foreman to the bailiff, to the judge, who unfolded and read it, then handed it back to the bailiff, who carried it back to the juror. And finally, the foreman cleared his throat and read.

“In the case of New York State versus Jeffrey Allen Dunkirk, on the charge of murder in the first degree, we the jury find the defendant…”

Cassie’s mom squeezed her hand even tighter. Her father just sat there, as if he’d turned to stone.

“Not guilty by reason of mental defect or impairment.”

There was a collective gasp in the courtroom, followed by noisy murmurs, even as Cassie’s mother slumped in her chair. Cassie turned to her father, seeking his strength, his comfort, but he was on his feet, reaching into his suit jacket while the judge banged his gavel and shouted for silence. Cassie watched, paralyzed with shock, as her father’s hand emerged again, with a gun. The weapon bucked hard when it exploded in his hand, three times in quick succession, before men were hurling themselves at him. Cassie’s chair was knocked over in the rush, and she landed awkwardly on the floor, her eyes searching for her father beneath the pile of bodies on top of him.

She couldn’t see him, and her gaze was drawn to the crowd gathered across the aisle. In the midst of that crowd she could see Jeffrey Allen Dunkirk lying on the floor, a thick red puddle forming around him. Someone said, “He’s dead!”

Cassie got to her feet and stumbled to her mother, who was standing, sobbing, her entire body quaking. She put her arms around her mom as men hauled her father to his feet. An officer pulled the esteemed surgeon’s hands behind his back and snapped handcuffs around his wrists as he said, “Dr. Benjamin Jackson, I’m placing you under arrest.” Then he put a hand on her father’s shoulder and said, “I’m sorry,” before continuing on, reciting the familiar Miranda rights.

1

Present Day…

River sat on the floor in the room’s deepest corner, his back to the wall, his arms wrapped around his waist. He couldn’t move them. The straitjacket held them too tightly for that. The room was white, its walls padded like the ones in the old Blackberry High School gymnasium. It didn’t smell like the gym, though. No mingling of hardwood floor polish and B.O. Here, the smell was a sickening combination of urine and bleach. Aside from that minor distraction, though, his mind was clouded in an almost pleasant fog, and yet turbulence kept surfacing from its depths. Specific analysis was impossible at this point. He only knew he was in trouble. Terrible trouble. And that he had to do something or he was going to die. So he sat there, rocking and struggling to capture coherence, because he couldn’t do anything unless he could remember what it was he had to do.

Sounds brought his head up; the locks on his door were turning. He strained his eyes as the door swung open, and slowly managed to bring the man who entered into focus. Ethan. Thank God.

Ethan crossed the room, a gentle smile on his face. He hunkered down in front of River, his white coat spotless and almost too bright, his name tag pinned neatly to a pocket. Dr. E. Melrose, M.D. Chief of Psychiatry. He put a hand on River’s shoulder.

“How you doing, pal? Better?”

River shook his head slowly. “Worse,” he said. “Getting worse, Ethan.”

Ethan frowned, studying River’s face, stared into his eyes. It made River think of when they were kids and they would stare at each other until one of them blinked. And then Ethan blinked and River laughed. “I win.”

“I’ll order more medication,” Ethan said.

“No!”

Ethan’s reaction—the way he jerked away from River—made its way through the fog in River’s mind enough to hurt. Enough to tell him that even his best friend was afraid of him. He licked his dry lips and tried again, though forming sentences was a challenge at best.

“No more drugs.”

“I know you don’t like taking the meds, Riv, but right now they’re the only thing keeping you—”

“You said…I’d get…better.” He knew his speech was slurred; he lisped his s’s and dulled his r’ s. He couldn’t help it. “I’m getting worse.”

“I know. I’m doing all I can for you.” Ethan moved to one side, reaching behind River to unfasten the straitjacket. When the sleeves came loose, River lowered his arms, sighing in relief at finally being able to change their position. Then he sat forward and let his friend pull the jacket off him. “Do you feel like talking?”

River nodded. “Try.”

“I know. I know it’s hard to talk. That’s due to the drugs, but…I’m sorry, Riv.”

River nodded. “Before Steph died…” His tongue felt thick and clumsy, and the words he formed in his mind didn’t make it all the way to his lips. He felt much like he had on prom night a hundred years ago when he and the jocks from the team had spiked the punch and he’d drunk way more than his share. Ethan had saved his ass that night. Practically carried him home, poured him into bed and then covered for him.

“Wasn’t this bad—jus’ the blackouts. And not rememememem…”

“Remembering,” Ethan finished. “I know.”

“Now…I can…barely…funchin…funchin…fun—”

“Function,” Ethan said.

Nodding, River lifted a hand to his lips, wiped and felt moisture. “Jesus. Ethan…I’m drooling.”

“I know. I know. I didn’t expect this, either.”

“It’s meds. Gotta be. Meds.”

Ethan nodded. “It’s possible. But River, you’ve got to stop getting violent with the staff here. It’s only making things worse. They’re here to help you. The way you’ve been acting the past few days, I’m afraid that without the medication, you might hurt someone.”

River narrowed his eyes on his friend. “Someone…tried…kill me.”

“What?”

“Pillow…on my face. Couldn’t see who. Came up sing—sing—”

“Swinging?”

“And…and they came in. I kep’ fighting. I din’t know…who—”

“All right, all right. Calm down. Don’t get agitated again.”

River took a few breaths, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. “Not a violent…man. Din’t…kill Steph. You know that.”

“I know,” Ethan said, lowering his eyes.

“S’posed to get better…here.”

Ethan sighed. “River, I’m going to review your meds, see where we can start lightening up the doses, and gradually bring you off them. Then we can get an idea where you are without chemical help. And I’ll speak to the staff, make sure you’re safe. I’ll have them keep your room locked while you sleep, have them keep a closer eye on you. All right?”

“Can’t jus’ stop…meds? Jus’ stop them?”

Ethan shook his head slowly. “Not all at once, no. You’d be a mess if we did that. I’ll start lowering the doses today. I promise.”

River sighed. “Okay. Okay.”

“Okay.” Ethan clasped his shoulders one last time, then got up and went through the door.

River struggled to his feet, though he had to press his palms to the wall to do it. Then he clung to that wall, pushing himself along it, around a corner and to the door. Exhausted, he leaned against it, his head resting on its smooth, cool surface, his ear pressed tight, because he thought someone might be out there waiting to come in when Ethan left. He had to be careful. Be aware.

“…must be so hard for you, seeing him like this,” a woman was saying. “He’s not the same man he was when he came here. But I suppose it’s eating away at him. He killed his pregnant wife, for heaven’s sake.”

“Doctor, he’s drooling a bit,” a second female voice said. “Did you notice it?”

“Yes. I’m afraid he’s getting worse,” Ethan said. “Showing signs of increased paranoia. Brand-new set of delusions. We’re going to need to increase his meds.”

“But, Doctor, he’s exhibiting extrapyramidal side effects,” the second voice said. “Doesn’t that indicate he should be taken off the Haldol altogether?”

“Excuse me, who are you exactly?” Ethan asked.

The first woman spoke. “She’s new here, Doctor. Forgive her. Nurse Jensen, Dr. Melrose is an excellent psychiatrist. He knows his job.”

“I know mine, too,” the nurse said, but softly.

River heard footsteps, then the first nurse again. “I apologize, Doctor. I’ll see to it she learns her place.”

“Oh, don’t be too hard on her. You know how overzealous new nurses can be. Uh, maybe it would be a good idea to keep her away from this particular patient, though. All right? I don’t want anything interfering with his treatment.”

“You’re a good friend. He’s lucky to have you,” she said. “I’ll see to it immediately.”

“Thanks, Judy.” River heard scraping sounds, knew Ethan was taking his chart from the plastic holder there, probably writing in it. “Meanwhile, let’s increase the Haldol. See if it doesn’t help.”

River groaned softly and gave up his hold on the door, letting himself sink to the floor. Ethan didn’t believe him. His best friend didn’t believe him. His head spun and he fought, fought hard to latch onto a thought. A single thought, anything, to save himself from the madness that was trying so hard to swallow him up.

He wasn’t insane. It was the meds. The meds were killing him. Good. Good. What then? What could help him? He struggled; fog closed in but he pushed it back.

Nurse Jensen…she knew. But no, she couldn’t help him. No one could help him. He was on his own. Okay. So he was on his own. And on his own, he had to get out of this place. There. That was it, that was the answer he’d been seeking through the fog. He had to get out of this place.

Cassandra Jackson—Jax to her friends—sat in the front seat of Chief Frankie Parker’s SUV as the countryside of Blackberry, Vermont, unwound before her. She’d been here before, but she would never get over the beauty of a Vermont winter. The entire place looked like a Christmas card—sugar-coated pine trees, leafless maples and poplars glittering with icicles, blankets of snow covering every gentle slope and level field. Frankie drove, smiling and talking nonstop about the benefits of being police chief of a small town. Jax’s parents, Ben and Mariah, rode in the back, agreeing with every word Frankie said.

“You were so right about this place, honey,” Mariah said. “When you told us a year ago that we’d love it here, I thought you were crazy, but it’s wonderful. Truly.”

Jax shrugged. “Perfect for you doesn’t necessarily mean perfect for me.” Which was a lie and she knew it. She’d hit a glass ceiling in the Syracuse Police Department. Maybe because she was a woman, but more likely because her father was a convicted murderer who’d only been out of prison for two years. Either way, she’d gone as far as she could go there.

So when Frankie Parker phoned her with the job offer, she’d been quick to take some vacation time and come up here to check things out. It made a nice excuse to visit her parents.

She’d fallen in love with the town of Blackberry when she’d been up here a year ago, helping a friend and hunting a killer. Her friends were still here—the killer long dead. And now her parents had settled in nearby to boot, adding to the little town’s attraction.

“It would be so nice to have you close by, right in the next town,” her father said, speaking slow and softly. “After all, we’ve got a lot of lost time to make up for.”

“That would be nice,” Jax agreed. God knew she hadn’t had enough time with her father—a lifetime wouldn’t be enough. He’d served twelve hard years in prison, and lost his brilliant medical career because of it. He would never be able to practice medicine again—at least not on human beings. But he hadn’t become despondent. He’d written every day, as had she. And he’d begun studying veterinary medicine while still in prison, and completed his work during the two years since his release. Only six months ago, the AVMA board had voted to grant him a license to practice. He had joined an aging veterinarian at the Blackberry-Pinedale Animal Hospital, and he seemed fulfilled and content.

He’d aged thirty years in prison. He was skinny as a rail, his hair pure white and thinning, and he was quiet—far more quiet than he’d ever been before. Almost as if he was always far too deep in thought to be bothered with conversation.

“It would be nice for me, too,” Frankie said. “I’ve been wanting to retire for months, but reluctant to leave the department in less than capable hands. When I thought of you, Jax, it was like a load off my shoulders. I’m convinced you’re the one for the job.”

“Yeah, yeah, flattery will probably work. Keep it coming,” Jax told her.

Frankie grinned at her, adding wrinkles to her wrinkles. Jax still wasn’t used to thinking of a sixty-plus-year-old with kinky silver curls as chief of police, but she knew from experience Frankie Parker was a good cop. Her looks just tended to lull you into thinking she was harmless. That probably worked to her advantage.

“The town board will approve you on my say-so,” she said. “No problem there. It’s really up to you.”

Again Jax nodded. “Why aren’t you promoting one of the officers from your department, Frankie?”

“Neither Matthews nor Campanelli are interested,” she said. “Too much paperwork, too much pressure. Though, compared to a big department like Syracuse has, you’ll find it a piece of cake,” she added quickly. “I’ve got one other, Kurt Parker, but frankly, he hasn’t got the temperament for it. Hell, he probably wouldn’t be working for me at all if he wasn’t my nephew.”

Jax nodded, mulling that over. She hadn’t met Officer Parker. He’d been away on vacation when she’d been here last. Then she thought of someone else who could fill the position. “What about Josh Kendall? He was DEA. Surely he could fill the spot.”

“Kendall?” Frankie shook her head. “I like that we think alike, Jax. Josh was on top of my list. Fact is, I offered him the job and he turned me down flat. I think he and Beth have had enough excitement to last them several lifetimes. They’re both content to make their way as the humble keepers of the Blackberry Inn. Can’t say as I blame them.” She slowed the car, glanced at Jax with a smile. “Here’s the house that comes with the job.”

Jax looked, then looked again. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

She’d expected the house, a perk that came along with the job as police chief, to be a functional cracker box at the edge of the village. Instead, Frankie was pulling into the driveway of a flat-roofed, white Victorian that took her breath away. Tall narrow windows were flanked by forest-green shutters, with elaborate scrollwork trim in that same green, as well as mauve. The paint was new. The place looked perfect.

“Town claimed it for back taxes and other money owed a while back. They did some initial repairs, and kept it in tiptop shape since. Were thinking about selling it, but we had a budget surplus this year. I convinced them to offer it to the new police chief, make up for the pay being lower than you could make elsewhere. Told ’em we’d have to do something special to get someone good enough to fill my shoes.”

“Must be some damn big shoes,” Jax muttered. “What are you, a twelve extra-wide?”

“Ahh, it’s not so much. Used to be twice this size,” Frankie said. “But an entire wing had to be torn down. Wait till you see inside.” She shut the motor off and got out, making footprints in the snow. She tugged her furry collar up to her ears and trudged forward, taking a set of keys from her black, leatherlike cop-jacket’s pocket.

Jax got out, too, waiting for her parents to join her before hurrying toward the front door. She was nearly there when a large black-and-brown dog lunged out from underneath the front porch, barked twice with its pointy ears laid back, then turned and ran away. It vanished into the woods across the street. Jax just stood there, staring after it and swearing under her breath.

“That was a police dog, wasn’t it?” Mariah asked. “I think it’s a sign!”

Jax pursed her lips and refrained from correcting her mother. She’d always referred to German shepherds as “police dogs” and always would. “That was one sad-looking case,” Jax said. “Seemed as if it’s been living on tree bark and swamp water.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that dog.” Frankie shook her head so that her tight silver curls bounced. “He’s a menace. We’ve been trying to collar him for a year without any luck. He’s cagey enough to get by on his own.”

Jax tipped her head to one side. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“How so?” Frankie asked.

Jax shrugged. “He’s no mongrel, looked like a purebred. He must have belonged to someone once.”

“I didn’t know you were a dog lover, Jax,” Frankie said.

“I could care less about dogs.” It was a lie and she knew it, but she didn’t want to go blowing her anti-girlie image by painting herself as a bleeding-heart puppy cuddler. “You have a father who’s a vet, you pick up a few things, that’s all.”

“Well, that mutt may be a purebred, but I can tell you he’s one hundred percent pure pain in my backside now. Don’t worry, Jax, we won’t let him pester you. Come on, come see the house.”

Jax nodded and followed Chief Frankie inside, trying unsuccessfully to put the dog out of her mind. It wasn’t easy. His brown eyes had met hers for just a moment, and managed to beam right past her hard-shell exterior to the soft, mushy parts she didn’t let anyone see.

She didn’t like those parts, kept them concealed and confined. Mostly because she lived and worked in a man’s world and she’d learned to act the part. But she knew, too, it was partly because her sister had been soft. She’d been friendly, open and utterly trusting. Jax had learned at sixteen where those soft parts could get you. In her line of work, and in life in general, a woman just couldn’t afford to indulge them.

Still, the whole time Frankie showed her around the house, which was just as gorgeous on the inside, she kept thinking about the dog. And before the tour was finished, she’d decided to pick up a bag of dog food and leave some out for him. Of course, she wouldn’t tell anyone. But she’d always had a soft spot for strays.

“Now, the fireplace has been checked over thoroughly. It’s ready to use, but there’s also a new furnace in the basement that heats the place just fine,” Frankie said.

Jax nodded, and couldn’t help imagining the redbrick fireplace aglow with a big fire, even as she walked around the living room. When she got to the far wall, she hugged her arms. “Chilly on this side of the room.” When she spoke she could see her breath. “Whoa, real chilly.”

“Must be the side the wind’s blowing on,” Mariah said, smiling. Her mother, Jax realized, wasn’t going to find any fault with the house that might become her daughter’s new home. No matter what.

“It’s always chilly on the east side of the house. I suspect it could use another layer of insulation,” Frankie said. “Upstairs there are three bedrooms and a bathroom. One bathroom down here, as well.”

“More than one cop needs,” Jax said.

“Sure wouldn’t be as cramped as your apartment in Syracuse, would it, Cassie?” Mariah asked.

It wasn’t really a question.

“Come on, let me show you the kitchen,” Frankie said.

As they trooped through the place, Jax looked back to see her father standing on the far side of the living room, studying the clouds of steam his breath made, a frown etched on his brow.

“Dad?”

He glanced her way, softened his face so the frown vanished.

“You okay?” Jax asked.

He nodded and joined her in the dining room. Mariah and Frankie were already in the kitchen, chattering. Benjamin slipped an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “The place seems lonely,” he said. “Almost…sad. I think it needs you.”

“Yeah?”

“And it would make your mother awfully happy.”

“I know, Dad. I’m considering it, I really am.”

“That’s all we can ask.”

She could have told him she was thinking this whole thing a little too good to be true, and trying to figure out a way to find the catch in the entire offer without hurting Frankie’s feelings. Hell, they were just going to hand her a house? Something had to be off. If there wasn’t, she’d be an idiot not to take the job. Still, as she took the grand tour, liking the place more with every room she saw, she knew there had to be a downside.

Later, as they drove away from the house, Jax noticed a shape peering out from beneath the snow right beside the place. “Is that a foundation?” she asked.

Frankie glanced where she was looking and nodded. “That was the wing that had to be torn down. It was never part of the original structure, anyway. It was added on in the seventies—seventy-five, I think. Two-car garage and a game room on the ground floor, extra bedrooms up above.”

“So what happened to it? Why’d it have to go? Shoddy construction work?”

Frankie shook her head. “There was a fire couple of years back. Sad story, really. A woman was killed.” She narrowed her eyes on Jax’s face. “That’s not gonna spook you now, is it?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you mean.” Right, so what was that little shiver up her spine just now? she wondered. And deep down in her brain an irritating voice said, “Hey, kid, maybe you just found your downside.”

Frankie brightened. “Good. Because I’d like you to spend your two-week vacation at the house,” she said. “You can shadow me on the job, get a real feeling for what it will be like to live and work here in Blackberry. After that, if you decide to take the job, the house is yours, rent free. If you stay five years, you get the deed, as well.”

“That’s an incredibly generous offer, Frankie. Almost too generous.” Jax faced the woman, reminded herself Frankie was something of a kindred spirit, and decided to stop pulling punches. “So what’s the catch?”

Frankie held her eyes, probably to make it clear she had nothing to hide. “No catch. It’s meant to be an offer that’s too good to turn down,” she said. “Of course, the pay isn’t the greatest, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, either. Best of all, Blackberry’s a safe place to be a cop. Nothing bad ever happens here.”

Jax crooked one brow. “Aren’t you forgetting your run-in with Mordecai Young last year? I was here for that, Frankie. Remember?”

Frankie’s smile died. “Not likely to forget. He murdered my best friend.” She sighed, shaking her head. “God rest your soul, Maudie Bickham.” Then she focused on Jax again. “That was a once in a lifetime event. Honestly, Jax, I mean it. Bad things don’t happen in Blackberry.”

Jax nodded, but she thought about the foundation, the fire that had burned a wing of the house. A woman had been killed, Frankie said. Surely that qualified as a “bad thing.” Jax wondered briefly if the pristine purity of Blackberry, Vermont was anything more than a convincing and beautiful illusion.

A nurse brought River back to his room, speaking softly to him all the way. He checked her name tag, but she was neither a “Judy” nor a “Jensen.” He wasn’t really sure why he was checking. When she got him to his room, he looked around—everything here was becoming familiar. The bed. The mesh-lined glass of the single window. The door to the tiny bathroom. He needed to remember what he had to do. That was all he struggled for. To remember what he had to do. Get away. Get out.

“There now, I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better this afternoon,” the nurse said, leading him to the easy chair, expecting him to sit down, he realized, when she paused there, just looking at him. So he did. Then she brought out the pills, as he had known she would. She poured water from a pitcher and handed him the tiny medicine cup that held the tablets.

Remember, he told himself. Remember what to do.

He took the pills, drank the water, swallowed them.

“Let’s see,” she chirped, as if she were speaking to a four-year-old.

River obediently opened his mouth, lifted his tongue, let her assure herself he’d swallowed the pills.

“Good, good for you, Michael.”

He could have told her to call him River. He’d started out correcting everyone here. No one had called him Michael since he was thirteen years old. Ethan’s dad had started it that summer after the rapids had gobbled up his canoe and spit him out onto the shore. But River didn’t care what anyone called him anymore. He wasn’t sure who the hell he was, anyway, so what difference did it make?

“Now if you put in a good night, you’ll get your privileges back tomorrow. You want to go to the community room, don’t you?”

He nodded, tried to force a smile, and just wished she would leave so he could try to make himself cough up the pills before he forgot.

“That’s good,” she said. “You just take it easy for tonight. You’ve had a hard day. Do you need anything before I go?”

“No.”

“All right then. Good night, Michael.”

“’Night.”

He waited until she had closed the door behind her. He heard the lock snap into place.

Focus. The meds—have to get rid of them.

He got to his feet and went into the bathroom, angry that hurrying wasn’t much of an option. He shuffled when he walked. Opening the toilet lid, he leaned over the bowl, stuck a finger down his throat, started to gag.

“Oh, now, Michael. That’s no way to behave yourself, is it?”

He straightened fast, but it made him dizzy, and when he spun around he fell, landing on the seat. Which turned out to be a lucky thing, because the orderly standing over him was swinging a knife at him. River’s clumsiness caused him to duck the blow that would have slit his throat.

He reacted with the instinct of a veteran cop, not a mental patient. It was almost as if he were standing aside, observing, silently amazed that his years of training hadn’t been entirely erased, even by the drugs. His body remembered. It didn’t need his mind’s coherent instructions to move; it just reacted. He drove his head into the man’s belly, shot to his feet as the guy doubled over, clasped his fists together and brought them down as one, hammering the back of the orderly’s head.

The man went down hard, his forehead cracking against the toilet seat on the way. And then he just lay there, not moving.

River stared down at him, shocked. His heart was pounding as hard as the drugs would allow.

The drugs! Dammit.

He grabbed up the knife the downed orderly had been wielding, long instinct refusing to let it lie there beside the man. Then he shoved the limp body out from in front of the toilet, and tried again to vomit. He managed to bring up a little. Enough, he hoped. Prayed. Let it be enough.

The orderly still hadn’t moved. The toilet seat was cracked, River realized, and so was the bowl underneath it. Water was seeping onto the floor.

River started to shake as he knelt beside the man, checking for a pulse. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to find it in his condition even if there had been one. So many drugs floating through his bloodstream—even if he had brought up the most recent batch. Still, he tried to find a pulse. But he didn’t think the man was alive.

He sank onto the floor, rocking back and forth, trying to organize his thoughts. He had to get out of here. He had to. But God, it was so hard to think. Maybe if he’d managed to avoid swallowing his meds for a few days. Maybe then he could have—

Not then. Now. You have to get out of here now.

Somehow, he latched onto a thought, a goal. And slowly, clumsily, he began to remove the fallen man’s clothes. All of them, even the lanyard around his neck with the magnetically stripped key card. The front of the card bore a photo of the orderly. His name had been Kyle. Kyle W. Maples.

It took forever, the better part of an hour, River thought, or maybe longer. But eventually, he was dressed in the orderly’s white uniform, with the hunting knife hidden in a deep pocket and the lanyard around his own neck. The orderly was wearing River’s own powder-blue patient pajamas. They were on him crookedly, the top inside out, but it didn’t matter. He’d done the best he could.

River lifted the dead man’s head by its hair, and grimacing, smashed his face on the toilet seat three times, hard enough to obliterate his features.

When he finished, he managed to empty the remaining contents of his stomach without any trouble at all.

Sighing, breathless, he turned to the sink, washed his face and rinsed his mouth. Then he wet his hands, smoothed down his hair as best he could, wiped the spittle from his chin.

Have to get out. But how? The door’s locked from the outside.

Get a nurse to open it. Get a nurse to come in.

Nodding, River hit the bathroom’s emergency call button.

After a moment, a nurse’s voice came on. “What is it, Mr. Corbett?”

He drew a breath, swallowed hard. He was forgetting something, more than likely. He wasn’t in any condition to plan an escape that would work. But he had to try. “I…I fell. I’m…hurt.”

He released the button and went back into the room, standing against the wall, beside the door. He could hear the nurse’s voice coming over the speaker, asking if he were all right, then telling him she would be there promptly. When the lock on the door clicked, he pressed his back to the wall, so that when the door swung open, it hid him.

The nurse paused in the doorway at the sight of the legs sticking out from the open bathroom door. Then she rushed into the bathroom, and he heard her whisper, “Oh, my God,” as he slipped out of his room and down the hall.

Within seconds, staff members were rushing toward his room, barely noticing one lone orderly in the corridor, moving in the opposite direction. He found the stair door, used the key card that hung from the orderly’s lanyard to unlock it, and took the stairs rather than the elevators. All the way down, all the way to the basement garage, where his footsteps echoed in the cool, exhaust-scented air.

God, it was getting harder and harder to walk. To focus. Maybe some of the meds had dissolved before he threw them up. Or maybe he was just tired. He didn’t know what to do next, and he groped in the orderly’s pockets as if for an answer. His hands closed around a set of keys, and he pulled them out and stared at them.

Car keys? They had a remote device on them. The kind with the button you could press to start your car from a distance, another to unlock the doors and yet another that had an emblem of a horn on it. Frowning, River pressed that button and heard, in the distance, two short beeps.

Blinking, trying to focus, he followed the sound, thanking his lucky stars. After a while, he hit the button again, and again the car’s horn sounded, guiding him in. It was a small Toyota. Yellow. He hit the unlock button and got behind the wheel. And he knew damn well he shouldn’t be driving, but he had no choice.

It was a strain to steer the vehicle. Had another car come along he would have surely hit it, or hit one of the parked cars trying to avoid it. But no other car came, and finally, he was at the gate, where a striped bar blocked his exit, and a little box with a blinking yellow light stood beside him.

He nearly panicked. There was a man inside the small booth, smiling at him and shaking his head, then he pointed at the box and held up a little card.

Right. Put the card in the slot in the box. That’s all. He took the lanyard off his neck, turned to thrust the key card into the box and banged his hand against the closed window. Swallowing his panic, he put the window down, tried again. He put the card into the slot. Pulled it back out. The gate rose. The man in the booth waved at him. River waved back, tried to smile, and struggled to steer the car out of the garage and onto the long strip of pavement that wound away from the Vermont State Mental Hospital.

He pressed the accelerator a little harder and left the place behind.

When he made it to the highway, he hesitated for one brief moment, wondering where on earth he was going to go where they wouldn’t find him. Because eventually, they were going to realize the dead man in his room was not Michael “River” Corbett. Hell, they’d probably call what he’d done back there murder.

That would be two on the list. Three, he reminded himself. He mustn’t forget—couldn’t forget—the baby. Three murders.

It didn’t matter if he was found, if he was caught, if he ended up dead—nothing mattered except learning the truth. He had to know what had happened the night of the fire. He couldn’t have murdered his wife and his child.

For a moment, as he sat there, turn signal blinking incessantly, he closed his eyes, and it came rushing back to him as if it were happening all over again.

He found himself lying on the lawn in the cool green grass, surrounded by searing heat and light and a stench that burned his lungs. Rex was there, licking his face, whining plaintively. And even as he slowly fought to grasp what was happening, he realized he’d had another damn blackout. Yet another episode when he lost minutes, sometimes hours of his life, only to return to himself with no idea of what he’d done during that time. He patted the dog’s head. “Okay, boy, okay. I’m back.”

But this time was different. He’d felt it even before he struggled to sit up, and then leaped to his feet at the sight of his beautiful home going up in flames.

He screamed his wife’s name, lunged forward, only to be clasped by a pair of strong hands that held him back. “Easy, Mr. Corbett. Easy. We’re doing all we can.”

He blinked up at the face of the firefighter, a young man, one he didn’t recognize, though he’d met most of the men in Blackberry by then. Rex was barking at the man, and he told the dog it was all right, to quiet down.

Rex sat obediently, but still whined every now and then.

“Thanks,” the firefighter said, and then the young man’s face changed. It turned ugly as he sniffed. Then he looked at the ground beside River’s feet and his eyes widened.

River looked, too. A gasoline can lay there, toppled onto its side, no cap in place. A high-heeled shoe lay beside it, bright orange in the flashing lights.

It might be Steph’s shoe. He didn’t recognize it, but God knew she had so many—maybe she got out already.

“Just why is it you’ve got gas on you, pal?” the firefighter asked.

River frowned, and then he smelled the gas, as well. Not just from the fumes that open can emitted. The smell of gas was coming from him. From his hands. From his clothes.

“I think you’d better come with me, Mr. Corbett,” the firefighter said. And then he took River by the arm and walked him toward the flashing lights of Frankie Parker’s police car, a black-and-white SUV.

A horn blew, jerking River from his muddled thoughts and gap-riddled memories. He looked into the rearview mirror and saw a car behind him, the driver waiting impatiently to get on the highway. Sighing, he flicked his own signal light off again, opting instead to take back roads. Less chance of killing someone. God knew he didn’t need any more blood on his hands. And he knew the way. He knew the back roads of Vermont so well he could find his way even from within the thick chemical clouds in his brain.

If he’d murdered Stephanie, he deserved whatever he got. But dammit, he had to know. He had to know the truth. And there was only one place where he would find it.

He had to go back home to Blackberry.

That was where all the secrets were buried.

2

“Stop!”

Dawn shouted the word and Bryan hit the brakes of her Jeep. It skidded a little on the road, then came to a stop right in front of the empty, beautifully painted Victorian house that sat alone a few yards away.

“What?” Bryan asked. “What’s wrong?”

He knew something was. Something had been wrong for months now, and she was running out of ways to deny it, or avoid it, or block it out.

She swallowed hard, tried not to notice the worry in his dark eyes, or the way his hair had fallen over his forehead, making her want to smooth it away. He hadn’t cut it since they’d started college. She liked it this way.

“Dawn?”

“There was something in the road….” She watched his face, knowing immediately there had been nothing there. Nothing he had been able to see, anyway. Certainly not a woman in a white nightgown, holding a baby in her arms. Certainly not that.

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Sorry, Bry. I—it was just a squirrel. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He sighed in relief, seemed to relax visibly. “You’re wound awfully tight lately, Dawn. I’m really glad you’re gonna spend Thanksgiving break at the inn with Beth and my dad.” He smiled. “And me.”

She shrugged and chose to ignore the final part of his comment. He knew she needed to cool things off between them. He didn’t know why—pretended to accept her decision and be fine with it. But he wasn’t fine. She’d hurt him and she knew that. If there were any other way—

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. I get a little torn. It’s tough, trying to find time to spend with both families—breaks from college are few and far between.”

He nodded. “At least your adoptive mom is cool with you spending time with your birth mom,” he put in. “That helps.”

It also helped that her birth mother, Beth, was married to Bryan’s dad, Joshua. Or it would have helped, if she weren’t trying so hard to put some distance between herself and Bry—for his sake, mostly.

“Let’s get going. Beth and Josh are waiting for us,” she said.

Bryan set the Jeep into motion. But as they drove away, Dawn couldn’t stop her gaze from straying back to that dark, lonely house. And as she did, she saw the woman again, a filmy, nearly transparent shape in the night. Not real, Dawn knew. She wasn’t real at all. None of them were.

It’s not going to work, you know, she thought. You’re never going to make it work, Father. Never.

The best restaurant in Blackberry, the Sugar Tree, was a two-story log cabin with picture windows that looked out on to a rolling, snow-covered lawn. In the summer, the hostess told Jax, there were glorious flowers and blossoming trees, a tiny pond with a fountain in the center, and outdoor tables. But this time of year, all the fun was indoors. The second floor was loft-style on all four sides, leaving the center of the place open clear to the rafters. It was a hell of a place.

The hostess seated them at a table near the huge stone fireplace with a window nearby, leaned closer and said, “Welcome back to Blackberry, Lieutenant Jackson. We sure hope you like it enough to stay.” She sent her a wink. “Your waitress will be right over to take your drink orders. Enjoy your dinner.”

Jax lifted her brows and sent a look at the three coconspirators who sat around the circular table. “So, does the whole town know what I’m doing here?”

“Honey,” Frankie said, “this is Blackberry. The whole town probably knows what time you arrived and what your mother made you for breakfast.”

“Small towns,” Jax said with a shake of her head.

“It’s not all bad,” her mom told her. “People may know a lot of your business, but not all of it. It’s nice that they care enough to want to know what you’re willing to share, but also enough to know when to leave it alone.”

Jax shot a look at her father.

“She means they don’t pry here,” her father interjected. “I’ve confided in Frankie about my past. But I’ve seen no sign that it’s gone any further.”

“It hasn’t,” Frankie assured him. “Nor will it.”

He nodded. “I don’t deserve your loyalty, Frankie, but I do appreciate it.”

“Of course you deserve it.” Frankie patted his hand across the table. “We’ve all done things we wish we could undo.”

“Few as much as I,” he said softly.

“Dad, you paid for what you did.”

He met Jax’s eyes, and for a moment they were so dark, so sullen, she didn’t even recognize them. But then he looked away. Her father was a haunted man. Sometimes she wondered if he knew the truth—but no. He couldn’t possibly. It would kill him if he knew.

Mariah said, “You’ve had all day to think it over, Cassie. Don’t keep us in suspense any longer than you have to. Have you made a decision yet?”

Jax tore her worried gaze from her father, sent her mother a nod and a smile, then focused on the chief of police. “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer to stay in the house and shadow you on the job for the next two weeks. And—hell, there’s not much point playing cutesy, is there? Unless something really troubling crops up, or you decide to withdraw the offer, I imagine I’ll be accepting the job when the two weeks are up.”

“Hot damn!” Frankie said with a smile. “Well, this calls for a celebration!” Even as she said it, a pretty young waitress arrived, dressed in black pants with a knife-sharp crease, spotless white blouse, red ribbon tied in a bow at her collar, and carrying an order pad in her hand.

“Champagne?” Frankie asked the others.

“I prefer a nice cold beer,” Jax said. “In the bottle.”

“Ahh, me, too,” Frankie said. “But make mine an N.A., in a frosted mug.”

“Mariah and I will have wine. A nice merlot. You choose,” Ben told the waitress.

The girl smiled brightly and trotted off to get the drinks. Jax said, “I’m kind of looking forward to spending the night at the house tonight.”

“Tonight?” her mother asked.

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well, the power’s not turned on. There’s no phone yet, no heat….”

“I can have the utilities turned on fast,” Frankie said. “But not that fast. By tomorrow, for sure.” She shrugged. “On the other hand, I’ve already got a bed set up in the master bedroom. Even took over some fresh sheets and blankets for you, got it all made up and ready. No other furniture in the place yet—I planned to do that tomorrow, as well.”

“You don’t need to furnish the house, Frankie. That’s asking too much,” Jax said.

“Oh, I won’t be. Not all by myself. Your parents have some things in storage, and several others around town have items they want to contribute. I mean, you’ll want your own things once you decide to make it your permanent home, but these will do for your two-week trial period,” Frankie said with a smile, as if she knew damn well Jax would be staying.

“You should stay with us tonight, hon,” Mariah said. “It’s not safe to be in that house all alone.”

Jax put a hand over her mother’s on the table. “It’ll be an adventure. Like camping out when we were kids.”

“Carrie always hated it,” Mariah said softly.

“Only because I always managed to find something slimy to put in her sleeping bag before sunup. Frogs, lizards—”

“You were such a brat.” Her mother turned her hand over, closing it around Jax’s.

“I’ll have the fireplace for heat. Dad, you can loan me a couple of your lanterns. It’ll be fun.”

Mariah looked to her husband as if for backup. But Benjamin was studying his daughter and nodding in reluctant approval. “She’s a grown woman, a police officer, Mariah. She’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

He nodded, smiling slightly.

The waitress arrived with their drinks and handed them around. Jax twisted the cap off her longneck bottle. Frankie lifted her mug. “Here’s to the newest resident of Blackberry,” she said. “Welcome home, Jax.”

“Welcome home,” her parents echoed.

They clanked their drinks together as the waitress hovered, ready to take their orders.

Driving the dead orderly’s car had become more and more difficult, and finally impossible. The third time River veered off the road, and went skidding through the slush on the shoulder, he’d taken out two mailboxes. At first, he thought he’d hit two human beings. It shook him too much to continue. He didn’t want to kill anyone else. He didn’t want to end up dead himself—not until he found the answers he needed to find, at least.

Besides, he was pretty sure he’d been seen. Another car had passed, heading in the opposite direction, just as he’d lost control that last time. The driver probably called the cops. Probably reported him as a drunk driver. Maybe not.

Didn’t matter. He couldn’t drive anymore.

He steered the car up a side road, where the only other tracks in the snow had been made by a logging truck, by the looks of them. And then he drove until the tires spun in the snow.

After that, he got out and took a look around. His mind kept wandering, but he managed to keep tugging it back on track. He knew where he was. In a tall pine forest outside Blackberry. Five miles to town, on foot, but less if he cut through the woods. It had been a while since he’d spent any time in the woods.

He used to, though. All the time. Him and Ethan. When they were kids. The trips with Ethan’s dad. Camping and hiking. As adults, they’d bought a hunting cabin together, the two of them. It wasn’t far from here—too far to walk, though. An hour by car. It had been their getaway. Stephanie called it their “He-Man Woman Haters Club.” God, they’d had some good times there.

River stopped walking, vaguely aware he’d let his mind wander again. He wasn’t sure which way he’d gone, had to check his tracks in the snow to tell which direction the road was. “Have to stay focused,” he muttered. He managed to get his bearings. The fire trail was off to his left. He headed for it, knowing it cut kitty-corner through the southeastern edge of Blackberry and ended at the pond across the street from his house.

He was weak, he realized as he set off again. Every step in the packed snow was an effort, and every steamy breath came harder. It was probably no wonder. He’d done nothing but sit in a hospital for a year. The meds had killed his appetite months ago, to the point where only the threat of a feeding tube forced him to down a few bites of the meals that were brought to him, and even that small amount made his stomach buck in rebellion. Four miles. Surely he could manage that much.

He did, but by the time he emerged from the woods across the street from his long-lost home, he was so cold he’d stopped shivering. No coat. He should have taken that into account. The orderly’s shoes were a size too small, and designed for padding softly through hospital corridors, not for trudging through snow. River’s feet had long since gone numb, so his stumbling gait had more than just a chemical cause.

It was night; he couldn’t guess how late, but it wasn’t dark. The full moon hung low, spilling its milky light over the snow, over his house. Or what remained of it. He noted the absence of the entire wing, but also noted that the place looked to be in excellent condition, given what had happened.

The square, main part of the house remained, pristine white with those green shutters and purplish trim, colors Steph had chosen. The big oak door. It had an arched, stained-glass panel above that matched the slender ones to either side. He looked up higher, at the tall, narrow bedroom windows on the second floor. One of those bedrooms had been his and Stephanie’s. Another was going to be the nursery. The wing had held a two-car garage and a huge family room, with guest rooms upstairs. One of those guest rooms was the room where Stephanie had died.

Gone now, except for bits of the foundation showing through the snow. Vanished, like his life. And any possible reason he might have had for living it.

He sank to his knees in the snow, braced his hands in its frigid depths to keep from falling facedown. God, he was cold. And dizzy. And so very tired. The walk had drained him. He hadn’t walked more than a few yards at a stretch during his time in the hospital. From his room to the community room. More often just within the confines of his room, where he’d preferred to stay alone. He never had to walk to the isolation room, the proverbial “rubber room,” where they took him when they decided he had become agitated or violent. He had found himself there a number of times, confined in a straitjacket. Ethan would tell him the things he’d done, but he wouldn’t remember them. It was sheer hell to finally realize he was capable of violence during his blackouts. He would never have believed it if Ethan hadn’t told him himself, witnessed it himself.

Maybe River had killed Stephanie.

His hands were going numb. The wind burned his face and ears. He sat up slowly, his fogged mind telling him he had to find shelter. A warm place to sleep. If he stayed where he was, he’d likely be dead by morning.

With what felt like superhuman effort, he got to his feet again and turned in a slow circle, studying the intact part of his house. Well, not his house. Not anymore.

It stood there, dark and silent. Not a light on in the place, no car in the driveway. The house exuded emptiness. As he moved closer he realized there were no curtains in the windows. So maybe his house was still empty. Hell, he didn’t wonder at that. Who would want to live in a place with so much horror in its past?

No one. Certainly not him. When it had gone to the town in lieu of taxes he hadn’t even cared. He never intended to set foot there again.

And now he was doing just that.

He walked up onto the porch and tried the door. It was locked, naturally. Sighing, he lowered his head and left the porch. He walked around the place, tracking through the snow, until he reached the back door. And by then he was barely holding his eyes open. There was no time for subtlety here. He wasn’t going to be able to stay on his feet much longer. He tapped a windowpane with his knuckles, then tapped it a little harder. The third time, he hit it hard enough to break the glass, then he reached through, scratching his arm on the way. He found the doorknob, the lock, flipped it free, opened the door, and stepped into the kitchen.

He stood, none too steadily for a moment, looking around the place. It felt so familiar he almost collapsed from the force of the memories rushing at him. And he could only be grateful it was too dark to see much, or it might have been even worse.

“Just get on with it, already.”

There was no kitchen table. No chairs. No place where he could sit to remove his shoes, so he sank onto the floor and wrestled the frozen, snow-coated things off his feet. He’d have killed for a pair of warm, dry socks. His feet were heavy stumps with hardly any feeling left in them, and he sat there for a moment, rubbing them until he felt the intense sensation of needles pricking them all over as the feeling slowly returned.

His feet burned when he managed to get back up on them, and the blood rushed into them. He found a light switch and snapped it on, but nothing happened. Frowning, he limped to the refrigerator, but found it empty, spotless and unplugged. Its door was propped slightly open by a foam block sitting in the bottom.

Clearly, no one had lived in the house for a while. Maybe not since the fire, though someone had made repairs. Maybe the Fates had finally decided to cut him a break. He stumbled through the kitchen, found the stairway and limped up it. It was even darker in the upstairs hallway, but moonlight flooded through the windows of the first bedroom he reached. It spilled onto a neatly made bed as if angels were pointing the way for him. He almost laughed at the absurdity of the notion, even as he moved forward, clasping the comforter in his eager hands, tugging it back, seeing the thick pillows awaiting his tired head.

He wanted to collapse into the bed right that instant, but managed to hold off long enough to struggle free of his wet, frozen clothes. Then, at last, he crawled into the bed, pulling the covers tight around him, tucking them in on all sides and around the bottoms of his feet. He lay on his side, wrapped in a soft cocoon, and he was still waiting for warmth to seep into his bones when he fell into a deep sleep.