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Copper Lake Confidential
Marilyn Pappano


A house with a dark historyAfter a miscarriage and over a year in a psychiatric hospital, Macy Howard is ready to revisit her old home in Copper Lake, Georgia. When she returns, Macy meets Stephen Noble, an author and vet, who doesn’t know about her troubled past. Stephen finds her irresistible, and, finally, Macy feels willing to trust another man.Her future seems hopeful – until strange things start happening in the house: stirrings at the windows…items turning up in unexpected places…lingering scents that don’t belong. Is Macy slowly descending into madness?Or is something more sinister at work at Copper Lake?










Movement at one of the windows caught her eye, and abruptly she blinked.

It must be a reflection from the setting sun, she told herself, or the shadow of a bird flying overhead. But the sun was too low to cast reflections or shadows at that angle. She leaned closer, until her nose was pressed against a wooden slat, and stared harder through the narrow slit.

It was still there, pale and sort of oblong in shape, like a hand parting the blinds at the right height for a person to peek out, just the way—

She swallowed hard. Just the way she was doing.

Dread washing over her, she jumped back as if the slats had burned, then kept moving backward until the tile floor changed to carpet. There she spun around and raced down the hall and the stairs to escape.




About the Author


MARILYN PAPPANO has spent most of her life growing into the person she was meant to be, but isn’t there yet. She’s been blessed by family—her husband, their son, his lovely wife and a grandson who is almost certainly the most beautiful and talented baby in the world—and friends, along with a writing career that’s made her one of the luckiest people around. Her passions, besides those already listed, include the pack of wild dogs who make their home in her house, fighting the good fight against the weeds that make up her yard, killing the creepy-crawlies that slither out of those weeds and, of course, anything having to do with books.




Copper Lake Confidential

Marilyn Pappano







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Chapter 1


Going home alone? Are you crazy?

With her brother’s words echoing in her ears, Macy Howard pulled into the driveway of the house she’d left a year and a half ago and stopped. The garage door slid up at the touch of a button, revealing a space empty but for a few tools and yard-care equipment. The lawn was mown, the hard surfaces neatly edged, the flowers freshly watered. She had no doubt the backyard looked as good, that the pool was sparkling clean, the house and guesthouse dusted and vacuumed and ready to be lived in again.

Not that she would ever live in this house again.

Hands trembling, she eased the minivan into the garage, shut off the engine and watched in the rearview mirror as the door slowly came down. If she closed her eyes, if she relaxed, she could almost believe it was a normal day back before her life had blasted all to hell. Clary would be in the child seat in back, tired after a morning of play and shopping, and the groceries would be waiting to be carried in and put away. She would fix lunch—sandwiches, probably; Clary was in a peanut-but-ter-and-jelly rut—then she would put her daughter down for a nap before Mark made his usual post-lunchtime call to see how his favorite girls were.

But it wasn’t a normal day.

Clary was in Charleston with her uncle Brent and his bride, Anne.

Mark was dead.

And Macy was fiercely glad he was.

The tips of her fingers began to ache. Taking a deep breath, she forced them to unclench from the steering wheel. Things she used to do without thought now required conscious effort: undo the seat belt, open the door, slide out, close the door. Her footsteps echoing on pebbled pavement, she walked across the garage to the door that led inside, then stopped.

She couldn’t do this. She should have stuck to the original plan: drive up Friday morning with Clary, Brent and Anne. Check in to a hotel. Come to the house with her brother and sister-in-law. Pack what she intended to keep—nothing that would remind her of Mark. Leave and never come back.

But no, she’d wanted to be alone her first time here. Didn’t want an audience for whatever emotions she might feel. Didn’t want to show even the tiniest bit of weakness to people who watched her, every moment, for just that.

She fitted her key in the lock, twisted and opened the door into the laundry room. Though shutting off the alarm system came instinctively, the first step beyond that was like slogging through knee-deep concrete that hadn’t yet set. The second was hard, too, and the third, but finally she reached the pantry, then the kitchen.

Stainless, stone and tile gleamed. Her lawyer must have hired a cleaning service after getting her email that she was returning. A lime-green colander filled with fresh red apples sat on the island. The sweet scent of hazelnut mixed in the air with wood polish, and a vase of rusty-hued flowers occupied the center of the breakfast table. Through the window over the sink, she could see the beds that had been her passion, bright and alive with color, as if she’d never gone away.

Home. She was home. In a place that could never be home again.

Grief swept through her, and she mercilessly squelched it. She’d done all the mourning she intended to do for Mark within the first week of his death. After that, when the truth had come out, she’d sworn to never feel one more moment’s sorrow for him. Her only regrets were for her daughter and herself, and for the sweet little baby he’d caused her to lose. The life she’d lived, the future she’d planned, the past that had been nothing but lies…

A sound startled her before she realized it was her own strangled emotion. Anger, she named it. Anger was good. Anger would carry her through this.

Her shoes clicked on the high sheen of the marble floor as she walked through the house that Mark had built. It had been a happy home, or so she’d believed. A shared home. But all the choices had been his—the style, the materials, the colors.

She thought back to the warm, muggy October day he’d died and shuddered. All the choices had been his. But the question still haunted her: How had she not known? She’d lived with him, loved him, had a child with him and been carrying their second daughter. How could she not have known him for the monster he was?

Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she looked up. Despite the recent cleaning, dust motes floated on the air, scattered, slowly drifting toward her. For too many months, she’d been like them, scattered and drifting. She’d been weak, vulnerable. Fragile, the doctors had called her.

Her chest tightened, making each breath harder to take. She imagined the dust particles flowing in with the air, carrying the faint scent of Mark’s cologne into her lungs, and with a sudden shudder, she pivoted toward the French doors that opened from the family room onto the patio.

In all her years in the house, the backyard was the one place she’d felt truly comfortable. It had been her space, her choices, her retreat. The stone patio gave way to lush grass, to the shimmer of the pool and the gardens and beds that spread everywhere.

She could breathe out here.

The only request she’d made of Brent, who’d handled her affairs for the past eighteen months, had been that he hire Bo Larkin to take care of the garden, and he’d done it. Bless his heart, he would have done anything to help her get better.

She walked across the grass, satisfied to see that Bo had been as meticulous in her work as Macy was herself. How had Bo felt, though, caring for a garden that no one saw besides her and the lawn service guys? All that time and effort…

As she neared the corner of the house, a snuffle outside the privacy fence caught her attention. It was followed by rustling, grunting and slithering, and for an instant the hairs on her neck stood on end. Swallowing hard, Macy took the last few steps that blocked her view of the narrow side yard…and saw a big yellow dog happily trampling the daylilies that grew in the corner of the bed. A hollowed-out area under the gate explained the noise.

“Hey,” she said sharply, and he looked up at her, tongue lolling from his mouth, before laying his head on his paws.

“Scoo-ter!”

The shout came from the street, a man’s voice, and the dog’s ears pricked before he hunkered in a little more.

“You’ve run away, haven’t you?”

Big brown eyes watched her.

“Scoo-ter!”

The Lab managed to make himself a little flatter, closing his eyes, for a moment appearing as if he were asleep. Then he opened one to a slit to peek at her. She stopped her smile before it could form and moved past him to the gate.

“Scooter, dang it, you know you’ve got to take your medicine,” the voice muttered. “Do I have to chase you all over the neighborhood every time?”

Macy glanced at the dog, still pretending to sleep, then unlatched the gate. At least someone in the world was apparently having a normal day, even if it did mean chasing down his recalcitrant dog. She wondered if he knew how much to appreciate that. She would give up every dime of her fortune to learn what “normal” was supposed to be now.

When she tugged the heavy gate open, Scooter’s owner was nearing her driveway. He was tall, lanky, wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt and glasses, with his brown hair standing on end, as if he’d combed his fingers through it in frustration. A red leash was draped around his neck.

He was a stranger to her, luckily. She really would have hated for the first person she saw to be someone she knew, someone like her friend Sophy’s mother, Rae Marchand, who lived three houses down, or Louise Wetherby from the end of the block. Either woman could put any gaggle of teenage girls to shame with their gossiping skills. Rae was pretty harmless about it, but Louise liked to leave her victims bleeding from the sharpness of her tongue. Macy intended to avoid both women during her stay.

“Hey,” she called. “Would Scooter, by chance, be a yellow Lab with a fondness for making his bed in my daylilies?”

Switching directions, the man grimaced. “I’m sorry. He’s on meds right now, and he knows I give them at noon, so he’s started making his escape about ten minutes before.”

Automatically, Macy checked her watch. It was 12:05. “You think your dog can tell time?”

Her dry tone quirked one of his brows. “You think it’s coincidence he’s taken off at the same time every day for a week?” Without waiting for a response, he went on. “If he’s damaged the flowers, tell me where I can replace them or send me a bill or something.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.” She stepped back to allow him through the gate. The dog was still feigning sleep, though with one ear cocked up to hear better.

“Scooter.” His master—well, owner, since he didn’t seem to have much mastery over the dog—crouched in front of him. “We talked about this, didn’t we? You’re not welcome in anyone’s yard but your own.”

Macy restrained a smile. For so many months, the only people she’d dealt with outside her family were so overwhelmingly serious. For that matter, with the exception of Clary, the family members were too serious, too. Now here she stood in her backyard with a man who had discussions with his dog about proper behavior and, apparently, expected the animal to understand. It wasn’t normal, but it beat her usual days by a mile.

The man hooked the leash onto Scooter’s collar. “Come on,” he said sternly. “Apologize to the lady, then we’re going home.”

For a moment the dog remained motionless, then he leaped to his feet, eyes wide, looking as surprised as if he’d really been woken from sleep. He jumped at his owner with enough force to knock the man down if he hadn’t been prepared, then panted and strained toward the gate as if eager to be on his way.

“Apologize, Scooter.”

Happiness draining from his face, the dog walked over to Macy, head ducked down, eyes peering up at her, then rubbed his head lightly against her knee. He really did look contrite, and finally her smile formed.

“Apology accepted,” she murmured, feeling silly.

“By the way…” The owner straightened, standing six inches taller than her. “I’m Stephen Noble. Scooter and I live down around the curve.” He gestured toward the north, which gave her one important piece of information: he wasn’t part of the Woodhaven Villas subdivision. He hadn’t been one of her and Mark’s neighbors.

Though he probably still knew everything that had happened. He did live in Copper Lake, after all, and he didn’t seem the least bit hermit-ish.

“Macy Howard.” She watched his face closely for some reaction—even in Charleston and Columbia, in the beginning, her name had drawn some response—but not from him. “Have you lived here long?”

“About ten months. I came to work with Dr. Yates for a while and decided to stay.”

Inwardly cringing at the mention of a doctor, Macy breathed deeply. “So you’re a physician’s assistant or a nurse or…?”

His eyes—hazel behind the glass lenses—shadowed, then he laughed. “No. Dr. Yates is a vet. So am I.”

Relief washed through her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be recovered enough to comfortably deal with medical personnel. And being a vet certainly helped explain why he thought his dog could tell time and why he had regular discussions with him.

“I’ve never had any pets,” she said as explanation why she didn’t know that detail about Dr. Yates. Mark had chosen whom they socialized with, and a veterinarian had never made the list.

She had never been the snob Mark was; by his standards, her own family wouldn’t have been good enough. They didn’t have old blood and old money, prestige and power. They didn’t rate with the great Howards.

A snort of disgust rose inside her, but she choked it down. Not now, not here.

“I’ve never not had pets,” Stephen was saying. “Being a vet was all I ever wanted to do. More or less.”

“So you got your dream. Good for you.” Being happy was all Macy had ever wanted. A comfortable life. A husband she loved who loved her back. Kids to cherish. Stability.

You’re stable now, she reminded herself, forcing even breaths. She had some unsteady moments, but they were fewer and further between. She was capable and competent. She was.

“What do you do?”

She blinked, then refocused on Stephen. “Do?”

“Do you work? Have a job besides taking care of this place?”

“I, uh…no.” She hadn’t worked since a part-time job in college. As soon as Mark had graduated, she’d dropped out and they’d gotten married. He’d never wanted her working then, and she didn’t need to now. Between his death and his grandmother’s a month later, Macy had enough money to support herself, her daughter and whatever family Clary might one day have for the rest of their lives.

“Well…” Stephen shifted, tugging on the leash. “I’ve got to get this guy home and shove a couple pills down his throat. Remember, let me know about the flowers. I’ll take it out of Scooter’s cookie money.”

She murmured something—goodbye, she thought—and watched them leave, the dog walking quietly alongside his owner, but they faded from her thoughts before they were gone from sight.

Sure, she had money to support herself and Clary, but…what would she do? What would fill her days? What would she contribute? How would she show Clary how to be a kind, compassionate, responsible, productive adult?

And the most terrifying question of all: With all that free time, with nothing to do but take care of Clary, how would she ever stay sane?

A few times on the way to the curve that marked the end of Woodhaven Villas and the beginning of the Lesser of the World, Stephen looked back over his shoulder at the Howard house. The first two times Macy stood in exactly the same position, not looking after them to make sure the flower-smashing dog wasn’t coming back, but just standing there, not looking at anything, it seemed.

The third time she was gone.

She’d dressed as if she belonged in the house designed not so much to be a home but a showplace. He didn’t know much about women’s clothes, but the sleeveless dress and heeled sandals she wore just looked expensive. So did the gold-and-diamond watch on her wrist and the rubies and diamonds in her ears.

Oddly enough, she hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. Surely she didn’t live in that place alone.

Maybe she didn’t live there at all, he thought with a grin. Maybe Scooter had interrupted a burglary in progress. Or maybe the family was away on a trip and she’d broken in to live there as a squatter. Maybe she was the maid playing dress-up in the boss’s clothes, or—

As his own house came into sight, he reined in his imagination. It had run wild for as long as he could remember, so he did try to exercise restraint from time to time. But wouldn’t it be a hoot if she were some kind of upper-class thief?

Though the Howard house, as the last house in the development, was less than a half mile away, there was a whole galaxy in that distance. He had nine hundred square feet, compared with Macy’s four or five thousand.

His backyard was big enough for a grill, a few chairs and a few swipes with the lawn mower, while in hers he’d glimpsed extensive gardens, a pool and what looked like a guesthouse tucked into the rear corner. He had wood floors and furnishings that ranged in age from ten years to way older than him. He had a living room, a kitchen big enough for him and Scooter, a bedroom, a bathroom and an office. He was a happy camper.

Even in her mansion, Macy Howard hadn’t looked very happy.

Scooter took his meds eagerly—two pills slipped inside slices of hot dog—then went to gulp down a bowl of water. “You want a walk as a reward for taking your pills? You could just say so. I’d rather walk with you than chase you down, yelling that silly name. Who in the world names a beautiful boy like you Scooter?”

The dog grinned at him, water dripping from his beard, then went to his bed and stretched out.

Stephen made sure the kitchen door was locked—since Scooter had learned to turn the knob, that was his newest escape route—then went across the narrow hall to what was supposed to be the master bedroom. He slept in the smaller room at the front of the house, just big enough for a bed and chest, and used this room as his office.

Bookcases lined two walls, both packed full. More books were piled on top and on the floor and also lined the windowsills of all four windows. A few posters from favorite movies hung on the walls; magazines and papers all but obscured his computer, and two large dry-erase boards, covered with notes, took up the rest of the space. The room was cluttered and messy, but that was the way he liked it when he worked.

He’d settled in his chair, just able to see the dog through the doorway, and jiggled the mouse to wake the computer when his phone rang. Fishing it from his pocket, he answered without checking caller ID. He knew who it was; his sister was a creature of habit. “Hey, Marnie.”

“What are you doing?” Her usual question.

“Working.” His usual answer. “How’s your day?”

“It’s fine.” She sounded distracted. She was normally eating lunch when she called, usually while doing something thoroughly disgusting for her job as a lab geek for the Copper Lake Police Department. “Are you busy this weekend?”

He looked to the wall where a calendar was supposed to hang, then remembered its thumbtack had come loose a few weeks ago and he’d never gotten around to putting it back. “I work Saturday morning, I think. Why?”

“I actually meant Saturday night.”

“Why?” he asked again.

Marnie’s sigh was long-suffering. “A friend of mine—well, a friend of a friend of mine—needs a date for a thing, so she asked if I’d ask if you’d go.”

“Which friend?”

“Sophy.”

The muscles in his neck relaxed. He liked Sophy Marchand—had been out with her a couple of times without Marnie acting as intermediary. “Why didn’t Sophy call herself?”

“No, she’s my friend. Her friend is Kiki Isaacs.”

In the kitchen, Scooter gave a little whine. The dog had excellent hearing—and taste in women. Kiki was a detective with CLPD, pretty, whiny, aggressive and didn’t know the meaning of the word subtle. The few times he’d seen her off the job, she’d still been armed, even though she could probably heave him like a javelin. She was an in-your-face type, and frankly, she scared him.

“Uh, you know, Scooter’s been sick this week.”

On cue, the dog lifted his head and gave a pitiful wail. Switching the phone to the other hand, Stephen fished a cookie from the bowl on the desk and tossed it to him, mouthing, Good boy.

“And you know how I always play catch-up on weekends.” He set goals on Monday and worked as he could during the week, then busted his butt on the weekend to be sure he reached them.

“Would it make any difference if I told you I’d be there, too?”

“Where?”

“It’s a retirement party for the police chief. We all have to go.”

“How about I go as your guest and Kiki can hang out with us?” Or not.

Marnie muttered to herself—he caught the word de-comp and didn’t listen for more—then said, “I, uh, have a date.”

Stephen’s eyes widened. He couldn’t remember the last time his sister had had a date. He loved her dearly, but she was…different. Dead people interested her way more than any living soul. Chitchat for her usually involved lab values, blood-splatter evidence, processes of death or similar subjects most people did not want to talk about over dinner.

“Does it matter to you if I take Kiki?”

Again she was silent. Probably weighing the satisfaction she could receive having her own escort at the party while Kiki went dateless against the knowledge that Kiki would have been dateless if not for her. “Yes,” she said at last.

“Okay. Remind me Friday.”

“Thanks.” The line went dead. Never any goodbyes for Marnie. If she was finished talking, she hung up.

Stephen set his phone down, then leaned back, staring at the molten red-and-green world rotating on his computer screen. Slowly the view zoomed in, showing mountains and plains, deserts and seas, trees and buildings and people, then it swept out to a global view before repeating it in a new spot.

Marra’akeen. The world where he spent much of his time. The world where he would much rather be come Saturday night. But if it was important to Marnie, he would go and he would be more pleasant than Kiki deserved. And if she acted the way she usually did, he swore he would make the next villain he created a pushy, curly haired whiner named Ke’Ke.

Opening his last document with a sigh, he read what he’d written the day before. By the time he reached the last page, he was in the story’s rhythm and began typing. Though there were as many ways to write a book as there were people writing them, he liked stopping in the middle of a scene, saving himself the hassle of deciding what should happen next when he came back to it.

He worked steadily for more than an hour before his gaze strayed to the south window. The roof of the Howard house was just visible through the trees. He’d driven past it hundreds of times since he’d moved here, and he’d never seen any sign of life. Of course, the Woodhaven Villains weren’t the type to sit out on their porches, in the few houses that even had porches, or work in the front yards themselves. In his world, they were Lord Gentry who hired Workers to do anything remotely similar to manual labor. They lived in luxurious cocoons, surrounded by tall walls and state-of-the-art alarm systems to keep out the Lessers. It was all way too confining for him.

Macy Howard had looked confined, but there had been something restless about her, something…uneasy.

He shook his head to clear it. He would probably never see her again. Scooter rarely used the same hiding place twice. Though she might come in handy as a model for the repressed daughter of the Lord Gentry Tu’anlan, who escaped her fortress home to become one of the Warrior Women who guarded the Crystal.

Turning his back on the window, with the repressed but rather pretty Ma’ahcee forming in the back of his mind, he began typing again.

The brief interruption of Scooter and his master had eased a bit of the tension knotting Macy, a fact she hadn’t noticed until she walked back into the house with her suitcase and her entire body went tight again. One even breath after another, one forced step after another, she went to the purse she’d left on the kitchen island and pulled out the list she’d made.

Go inside. Walk through the rooms. Take bag inside. Unpack in guest room. Change clothes. Start.

An overly simple list, but some situations called for a step-by-step guide, Shrink #4 had told her. Every situation, no matter how stressful or complicated, can be broken down into manageable steps. Time to test his theory.

Mentally she checked off the first three items, then let her gaze shift through the doorway and down the hall to the stairs. She thought of the dust particles, of climbing the stairs, of being as far from an exit as she could get in the house, and skipped ahead to the last item.

Start. Start sorting through six years of furniture, treasures and detritus. Start choosing what to take with her and what to leave behind. Start rebuilding the life Mark had stolen from her. Start over. One manageable step at a time.

First she needed packing supplies. Once in the van, she backed out of the driveway and into the street, and the tension in her shoulders eased. As she turned out of the subdivision onto the main road, it eased even more. It wouldn’t go away, not while she remained in Copper Lake, but it was a definite improvement.

Her destination was the self-storage facility on Carolina Avenue that also rented moving vans and sold packing supplies. She didn’t know the clerk behind the counter, and thankfully he didn’t seem to recognize her, taking her cash and helping her load bundles of cartons, rolls of Bubble Wrap and heavy paper and tape into the back of the van.

She would have driven straight back home except for a wandering glance at the riverfront park while she sat at a red light. Seated there on a bench, watching two small children play, was Anamaria Duquesne Calloway. Though they’d socialized with the same people, they’d never been friends, not really. The Calloways were the one local family more prestigious than the Howards, but Mark had never approved of Robbie Calloway’s wild behavior before marriage, and he certainly hadn’t approved of Robbie’s marriage to the mixed-race Anamaria, so he’d kept Macy at a distance.

However, once, while she was pregnant with Clary, Macy had gone behind Mark’s back to meet with Anamaria. She’d wanted the psychic’s assurance that everything was fine with the baby, and she’d gotten it. The easing of her worries had been worth Mark’s irritation—and his grandmother’s fury—when he’d found out.

Once, Macy reflected as the light changed. Once, in the years they’d been married, she’d done something Mark hadn’t wanted.

She would have driven past the entrance to the park if some bit of resentment hadn’t seeped through her. Instead, she turned in, parking beside the lone vehicle there. She was being pushy. If she wanted Anamaria’s professional advice, she should call and make an appointment. She shouldn’t intrude on a mother’s playtime with her children. She should, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t…

Before the argument inside her had played out, there was a tap on the window. Startled, she looked up to see Anamaria’s sympathetic face. With a click, she opened the door and slid out, straight into Anamaria’s comforting embrace.

“Macy. It’s so good to see you.”

For a moment she held herself stiff—when she was stiff, it was harder to be overwhelmed by emotion—but it took too much effort. She softened in Anamaria’s motherly embrace. She felt welcomed. Unjudged.

“I’d heard you were coming back,” Anamaria said when at last she eased her grip.

Macy smiled faintly but didn’t ask from whom. The answer could be as simple as her husband—the lawyer who’d handled both Mark’s and his grandmother’s estates—or as complex as some soul on the other side, maybe Mark. Maybe even her lost baby.

A small hand gripped the hem of Macy’s dress, and she looked down to see Anamaria’s daughter staring up at her. “I’m Gloriana,” she murmured around two fingers tucked in her mouth. “Where’s your little girl?”

Macy blinked, then looked at Anamaria. “I must have mentioned Clary to her sometime,” the woman said with a serene smile.

“She’s with her uncle,” Macy replied, unconvinced by Anamaria’s smile. According to rumor, every Duquesne woman had gifts of one sort or another. Gloriana was young, but no age was too young to use the talents you’d been born with, she supposed.

“Go play with Will.” Anamaria gave her daughter a gentle push before linking arms with Macy. “Come sit. We’ll talk. Are you coming home?”

“No.” Macy’s reply came automatically. When they reached the bench, she sat down, then shrugged. “I can’t face…You know how people love to gossip. Eventually Clary would have to pay the price.”

“No one blames you or Clary. How could they?”

“We lived with him, Anamaria. I lived with him, I shared a bed with him, I was married to him for seven years. And all that time I never had a clue that he was…”

Even now it was hard to say: he was a remorseless cold-blooded killer. The husband she’d loved so much, who’d been such a doting father, had beaten strangers to death and buried them on his grandparents’ property right outside town. And to make his evil even worse, he’d learned the skill from his grandfather.

The blood of serial killers ran through her daughter’s veins.

Shuddering despite the warm afternoon sun, she hugged herself tightly. “I should have known. I should have suspected something.”

“Are you psychic now?”

Her gaze cut sharply to Anamaria, who was watching her closely, but not in the same way her family did. They were looking for signs that the depression was returning, the weakness overtaking her, the instability gaining control. They didn’t understand how difficult it was when her every move was scrutinized: Is this the action, the thought, the comment of a sane person? Is she rational, merely emotional or sinking back into the abyss?

But there was nothing measuring or judging about Anamaria’s gaze. A simple question, a simple look.

“No, I’m not psychic. But I should have…”

“Mark and his grandfather were very good at hiding their secrets. You couldn’t have known unless he wanted you to.”

Macy breathed deeply. That was what the psychiatrists, the psychologists and even some of the other patients in group therapy had told her. Somehow it sounded more convincing coming from a woman with the gift of sight.

“What are your plans now?”

Macy’s laugh was rusty. She probably hadn’t used it more than a half dozen times in the past eighteen months. “I don’t suppose you could tell me.”

After a moment, Anamaria took her hand in both of hers, her expression growing distant, as if watching a scene no one else could see. “Everything’s going to be all right in the end,” she said at last. “If it’s not all right now, then this isn’t the end. It’ll come, Macy. One day you’re going to realize that you and Clary are better than ever.”

They were just words, but Macy knew words had power. Words had destroyed every illusion she’d ever had, and now they gave her, if not peace, at least a little hope. She did find them hard to believe, but she could embrace the possibility. She could believe that sometime in the not-too-distant future, her life would be good again.

She had to believe it.

Or there was no reason to continue living.




Chapter 2


In need of a break, Stephen saved his file to the hard drive, then emailed it to himself. It also went automatically to an online storage account, too, but, hey, a guy could never be too careful. Sometimes the old saying “Writing is easy; just sit down and open a vein” was too true. When words were hard to come by, he didn’t risk losing any of them.

He stood and stretched, joints popping, before walking to the front door. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Scooter glanced up from his place on the couch, yawned and settled in deeper. Eat, sleep, play—that was his routine.

“Next life I’m coming back as a dog,” Stephen muttered as he went out and locked up behind him.

The spring air was warm, the sun shining. He’d done cold for four years, getting his degree at Oklahoma State University Center for Veterinary Health Sciences, then another winter in Cheyenne, Wyoming. He’d be happy if he never saw snow or subzero temperatures again.

Hands shoved in his hip pockets, he turned north and walked to the end of the road, past each of the three neighboring houses. Elderly sisters and their husbands lived in the first two, and he called hello to them, the sisters sitting on one porch, the husbands swapping stories on the second. The last house was occupied by a great-grandson or -nephew who drove an eighteen-wheeler and was gone more often than not. Stephen hadn’t seen him five times in the months he’d lived there.

When the road ended just past the third house, he considered taking the path that led into the pine woods, eventually reaching Holigan Creek, where he’d found a shady spot that was great for kicking back. Instead, he turned and went back the way he’d come, speaking to the old folks again, passing his own house, heading for the Woodhaven gates.

He wasn’t athletic. The closest he’d ever come to a team sport was online fantasy games with players around the world, and the only weights he’d ever lifted had been in the form of dogs, cats and various body parts of horses or cows. But he liked to walk. It cleared his head and freed his subconscious to work on the current book without his conscious self having to take part. It was one of the best perks of writing.

The Ancients knew there wasn’t a lot of money in it, not for a midlist fantasy author. But he loved it, and his audience was building with each title. An author couldn’t ask for much more.

Though the New York Times bestseller list would be nice.

His intent was to turn around at the gates, return home and shoot for another thousand words before his muse gave out, but movement just past the gate caught his attention. A minivan—the name didn’t do the luxury vehicle justice—was parked in the driveway of the first house on the left, its hatch open, and the woman he’d met thanks to Scooter was wrestling out a bundle of flat boxes bigger than she was.

He went to help her because his mama didn’t raise him to ignore someone in need of assistance. That was the only reason. Her being pretty in a skittish-mare sort of way, with brown eyes that dominated her face and porcelain skin that Scarlett O’Hara would have killed for, had nothing to do with it.

“Here, let me give you a—”

Before he could say hand, she whirled around. The boxes fell to the ground, one sharp edge landing on her sandaled foot, and she stumbled back against the van, mouth open in a silent gasp, eyes huge.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He wasn’t exactly known for quiet grace. Size-thirteen feet were never stealthy, and he tended to scuff his shoe soles when he was thinking about something. But, judging by the paleness of her already-pale skin, Macy Howard had been preoccupied, too.

“I—I—” Her hands fluttered and a shiver passed through her, reminding him of a parrot he’d once treated. He still bore the scars on his left arm. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Never apologize. That was the First Rule in his protagonist Lucan’s life. One of these days Lucan would have to break that rule—if he didn’t, Sa’arca would rip his heart out; Warrior Women were funny that way. “You’re entitled to not pay attention.” He picked up the bundle, not much heavier than Scooter and not nearly as unwieldy. “Where you do want these?”

A little pink returned to her face, but she still looked as if she might bolt any second. “In the garage, please.”

The garage was big enough for three vehicles and so clean that his house looked like a pigsty in comparison. The walls were painted tan, and the floor was surfaced with some sort of grit in a darker shade. A worktable against one wall held the same collection of tools he had at home: screwdrivers in various sizes, a hammer, a few wrenches, a pair of pliers. Along with athletic, he wasn’t exactly mechanical, either.

A lawn mower, an edger, a trimmer and a plastic cart were gathered in one corner, all well-used, unlike the tools. Rakes and shovels hung on hooks on the wall; a shelf held motor oil, extra trimmer line, paper towels and paper leaf bags. The rest of the space was empty.

He rested the boxes against the wall near the door into the house. “Are you moving out?”

“I’ve already done that.” She deposited two giant rolls of Bubble Wrap nearby, then managed a weak smile. “I’m sorting through things. Deciding what to keep and what to get rid of.”

“Where do you live now?”

She hesitated. Unsure whether to tell him? After all, they were strangers. Then, with a lack of grace that wasn’t normal for anyone who could afford a house in Woodhaven Villas, she gestured. “I don’t actually live anywhere right now.”

Interesting answer. Ranked right up there with her blank look when he’d asked what she did earlier. Maybe she really was Macy Howard and this really was her house, or maybe she wasn’t and it wasn’t. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Marnie.

She pushed her hand through her hair, dislodging the suede band that kept it from her face. “I’ve been staying with my parents in Charleston. It’s time to get a place of my own. To move on. I just haven’t decided where.”

“Not in Copper Lake, huh?”

An expression of distaste crossed her face fleetingly. If he hadn’t made a habit of studying people since he decided he was a writer, he would have missed it. “Preferably not.” She left the garage to gather more packing materials, and he followed.

He’d never made a move where he hadn’t underestimated how many boxes and rolls of wrapping paper he needed, but that didn’t seem a possibility with Macy. Cartons and materials filled the minivan, with the exception of the driver’s seat. Even the passenger seat was filled with thick slabs of paper and rolls of tape.

Already moved out. Packing up stuff. No wedding ring. Staying with her parents. He was guessing there was a very unhappy divorce in her recent past. Not that he could really imagine any other kind of divorce. He’d heard urban myths about friendly ex-spouses making a better go as friends and coparents than as husband and wife, but he hadn’t witnessed the phenomena himself. His mom’s divorces—from the husband who had produced Marnie, then from his dad—had left her soured on men in general. His own divorce had involved as much fighting as the marriage, and they’d had precious little to fight over.

But there was no polite way to ask where her ex was while she sorted through and packed up their house, no matter how curious he was. Instead, he returned to the van for the next load.

Within minutes, the vehicle was empty and one bay of the garage had pretty much disappeared under the supplies. After setting down the last bundle of boxes, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels, seeking something to say.

“Well.”

Macy’s smile was tight as she folded her arms across her middle, the classic body-language pose warning others to keep their distance. Unless she was cold, and she didn’t look cold. “Thanks for the help,” she said without meeting his gaze. “I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome.” He stood there a moment longer before taking a few steps backward then pivoting to stride the length of the driveway.

Well. Brilliant comment for someone who’d ranked respectably high in his vet med graduating class and made part of his living with words. Animals and characters who existed only in his head were so much easier to deal with.

But not nearly as interesting as Macy Howard.

Macy made it halfway to the door before her feet automatically stopped.

Was she ready to face the monster inside?

Immediately she corrected herself. Mark had been the monster. The house had merely been his lair. There was nothing inside that could hurt her; she’d already faced the worst hurt possible when she’d lost the baby. Nothing here could scare her; she might have run away before, but she was strong now.

With a deep breath, she went through the door almost as if life were normal. She’d managed to assemble one box, ready for use, when her cell phone rang. The ring told her it was Brent. Common sense told her he was calling because she’d failed to check in yet.

“Hey, bub,” she greeted him, making an effort to sound as if she were on a relatively even keel.

“You didn’t call.”

“I intended to as soon as I took a break for dinner.” Before he could ask, she went on. “The trip was fine, the house is fine and I’m fine. How’s my baby girl?”

“Missing you. Anne and I are doing our best to keep her happy.”

Macy pulled out a bar stool and eased onto the buttery soft leather. Poor Clary had spent much of the past eighteen months missing her mom, through the times when Macy had been physically present but not so much mentally to the months her absence had been physical, as well. Months in a psychiatric hospital—luxurious, costly and no place for a small child. “Give her a big hug and a kiss for me. I can’t wait to see her Friday. You, too. And Anne.”

“We’re anxious to see you, too.”

Anxious, she was sure, was putting it mildly. There were enough years between them—seven—that he’d always had a protective streak, but after Mark’s death, it had multiplied ten times. Where before he may have gotten mildly concerned, now he was truly anxious, edgy, burdened with worry over her mental status, her ability to handle the slightest of stressors. If she hadn’t won Anne over in her argument to come here alone, she never would have managed to leave Charleston without him by her side.

One more debt of gratitude to her sister-in-law. Anne had had enough family drama of her own. Her older sister had been a patient at the same hospital as Macy, which was how Anne and Brent had met. Now she’d married into a family with its own share of drama.

“So you’re doing okay. Really okay.”

She smiled to help the confidence come across in her voice. “I am. Really. I got all the packing stuff, and I was just taping boxes together so I could get started. I’m fine, Brent, honestly. It’s an empty house. It’s no big deal.”

Though she hadn’t been able to climb one step to the second floor. Though her suitcase remained three feet away in the kitchen, and sleeping on the sofa in the family room wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility.

“I met a new neighbor.” She fiddled with one of the apples in the bright green colander while trying to distract him. “His name is Scooter, and he was trampling my daylilies. He was really quite nice, though, and apologized before leaving.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Brent cautiously repeated, “Scooter?”

“I know, awful name, isn’t it? Just about anything else would be better.” Her smile felt more natural as she recalled the dog feigning sleep, then innocence, then remorse. He’d been the one bright spot in her day—he and his owner.

Stephen Noble. Nice name. Nice guy.

“Okay, I give up,” Brent said. “Are you teasing or did you really meet someone named Scooter?”

She’d had a sense of humor before Mark’s betrayal and the miscarriage her doctor had attributed to overwhelming stress. For Clary’s sake, for her own sake, she was going to get that back. “I really did. He’s a beautiful yellow Lab who lives down the street and escapes every day to avoid taking his medicine.”

Brent’s chuckle was a reward. Just as the laughter had disappeared from her life, so had it from his. Her parents had been there for her, too, but the bulk of responsibility had fallen on him. He couldn’t get back those months, but she hoped that from now on, he and Anne could have the happy, hopeful lives newlyweds deserved.

“I’m assuming since Scooter couldn’t tell you about the medicine, you met his owner, too. Was she nice?”

“He,” she corrected him as an image of Stephen flashed into her mind again: tall, lanky, handsome in a disheveled sort of way. She hadn’t had disheveled in her life since meeting Mark. She would never have rigid and dishonest—oh, yeah, let’s not forget sociopathic—again. “Yeah, he was. He’s a vet in town.”

“Clary needs a dog when you’re up to—” Brent stopped, coughed, then lamely finished, “when you’re settled wherever.”

When you’re up to it. When you can take responsibility for yourself and your daughter. When you’re normal again. Once more Macy put all the everyday-average she could force into her voice. “I agree. I’d like having a dog in the house. Preferably one that would only piddle where he’s supposed to.” And stayed out of her flower beds, because wherever they wound up, she would have flowers.

With the awkwardness past, they talked a few minutes more before Brent said goodbye. As soon as she hung up, she missed the sound of his voice and felt the solitude closing in around her a bit more sharply. She wished she’d already gotten a dog so he could follow her from room to room and maybe bark a little or whine, just to remind her she wasn’t alone.

“Okay, Macy, you’re twenty-nine years old. The shrinks all agreed it was time for you to be on your own again. You’re on your medication, and you know staying busy helps keep the anxiety under control. Now do something.”

Her voice seemed to echo off the stone and tile and stainless, giving her the impetus to slide to her feet and go back to assembling boxes. When she had two dozen of them stacked on the floor, she brought in wrapping paper and Bubble Wrap, walked into the hall and fixed her gaze immediately on the Chinese vase on the foyer table. It was pretty in its own overembellished way, belonging to some dynasty centuries past, but she’d never liked it. She would be happy to give it a good home somewhere else.

She was reaching for the vase when something drew her attention up the stairs. The dust motes still floated, still smelled faintly of Mark’s cologne. They reminded her she hadn’t yet gone upstairs, a fact that niggled at her. It was just a house, a structure filled with nothing more harmful than memories. Yes, the bedroom she’d shared with Mark was up there; yes, his clothes still filled the closet. Yes, the nursery was there, too, waiting for a baby who’d died before living.

But her things were up there, as well, and Clary’s. And she had to face it eventually.

Wiping damp palms on her dress, she climbed the first step. Her gaze dropped to the runner bordered on both sides with rich dark wood. She’d learned through all her treatment that focusing on long-term goals didn’t work for her anymore. She had to take life one day at a time. Take these stairs one step at a time.

Mark’s cologne smelled stronger as she climbed—too strong, it seemed, for a house that had been locked up for a year and a half. But it was a very distinctive scent, one created just for him, and the sense of smell was such a very strong one. Just a whiff of baby lotion took her back to Clary’s infancy, and cinnamon transported her to her grandmother’s kitchen with an apple pie in the oven.

The stairs made a straight run to the second-floor landing, a gracious space with a sofa, built-in bookcases and a view through a large round window of rooftops, trees and the Gullah River. To the left was Clary’s room, the nursery, a bathroom and two guest rooms. To the right was the master suite.

She turned right, automatically assessing furnishings as she walked: portrait of Clary at one year old, keep; prissy demilune table that had come down from Mark’s family, discard. Engagement photo of Macy and Mark, keep in case one day Clary wanted it; massive oil painting of a former Howard’s ship at sea, discard.

The bedroom door was closed. Doors were meant to be closed, Mark had preached, a habit that went at least as far back in the family as his grandmother. Macy wrapped her fingers around the cool knob, twisted it and swung the door open.

Whatever emotion she’d expected didn’t come. The room was so distinctly stamped with Mark’s personality that, even though she knew it intimately, it was as if she’d never been there. Dark woods, heavy furniture, murky palette…how had she ever slept in this space? Laughed? Made love? How had she breathed in here?

Breathing was no problem now as she walked through the room. She felt distant, removed from the moment. The book she’d been reading the day he died still sat on the lacquered table next to the sofa in the sitting area. The jewelry chest, almost as tall as she and ornately carved, still stood against the wall, the cherrywood gleaming from its recent cleaning. She opened the bottom drawer, then closed it before sliding open the next one. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings, watches—too much gold and too many gems for a woman who’d never really cared about jewelry.

The first and second drawers, peeked into on tiptoe, held cuff links, Mark’s watches and a half dozen antique pocket watches. He’d known exactly which Howard ancestor each had belonged to.

She opened the third drawer last, the only one that they’d shared. This had been their everyday stuff: matching Rolexes, the first necklace he’d ever given her, their wedding rings.

She had refused to have the ring buried with him. Finding out the truth about him, learning that the man she’d loved didn’t really exist—she couldn’t have borne having that connection with him through eternity. The only thing she was grateful to him for was her daughter, and considering that grief and sorrow and scandal had taken her second daughter from her, she figured they were even. She owed him nothing.

Shoving the drawer shut, she continued her walk-through of the suite. His closet, his bath, her closet, her bath. There she stopped at the window, fingers parting the wooden blinds enough to give her a view of the backyard that had given her such pleasure, of the pool and the guesthouse. That had been her idea, a place for family to stay when they visited, where Miss Willa could live if she ever had to leave Fair Winds.

She sniffed. Mark’s grandmother had left the family home, all right. After the funeral, she’d gone to Raleigh with her and Clary to stay with Mark’s mother. A month later she’d gone to sleep and never woken up.

She never would have stayed in the guesthouse anyway. Except for Brent a few times, no one ever had.

Movement at one of the windows caught her eye, and abruptly she blinked. It must be a reflection from the setting sun, she told herself, or the shadow of a bird flying overhead. But the sun was too low to cast reflections or shadows at that angle. She leaned closer, until her nose was pressed against a wooden slat, and stared harder through the narrow slit.

It was still there, pale and sort of oblong in shape, like a hand parting the blinds at the right height for a person to peek out just the way—

She swallowed hard. Just the way she was doing.

Dread washing over her, she jumped back as if the slats had burned, then kept moving backward until the tile floor changed to carpet. There she spun around and raced down the hall and the stairs to escape.

The aromas of a thin-crust pizza with heaps of onions and cheese scattered with the best of Luigi’s toppings filled Stephen’s car as he turned into Woodhaven Villas. The only thing keeping him from grabbing a piece already was the fact that he was driving, and the only thing protecting the pie from Scooter was the doggy seat belt securing him in the backseat. He was voicing his mournful disapproval when Macy Howard came running out of her house.

Running, Stephen mused. In heels. Not very gracefully, granted; he wouldn’t have imagined her body could move so ungracefully. It just didn’t fit with the image of a Southern belle. But still, running.

She came to a stop in the driveway near the minivan, though not actually stopping. Her hands patted her sides, the way a person did when feeling for keys or a cell phone in pockets, but her dress didn’t appear to have pockets. She looked from the van to the closed garage door, then back in the direction she’d come from, and her face, he saw, was ghostly pale.

Already knowing what his choice would be, he debated it anyway: Luigi’s pizza hot from the oven or damsel in distress? Before he even completed the question, he’d brought the car to a stop at the end of Macy’s driveway.

Scooter whined as Stephen unbuckled his belt. “I know, buddy,” he agreed. “But this’ll just take a minute, okay?”

He got out of the car and had closed half the distance between him and Macy before she became aware of him. For an instant, the blood drained from her face so completely that he was surprised she didn’t fall unconscious at his feet. Then recognition came, and she took a great heaving breath. “You.”

Was it a greeting or accusation? “Yeah, it’s me.” Again. He gestured awkwardly. “Is everything okay?”

Her cheeks pinked, and she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Yes, of course. Well, maybe…” She stared at her trembling hand when she lowered it—her entire body was trembling—then grimaced. “Maybe not. I—I thought I saw somebody. Out back. Well, not out back. Actually, in—in the guesthouse.”

So she’d startled and run out of the house without either keys or cell phone. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police—”

“No.” Her color drained again and she reached out, though not far enough to make actual contact. “Um, no. No, no, no. Please.”

“If someone’s broken in—”

“No.” She breathed deeply. “If you could—could just…take a look with me?”

Stephen could say he’d never wanted to be a hero, but he’d be lying. He wrote fantasy, after all, which was all about heroics. But it would be truthful to admit he’d never been hero material. He was a bit of a geek, the total opposite of a jock, and believed in his heart that everything could be resolved without resorting to violence. Hell, the only fight he’d ever been in had ended when the other kid threw the first punch—the only punch—and bloodied his nose. He’d learned his strengths and limitations that day, and confronting a possible burglar definitely fell under limitations.

“Look, the Copper Lake P.D. is good. My sister works for them. They can have an officer here in no time, and I’ll wait until…” He let his words trail off when her head-shaking became emphatic enough to send her hair swinging.

“No police. It’s—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just…” She looked as if she didn’t have a clue what she would do.

Stephen sighed silently. “All right. No problem. Just let me get Scooter. I don’t want to leave him alone in the car.”

Her distress eased a little but didn’t go away completely. He didn’t know why she was so adamant about not calling the police—though there was his earlier theory that she wasn’t really Macy Howard—but he was pretty sure she wished one of her braver, brawnier neighbors had come along. Instead, she was stuck with the king of let’s-talk-this-out and a mutt who didn’t know the meaning of confrontation.

He opened the rear door of the car and set Scooter free, then turned back to find Macy already halfway to the door.

“My keys are inside,” she explained.

On many of his trips through the neighborhood, he’d wondered how the Lord Gentry of Woodhaven Villas lived. The inside of Macy’s house definitely lived up to his imagination. With her hustling ahead and Scooter trotting along beside him, he didn’t get a chance to see much—though he definitely recognized Macy in the giant wedding portrait in the living room; so much for the jewel thief or intruder theory—but what he saw was impressive. It was too big, too showy and seriously unwelcoming, but he was impressed.

She walked quickly, sweeping keys and cell off the kitchen island, marching to the patio door. There she hesitated, and he was about to suggest a call to 911 again when, as if she’d made a decision, she unlocked the door and strode toward the guesthouse.

The entrance faced north and the gardens instead of the main house. They climbed the brick-edged steps to the porch, then it took a while to unlock the door. She probably needed both hands to guide the shaking key into the little hole. Finally the tumblers fell into place, and she stepped back to allow him to enter first.

In his practice, he’d faced vicious pigs, aggressive dogs, recalcitrant horses and a huge number of cats that had tried to rip his skin off. He’d been bitten, scratched and stepped on, but that was okay. The animals had mostly been scared. They hadn’t intended to hurt him. Except maybe the cats. But an intruder who’d broken into an unoccupied house, who, as far as they knew, could have been hiding there since Macy had moved out…

Fortunately for Stephen when he opened the door, Scooter didn’t overthink situations. He sniffed the air, then trotted right past Stephen and Macy and into the living room, his nails clicking on the wood floor. He didn’t seem fearful, his hair wasn’t standing on end, he wasn’t on alert. If anyone had been here, they were likely gone.

The living room, dining room and kitchen ran from front to back, occupying the middle third of the house. Doorways on each side led off, presumably, to bedrooms. There was a whole different vibe to the little house compared with the big one. The colors were warmer and lighter, the furniture more about comfort. Even with the blinds closed, it didn’t seem as dark here as the big house did with all those windows.

Stephen followed Scooter through the room, checking possible hiding places, looking inside a coat closet and a pantry. Macy stayed a few steps behind him. “Does anything look out of place?”

When she didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder to see her shaking her head from side to side.

“Where did you think you saw this person?”

“At the window. There.” She pointed to the doorway on the right, and their odd little entourage moved that way. The bedroom was sparsely furnished with sleek pieces and a serene blue-gray color scheme. It was simple, elegant. Like the woman behind him.

He went to the window that faced the house, double-wide with wooden blinds the same delicate gray as the bed linens. There was no dust on the slats, none of them appeared disturbed and no footprints were visible on the floor. If they called the police, considering that the scene of the crime was in Woodhaven Villas, the responding officer would probably send one of Marnie’s co-workers out to dust for fingerprints. Hell, Marnie would do it herself if he asked, even if Macy did refuse to make a report.

But so far, he’d seen nothing to indicate anything more than an overactive imagination.

When he looked at Macy, her cheeks were pink again and she stared at the floor instead of him. He gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Even if she didn’t see it, she would hear it in his voice. “The good news is that there doesn’t appear to be anyone here. Let’s check the other rooms just to be sure.”

A faint nod was her only response.

The closet and bathroom were empty, ditto the bedroom and bath on the other side of the house. The door from the kitchen to a tiny patio was dead-bolted, and all the windows were closed and locked. The house was more secure than his own.

Realizing he’d lost Scooter along the way, Stephen returned to the first bedroom, hoping the mutt wasn’t curled up on the bed. He wasn’t, but was sniffing the floor beneath the window instead. Strange houses were full of new scents for his sensitive nose, which was okay as long as he didn’t feel compelled to leave his own. “Come on, Scooter. Let’s go.”

Tail quivering, the dog spun around and raced out of the room. If Stephen had been a second slower opening the front door, Scooter would have smacked into it.

“I’m sorry,” Macy said as she relocked the door. “I really thought I saw…” Her voice wasn’t much steadier than it had been before they’d entered the guesthouse. He guessed it was embarrassment now. People like her probably weren’t used to making panicky mistakes.

“It’s okay. Better to be sure, right?”

She made a soft sound that might have been agreement or could just as easily have meant nothing at all. Hands tightly clenching her keys and cell phone, she led the way back through the garden and around the pool to the patio. There she glanced at the guesthouse with such a look of dismay on her face that he couldn’t help but say something.

“Hey, we’ve got a pizza in the car. Want to share it with us?” When she hesitated, he added, “It’s from Luigi’s. Even people who just pass through town know that Luigi makes the best pizza ever.”

Her smile was just a little one. “I know. I have cravings for it in Charleston.”

“It’s an extra-large supreme. We can bring it in or you’re welcome to come to our house.” Sensing her uncertainty, he grinned. “Come on, it’s Luigi’s.”

For a moment, her features tightened even more, then relaxed a little. “Sure,” she said, opening the door to allow him and Scooter inside. “Bring it in.”




Chapter 3


The instant the front door closed behind Stephen on his way to get the pizza, Macy grimaced. The last thing she wanted tonight was to have dinner with a stranger and his dog, even if it was a Luigi’s pizza.

No, the last thing she wanted was to be alone in this house. And with this being their third visit in one day, Stephen wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore. If he were a homicidal maniac—like Mark—he’d had enough chances at her already. And she liked his dog. Scooter was sweet and cuddly, and the Lab neither suspected nor cared that she was apparently delusional.

Her gut tightened, her stomach heaving so violently that she pressed one hand to her abdomen, the other to her mouth. Had she really seen someone in the guesthouse? Was she crazy? Was she already losing the balance she’d fought so hard to recover?

Since there was absolutely no sign of anyone having trespassed on the property, she couldn’t have seen someone, but she preferred to think she’d overreacted rather than imagined a threat. She was anxious about being here. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?

She’d let memory get the best of her and made a fool of herself, but now it was over. At least she’d had the luck to find Stephen driving past and not one of the neighbors she knew, and enough control to stop him from calling the police. She didn’t know if her months in the psychiatric hospital were common knowledge in Copper Lake, but she didn’t intend to give anyone reason to doubt her sanity. No panicked calls to the police about nonexistent intruders. No more fodder for the town gossips.

And she could look on this dinner as therapy. If she and Clary were ever going to have a normal life, she had to learn how to socialize again. Small talk, no anxiety attacks, just a well-adjusted woman sharing a pizza with a man who’d done her a favor.

The front door clicked, signaling Stephen’s return, and she moved to the cabinets, taking out plates, glasses and napkins. An earlier check of the refrigerator had revealed that Robbie Calloway—or, more likely, Anamaria—had had it stocked with the basics, so she removed a jug of iced tea, a couple of bottles of water and a couple of bottles of her favorite pop.

The enticing aromas of the pizza entered the kitchen a few seconds ahead of Stephen and Scooter. For just a moment, Macy felt light, eagerly anticipating the pleasure to come. It was a fleeting sensation, one she’d almost forgotten, and it left an ache when her usual uneasiness replaced it.

“I should have asked…do you mind having Scooter inside? I can run him home if you’d prefer.”

She thought of all the things the dog could damage—antique rugs peed on, wood floors scratched, delicate porcelain broken with a swipe of his tail—and a smile blossomed across her face. “No, he’s fine. Nothing in here is that important.” Not to her, at least. Anything he did damage would just be one less thing for her to find a home for.

They settled across from each other at the small dining table that separated the kitchen from the family room. Scooter took up a position exactly between them, looking excitedly from one to the other.

“He’s a beautiful dog,” she commented. “I’m thinking of getting one for my daughter and me.”

“Your daughter?” Stephen stood and crossed the few feet into the kitchen. “Knife?”

She nodded toward the block on one counter pushed far out of reach of little fingers. “Clary. She’s three. She’s in Charleston with my brother and his wife. They’re coming up Friday to help.”

Returning with a paring knife, he cut a slice of pizza into Scooter-sized pieces, fed one to the dog, then took a bite of his own slice. “You have any particular breed in mind?”

The one time she’d broached the subject with Mark, he’d listed the breeds he would find acceptable—in other words, very expensive—before giving a flat refusal. She had been disappointed by both responses but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, an over-the-top belief in their own superiority was a defining characteristic of the Howard family, and Mark liked order. A yappy puppy would have upset that.

With those expensive, purebred animals in mind, she replied, “Something without a pedigree. One that needs a home and is good with kids.”

“There’s a no-kill shelter just outside town. Unfortunately, they have plenty that meet your requirements.”

Macy chewed her first bite, and the pleasure she’d briefly anticipated bloomed through her. It was almost enough to make her moan. After swallowing, she asked, “Is that where Scooter came from?”

“Nope. A client bought him sight unseen, didn’t do any training, then wanted me to put him down because he didn’t behave. He’s been with me ever since.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised, but my husband’s grandmother generally turned down visits with her only great-grandchild because Clary refused to be merely seen and not heard.” Miss Willa had had no patience for the baby, just as Mark would have had no tolerance for an exuberant dog. He’d killed people for no more reason than he wanted to. It was doubtful he would have spared a dog that was less than perfect.

Revulsion rippled through her, her fingers gripping her glass until the tips turned white. She took a couple of deep calming breaths and was grateful to hear Stephen go on talking, though for a moment the words were dampened by the hum in her ears.

“—is afraid she’s never going to get grandkids, much less great-grandkids,” he was saying when she could focus. “I tell her she should have had more than just the two of us. I doubt ‘procreate’ even makes Marnie’s list of things to do in this lifetime, and I—Well, gotta have a wife before I have kids.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not for a long time. Sloan and I met in vet school, graduated together and both got jobs in Wyoming. I did small animals, she did large. I hated the winter, she loved it. I didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to leave.” He shrugged as if his marriage and divorce had been that simple. No sign of regret in his voice. No heartbreak in his eyes.

She gave the obligatory I’m sorry, and he shrugged again, a loose, easy movement.

“Sometimes things don’t work out. She’s happy there. I’m happy here.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “What about you? Is there an ex-husband somewhere?”

Her hand trembled, and a chunk of onion fell to her lap. She set down the pizza, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spot it left on her dress while her mind raced. Wouldn’t it be okay to lie, to simply say, “We’re divorced. He’s out of the picture”? It wasn’t as if she were staying in Copper Lake or would even see Stephen again once she left next week. Not every person who asked was entitled to the truth about Mark. It could be her little secret.

Her dirty little secret. Just as Mark had his.

He’d wound up dead because of his.

She took a drink to ease the dryness in her mouth, then folded both hands together in her lap, out of Stephen’s sight, and opened her mouth to tell the lie. But the wrong words came out. “No. He’s an ex only in the sense that he’s not around. He, um, died a year and a half ago.”

That was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t had to tell her family when it happened because the sheriff did it for her. She hadn’t had to tell Clary because her daughter was too young to ask. Everyone else had found out through the media or the very efficient gossip network.

Granted, she’d told the bare minimum just now. She didn’t mention that he’d been trying to kill his cousin, Reece, and Jones, the man she’d married soon after, after they’d unearthed a bone from one of Mark’s and his grandfather’s victims. She didn’t try to find words to say that he’d shot himself in the head when his murder attempt failed. She couldn’t even imagine telling anyone that she’d been married to a cold-blooded sociopath.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” Stephen said in a quietly comforting tone, the one he likely used when he had to deliver bad news to his patients’ owners. “That must be tough.”

“It would be tougher if I still loved him.” Immediately she clapped one hand over her mouth. Oh, God, had she actually said that out loud? To a stranger?

Shoving her chair back with a scrape, she jumped to her feet and went into the kitchen, face burning, palms sweaty. Her stomach was knotted, making her hope she wouldn’t have to dash for the bathroom. She damn well needed practice at this social interaction thing if she couldn’t even control the words that came out of her mouth.

A low whine came from Scooter, followed by a soft word from Stephen, then the sounds of the dog enjoying another bite of pizza. Macy stood in the middle of the kitchen, back to them, hugging herself, wondering what to do next.

Deal with it. You made the comment. Now stop acting like a nut job and go back to the table.

Grabbing a handful of napkins they didn’t need, she slowly retraced her steps and sat down. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say—I don’t normally bring that up in conversation.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t repeat it to anyone.” He slipped another bite to Scooter, then changed the subject. “I haven’t been to Charleston yet. Is that where you’re from or did your parents move there later?”

Her breathing slowed, her fingers slowly unclenching. “I’ve lived there all my life, except for here and in college. My parents bought my grandparents’ house after they passed, so there have been Irelands living in it for more than a hundred years.” Her smile felt crooked, though she gave it her best. “Mom and Dad are celebrating their fortieth anniversary with an extended tour of Europe. It seemed as good a time as any to take care of things here and—” She considered choices: start living again. Put the past behind us. Get away from the shame and the scandal. “—move on.” That was bland enough.

“Do you think you’ll stay there? Just get a place of your own?”

“I think I might close my eyes really tight, point to a spot on a map and go there.” She didn’t see herself in Charleston five years from now, or even five months from now. Emotionally, she needed her family close, but emotionally she needed distance. Yes, she needed their support, but too much support made her dependent. Even now, when she was adamant about getting back to her life, she hadn’t been able to give much thought to where she wanted that life to play out. She had to start relying on herself, making decisions and standing by them. She needed to take control again.

“Pick a spot in the southern half of the country. It gets danged cold above the Mason-Dixon line.”

Again her smile was weak. “I kind of like cold.”

“Says the woman who’s lived all of her life in the South. Spend a winter in Wyoming. It’ll change your mind.”

“Where did you grow up?”

He offered her the last slice of pizza, then, when she shook her head, moved it to his plate and sprinkled it with mozzarella and red pepper flakes.

“Here and there. My mother was restless. She’d wake up one morning and say, ‘Start packing, kids. We’re going someplace new.’ I was born in California, went to four grade schools in Arizona and New Mexico, two middle schools in Louisiana and two high schools in Texas.”

“Makes it hard to put down roots.”

He shrugged. “My family is my roots. Mom lives in Alabama now, and Marnie and I both wound up here. She’ll stay. Me, I don’t know. When I came, it was only supposed to be for four months, but I’m still here.”

“What about your father?”

“He never left California. He wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t stay.” After a moment he ruefully added, “Like Sloan and me.” He took one last bite, then offered the rest to Scooter, who removed it delicately from his hand. “He still asks about her every time we talk. He wants to know if she ever wanders back to California.”

“So he can try to win her back? Or so he has sufficient time to go into hiding?”

“I don’t know.” Stephen wiped his hands on a napkin then leaned back comfortably. “I got over wanting them to get back together a long time ago, but I think he actually misses her. He never remarried, never seemed at all interested in another woman.”

A security light at the far side of the backyard came on automatically, drawing Macy’s gaze outside. The settling dusk had escaped her notice, but now a faint shiver rippled through her. It was okay, she counseled herself. So the sun had set. No big deal. Dangerous things were dangerous, whether it was daylight or midnight.

Stephen stuffed the used napkins into the pizza box then crushed it in half as he stood. “I’d better head home. You must be tired or ready to get some sorting or packing done.” He went into the kitchen, automatically opening the cabinet under the sink to toss away the trash, then pulled his wallet from his hip pocket as he turned to face her again.

“‘Home’ is the first house to the north. It’s the one with the fence that can’t keep Scooter in.” For a moment he hesitated, then held out his hand. “And here’s my card. It’s got my cell phone number on it. If you need anything…”

Macy accepted the card, murmuring thanks for the dinner and everything else as she walked with him and the dog to the front door. As soon as they reached their car, she locked the door, set the alarm, then leaned against the door frame. Slowly she uncurled her fingers from the white cardstock and stared at it.

Stephen Noble, DVM.

As the emptiness of the house closed in around her, she felt a little bit safer. A little bit less alone. Just a little, but she would take what she could get.

“Dr. Noble, if you have a minute, Peyton’s here. She’s got something to show you.”

Stephen looked up from the chart he’d just finished, automatically checking the clock on the wall. Five minutes to eight, and he’d already seen five patients. “I always have a minute for Peyton. Tell her I’ll be right out.”

He’d learned early in life that there were four kinds of people: those who liked dogs, those who liked cats, those who liked both and—the ones he couldn’t relate to at all—those who preferred neither. Peyton was definitely in the first group.

So was Macy Howard.

Not liking animals was a deal breaker for him. Not that he was looking for anything with Macy. She was pretty, sure, but she had a child. She had been recently widowed. At least, a year and a half seemed recent to him. Not nearly enough time to deal with the emotional upheaval.

But she wasn’t still in love with her husband.

Before he got any further with that thought, he walked into the lobby, where nine-year-old Peyton was waiting. Her face lit up and she called, “Dr. Noble, did Penny tell you I had a surprise?”

He didn’t need a guess to identify it as the dog standing beside her wheelchair. He crouched in front of her. “A surprise, huh? Do you have new glasses?”

“No.”

“New sweater?”

“You’ve seen this before,” she chided. “It’s my favorite sweater. I wear it all the time.”

He pretended to study her, from the top of her blond curls all the way down to the toes of her sneakers, then raised both hands in surrender. “I give up. You’ve stumped me.”

Laughing, Peyton leaned over to lay her hand on the dog. “I got my service dog! Her name is Sasha, and she’s just for me, even though she has to be friends with everyone. Isn’t she beautiful?”

The golden retriever turned gorgeous brown eyes on him as if understanding the question and waiting for the compliment. “She is,” Stephen said. “Almost as beautiful as you. Has she learned all your lessons?”

“Yup.”

“Have you learned all her lessons?”

Peyton’s head bobbed. “Mom and I spent two weeks at the center where they trained her. And I wasn’t scared of her at all. Not even the very first time we met.”

“I knew you wouldn’t be. Has she gone to school with you yet?”

“Today’s the first day. All the kids in my class are gonna be jealous because Sasha can come and their pets can’t. But their pets wouldn’t behave, and Sasha will be a very good girl ‘cause she’s been taught.”

“And if we’re going to be on time, we need to go now.” Audrey King, Peyton’s mother, left the counter where she’d been chatting and joined them. “Thanks, Dr. Noble. This is going to make a big difference in her life.”

“No need to thank me.” All he’d done was locate the service dog group. Audrey and Peyton and generous donors had done the rest.

“We’ll bring Sasha back so you can get acquainted,” Peyton announced as she wheeled her chair around. “After all, you’re gonna be her new doctor and her new friend. See you.”

Two new friends in two days. He was on a roll. Would Macy mind being categorized with a retriever? He didn’t think so. She wanted a puppy for her daughter, and she’d been very tolerant of Scooter. She hadn’t barred the door to him or objected to his sharing their dinner.

Was her daughter as pretty and delicate as Peyton? Did she have her mother’s blue eyes, her mother’s silky brown hair? Was she friendly or shy? Did she have any comprehension of the fact that her father was dead?

No, not at three. At eighteen months, she would have known Daddy, but now she wouldn’t have any memory of him. She wouldn’t know that he had played with her, fed her, rocked her to sleep—if, in fact, he’d done any of those things. Judging from Macy’s remark last night, he hadn’t left her many fond memories. Even if he’d loved his daughter, that knowledge was gone forever for Clary.

At least Macy had her daughter. When he and Sloan had split, everyone had told him how he was lucky they hadn’t had kids. He hadn’t quite seen it. He’d married with the intention of staying together forever, of having at least three kids. And they’d divorced with nothing. No kids, no love, no hope.

Of course, he’d come to understand his friends’ and family’s meaning when he’d packed up to leave Wyoming. If he and Sloan had had a child, he couldn’t have done it. He could leave her and the state behind without ever looking back, without regret, but not his child. He’d grown up seeing his dad only on holidays and summer breaks, and he wouldn’t have done that to his own kid. He’d still be in Wyoming freezing his butt off half of every year.

As he returned to the exam room, where a beagle was waiting with its floppy ears and soulful eyes, he wondered how Macy had gotten through the night. He’d kept his phone on the nightstand—though he always kept it on the nightstand. Being a vet wasn’t a nine-to-five job, or in his case, six to noon three days a week plus every other Saturday.

She’d been pretty upset when he’d seen her in the driveway, and he wondered again why she’d refused to call the police. Was it some sort of innate distrust of authorities? Did it have something to do with how her husband had died?

How had he died?

Stephen could ask his boss. Yancy Yates had been in Copper Lake forever. He’d married into the Calloway family, Copper Lake’s version of royalty, right out of school. Anyone or anything he didn’t know, his wife did.

Or he could do a Google search on Macy. The internet left few secrets.

But as he began examining Clarence—yes, the name fit—he decided against doing either. Macy had made it clear she wouldn’t be around long. If she chose to tell him more, great. If she didn’t…well, he could find out the rest after she left.

Clarence heaved a sigh as Stephen lifted one of his ears to look inside.

“It’s undignified, isn’t it, buddy?” he murmured. “We just poke and prod everywhere, and you don’t even get asked.”

Another reason he wouldn’t actively try to find out more about Macy. Technology aside, people were entitled to some dignity, some privacy.

After finishing Clarence’s exam, Stephen returned the dog to the run, where he would wait to be picked up later by his owner. He stayed busy the rest of the morning, finishing up the last of his charts exactly at quitting time. His usual routine was to grab lunch from a fast-food restaurant, take it home and write through the afternoon.

Would he stick to it today, or would he be tempted by his neighbor?

Let’s see. An afternoon with Lucan, Sa’arca and Tu’anlan, wreaking mayhem on everyone, or being neighborly and making sure Macy was doing okay.

He was no fool.

Or maybe he was, because he picked up two burgers and two orders of fries at the SnoCap and, instead of driving past the Howard house and out the gates into the Lesser of the World, he pulled into the driveway beside the minivan.

Bag in hand, he rang the doorbell, the deep sepulchral tones raising gooseflesh on his neck just for a moment. The place had cost more than he’d made in his vet career, but it couldn’t begin to reach the level of homeyness that his little house had, secondhand furnishings and all.

He didn’t hear any footsteps through the solid door. It just suddenly opened to reveal Macy on the other side. She wore a pair of red shorts that could have been a whole lot shorter and a tank top that couldn’t have been much snugger. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her feet were bare and there were faint shadows under her eyes. A hesitant smile curved her mouth, though it wasn’t directed at him.

“No Scooter?” she asked instead of greeting him.

“Not this time. I was on my way home from the clinic and I thought you might like to take a break.”

He held up the bag, and she eyed it while taking a deep breath. “SnoCap?”

“Of course.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and he looked, too, seeing stacks of boxes down the hall, taped and labeled in a neat hand. She’d been busy. She’d already packed more stuff than he even owned, but he would bet she hadn’t made a dent in the job.

Since she was clearly wavering between her options, he said, “Hey, you’ve got to eat. And if you’d feel more comfortable with Scooter, we can take it to my house or I can go get him.”

Another moment passed before she smiled tautly. “Let me get my shoes.” Leaving the door open, she went to the kitchen, then returned almost instantly wearing flip-flops and carrying her cell phone. After locking up, she slid her keys into one pocket, the phone into the other, before climbing into the front seat of his car.

Lunch with a pretty woman. Maybe he wasn’t a fool, after all.

Macy wasn’t sure, but she might have drooled just a little when she caught the first whiff of the hamburgers. Greasy burgers from a drive-in hadn’t been Mark’s thing. When he wanted a burger, he’d gone to the country club restaurant and paid a ridiculous price for an Angus burger that didn’t compare in taste.

She and Clary both loved SnoCap burgers.

As they drove through the gates that signaled the perimeter of Woodhaven Villas, she felt lighter. In such a short time, she’d become used to the smothering sensation in the house. Now that it was lifted, she could breathe easier.

“While you were away, the Villains tried to put up security gates at this exit that would have kept out those of us who live down here,” Stephen said. “It didn’t endear them to us.”

“The Villains?”

His cheeks flushed. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, but…you know, like Texas and Texans. Georgia and Georgians. The Villas and Villains.”

A laugh escaped before she’d even realized it was building. “Don’t apologize. It’s a good description for most of my neighbors.”

“This street is the only access to the houses down here, but they didn’t want the riffraff driving past their houses, though they claimed it was for security reasons. They even offered to build a new street to the north to solve the access problem, but it would have tripled the distance to anywhere we needed to go.”

Macy wished she were appalled or even surprised, but she wasn’t. Like Mark, some of her neighbors had a deep appreciation for exclusivity. “I assume you and the rest of the riffraff protested.”

“We did, but it wasn’t really necessary. The town council didn’t even consider their proposal.” He gave her a sidelong look before turning into a driveway. “I assume you wouldn’t have joined forces with them.”

She smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t have. But Mark…he would’ve been leading their charge.”

Stephen’s gaze stayed on her so long that she realized at last they weren’t moving, or else they would have crashed by now. She shifted uncomfortably then unbuckled the seat belt.

“Mark was your husband,” he said finally, once again using the soothing tone that had probably calmed and comforted untold pets and their owners.

“Yes.”

The silence stretched out again, quickly becoming unbearable. He broke it by opening his door and picking up the bag of food, swinging it gently in her direction. “We should eat before the food gets cold. Prepare yourself for an exuberant greeting. Scooter’s not very familiar with the concept of company since we don’t get it very often.”

“I’ll brace myself.” As she got out, she took a quick look around. The house and the yard were small, almost doll-sized compared with their counterparts in Woodhaven. Everything was neat, though: the white paint and green trim fresh, the sidewalk edged, the picket fence faded to a soft gray. The front porch was big enough for a couple of rockers and a half dozen baskets of brightly colored flowers, though it stood empty now, and the door was painted a rich russet that welcomed guests.

Scrabbling sounded inside as they climbed the steps, accompanied by excited panting. By the time Stephen opened the door, Scooter was beside himself with anticipation. For an instant, it seemed he didn’t know which deserved his attention first—Macy or the bag of burgers—but the burgers soon won out. She couldn’t blame him. At the moment she was more interested in the food, too.

Then she sneaked a glance at Stephen and felt the need to confirm that. She really, really was.

“Welcome to my castle,” he said on the way to the kitchen. “Which is probably just a little smaller than the master bedroom in your palace.”

Probably, she admitted. The house was compact: small square living room, double doors opening right into the kitchen with its dining table, bedroom visible from the living room, second room—office, apparently—visible from the kitchen. It was cozy and snug, the shine long since worn off the wooden floors, the walls a nice neutral buff, the furniture well-worn and actually inviting. She always felt as if she should perch on the edge of the antiques in her house, but this sofa and chairs welcomed lounging.

The place reminded her of old times, before she met Mark Howard of the Georgia Howards.

She took a seat at the kitchen table as Stephen emptied the bag. He didn’t bother with plates or napkins other than what had been tucked inside at the drive-in, discarding the greasy outer ones. He sat across from her, pinched off two bits of burger to stick Scooter’s pills in and gave them to the dog, then took a hearty bite for himself before fixing his gaze on her. “How’s the packing going?”

“Slowly.” She savored her first bite—a year and a half since her last SnoCap fix!—then swiped a crispy fry through ketchup. “It’s easy to figure out what I want.” Nothing. “I’m saving some stuff for Clary, but all the antiques, the family heirlooms…”

“Does your husband not have a family that wants them?”

“His mother’s in North Carolina, but she has enough family heirlooms of her own.” And Lorna blamed the Howard family for everything her only child had done, including his suicide. She didn’t want anything associated with them. “There’s a cousin, Reece, but she doesn’t want any of it, either.” The family had cost her too much, as well.

“So what are the options? Estate sale and invest the money for your daughter?”

Macy took her time chewing. The locals probably knew she and Clary had more money than she could ever spend, but there was no need for her to admit that. So far, Stephen had treated her pretty much like a normal person—albeit needy and a tad jumpy. But money changed people’s perceptions, and she needed to be treated like any other woman.

“Probably,” she agreed, though the thought of expending even that much time on Mark’s possessions soured her stomach. “Or make some museum donations.”

He blinked and his brows arched. “Huh. I wouldn’t know a museum-quality piece if I stepped on it. And you let Scooter in the house not once but twice?”

At the sound of his name, the dog lifted a hopeful gaze, then lowered it again when Stephen snorted. “Hell, you let me in? I’m not exactly known for my dainty feet and grace.”

“They’re just things,” she said with a lift of one shoulder. Hating the sound of herself callously dismissing priceless treasures, she gestured to the room on the right. “I wouldn’t have imagined a vet could do a whole lot of work at home.”

Not that it looked much like a vet’s office. There were tons of books, but even at this distance it was obvious they weren’t textbooks. Dry-erase boards competed with movie posters for wall space, and she wasn’t sure what kept the desk from collapsing from the weight of the mess on it.

“Different work,” he said casually.

She studied the dry-erase boards, covered with cramped writing, some items circled, arrows pointing to others, then caught sight of several small plaques hanging between them. They looked like awards of some sort. Vet of the Year? Best Neighbor Surrounding Woodhaven Villains? “What kind of work?”

He gazed into the room himself for a moment before saying, “I’m a writer.”

She hadn’t expected that answer. In truth, she’d had no idea what to expect. But once he’d said it, it seemed perfectly reasonable. He had a little bit of a nerdy aura about him—the glasses, the uncombed hair, the conversations with Scooter. Sort of an absentminded-professor thing. “You write for veterinary journals?”

“On occasion. My last article was on feline diarrhea.” Said with a self-deprecating look.

“A very important subject to cats and the people who clean up after them.”

His grin was quick, boyish. It reminded her how appealing boyish could be. “Mostly I write books. Epic fantasy. A universe far, far away. Villains and quests and warriors and saving the world.”

She’d met authors before—professors in college who were published, historians come to speak to the local historical society, ditto a few horticulturists at the garden society. The Howard family was the subject of its very own book: Southern Aristocracy: The Howards of Georgia. Granted, they’d paid the author to write it and the only copies that existed outside the family were in various Southern libraries.

But a fiction writer—excluding the Howard family biographer—was different. Someone who wrote for the pure pleasure of writing, for the simple entertainment of others…that was cool.

“Have you published anything?”

A faint grimace flashed, though she suspected he’d tried to hide it.

“I’m not the first person to ask that, am I?”

“Pretty much everyone asks. I’ve had five books out. The sixth one is scheduled for this summer, and I’m working on the seventh.” Finished with his hamburger, he pushed to his feet, went into the office and returned with a hardcover novel, setting it beside her.

“S. K. Noble.” She wiped her hands thoroughly on a napkin before picking it up. The cover was rich purple, the artwork in the center an image of a mysterious man with storm clouds swirling above the mountains behind him. “How cool. I’m sorry. I don’t read fantasy.”

He sprawled back in his chair, reaching down to scratch Scooter with one hand. “No need to apologize. What do you read?”

“The Cat in the Hat. Goodnight, Moon. Sesame Street books. Anything with bright pictures, words that rhyme and messages short enough for the attention span of a three-year-old.” She flipped the book open, pausing to read the brief biography on the inside jacket. Too bad there was no photo of the author. In his office, with him looking as disheveled as it did, it would be charming. “How do you manage both working at the clinic and writing?”

Paper crumpled as he scooped up the wrappers from their lunch and tossed them in the trash can under the sink. Instead of returning to sit, he leaned against the counter, his long legs crossed at the ankle. “Clinic until noon three days a week, plus every other Saturday. Write at home the rest of the time.”

Guilt tickled her nape. “I’ve taken up an awful lot of your writing time,” she said as she stood. “Today, yesterday…”

“Everyone takes a break now and then, especially for food. We don’t miss any meals around here, do we, Scooter?”

The dog snuffled in agreement.

She stood there a moment, torn between staying a little longer in any house that wasn’t her own and not wanting to disrupt his schedule. He’d invited her for lunch, but lunch was over. Manners won. “I should let you get to work and get back to my own work. I appreciate lunch. It was wonderful.” She started toward the door, and he and Scooter followed.

“I’ll give you a ride home.”

Macy paused in the open door, remembering that he’d driven. Then she glanced at the blue sky, the soft white clouds, the leaves rustling in the breeze. “I’d rather walk.” She liked walking and took Clary for a ramble through their Charleston neighborhood every day. But in all the years she’d lived here, she’d never walked down her own street because while gardening was an acceptable pursuit for Mark Howard’s wife, exercise where anyone could see wasn’t.

“We’ll walk with you,” Stephen offered.

She wouldn’t mind his company a little longer, but she shook her head. “That’s okay.” By herself, she could set her own pace. If she wanted to stop and stare at the woods, she could. If she wanted to stroll aimlessly and listen to the birds in the trees, no one would be inconvenienced.

If she wanted to delay reaching the house and going inside as long as she could, no one would know.

The two males stood at the top of the steps as she made her way to the sidewalk, across the lawn and out the gate. She turned back for a smile and a wave, then headed south.

Her pace was steady, not the slow-and-go method Clary preferred. Her daughter could skip energetically for an entire block, then stop to examine everything from a crack in the sidewalk to a fallen leaf to an ant crawling over a blade of grass. Just the thought of her, squatting precariously to study some new discovery like a dandelion or a pinecone with such intensity, made Macy’s heart ache with equal intensity. Today was Wednesday. Clary, Brent and Anne would be here in time for dinner Friday. Only two and a half more days and she’d have her little girl at her side.

Only two and a half more days alone in the house looming ahead. She could already feel its weight—its memories of Mark—settling on her shoulders. Her steps were already slowing. But following the advice from all those months of treatment, she forced herself to keep moving, one step at a time.




Chapter 4


It was amazing how, on the north side of the brick arches, the pavement was smooth and the air was, well, simply air, but on the south side, Macy felt as if she were slogging through an invisible barrier, as if her feet were sinking into the concrete with each step. The dread trickling down her spine intensified when the hum of a well-tuned engine penetrated the buzzing in her ears.

Ahead a sleek white Mercedes glided to a stop at the end of her driveway. Though she didn’t recognize the car, her stomach knotted, and with good reason: Louise Wetherby was sitting behind the wheel.

Macy groaned silently. Of all the people she’d wanted to avoid in Copper Lake, Louise headed the list. She was the biggest snob in town, with more money than anyone besides the Howard and the Calloway families and a stronger notion of her own self-worth than all of them. She thinks highly of herself for a butcher’s granddaughter, Mark’s grandmother had often said disdainfully.

Had Willa Howard still thought so highly of herself after finding out her esteemed husband and her beloved grandson were murderers? Good breeding obviously didn’t equal decent human being.

Neither did a boatload of money, she added as Louise climbed out of the car.

Her silver hair was simply styled, her suit summer-white, her nails icy pink, her gaze glacial. She would have been an attractive woman if she hadn’t looked perpetually dissatisfied with the life she’d been dealt. “So you’ve finally come back.”

Hello to you, too. I’m fine. How about you? Macy forced a deep breath and a polite smile that was as phony as Mark had been. “Hello, Louise.”

“Are you planning to stay, and if not, are you putting the house on the market? It’s not good for the neighbors to have an abandoned house next door.”

Macy glanced at the house, then the neighbors’. There was absolutely nothing to suggest her house had been empty all those months. If anything, her house and the yard were in better condition than the others. But before she could respond, Louise went on.

“You’ve disconnected your home phone, and your cell phone isn’t listed in the Woodhaven directory, so I was going to leave this in your mailbox if you weren’t home.” She held up a creamy-hued envelope but didn’t offer it. “Let me just grab the paperwork and we’ll go inside out of this terrible heat.”

Macy automatically took a few steps up the driveway before good sense stopped her. She waited until Louise reappeared from the car’s interior, a folder in hand, before asking, “Paperwork for what?”

Instead of answering, Louise gestured toward the house. “Inside. It’s steaming out here.”

She should have accepted Stephen’s offer of a ride home. Then she would have already been inside when Louise arrived, she would have checked the peephole when the doorbell rang and she would have gone about her work, leaving Louise no choice but to drop off the letter and go home.

She should have stayed at Stephen’s, so she really wouldn’t have been home.

Louise set off for the door, and ingrained manners overtook Macy. Gritting her teeth, she followed in the woman’s trail of Chanel, then unlocked the door. When she caught sight of the boxes stacked in the hallway, she wished she’d moved them to the garage instead, or that she had the backbone to tell Louise to come back at a more convenient time. As if there were





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