 
# Bellamy and the Brute

## Alicia Michaels

### Contents

Content Disclosure

Also by Alicia Michaels

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Bellamy and the Haunting

Afterword

Also by Alicia Michaels

Acknowledgments

About the Author

CTP Email List

The Viking's Chosen

For more information about our content disclosure,

please click on the picture above or visit us at

www.CleanTeenPublishing.com.
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

* * *

NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

* * *

Bellamy & the Brute

Copyright ©2017 Alicia Michaels

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-63422-232-7

Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

Typography by: Courtney Knight

Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

  Created with Vellum

# Also by Alicia Michaels

**The Bionics Novels**

The Bionics

The Resistance

The Revolution

Bellamy and the Brute

Bellamy and the Haunting (Novella)
For all the girls that society labels as 'other'. You make the world beautiful.

# Prologue

Loose gravel crunched beneath her boots as Special Agent Camila Vasquez navigated the almost-empty parking lot to her car. Darting a glance around, she took in her surroundings, careful to listen for any approaching vehicles or footsteps. Settling her gaze back on her car, she found it undisturbed—no broken windows or picked locks. She took another glance over her shoulder to ensure she hadn't been followed as she pressed a button on the fob attached to her keychain.

Wellhollow Springs was a small town with a tight-knit community, but she couldn't afford to let her guard down. After she slid into the front seat, she glanced in the rearview mirror and spied the stack of files laid on her backseat. The information she'd been gathering for the past month would be enough to put a murderer away for the rest of his life. The fact that he was powerful hadn't intimidated her in the least, but until she'd placed the evidence into the right hands, she couldn't be too careful.

She placed her takeout box from the Japanese steakhouse on the passenger seat, dropped her purse onto the floor, and retrieved her phone. It vibrated in her hand. Her pulse began to race when she saw who was calling.

Answering quickly, she pressed the phone to her ear. "This is Vasquez."

A familiar voice reached out to her from the other end of the line. "Vasquez, it's Jones."

"Yeah, I know," she said with a smirk, jamming her key into the ignition and cranking the engine. "Your ugly mug pops up on my screen every time you call me."

Special Agent Jones laughed, but it came out dry and forced. "That's real cute. You want the results of this DNA test or what?"

Taking a deep breath, she gazed back through the driver's side window at the tall pine trees lining the highway beyond her. She'd been feeling as if she were being watched for about a week now, yet when she turned around, no one was ever there. Finding comfort in resting a hand on the sidearm holstered at her hip, she reminded herself that she had protection.

"Let's have it," she replied.

"The DNA from skin cells found under Isabella's fingernails matched the sample of saliva you sent me," Jones said. "The findings are consistent with the medical examiner's report—Isabella fought for her life while she was strangled, scratching and clawing. He's the one, Vasquez. He killed her."

Her grip tightened on the phone, and her eyes began to sting. Choking down a sob, she fell back against the seat. She'd had her suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence. Aside from that, Camila had felt, deep down in her gut, that the man whose DNA she'd painstakingly retrieved from a coffee cup had been responsible for her sister's murder two years ago. Now, she had proof.

"Are you still there?"

Jones' voice snapped her back to reality, and she sat up, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped one eye.

"I'm here. I need those results sent to my email as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, I am going to present everything I have here to the Young County D.A.'s office. That son of a bitch is going to pay for what he did to my sister."

"Just watch your step," Jones warned. "I'm not even supposed to be giving you this information, and you're still on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation."

Camila rolled her eyes. "A woman insists on investigating the death of a family member, and, suddenly, she's crazy?"

"I don't make the rules," he retorted. "And breaking them could cost me my job."

"Keep your panties on," she muttered. "No one's going to lose their job. Once I bring this guy down, they'll be apologizing for not taking me more seriously."

"I hope you're right, for both yours and Isabella's sakes. She deserves justice, and you deserve closure. Good luck, Vasquez."

"I don't need luck; I have evidence," she said before ending the call.

The wallpaper of her home screen showed an old picture of her and Isabella. They'd taken the selfie together years ago while sitting on a park bench. Camila held the phone up while her little sister leaned into her, smiling and squinting a bit with the sun in her eyes. Isabella looked radiant and healthy—a far cry from the drug-addicted, waif-thin thing she'd been forced to identify in the morgue.

Giving the photo a sad smile, she sniffed and blinked back a fresh wave of tears.

"Don't worry, Izzy," she whispered. "I won't let him get away with this."

She placed her phone into the console beneath the radio, threw the car into reverse, and peeled out of the restaurant parking lot. Being one of the few customers leaving at closing time, she found the highway leading back into Wellhollow Springs all but empty. The red taillights of the car in front of her eventually disappeared around one of the many bends in the road, leaving her alone with two walls of pine trees whizzing by on either side.

Glancing at the panel behind the steering wheel, she frowned. The brake light had come on yesterday, and she'd forgotten all about it. She'd been so consumed with her case that she had neglected to have it serviced.

_Tomorrow,_ she told herself.

The moment she'd finished up at the district attorney's office, she would have her car fixed. Since her administrative leave was indefinite until her superiors decided she was fit to resume duty, she might even stick around Wellhollow Springs for a while. The extended-stay hotel she'd been living in the past month was clean and affordable. Besides, she didn't want to miss any new developments in the case.

Rounding another bend in the road, she spotted a large, dark shape thrusting up toward the sky from the top of the hill. Baldwin House—the home of millionaire real estate development mogul Douglas Baldwin and his family. His grandfather had made a fortune by building half of Wellhollow Springs, so it seemed appropriate for the family home to overlook it all like the castle of some king looming over the peasants.

Turning her attention back to the road, she found yet another sharp curve and pressed the brake to slow down. She frowned when her foot was met with little resistance, the car neglecting to respond. With a gasp, she jerked the wheel left and just barely made it around the bend. Her heart began to pound, throat constricting as she came upon another turn. She pumped the brake, turning the wheel right. The car went entirely too fast, veering into the metal guardrail and causing sparks to fly. Giving the wheel another jerk, she attempted to decelerate again, her breath coming in short pants as the downward slope of the road became steeper.

The vehicle was out of control now, speeding up into the sixties. It hit the seventies as she bit back screams and sobs of terror, fighting to bring it to a stop. The brakes weren't responding at all, and another turn loomed ahead, a steep drop-off yawning beyond the guardrail.

"No," she whispered, clenching the wheel with damp palms. "No, no, no!"

In a last-ditch effort to stop the car, she jerked the wheel to the right, and then yanked up on the emergency brake while speeding around the curve. Her tires screeched, the scent of rubber being burned by asphalt filling her nostrils. The world outside her windows tilted and spun until she couldn't distinguish the sky from the trees or dark hills. A scream burned in her chest when the sound of metal crunching metal indicated she'd slammed into the guardrail. Her stomach shot up into her throat as the car tipped over, hurtling over the steep incline leading to the valley below her.

The car made impact—once, twice, three times, rolling and bouncing over and over, jostling her mercilessly. Her head bashed against the driver's side window, causing her teeth to rattle. She must have bit her tongue, because blood filled her mouth at the same time it began to trickle down her face from a wound on her temple.

She didn't know how long the car fell, careening to the ground below, nor could she remember closing her eyes. Yet, one moment, everything had gone dark. The next, she opened her eyes to find she'd come to a stop.

Somehow, she'd been thrown from the car, even though her seat belt had been fastened. Lifting her head, she spied the wreckage of her car a few feet away and grimaced. All the windows had shattered, leaving broken glass littering the ground around it. Two of the doors had been crunched inward, another torn off completely. No amount of work could ever hammer out the dents or the roof that had caved inward.

The most important thing was the evidence she'd stored in the backseat. If she could salvage it, the totaled car wouldn't seem like such a loss. Rising up on her hands and knees, she began crawling toward the wreckage, surprised that felt she no pain. Maybe shock or adrenaline enabled her to function after such a horrific accident.

_He_ had to be responsible for this—the man who'd murdered Isabella. Which made it all the more important that she get to her car and retrieve the evidence. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of not only murdering her sister, but also killing one of the only people who was in a position to seek justice.

Coming closer to the car, she spied something in the front seat. Frowning, she struggled to her feet, trudging forward with heavy steps. Bracing one hand against the battered hood, she lowered her head and peered inside.

She gasped when she came face to face with a woman bearing an uncanny resemblance to her—olive skin, athletic build. Blood soaked one side of her face from the gash in her temple, as well as several shards of glass embedded in her jaw and cheek. A larger fragment jutted from her neck, causing more blood to cascade down her neck and chest. Dark brown hair hung bedraggled around her shoulders—one of which sat at an odd angle, as if it had been torn from the socket. Three of the fingers on her hand had been mangled, twisted and bent as if they'd been snapped from within.

Frowning, she leaned closer, reaching up to touch her own face, and then the woman's.

This could not be real. Clearly, she'd passed out when the car made impact and she was dreaming. At some point, she would wake up in the hospital, and everything would be all right. She slumped against the car and sank to the ground, tears filling her eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice told her that she was deluding herself. Lowering her head, Camila began to sob, feeling more helpless than she had on the day the news of Isabella's death had been delivered.

Swiping at her eyes, she glanced up and screamed as the apparition of a person appeared in front of her. Once panic and shock had melted away, she realized she knew this person. She rose to her feet and stared into a pair of familiar eyes.

"It can't be," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to still the tremors wracking her body.

The woman stood just a few inches shorter than she did, with long, dark hair hanging down her back. She beamed with a white glow, all the color having been drained from her face. An ugly black ring circled her throat, dark veins reaching out from the stain. Her blue-tainted lips parted, moving as if she tried to tell Camila something.

She reached out toward the phantom, her lower lip trembling as she forced herself to speak.

"Izzy?" she croaked, her voice coming out hoarse and strained.

The specter could hear. Nodding, it extended a hand to her.

Glancing back at the wreckage of her car, and then back to Isabella, Camila understood. There was nothing left for her to do.

Without hesitation, she reached out to take the offered hand.

# Chapter One

"Who can tell me which event in United States history was referred to by President Franklin D. Roosevelt as 'a date that will live in infamy'?"

You could have heard a pin drop. Apparently, no one in my history class knew the answer to Ms. Neal's question.

Well, that wasn't completely true. I knew the answer, but had been actively _not_ raising my hand all day, despite recalling the answer to just about every question. Twining one of my spiraled curls around one finger, I went on sketching in the margins of my notes with my other hand. In red ink, a small, cartoon version of Iron Man fought against Captain America.

"Anyone?" Mrs. Neal urged.

I could hear the click of her low heels against the floor as she paced back and forth in front of the blackboard, and I felt her eyes scanning the room before landing on me.

_Crap._

"Bellamy, you've been unusually quiet today. Would you care to take a stab at it?"

Sighing, I set my pen aside and glanced up at the teacher over the frames of my glasses. She stared back at me with a look that clearly said, 'I'm not letting you off the hook here.' I cleared my throat, deciding to get it over with.

"He was referring to Pearl Harbor," I replied.

Ms. Neal nodded. "Very good. While we're on the subject, why don't you tell us what date it was, exactly?"

"December 7, 1941," I rattled off without hesitating.

"Did one of your dad's little friends tell you that?" someone muttered from behind me.

I didn't recognize the voice, but it didn't matter because their little joke sent those who had heard it into a fit of snickers. A few whispers spread the joke around, causing more laughs. Rolling my eyes, I kept my gaze focused straight ahead, used to this by now.

Ms. Neal's gaze swept the room with icy censure. "Is something funny about only one of you knowing the answer to these questions, with only days left before the final exam? Because I don't find that particularly amusing."

"I'm just saying, Ms. Neal," said a guy's voice from the back of the class. "It's not really fair. I mean, isn't it considered cheating when you can just ask a ghost for the answers?"

"Nah, man," another guy answered. "It's her dad who has all the answers... he's in good with Washington, Jefferson, Franklin..."

"Hey, maybe someone should ask him if he's seen Pac and Biggie," someone else added.

More laughter.

I turned my attention back to doodling, resisting the urge to roll my eyes again. The jokes had gotten old a while ago, but, apparently, the troglodytes in my class still found them hilarious. I'd already prepared myself to have them follow me to graduation, and with only one year left, I'd grown numb to it.

Thankfully, the bell rang, ending both class and the school day. Without waiting to be dismissed, people began to stand, grabbing their books and dashing for the exit. Since the school year was ending next week, students at Wellhollow Springs High were rowdier than usual and chomping at the bit to be free.

"You three, stay," Ms. Neal said, her voice holding a steely edge as she eyed the boys who had attempted to embarrass me during class.

I didn't even bother looking back to see who they were, shoving my notebook into my bag and slinging it over one shoulder. Stepping out into the hall, I made a beeline for the nearest exit, skipping my locker in favor of leaving this place behind. I had everything I needed to study for finals over the weekend, anyway.

Squinting against the high afternoon sun, I rounded the building for the rows of bike racks situated near the front of campus. All around me, the sounds of cranking cars, laughter and conversation, and the sputter of school buses filled the air. I dodged a few people walking toward me on the sidewalk, beads of sweat already starting to well up on my forehead. You could tell summer was coming to Georgia by the heat turning the outdoors into an oven, and the humidity causing the air to feel sticky and moist. Pausing near my bike, I reached into my bag and retrieved a rubber band, taking a moment to pile my thick, kinky dark curls into a topknot. Sighing with relief, I began climbing onto the bike when the sound of my name being called caused me to hesitate.

"Bellamy, wait up," a boy called, breaking into a trot to catch up to me.

Lincoln Burns—football star, arrogant man's man, and all around meathead. His black hair, dark eyes, suntanned skin, and large, muscled build should have made him attractive. Unfortunately, a sense of self-importance translated into a mouth that was a bit too pouty, while acne undoubtedly caused by steroid use stole focus away from everything else.

Huffing, I blew a few stray curls away from my forehead and braced myself for the inevitable.

"Lincoln," I said once he'd come to a stop, conveniently blocking my path.

Gripping my handlebars with his meaty fists, he leaned toward me. "Have you given any thought to my offer?"

Clenching my jaw, I bit back a sarcastic remark. "No, because I thought I'd been pretty clear before. I appreciate you asking me to the Founder's Day ball, but like I said, I don't intend to go, so... maybe you should ask someone else."

He scoffed, as if what I'd said was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. "I know you weren't planning to go, but that was before _I_ asked you to be my date."

_How typical._

"Listen," I said, talking slowly to ensure he heard every word. "I'm not interested in being the butt of whatever little joke you and your friends have up your sleeve."

Giving my handlebars a tug, he forced me closer, now practically straddling my front tire. "Baby, it's not like that, and you know it. There wasn't a joke when we went out the first time. Why would you think that now? I thought we had fun."

I fought to regain control of my bike, but he wasn't taking the hint. " _You_ had fun," I reminded him. "I got felt up at the movies, then treated to your pouting and sulking the rest of the night when I pushed you away."

He laughed, but the sound was humorless. There was a gleam in his eye I didn't like, as if turning him down had sparked some sort of rage in him.

"I apologized for that a bunch of times," he growled, his voice low. "When are you going to let it go?"

Tilting my head at him, I refused to be intimidated. "When you back off. Now, let go. I have to get to work."

Releasing my handlebars, he remained close enough that I still couldn't get away. "You won't avoid me forever. It's not like anyone else in town will give you the time of day."

"I don't know whether to be insulted or relieved," I snapped, rolling forward and forcing him to back up. "Why don't you go club some other girl over the head and drag her back to your cave? I'm not interested."

He was red-faced and practically huffing smoke, hands balled into fists at his side.

"You might want to lay off the needle," I told him before pedaling away. "I've heard it shrinks the 'nads."

Increasing my pace, I left him behind, pedaling toward the road that would take me on the short ride to town. Lincoln didn't scare me, despite his bravado and the 'roid rage that made itself apparent whenever things didn't go his way. He was more like an annoying gnat than anything else—always buzzing around and getting back in my face no matter how many times I swatted him away.

I would regret agreeing to go out on a date with him for the rest of my life. I'd decided to see a movie with him, trying to be open-minded. I didn't like it when people made assumptions about me, so I'd tried my best not to peg Lincoln as a stupid jock when I really hadn't known him. But, he'd proven pretty quickly that, in his case, the label really did speak of what was inside the package. He didn't have an interesting bone in his body, seeming concerned with nothing beyond his own self and football.

For some reason, despite turning down his attempts to get into my pants, he seemed to think he could wear me down. So, he put himself in my way as often as possible, trying to chip away at my resistance with compliments and more invitations to go out with him. It never failed that once I refused him, he turned on me and began with the insults. I wasn't sure if it was the steroids that made him that way, or if being a spoiled brat might be to blame.

Whatever the case, I didn't have time to worry about Lincoln. I had exams to study for, and, at the moment, a job to get to.

With the sun beaming down over my head and turning the light sheen of sweat into a continuous trickle, I continued, putting school and Lincoln behind me for the weekend.

* * *

I slowed my bike in front of McGuire's Books, Magazines, and Comics, turning down the narrow alleyway stretching between it and the coffeehouse next door. Once I dismounted, I wheeled the bike through the back door, and then left it leaning against a wall near the storeroom. Having heard the alarm, my dad called out to me from the front of the building.

"Munchkin, is that you?"

"Yeah, Dad," I replied, dropping my bag off in the back office.

Making my way to the front room, I strode between rows of bookshelves organized by genre, then in alphabetical order. McGuire's wasn't a large bookstore, but with it being the only one in town, business was at least steady. Things had slowed quite a bit over the past few years, but we did the best we could.

I found Dad standing behind the counter near the register. Today's copy of the _Wellhollow Springs_ _Sentinel_ blocked his face from view, but I could see his shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair. It was a bit frizzy, as if he hadn't combed it this morning.

"Hey, munchkin," he murmured without glancing up from the paper. "How was your day?"

_The kids made fun of me because my dad is the town lunatic._

"Fine," I said out loud. "Kind of boring. All my teachers were in finals review mode, and everyone is pretty much on autopilot until next week."

His head bobbed as he nodded, laying the paper flat on the counter. "Some things never change. Kids are as anxious to be out of school now as they were when I was a student."

Noticing a stack of boxes near the door, I stepped behind the counter to retrieve a box cutter. The latest magazines must have been delivered while I was at school.

"Check it out," Dad said, distracting me from the box cutter.

Pointing to the paper laid on the counter, he smiled. I followed his finger and glanced down at the advertisement nestled among several others.

"McGuire's Appliance Repair and Restoration," I read aloud. "No appliance is too big or small. Mention this ad and get twenty percent off your first repair."

Smiling, I read his name at the bottom of the ad—Nathaniel McGuire—along with his cell number. "It looks great."

When I glanced back up at him, I found him beaming with pride, his dark brown eyes glittering with excitement. My mom always said I'd been born with his eyes, despite having inherited everything else from her. One thing I hadn't gotten was his affinity for machines and fixing them. He was never happier than when he could pry something apart and tackle its insides with a toolbox.

"I'm hoping it'll bring in some more income," he said, facing me and leaning against the counter.

I tried to maintain a pleasant expression, hoping my doubt wouldn't show outwardly. He was great at what he did, but few people were willing to look past his eccentricities in order to appreciate it. It was bad enough they looked at him from the corners of their eyes when they came into the store, as if afraid he was going to leap over the counter and begin foaming at the mouth.

"That would be great," I replied. "Maybe I'll look for some extra summer work, too. Something to do in the hours I'd usually be at school."

Sighing, he gave me a wistful glance. "I would rather you enjoy your summer, munchkin, not spend it working to pay bills. That's why I put that ad in the paper."

Standing on tiptoe, I reached up to hug him, barely able to get my arms around his neck. My dad was a big man—both tall and brawny with just a bit of a paunch in the middle caused by his love of pasta and pastries. He enveloped me in a tight hug, the scent of his aftershave a familiar comfort.

"I don't mind," I told him. "McGuire's is important to me, because it was important to you and Mom. This place was your dream, and I'd hate to see it closed. If that means I need to get a job to help make ends meet, then it's what I'll do."

He patted my shoulder, and then pulled away to look down at me. "I just wish you would enjoy your last year of childhood. You'll be eighteen and in college next year."

I shrugged one shoulder. "High school sucks, and work experience will look good on my college applications."

"Okay," he agreed. "But nothing that requires late hours."

I nodded, going back to the task of stocking the magazines. "Agreed."

He wouldn't say why he didn't want me working late, but I already knew the reason. For my father, nighttime in Wellhollow Springs could be a nerve-racking experience.

"Now that you're here, I need to go balance the books," he said, already turning to make his way toward the back.

"I'll hold down the fort up here," I responded.

Heavy footsteps grew fainter as he retreated to his office, not bothering to answer me. It was because he trusted me to run things in his absence. Truth be told, my mother had always been the face of McGuire's—knowing the perfect books to recommend to shoppers, possessing a knowledge of many different nonfiction genres, and well-versed in the classics. We'd both been forced to fill her shoes in a lot of ways, and while we did our best, neither of us would ever be good enough.

Pushing those depressing thoughts aside, I resumed my work, quickly emptying the boxes and neatly lining the magazines up on their appropriate racks. I had to pause a few times to help customers, but had it all finished within half an hour. After disposing of the empty boxes out back, I resumed my place at the front counter. I perched on the wooden stool matching the varnished kiosk Dad had built by hand and glanced back at the newspaper.

Flipping it to the employment section, I began perusing the listings. There wasn't much. Wellhollow Springs was such a small town, and most of the local businesses were family owned. I circled a few waitressing and cashier positions, but didn't really feel a pull toward any of them.

Spotting an ad requesting a summertime babysitter for two young kids, I paused. It promised good pay and daytime hours, both of which appealed to me. Picking up the receiver for McGuire's landline, I quickly dialed the number.

A man's voice answered on the third ring. "This is Ezra Wu."

"Hello, Mr. Wu," I replied, using my most pleasant voice. "My name is Bellamy, and I just saw your ad in the paper for a summer babysitter. I was wondering if the position was still open."

"It is," he replied, his voice sharp and clear. "If you are interested in coming for an interview, I can see you tomorrow morning at ten."

"I'd be glad to come."

"Great," Ezra replied. "Let me give you the address."

I quickly reached for a pen, yanking and tearing off a bit of receipt paper from the register. While writing down the address, I furrowed my brow. This couldn't be right. Yet, when I read it back to Ezra, he assured me it was correct.

Baldwin House.

The mansion on the hill overlooking Wellhollow Springs, where the wealthy and mysterious Baldwin family lived. Why these people needed a babysitter was beyond me. I always assumed rich people had live-in nannies.

"I'll see you in the morning, Bellamy," Ezra said before ending the call.

Hanging up the phone, I stared down at the address and pursed my lips. The Baldwins were practically royalty, being the richest family in town. Their property development company owned, and had built, most of the town and its surrounding housing developments.

Baldwin House had been shrouded in mystery ever since the family's eldest son, Tate, had vanished. He'd been a student at my school back then—popular, smart, athletic, handsome. No one knew why he'd gone missing, and the rumors had grown more outrageous in the two years since. Around the same time that he disappeared, his parents had gated off the property and stopped accepting visitors. Their annual Halloween masquerade party had faded into obscurity, and only family, staff, and a close circle of friends were ever allowed to step foot over the threshold.

It seemed odd to me that the Baldwins would want to hire a babysitter, given how reclusive they'd all become. Despite the fact that I was usually pretty levelheaded, I couldn't help letting my imagination run away with me.

A lot of people said Tate had gotten sick, and many even whispered he'd been disfigured in some sort of accident. Some claimed the house was haunted, others that the entire family were a bunch of psycho ax murderers.

"As long as they pay me and don't try to murder and eat me, I don't care what their secrets are," I muttered out loud, laughing at myself for entertaining the rumors for even a second.

* * *

I had just dropped spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water when Dad came stomping in, his heavy tread echoing against the floorboards.

"Spaghetti's almost done," I called out, bending over to check on the garlic bread baking in the oven.

Without responding, he continued back to his room, the sound of him walking eventually fading away. With a frown, I lowered the heat on my sauce and left the kitchen, peering down the hall after him. The door to his bedroom hung open, the light casting a yellowish square against the opposite wall.

He'd stayed behind after closing to finish the books and balance out the register, urging me to go home ahead of him. Because we lived in the housing area closest to town, he often chose to walk to save on gas, and today had been one of those days. I usually worried about him walking home alone at night, because I never knew what might happen.

Edging slowly down the hall, I held my breath, listening for any sound. He murmured under his breath, and it sounded as if he were rifling through a drawer in search of something. My hands began to shake, and I clenched them into fists to still them as I reached the doorway.

He sat hunched over his desk, the pencil in his hand moving rapidly over a sheet of paper. The muttering had stopped, but he didn't lift his head... not even when I called out to him.

"Dad?"

He continued his task, tremors causing his shoulders to spasm and jerk as if he were being shaken from the inside.

I could hear the worry in my own voice when I tried again. "Dad, are you okay?"

Still no answer. Glancing at the wall behind his desk, I found a familiar sight. Several sheets of paper lined the white space, held up by thumbtacks. They were drawings of people—but these people didn't look human.

Ghosts, he called them. They looked half-mangled—some of them sporting gaping wounds in their faces or holes through their midsections. One looked as if an animal of some kind had ripped a huge chunk of flesh out of her face, showing her teeth through the hole in a grotesque display. Also tacked on the wall were newspaper clippings—obituaries. More sheets of paper with his messy handwriting had been attached, some with names and dates, others with causes of death.

_Strangled. 10/25/12. Jennifer Davis._

_Drowned. 6/05/10. Name unknown._

_Lead poisoning. 1/19/11. Troy Bennett._

Some of the photos had pieces of colorful yarn connecting them. I once asked him why, and he told me it was because he believed their deaths to be connected in some way.

He was at it again, which meant he believed he had seen another ghost. When he got like this, I'd found it was best to leave him alone. After a sighting, he always wanted to document it while the memory was still fresh. I wouldn't be able to pry him from that desk if I tried.

Retreating to the kitchen, I finished cooking dinner and made two plates. Putting Dad's in the oven to keep it warm, I sat at the table alone with my book, happy to read in silence for the time being.

After I'd eaten two helpings of spaghetti, I remained at the table reading for at least another hour because the book had gripped me so thoroughly. There were only three chapters left by the time he finally emerged from his room.

His face was haggard and drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.

"Your dinner's in the oven," I said, giving him a quick glance before going back to my book.

He retrieved his plate and sat across from me, eating in silence. After a while, I couldn't take the quiet any longer.

"Where did you spot this one?" I asked, dog-earing my spot and closing the book.

Pausing with the fork halfway to his mouth, he met my gaze. "Not far from the house, actually. That's the third one in the neighborhood this month... I can't figure out why."

Frowning, I watched him go back to his food, head lowered. A lot of people judged my dad for what they assumed was some sort of mental disorder. However, he functioned normally in every other aspect of life, and had never given me reason to doubt his sanity. It was only when night came that he claimed to be visited by ghosts. He believed they wanted something from him, yet was never able to figure out what, exactly. So, he documented them, often going so far as to research the manners of their death, hoping for some sort of clue.

The phenomenon had begun not long after Mom died, and, at first, I figured it was just his way of coping. Over time, it had only gotten worse, becoming exhausting—wondering if he truly saw the things he said he did, worrying he might actually have something wrong with him, being angry with the people in town who whispered about him behind his back and called him crazy. Whatever was happening, my father genuinely believed he saw these ghosts.

_There is so much about the world we don't understand,_ my mother often said. _Who are we to tell others what is true, or what they ought to believe?_

I always thought she referred to things like religion, but maybe she meant convictions like my dad's as well. She would have trusted him, so I tried my hardest to believe, too.

"I have an interview tomorrow morning," I said, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. "It's for a babysitting job."

"Babysitting, huh?" he asked. "You always were good with your little cousins. What family is it?"

Hesitating for a moment, I watched his face for a reaction when I replied. "The Baldwins."

Raising his eyebrows, he gave me a quizzical look. "I'd think a family that wealthy would have a nanny."

I laughed. "That's what I thought, but when I called, they still hadn't filled the position. Maybe they lost their nanny or something. I don't know, but it's for the whole summer, and all I'd have to do is keep them busy during the day while the parents are at work."

His mouth worked as he seemed to mull that over for a moment. "I suppose it sounds like a good job, but I would still prefer you spend your summer swimming, relaxing, and going to the movies... you know, kid stuff."

Pointing toward the little basket holding our mail—mostly bills—I raised my eyebrows. "No can do, old man."

Nodding, he took a sip of his iced tea. "I won't argue with you. When your mind is made up about something, you prove just how much like your mother you are."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I quipped.

Reaching out to cover my hand with his, he became serious. "I meant it as one. She would be so proud of you, stepping up to take care of me even though you shouldn't have to. It's not your job, but you help me keep the bookstore running and the house in shape without complaint. You're a beautiful young woman, inside and out... I don't know what I did to deserve you."

Smiling and choking back tears, I placed my free hand on top of his. "I love you, Dad."

He kissed my hand, and then stood and collected our dirty dishes. "You cooked, so I'll clean up. Go relax and rest up for your interview tomorrow. You'll need the car, so make sure you get some gas money from my wallet."

"Check," I replied, taking up my book and retreating to my room.

Once alone inside, I sank onto the bed and kicked off my sneakers before falling back onto the pillows. Curling up beneath one of my favorite blankets, I dove back into the story. Once I had finished the final chapters, the sounds of Dad washing and drying the dishes had ceased. The house was quiet, and I knew he had either gone back to his room to continue his sketching or went to sleep.

Kneeling beside the bed, I pulled out the large trunk where I stashed my books and put the finished one inside. There were a few I hadn't started yet, so I grabbed two and climbed back into bed. After selecting one and opening it to the first page, I found my thoughts wandering, making it hard to focus. Once I realized I had read the first paragraph eight times, I gave up and left the bed.

Creeping back out into the hall, I listened at my dad's door for a moment.

Silence.

No light spilled out from beneath the crack, so it seemed safe to assume he had fallen asleep. Tiptoeing back to my room, I closed the door, and then made quick work of putting my shoes back on. I opened the only window, threw one leg over the sill, and stepped out into the night, careful to close it behind me. My room faced the backyard, but there were no other houses beyond ours... just an open field leading to a walking trail that wound around and through town. After retrieving my bike from the shed, I wheeled it through the gate, and then began the short ride to the cemetery.

My dad would have a fit if he knew I was out on my bike this late, but I did it often. Night was the only time I could be alone with Mom, and, for some reason, I needed that today.

Luckily, the path was well lit, iron fixtures illuminating the route past the park and local swimming pool, toward the cemetery where my mother had been buried for almost two years. The wrought-iron gate hung open at the entrance, so I slowed and entered, riding my bike along the paved walkway. I located her headstone with very little effort, near the northwest corner of the yard. The flowers Dad had brought her last week were wilted and slumped in their vase. Making a mental note to bring her fresh ones next week, I lowered myself to the grass, sitting cross-legged in front of the stone.

I sat there for a long while, simply staring at the words carved into the cement.

_Moriah McGuire. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Mother. 1969-2014._

After a while, the letters began to blur, and I couldn't hold the tears in any longer. Lowering my head, I cried in silence, shoulders shaking with the effort it took not to sob out loud. I didn't want to alert anyone who might be walking nearby to my presence here.

Swiping at my eyes, I glanced back at the stone.

"I miss you," I whispered. "And I don't know how to do things without you. Dad is... he makes me worry, and I wish you were here. You would know what to do. I'm graduating next year, and I always wanted to go to Spellman like you, but... I'm so afraid to leave him alone."

As always, there was no answer. No advice. No comfort. Yet, I still felt better having come here to lay my burdens on her grave. Now that she wasn't suffering anymore, it didn't seem so selfish for me to come to her with my problems. Even when she'd been sick, Mom had wanted me to come to her with everything. It was the kind of person she had been—the sort who put others before herself, no matter what. The world seemed a darker place without her.

After my tears had dried, I lay there in the grass for a long while, feeling closer to her despite knowing her soul had long left the remains buried beneath me. Finally, I peeled myself off the ground and went back to my bike. Just as I threw one leg over the seat, a shiver slid down my spine, despite the fact that it was still hot and humid outside. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I began to feel as if I were being watched.

A lump rose up in my throat, choking me with terror as I turned around, scanning my surroundings. Spotting nothing but trees and rows upon rows of grave markers, I breathed a sigh of relief. The sigh broke off on a gasp when movement from behind one of the trees caught my eye. The form of a person stood several yards away. It was no more than a shadow, yet for some reason, I _knew_ it was looking at me from beneath a black hood pulled up over its head.

I stood, one leg on the bike, frozen in that stare for what felt like forever. Finally, the apparition turned away. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared from sight. Realizing I had begun to tremble, I gripped my handlebars and held tight, forcing myself to breathe. I searched for movement to see where the person might have gone, but there was nothing.

Forcing my limbs into motion, I jumped on my bike and pedaled back home as fast as I could. Maybe this whole seeing ghosts thing was genetic. Would they start following me around like they did my dad? And if that were the case, did that make me insane, or incredibly special?

# Chapter Two

The next morning, I spent an entire hour trying to decide what to wear for my interview. How would the Baldwins expect their babysitter to dress? I kept picturing an old, chubby British nanny in a frilly white cap and hoped that wasn't what they were expecting.

After trying a couple of dresses, then a pair of khaki pants with a blouse, I told myself I was being ridiculous. If someone posted an ad for a babysitter, they would know to expect a high school or college kid. I opted for a pair of jeans and one of my nicer shirts—avoiding denim with holes or frayed edges and crop tops. I'd wasted too much time choosing an outfit to do anything to my hair, so I simply moisturized my curls and scraped the front back with a headband, letting it hang to my shoulders. Makeup consisted of only light foundation, mascara, and tinted lip gloss. Glancing at the mirror, I decided it would do. Catching sight of the photo of my mother taped to the mirror, I smiled.

I'd been told I looked like her, which I always took as a compliment because she'd been beautiful in my eyes. Dark skin, large, brown eyes with long lashes, a button nose, and full lips. The shape of her face and the tilt of her smirk always reminded me of the depictions I'd seen of fairies and sprites—joyous and warm, and maybe just a little bit mischievous. Slipping on my glasses—a pair of square, hipster-like frames I wore out of necessity as much as for style—I left my room to find my dad already gone to work.

I made a quick egg and bacon sandwich to eat in the car, scarfing it down as I took the ten-minute drive to Baldwin House. Once the busy downtown area was behind me, the road became clear all the way up the hill, which didn't surprise me. Not too many people drove up here unless necessary or leaving town by the highway just beyond the peaks.

I noticed the mansion was even more imposing up close as I coasted to a stop in front of the black iron gate that shut out the world. A large, ornate letter 'B' decorated the entrance, surrounded by vines and leaves painted green. The letter itself stood out in shimmering gold.

As I rolled down my window, I noticed a little speaker system with keypad. A security camera attached to the fence swiveled in my direction.

"May I help you?" a man's voice called through the speaker.

"Hi, I'm Bellamy McGuire. I'm here for an interview."

A brief silence, and then a buzz sounded before the gate swung inward.

"Welcome, Ms. McGuire," the voice said.

The speaker went silent, and the gate hung open, so I drove in, watching through the rearview mirror as it swayed closed behind me. The drive up to the house seemed long, stretching on and allowing me to take in the imposing sights all around me. The house loomed four stories high, intimidating even in the daytime. The lawn looked as if it had been painstakingly cut with a pair of scissors, not a single blade stretching higher than the others. Hedges and flowering plants edged the perimeter of the house. Adjacent to the oversized mansion, a pool was fenced off, with a covered deck and outdoor kitchen nearby. Tennis and basketball courts sprawled beyond that, and what looked like a guesthouse sat in the distance.

Finally, I pulled into a circular drive with a fountain at its center, surrounded by more hedges. Coming to a stop in front of a large, stone staircase, which led up to a pair of looming double doors, I killed the engine. I left the car and stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, gazing up at the house. After a moment of gawking like an idiot, I schooled my face into a passive expression so I wouldn't look so overwhelmed by the opulence of it all. Then, I proceeded up the stairs.

Waiting for me at the open double doors was an Asian man seated in a wheelchair. His black hair had been neatly gelled and brushed away from his face, accentuating the tilt of his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones. He had a square chin and full lips, his skin browned as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He was slender and wiry, dressed in an immaculate suit with matching tie.

"Bellamy," he said, giving me a warm smile and extending one hand. "We spoke on the phone yesterday. I'm Ezra."

Shaking his hand, I let his smile put me at ease. It wasn't one of those fake grins people give while sizing you up. He seemed genuinely kind, and his handshake was firm yet gentle.

"Nice to meet you," I replied.

"Follow me, please," he instructed, using a knob to guide his motorized chair back into the house.

I followed, taking in the high ceiling of the foyer, the black and white tiles gleaming beneath me, and a massive chandelier. A large window over the front doors cast light onto the glass fixture, sending rainbow prisms across the floor. A big, round table sat in the center of the entrance, holding the largest vase I'd ever seen and a tall arrangement of blown-glass flowers. Pieces of modern art lined the walls. To my left, an open door led the way to what appeared to be an office. It was there that Ezra led me, gesturing toward one of the chairs facing the massive desk.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, rolling behind the desk. "Would you like me to send for something to eat or drink?"

Having eaten my breakfast with a bottle of water in the car, I declined. Besides, I was too nervous to eat in front of someone.

"No, thank you," I said with a shake of my head.

Folding his hands in front of himself, he stared at me with eyes that seemed far too astute. I felt as if he were figuring out all my secrets just by looking at me.

"I'll be interviewing you for the position," he said. "As Mr. Baldwin's assistant, I spend most of my time here, seeing to his affairs. I will be the one to decide whether or not to hire you, to pay you weekly if you do get the job, and to apprise you of the rules of the house. Most of the time, you'll deal with me first and foremost, as the Baldwins are both very busy people."

I nodded, not sure if I were disappointed or relieved. I'd never met the Baldwins, but if they were as intimidating as the home they lived in, maybe it was for the best. Ezra was, at least, approachable.

"Okay," I replied, for lack of anything else to say.

Smiling, he showcased two rows of perfect teeth. "Relax, Bellamy. Tell me about yourself. Your name is McGuire, so I assume your family owns the local bookstore?"

I nodded. "Yes, my parents bought the store years ago, and my dad still runs it. I'm a junior at Wellhollow Springs High, and... well, that's about it, really. I need a summer job, and this seemed like a good fit."

"Good," he replied. "Have you had any babysitting experience?"

I shrugged. "Some. Before my aunt moved to Atlanta, she lived across the street from us. I watched her kids pretty often. I've never babysat for more than a few hours, but I think I'm more than able to handle an entire workday."

"Thank you for your honesty," Ezra said. "If you are confident in your abilities to handle the job, then so am I. The children are not difficult to manage, so I think you'll get along well with them."

A silence passed between us for a moment, and then he spoke again.

"So... a junior in high school. You'll be graduating next year, then. Do you have any plans for after graduation? College, perhaps?"

"I hope so," I hedged, not wanting to let on my fears that going off to school might be out of the question.

"What will you study?" he prodded.

"I haven't decided yet," I told him. "English, maybe. Or library science."

"A book lover," he said with another smile. "You'll like it here, I think. The Baldwins have an impressive library and would have no problem with you making use of it while you're here."

I lifted my eyebrows. "While I'm... you mean I'm hired? Just like that?"

Ezra laughed. "The job is yours if you can be here Monday through Friday from eight in the morning until about five or six pm. There might be a few nights we'd need you to stay later, as the Baldwins often attend business dinners and events that require them to be out late. Of course, you'll be well compensated for such circumstances."

Dad wasn't going to be happy about those late nights, but I'd convince him to go along with it. This was only for the summer, and we needed the money.

"I can definitely do that," I responded. "Thank you for the opportunity."

"If you'd like, I can take you on a tour of the house and introduce you to the children. You can start Monday morning."

Coming to my feet, I watched him round the desk once more, his chair gliding out into the foyer again. I trailed him further into the house, following him on a tour to a sprawling great room housing plush, oversized furniture and a massive, flat-screen television. The room opened up into a gourmet kitchen with pristine white cabinets and grey granite countertops. Stainless-steel appliances added to the starkness of the room, which was broken up only by touches of pale blue here and there.

"This is Hilda," he said, indicating the tall, slender blonde woman chopping vegetables at the large island. "She's the cook, who will prepare all the meals for the children. It'll be her duty to ensure they receive breakfast, lunch, and snacks while you are here, and, of course, you are welcome to help yourself when you're hungry."

Hilda gave me a polite smile, but then went back to her work. We continued our tour to the backyard, where a swing set and trampoline sat, along with a variety of kids' toys.

"The kids spend a lot of time outdoors," Ezra said. "They are both good swimmers, so if they ask to go to the pool, you can allow them... but only if you determine they should. The children are privileged, but they aren't spoiled. Don't be afraid to punish them when they misbehave."

That came as a relief. I had been concerned for a moment about the prospect of being forced to spend my days with two spoiled brats.

"The keys to the pool area are in my office, and all you need to do is ask when you want to take them out there," he continued, guiding me back into the house. He showed me the library, which was almost as large as my entire house. Wall to wall books climbed up so high that ladders would be needed to reach the top, causing my jaw to drop. A fireplace and more overstuffed furniture made the room inviting.

"I told you it was impressive," Ezra said, obviously amused by my reaction.

"It's so beautiful," I whispered, gazing upward at a skylight, which let in plenty of sun.

I didn't want to leave the library, but had no choice once Ezra seemed ready to move on. We soon reached a wide staircase leading up to the second floor.

"If you will continue up the stairs, I'll meet you on the second floor," he said.

I paused for a moment, wondering how he would get to the second floor. But he seemed to be waiting for me to follow his instructions, so I did as he asked without looking back. Just as I reached the landing, a wooden panel slid away from the wall to my left, revealing Ezra inside what appeared to be a service elevator. He joined me on the landing, then continued the tour, showing me a family room with another television, several electronic game systems, and a closet full of board games.

"The kids will want to spend most of their time here, and inside their playroom, which is here," he said, indicating the open door just off the family room.

The sound of laughter and voices drew us inside, where we found the kids. Two canvases resting on child-sized easels had been splattered with paint, and two kids wearing stained smocks turned to face us when we entered. Both set down their paintbrushes and approached with naked curiosity in their eyes.

"This is Max," Ezra said, indicating the boy. "He's eight years old."

Max Baldwin was tall for his age and a bit lanky, as if he were stretching up faster than he could fill out. He had dirty-blond hair framing his face down to his chin and big green eyes.

"And this is Emma," he continued, referring to the little girl standing beside him. "She's five."

Emma was a little cutie, still holding a bit of chubbiness in her cheeks, with the same green eyes as her brother, and thick, dark brown hair arranged in two neat French braids.

"Guys, this is Bellamy," Ezra told them. "She's just been hired to babysit you over the summer."

"It's nice to meet you," Max said, extending his hand to me with the politeness of a kid whose parents had drilled manners into him.

"Nice to meet you, too," I replied, trying not to smirk at his solemn expression. Crouching to look Emma in the eye, I extended my hand to her. "Hello, sweetheart."

Hanging one finger in her mouth, the little girl eyed me warily. "Are you nice?"

Max nudged his sister in the ribs, and Ezra laughed.

I gave her a smile. "I'm nice as long as there are cookies. Would you happen to have any cookies?"

Gazing at Ezra for a moment, she looked back at me, and then gestured for me to come closer. I leaned in, and she cupped a hand to my ear, pressing her mouth against it.

"There are some in the kitchen, but Hilda doesn't let us have them much. She never lets us have anything sweet."

She stepped back, giving me a wide-eyed look that told me she didn't trust anyone who would withhold cookies.

"I'll see what I can do about that," I told her.

She grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "I like you."

Max seemed a little less sure, but continued looking on in silence.

"We'll let you two get back to your painting," Ezra told them. "You'll see Bellamy again next Monday morning."

With silent nods, the kids went back to their tasks, Emma giving me a little wave. Ezra guided me from the room, leaving the door hanging open.

"Don't let them fool you," he warned. "They aren't always so quiet or well-behaved."

With a laugh, I followed him further down the hall. "Oh, I know all about that. My little cousins would have people thinking they were perfect angels, but turn your back for two seconds and they turned into sneaky little imps."

"I find it encouraging that you're well prepared to handle them," he said.

We returned to the landing where another set of steps stretched up to the third floor, and then back down to the first.

"I believe that's everything," he said, swiveling to face me. "Before you leave, I'll give you a printout of the kids' allergies, likes and dislikes, along with some emergency numbers you'll need when I'm not around... which isn't often. I am almost always in my office, and never too busy to assist you."

"Sounds great," I replied. "Thank you so much for giving me the job. I really wasn't expecting to be hired on the spot."

"To tell you the truth, Bellamy, we were starting to get desperate," he said. "I'm certain you know how people gossip about this house and the family. Most of Wellhollow Springs' residents are afraid to step foot within a hundred yards of this place."

Forcing a smile, I felt ashamed for the path of my thoughts the night before. Ezra seemed nice, and the kids were cute and sweet. The house was a bit intimidating, but was still a home where a family lived. I breathed a sigh of relief to realize it wasn't as scary as I'd thought it would be.

"Oh, one last thing," Ezra added. "The Baldwins want you to feel comfortable here. Use the library, the pool... help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Enjoy being here with the kids. They only have one request, and it's a simple one. Please refrain from going up to the third floor of the house. You may accompany the children anywhere else, but the third floor is off limits. Is that understood?"

His question gave me pause as I glanced toward the staircase stretching up to the third floor.

_Tate Baldwin._

I hadn't thought about him since arriving, but it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't been introduced to him. If the third floor was where he lived, then it seemed unlikely I ever would. Apparently, there was some truth to the rumors.

"Bellamy?"

Flinching, I realized I had been caught woolgathering. "Yes," I said quickly. "No problem... I'll stay away from the third floor."

He watched me in solemn silence for a moment, and then nodded as if coming to a decision. "Good. I think you'll do well here. Meet me back downstairs, please."

Leaving me on the landing, he began rolling back toward the service elevator. With one last glance back at the stairs, I paused, a foot poised on the step leading down. Frowning, I noticed a trail of what appeared to be rose petals on the stairs. Up and up they went, disappearing over the top stair—strewn about as if someone had dropped them as they ascended.

"Hey, Ezra?" I called out.

He paused within the elevator. "Yes?"

I pointed up and wrinkled my brow. "What's with the rose petals?"

He frowned and followed my gaze up the stairs. Looking back at me, he raised one eyebrow.

"What rose petals?"

* * *

"So, how was the interview?" Dad asked that night as we drove home from the bookstore.

I'd driven the car back there and helped him finish out the day. After closing, we'd made a quick stop by Glassman's Deli to pick up dinner. We could barely afford to eat out, but Dad was a lousy cook, and letting me make meals every night made him feel guilty. Apparently, feeding him was another one of those things that got in the way of what remained of my childhood.

"They offered me the job," I replied, reaching down in the takeout bag to snag a cherry tomato out of the container holding my salad. "Or, I should say, Ezra Wu offered me the job. He's Mr. Baldwin's assistant, and I have a feeling I'll be dealing with him more than the actual parents."

"Must be nice," he mumbled, chuckling under his breath. "What was the house like? Did you take pictures?"

I laughed. "That would have been tacky."

Shrugging one shoulder, he nodded. "You're right. Mr. Wu won't be around all day Monday, will he? Just a few shots of the inside."

"Dad," I exclaimed, my shoulders shaking as I tried to hold in a laugh. "The house is beautiful inside... a bit cold, though. Like it was designed for show instead of for a family to live in."

"Give me worn-out furniture and stained rugs over shiny floors and ugly modern art any day," he said.

"Exactly," I agreed. "But Mr. Wu was nice, and the kids seem great. There's a cook, so I won't have to worry about feeding them. Should be a pretty easy gig."

Slowing and then halting at a stop sign, he turned to glance at me. "But?"

I sighed. "How do you always manage to do that?"

He gave me his most innocent expression. "What? Figure out when you aren't telling me the whole story? I learned a thing or two from your mother. Spill it."

Turning to glance out the window, I watched our neighborhood come into view, the neat rows of houses blurring by. "What do you know about Tate Baldwin?"

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reached up and ran a hand over his hair. "Not much. No one really talks about him anymore, but a few years ago, he was being seduced by a lot of top schools—football could have opened a lot of doors for him."

"Yeah, I remember," I told him. "I was only a freshman the year he disappeared, but I do remember seeing him around school. What happened to him?"

"He got sick, I think," Dad replied as he turned down our street. "There was talk about cancer or some kind of terminal disease. Whatever the case, his parents shut him away in that house and no one has seen him since."

He grew silent as he pulled into our driveway. Throwing the car in park, he turned to face me again. "You didn't happen to meet him today, did you?"

I shook my head. "No, and I doubt I will. That was the only thing about the house that was strange. Mr. Wu said I could go anywhere else in the house, but I couldn't go up the staircase to the third floor. It seemed obvious to me that they're hiding him up there."

Taking the deli bags from me, he left the car. I followed, trailing him up to the front door, and then moving past him to unlock it.

"If you're going to work for the Baldwins, it's best you obey their wishes," he said while we spread our dinner containers out on the table. "There are a lot of rumors about Tate, but you can't always believe everything you hear. You're there to watch their children, not go snooping around in their business."

Given the things people said about my father behind his back, I knew he was right. Still, I couldn't help but think about those rose petals trailing up that staircase, and the bizarre rule concerning the third floor. If Tate didn't want to be seen, I could understand his bedroom being off limits. An entire floor in a four-story mansion seemed a bit extreme.

"You're right," I said out loud. "I'm sure I'll be too busy with the kids to even think about it."

# Chapter Three

The final week of my junior year sped by in a blur of final exams that gave me a splitting headache at the end of each day. By Friday, I was glad it had ended, looking forward to a break from the whispers, stares, and corny jokes about my dad. I left Wellhollow Springs High behind without looking back, done with it until August. The weekend following my last day was pretty uneventful—with me delving into a couple of books, while Dad worked on some appliances he'd been hired to fix. It made me happy to see that his ad had begun to pay off. It gave me hope that appliance repair might take his mind off ghosts and their causes of death.

On my first day of work for the Baldwins, I arrived at eight o'clock sharp. Ezra was there to greet me, waiting at the entrance.

"Good morning, Bellamy," he said with a warm smile. "You're right on time. The children are in the kitchen eating breakfast, and you'll find that's usually where they'll be when you arrive in the mornings. I'll leave you to your job, but I wanted to give you this first."

He extended an envelope to me. Opening it, I found a slip of paper inside with four numbers written on it.

"It's the code for the gate," he explained. "So you don't have to buzz me every morning to be let in. Simply put it into the keypad, and the gates will open for you."

Smiling, I folded the slip and put it back in its envelope, then tucked it into the bag slung over my shoulder. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," he replied. "Remember, I'm right here in my office if you need me."

"I think we'll be fine," I assured him.

With a nod, Ezra drove his chair past me, disappearing into his open office door. Continuing on to the kitchen, I found the kids seated at the table with plates of scrambled eggs and toast in front of them.

"Good morning, Miss Bellamy," Hilda said from the other side of the kitchen where she stood pouring a cup of coffee. "Would you like a cup?"

Despite offering me the coffee, she didn't look happy about it. She couldn't be older than forty-five or so, but her face had deep lines, as if she frowned a lot and had lived a hard life. At the moment, she looked like the last thing she wanted was to pour me a cup of coffee.

I forced a smile and shook my head, even though the coffee smelled great. "No, thank you. I'm certain you've had a busy morning. I'll clean up in here if you want a break."

Hilda scowled at me, catching and holding my gaze as if trying to figure out if I was telling the world's most un-funny joke.

"I'll handle it," she snapped, dismissing me with a swivel of her head. "Lunch is at noon."

Wincing, I turned my attention back to the kids—who were the reason I was here anyway. "Hey, guys. What do you want to do today?"

"Dolls!" Emma declared, bouncing up and down in her seat, mouth full of scrambled egg. "Do you like dolls, Bellamy?"

I hadn't played with a doll since I was five and had learned to read, but I nodded anyway. "I _love_ dolls. What about you, Max? Anything you'd like to do today?"

Glancing at me with a sullen expression, he shrugged. "Whatever," he mumbled before lowering his head back over his plate.

Frowning, I studied him closely. The polite little boy I'd met last week seemed to still be there. Thinking back over our first encounter, I realized he hadn't spoken much.

"Max, I know we didn't get much time to know each other last week," I ventured. "But I'm going to be here all summer, so maybe it would be good if we could try to be friends. Having a babysitter can suck, but I'll try to be a good one."

He continued eating, head lowered, ignoring me completely. I tried not to feel annoyed with the kid. He didn't really know me, and I had no idea who might have babysat them before me. Maybe he'd had a bad experience. It was up to me to prove myself.

"Max," Emma hissed, trying to whisper and failing. "Remember what Mommy said about manners."

With a sigh, Max finally looked up at me. "I would like to read today, if that's all right with you."

Noticing the book settled in his lap, I smiled. "What are you reading?"

" _The Neverending Story_ ," he replied. "It was on the summer reading list my teacher gave me."

"That's one of my favorite books," I told him, which was true.

He creased his brow, giving me a wary glance. "It is?"

I nodded. "Oh, yeah. I've read it at least ten times. Let me know how you enjoy it when you're done."

Nodding silently, he went back to his breakfast. Across from him, Emma continued shoveling eggs into her mouth and chattering excitedly, telling me about all the different kinds of dolls she owned. After the kids finished eating and cleared their plates from the table, we made our way upstairs to the playroom. Max curled up on a beanbag chair on one side of the room with his book, while Emma took my hand and dragged me toward a massive dollhouse that stood almost as tall as I did. Opening a nearby trunk, she revealed a plethora of dolls, as well as more clothes, shoes, and accessories than I'd ever owned in my life.

"This is Tiffany," Emma declared, showing me a doll with dark brown hair wearing a lab coat over her clothes. "I like her the best because she looks like me."

"She's very pretty," I said. "Just like you."

Frowning down into her trunk, Emma began rifling around again. "I'm sorry... I don't have any dolls that look like you."

Glancing down at the array of straight haired, mostly blonde dolls, I shrugged. "That's okay. I like... this one!"

Picking up one of the blonde ones wearing an evening gown and tiara, I held her up. "Oh, no, Dr. Tiffany! I sprained my ankle trying to walk in my seven-inch heels and ten-pound red carpet gown. Help!"

Emma giggled, and then Tiffany leapt into action, using a variety of doctor accessories to treat my doll's sprain. We played that way for hours until lunch, with Max content to sit in his corner and read.

As we sat in the kitchen eating, I glanced over and noticed that he'd gotten almost halfway through the book already.

"Wow, you read fast," I said, trying my hardest to find an excuse for drawing him into conversation.

Following my glance to the book, he shrugged.

"Do you like the story?" I prodded.

He shrugged again. "It's okay. Bastian's kind of an idiot."

I laughed, glad to get something out of him. "Yeah, he's a wimp in the beginning, but he comes around."

The rest of the day passed by quickly, with the kids laying down for an hour nap, then convincing me to let them watch TV for a bit. No one had told me any restrictions on their television watching, so I allowed it, pulling out a book of my own to get some reading in while they indulged in cartoons. Hilda brought them a snack a few hours after lunch, and before I knew it, my time was up.

If my first day were any indication, this job was going to be as much of a breeze as I'd first thought. I hadn't even thought about the third floor or rose petals all day. Now, if only I could get Max to stop giving me the cold shoulder.

* * *

By day three, Max had warmed up to me a bit. When I entered the kitchen to find them eating waffles, he actually said 'hello'. When I asked them what they wanted to do for the day, Emma hardly got a chance to open her mouth before Max spoke up.

"How about a game of hide-and-seek?" he suggested.

We'd spent most of the first two days in their playroom—which was massive and filled with toys, books, and art supplies—but it could be a nice change of pace. In a house their size, the game should be even more interesting.

"Sounds like fun," I replied. "Let's do it."

The first couple of rounds, we played outside, with the large backyard offering plenty of hiding places. On the third round, it was my turn to count, so I leaned against a big storage shed, closed my eyes, and counted to ten as slowly as I could. When I opened my eyes, I spotted Emma almost instantly, crouching beneath the porch swing. Still, I took my time, making a big deal out of looking for her, even checking beneath a potted plant, before pretending to be surprised to find her beneath the swing.

"Okay, now I have to find Max," I told her after helping her to her feet.

Emma followed me around the backyard while I searched, even looking up a few trees. After some time, I realized the sliding door leading back into the kitchen stood open. Going back in the house, I swept the living room and kitchen, then three bathrooms, and even Ezra's office.

"Everything okay?" Ezra asked, glancing up from his computer.

"Um..." I murmured sheepishly. "Just a game of hide-and-seek. Max wouldn't happen to be in here, would he?"

He raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of the game if I told you?"

I laughed, relieved he didn't think of me as an idiot for intruding while he worked. "True."

As I backed away, he called out, "I might have heard little footsteps heading upstairs."

"Thanks!" I called over my shoulder, already on my way there.

Emma trailed me, covering her mouth to stifle her giggles. "Max is a good hider."

"Yes, he is," I agreed.

We checked the playroom, upstairs den, and a few more bathrooms without success. Annoyance struck me as I huffed, trotting from one side of the second floor to the other, where the kids' bedrooms were located. I checked Max's first, finding it empty, and then Emma's.

"Max!" I cried out, going back out into the hallway. "I give up. You can come out now!"

Silence.

Scowling, I began opening closet doors and even glancing overhead to make sure there weren't secret passages or attic doors in the ceiling. In a house that was practically a castle, I had to rule it out.

Emma grew bored following me around and settled herself in the den with the television. Breaking into a run, I rechecked every place I'd looked on the second floor, my heart now pounding like a drum.

"Max! Come on, this isn't funny anymore!"

No response. My throat constricted at the thought of something terrible happening to him.

"Oh my God," I muttered under my breath as I retraced my steps back down to the first floor. "I am so fired... I lost a kid and it hasn't even been a week yet."

When yet another sweep of the first floor turned up nothing, I dashed back up the stairs.

"No, that's it," I told myself. "They're simply going to kill you."

"Help!"

The thin, childish voice sounded like it belonged to Max, but it also seemed to be coming from the other side of the house.

"Max?" I called out, pausing on the landing of the second floor and turning in circles. "Where are you?"

"Up here!" he called out. "I'm hurt... please, help!"

I hesitated for only a second. He'd said 'up here' which clearly meant the third floor. Ezra had expressly forbidden me to go up there, and so far, I'd had no reason to. But the kid I was supposed to be taking care of might be hurt, and there didn't seem to be anyone else around who could help. They couldn't blame me if the boy was injured, right?

Taking the steps two at a time, I dashed up to the third floor, glancing left and right at hallways that seemed to stretch in either direction forever.

"Max?" I called again.

"Bellamy?" he called out, his voice coming from the right. "I'm here! Help me!"

Turning and sprinting down the hall, I noticed that a massive window at the end had been shrouded by a heavy drape, casting the hall into darkness. As I neared the end and noticed that it turned to the left, I almost collided with a dark shadow jumping out at me.

"Gotcha!" Max cried, doubling over with laughter while I tried to recover from the heart attack he'd almost induced.

"Max," I growled. "That wasn't funny. You scared the crap out of me."

Rolling his eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, please. Stop pretending like you actually care about Emma and me."

Inclining my head, I studied his face in the darkened hallway. For an eight-year-old, he sure seemed really surly. His face was shuttered and expressionless, as if he felt no remorse over what he'd done.

"Of course I care," I told him. "But what you did wasn't cool. You know I'm not supposed to be up here—"

"But you want to be," he spat. "Well, go ahead. Get a good look. You all come here to look at him... there he is!"

Turning to glance in the direction he pointed, I expected to find a person behind me. Instead, I came face to face with a massive portrait in a gilded frame. My breath caught in my lungs, and I found myself locked in the forest-green gaze of Tate Baldwin.

He and I had been two years apart in school, with him being a junior by the time I entered Wellhollow Springs High as a freshman. I'd seen him a lot from a distance, but had never spoken to him. Why would I? He had been one of the popular kids, and even before my dad had been dubbed the town lunatic, I wouldn't have been in the same circles. This was my first time getting a full-on view of his face, which was, to say the least, downright pretty.

He had classic features, with a straight nose and full lips that appeared almost pouty. A square jaw and strong chin seemed chiseled from stone, and dark brown brows hooded vibrant eyes the color of leaves. A head of deep brown waves had been slicked and combed back from his face, but it seemed the texture couldn't be tamed—rogue waves rippled along his head, a match for the dark eyebrows. He wore a jacket and tie, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle to be found in the fabric. His skin wasn't as fair as his siblings, having an olive tone that made his eyes stand out even more.

Despite knowing I needed to get the hell off the third floor, I couldn't seem to make myself move—frozen in Tate's compelling stare. I took a step closer, inclining my head as I continued to study the portrait. A splotch of red caught my gaze, and I glanced down to find a rose petal at my feet. I choked on a gasp, bending down to retrieve it.

I couldn't have been seeing things this time... I could _feel_ the velvet texture of the petal between my fingers.

"Looking for this?"

I shot to my feet at the sound of Ezra's voice—low and disapproving. Turning to face him, I could do nothing but stand and wait while he drove his wheelchair toward me down the hall, a firm hand wrapped around Max's arm. The boy trotted to keep up with the motorized chair, looking appropriately ashamed of himself. Apparently, while I stood gawking at Tate's portrait like a fish, the little jerk had tried to escape.

"Ezra," I choked out, feeling as if I was going to be sick. "I'm so sorry... I followed him up here—"

"Don't worry, Bellamy," he replied. "I know a childish prank when I see one."

Max turned red when Ezra pierced him with a chastising glare.

"It won't happen again," I assured him, tucking the rose petal into the pocket of my jeans.

"I'm certain it won't," Ezra replied. "Will it, Max?"

"No, sir," the boy answered without missing a beat.

"Do you have something to say to Bellamy?" Ezra prodded.

"Sorry," he muttered, barely lifting his gaze to meet mine.

I nodded. "It's okay."

"Now," Ezra said, releasing Max's arm. "I believe Hilda should be serving lunch any minute now. Perhaps you two should go back downstairs."

He didn't have to tell me twice. Gesturing for Max to precede me, I took off for the stairs, putting Tate's portrait behind me. Once alone on the second floor, I grabbed Max's shoulder to halt him.

"Dude, what was that all about?" I demanded. "You could have gotten me fired. I know you might not like having a babysitter, but—"

"What difference does it make?" he snapped. "You won't last... no one ever does. Stop acting like you're here for us. We know you all come here for one reason—to get a closer look at Tate. I was just giving you what you wanted, so you could get it over with and leave."

I wrinkled my brow and stared down at Max, but he wouldn't even look at me. He clenched his teeth, staring at the wall and shaking as if he were angry.

"I don't know what other people were up to when they came here," I said. "But I just wanted a summer job. I like you guys, and I care about what happens to you. Whatever is going on with your brother is none of my business. Okay?"

A long silence passed between us before Max gave me a look that clearly said he didn't believe me.

"Whatever," he snapped. "Can we eat now?"

Sighing, I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

We continued on to the kitchen in silence, stopping off at the den to pry Emma away from the TV. As Ezra had predicted, Hilda was laying lunch out on the table when we arrived. She left us alone with our food, took a plate into Ezra's office, and then disappeared for her break.

I stared down at the turkey and cheese wrap she'd made, unable to take a single bite. The kids ate in sullen silence, with Emma staring silently at me, then her brother, probably wondering what the heck was going on.

The rest of our afternoon passed like this, with no one talking much. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from feeling as if I walked on eggshells. I had never been more grateful than when Ezra informed me that I could go home. After shoving my book into my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I practically ran for the exit. Today was Friday, so I hoped having the weekend off would give Max and me some much-needed space to move past what had happened. Monday would begin a new week, and I could treat it like a fresh start.

On my way to the car, I suddenly remembered the rose petal in my pocket. Now outside with sunlight beaming down on me, I wanted to inspect it again. Pausing beside the car door, I retrieved it, holding it up to the light between my thumb and forefinger.

Sure enough, a large, soft, ruby-red rose petal proved me right by not transforming into air once I got it out of the house.

This house and family just got weirder by the day. I could see why it had been so hard to find and keep a babysitter. Between the mystery of the third floor, Max's attitude, and the disappearing rose petals—which I had not seen again after the day of my interview—a lot of people probably had a hard time accepting so much oddness.

Lucky for the Baldwins, I practically had a Ph.D. in oddity.

After fishing my keys from the depths of my bag, I opened the car and threw my stuff onto the passenger seat. Just before sliding into the driver's seat, I glanced back up at the house.

Movement caught my eye, and I glanced up to find that the drapes covering one of the third-floor windows had been pulled back. My mouth went dry when I zeroed in on the window to find the silhouette of a person standing there.

Were they _watching_ me?

The sensation of eyes following me left goose bumps along my arms, despite the summer heat. I shivered, unable to tear my gaze away from the shadow, just as I had been trapped by that painting.

_Tate_.

It was ridiculous to assume it was him when the house was filled with staff—Hilda, three maids who came every other day to clean, landscapers, and a group of contractors who were doing some bathroom renovations throughout the house.

Yet, I knew it was him, just like I knew Max hadn't been completely wrong about me.

I was dying to know more about Tate Baldwin, and I could see trouble coming from a mile away. Something in me was actually excited for whatever might happen, anticipating that trouble like the cat that was killed by curiosity.

Tearing my gaze away from the window, I got in the car and started it, immediately cranking the air conditioner all the way up. As I threw the car into drive, I glanced back up at the window, finding that the shadow had disappeared, and the drapes covered the window once again.

Shaking my head, I chastised myself for being so foolish. Tate Baldwin was the last thing I should have been worried about. Ignoring the rose petal now lying on the floor of the car, I drove away, putting Baldwin House, and its hidden son, out of my mind.

# Chapter Four

On Monday, when I returned to work, Ezra called me into his office to present me with my first week's pay. After putting a crisp, white envelope in my hand, he asked me to have a seat for a moment. My pulse raced as it occurred to me that I was going to be fired for the little incident on Friday. Sweat dampened my palms, saturating the envelope. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I lowered myself into a chair.

"Yes, sir?" I managed, fighting to keep my tone even.

"Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin have a charity event to attend this Friday evening," he said, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands on the desk. "It's taking place about an hour outside of town, so they'll be late coming home. If you could stay until about midnight or so, we'll double your pay rate for the extra hours."

I was so shocked about not being fired that it took me a moment to respond. First, my heart rate had to slow, and I needed to resume a normal breathing pace.

Raising his eyebrows, he studied me with a frown. "Are you all right, Bellamy?"

Clearing my throat, I nodded. "Yes, sorry. I'll have to talk to my dad about it, but I'm sure it won't be a problem."

With a small smile, he nodded. "Good. That's all I needed. You and the kids have a good day."

He returned to the mountain of paperwork on his desk, effectively dismissing me. I left the office with a wide grin on my face, relieved he seemed willing to overlook my little slip-up. In fact, he hadn't even told the Baldwins about it. If he had, I doubted they'd trust me in their home late at night with their children.

I entered the kitchen to find the kids seated at the table, eating bowls of oatmeal. Today, I accepted Hilda's offer for a cup of coffee, since it seemed she was going to keep that sour expression on her face whether I did or not. Stirring lots of cream into my mug, I joined Max and Emma at the table, taking the seat between them. It looked like Max was on the last few pages of _The Neverending Story_ , barely glancing up to acknowledge me when I slid into the chair beside him. On my right, Emma sat eating with one hand and clutching a doll with the other.

"Look!" she cried, mouth full of oatmeal as she thrust the doll in my face. "I got a new doll. Now I have one that looks like you!"

Accepting the doll, I smiled. She had dark skin and a head full of springy, black curls. She wore a pair of fashionably torn blue jeans and a crop top that read GEEK across the front. There was even a pair of square-framed glasses similar to mine.

"She's awesome," I told her, giving one of the curls a little tug.

"I named her after you," Emma replied before shoveling more oatmeal into her mouth.

"Does that mean I can be her when we play today?"

Scowling at me, she snatched the doll from my hand and held it against her chest. "No, I wanna be Bellamy!"

Laughing, I held my hands up in surrender. "You got it," I replied.

I attempted to engage Max in conversation, but, as usual, he answered in monosyllables and gave me scathing looks that might have killed me if he had laser vision.

The week passed much like the previous one had, with me spending more time with Emma as Max made it clear all he needed from me was an escort to mealtimes. He scorned every attempt I made at trying to be friendly, so we went back to treating each other with icy civility.

By Friday, we seemed to have firmly established that our relationship wasn't going to change. That afternoon, instead of going home, I hung around, prepared for the extra hours Ezra had asked me to work. I'd been outside with the kids playing on the trampoline when the Baldwins returned home from work, but I found Ezra waiting in the kitchen for us once we returned inside for a water break.

"Bellamy, Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin are leaving for the evening, so I will be as well," he said. "But first, they'd like to meet you."

I cringed at the thought of meeting my employers looking the way I did at present—hair piled into a messy, puffy ponytail on top of my head, glasses askew from jumping, a crop top displaying about two inches of stomach, jeans ripped down one leg, and tatty Converse. It hadn't dawned on me when I got dressed that morning that the Baldwins might take exception to their babysitter wearing a belly-baring shirt around their kids. But considering the Georgia humidity, I hoped they wouldn't hold it against me. God, I was a hot mess.

Ezra smiled as if sensing my distress. "Don't worry. They'll love you."

Nodding, I gave my top a tug until it almost met the waistband of my jeans. Smoothing the edges of my hair, I followed Ezra to the foyer with the kids on my heels.

Waiting for us near the front door stood the Baldwins, elegant in formal evening attire. Mr. Baldwin was helping his wife clasp a bracelet that glimmered in the light of the sun from the windows, casting prisms to the floor to mingle with those created by the chandelier.

She spotted us first, glancing up with a wide smile. "Well, hello there. I'm Faith. It's nice to finally meet you."

Bracelet now clasped, Faith approached me and extended her hand. She wore a demure black gown, her blonde hair styled in a French twist with a few strands loose at her forehead and temple. Rubies matching the bracelet sparkled in her earlobes.

"Hi, I'm Bellamy," I replied, hoping I didn't look as nervous as I felt. "It's great to meet you, too."

Douglas Baldwin was far more reserved when he came forward to greet me, his mouth moving as if to smile when he clasped my hand. Unfortunately, it came across as more of a grimace.

"Miss McGuire," he said, his voice clipped. "Ezra has been singing your praises all week."

"I meant every word," Ezra added, giving me an encouraging smile. "Bellamy's been great."

"So it would seem," Faith said with a laugh. "Emma's already so attached she wouldn't leave me alone until we found a doll that looks just like you."

Emma beamed from beside me, one hand in mine, the other wrapped around her doll. Max simply stood by, his expression passive, gaze lowered to the floor.

"We need to get going," Douglas said, placing a hand at the small of his wife's back.

"Yes, we do," she replied, picking up a small, black clutch from the nearby table. "Bellamy, we should be home no later than midnight. Make yourself at home, and thanks for staying so late."

"No problem," I said.

They paused to say good-bye to the kids—Faith hugging and kissing them both, and Douglas mumbling his good-byes. Then, they were leaving, him holding the door open to allow her to go out before him.

The sun glared through the open door as they descended the front steps to their waiting car and driver. Ezra closed the door behind them, and then turned to face us.

"I'll be leaving shortly, as well. I took the liberty of ordering a few pizzas for dinner, since Hilda gets Friday evenings off. They should be here shortly, and are already paid for. Was your father okay with you being here so late?"

I nodded. "He was fine with it as long as he could drop me off and pick me up. I don't think he wants me coming and going alone so late."

"I agree, and I'm glad he'll be picking you up. You three enjoy your night." Giving Max a stern glance, he raised his eyebrows. "Behave yourselves."

"Yes, sir," Emma replied.

"Okay," Max mumbled.

Ezra returned to his office, and as the kids and I made our way back to the kitchen, I heard the low whir of his chair, then the opening and closing of a door, before silence fell over the house. Turning to the kids, I shoved my hands into my back pockets. It felt odd being here so late; usually by now, I would be on my way home.

"So... what do you guys want to do while we wait for the pizza?"

"TV," Max murmured before abruptly turning to make his way to the living room, leaving me alone with Emma.

"Okay," I muttered, watching him go.

He stomped over to the couch and threw himself on it, slouching as he took up the remote. Turning back to Emma, I forced a smile.

"Looks like it's just you and me. Should we see what we can do about some cookies?"

Her eyes widened and she smiled, bouncing up and down. "Yes, cookies!"

"Great, help me look for ingredients."

Luckily, we located a tub of cookie dough in the fridge, freshly sealed. Ignoring the gut instinct telling me Hilda was going to be annoyed to find it open in the morning, I preheated the oven and let Emma help me spoon the dough onto a cookie sheet. Ezra _had_ said I could help myself to anything in the fridge. There had been no addendum about cookies.

By the time the pizza arrived, we had one sheet of cookies done, with another in the oven. We pigged out on pizza, cookies, and the soda we found hidden in the vegetable crisper of the fridge. Hilda wasn't as good at hiding the sweets as she'd thought. After dinner, the kids and I settled into the upstairs den for a movie marathon. Halfway through the first movie, Emma fell asleep with her head in my lap. It took Max a little longer—nodding off toward the end of the second.

As the end credits played in the background, I reached over and gave him a little shake to rouse him. Urging him to go get ready for bed, I then stood and carried Emma toward her bedroom. She was a tiny little thing, but became a dead weight in her sleep, causing me to struggle to get her into her nightgown and under the covers. Once in her bed, she rolled over, grasped the closest teddy bear—all with her eyes closed—and sank deeper into her pillow. After switching on her night-light, I left her sleeping peacefully, allowing the door to remain cracked open a bit in case she woke up. On my way back to the den, I peeked in on Max and found him still fully clothed, sprawled across his bed. With a soft chuckle, I entered the room just long enough to pry his shoes off, knowing he probably wouldn't appreciate my help with much else. I draped a blanket over him, leaving him alone and retreating back to the den.

After a few minutes of flipping through DVDs, I abandoned the TV, deciding to take Ezra up on his offer of using the library. I only had two hours left before the Baldwins returned home, and I would rather read than watch TV while waiting. This late, it was completely dark outside, turning the large windows into gaping black holes, which gave me glimpses of the shadows from trees and bushes, slivers of moonlight breaking through here and there. I found a light switch that illuminated the stairs, but because the bulbs were created to save energy, the glow was dim and wouldn't brighten for several minutes.

Once back on the first floor, I quickly cleaned up the mess from dinner in the kitchen. Munching on the last cookie, I made my way through the darkened great room, toward the hallway leading deeper into the house. Curiosity struck me as I passed several doors, most of which had been left open. Peering into the rooms, I discovered two more, much-smaller living areas, a laundry room, home gym, and an office space that looked like it might belong to Mrs. Baldwin. Inquisitiveness appeased, I continued to the library.

Alone in the cavernous room, I was able to take my time and really appreciate its beauty. The moon shone through the skylight, so I decided to simply flick on a few lamps instead of disturbing the glow with the bright lights. The rug beneath my feet was plush and thick, making my steps noiseless. Pieces of furniture sat scattered in strategic reading areas, surrounded by small tables holding lamps or other décor. The chairs, couches, and chaise lounges were all mismatched, but richly upholstered and sitting on clawed feet. The walls were paneled wood that looked as if it had been polished just this morning. Along with the scent of book pages, I also detected lemon, which was likely the polish the maids had used.

But the real beauty displayed itself from the shelves. Reaching all the way to the ceiling, mahogany shelves held books bound in leather, hard covers, and paper. A few knickknacks adorned the shelves here and there—pieces of art that looked expensive—but for the most part, books took up every available corner. Walking the perimeter of the room, I held one hand out and simply allowed it to caress the volumes. I glanced at them as I passed, realizing they were sorted by genre, with fiction on the north and east walls, reference and non-fiction on the west and south. Craning my neck, I glanced up to the top, wondering how many there might be. Definitely hundreds... possibly thousands.

On each wall, tall, sliding ladders could be used to reach the top, and rolled from one end to the other if need be. My mouth practically watered, and my head spun at the thought of trying to decide where to begin. Starting on the fiction side, I read the titles until noticing they'd been arranged by author, in alphabetical order.

I was just about to make a selection from among the Stephen King collection, when a sound from the hallway caught my attention. It had been soft, a whisper... yet, it caused me to turn swiftly, darting my gaze to the open door. It remained dark in the hallway, and the sound didn't come again. Shrugging, I turned back to the shelves. The quiet in such a huge house was unnerving, and it rang louder than any other sound I'd ever heard. It was starting to freak me out.

Quickly grabbing a book, I left the room, ready to return to the den and the low hum of the TV playing in the background. The noise would distract me from the creepy stillness that had fallen over the house.

"Relax, girl," I murmured to myself as I turned off the lamps I had lit. "This house is probably the most secure in town."

As I left the room, I thought I heard the whisper again, behind me in the library this time. Turning back, heart thundering loudly in my ears, I found only the moonlit room, the furniture nothing more than shadows in the dark. I closed the door, backing from the room and making my way to the staircase. I made it to the second-floor landing before halting in my tracks. The book fell from my hands when I faltered, one hand coming up over my mouth.

The rose petals were back.

Even in the dark, I could see them—the light of the TV from the den illuminating the path up the stairs. Sprinkled over the steps in a line leading up to the third floor, they taunted me.

_No one in this house can see us but you,_ they seemed to say, their red petals a stark contrast to the dark hardwood.

Lowering my hand from my mouth, I curled it into a fist. I needed to get to the bottom of this rose-petal mystery before I lost my freakin' mind. More than likely, Max was just playing a trick on me. I'd probably follow the petals to find him ready to jump out from behind a potted plant or something.

But, if that were the case, then Ezra must be in on the joke, because he'd looked me right in the eye on the day of my interview and insisted he couldn't see them.

Furrowing my brow, I bent to retrieve the book and trotted back down the stairs. Once in the kitchen, I dropped my book and began rifling through the various drawers. I'd seen Hilda retrieve a tool from one of them, which meant maybe there was a flashlight.

I struck gold on the fourth drawer, picking up a flashlight and sighing with relief to find that the batteries worked. Shining its light in front of me, I made my way back upstairs. I couldn't risk turning lights on and alerting Tate to my presence on the third floor—if he was even up there. The longer I worked in this house, the more convinced I became that his dismembered body must be hidden in the walls.

My palms broke out in a sweat, and I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. Adrenaline had me ready to run if necessary, my heart working overtime to pump blood to my extremities and taking up a rapid cadence against my sternum. I checked in on the kids one more time before going up, halfway hoping one of them would be awake so I didn't have to be alone in this house. No such luck; those kids slept like the dead.

Reaching the third floor, I found more of the petals, leading down the wing to my right—where Max had led me the other day. I slowed my steps and shined my light down the long, dark corridor, finding only darkness coming from beneath the doors. This part of the house faced away from the moon, so the only illumination came from my flashlight.

The petals led all the way down the hall, so I followed them with slow steps, now far less certain than I had been before. Coming up here had been a bad idea. But I couldn't turn away now. I had already gone past the point of no return. Pointing the flashlight forward, I glanced at the end of the hallway, just in time to see a flash of something white disappear around the corner. It looked like the hem of a nightgown.

Remembering I had dressed Emma in one for bed, I frowned. Was there a back staircase or something that had allowed her to beat me up here?

Furrowing my brow, I called out, my voice a low, hissing whisper. "Emma!"

No response, but I could swear I heard that murmur again, too soft to understand, but loud enough that I couldn't ignore it anymore. I picked up the pace, now jogging down the long hall.

" _Emma_ ," I called, a bit louder this time. "Emma, if that's you, come back here."

I reached the end of the hall and turned left, prepared to find her hiding, stifling a giggle behind her hand.

Instead, I found a woman. I stumbled, coming up short to avoid crashing into her, and lost my footing. The fall knocked the wind from me in a loud rush, and the impact rattled me from my hips up into my back. The flashlight rolled away from me and slammed against the wall, shutting off—yet, I could still see. There seemed to be light emanating from this woman, the stark white of her gown enhancing it even more. Bracing myself on my hands, I stared at her and gasped, too shocked to move or speak.

She stared down at me with large, unblinking eyes, long tendrils of black hair floating around her face like a cloud. There were no whites in her gaze, only black irises filling in her entire eye that sent a chill down my spine. Her white face was gaunt, causing the bones of her cheeks and jaw to jut prominently. Lips tinted blue opened and began to move as if she tried to speak—but the only sound that came out was the low whisper I'd heard before. It faded as quickly as it had come, dying as if choked off by the air.

A dark bruise circling her throat caught my eye—the only thing marring her whiteness aside from the blue lips. Black veins stretched away from the ring around her throat, creeping up toward her chin.

Trembling, I struggled to my feet, backpedaling from her. I came up against the wall, the path of escape laying to my left. The woman started toward me, her steps slow and labored, as if she had been sapped of strength. She cocked her head to the side, and a loud crack filled the hallway. The sound came every time she moved, her head ticking and contorting in different directions, as if she were trying to shake water out of her ears. Edging away, I moved swiftly down the hall, terrified to turn my back on her as she advanced. Rose petals swirled beneath my feet, disturbed by my movements. Their perfumed scent tickled my nostrils, so strong I thought it might make me hurl.

The whisper came again, this time from the left. I turned my head and found another woman at the other end of the hall, blocking the staircase. A scream burned in my throat, but I couldn't let it go, my breath catching and holding in my lungs for so long they began to burn. This woman was like a copy of the first, but without the dark smudge around her throat. She had a shoulder that hung at a weird angle, as if it had been dislocated. Dark stains marred the side of her neck, and when she cocked her head, ticking noisily like her twin, I noticed what looked like a large shard of glass protruding from the skin. She started toward me, moving with a limp and dragging one foot, which I noticed was twisted almost completely around.

I paused, glancing back and forth at the two _things_ ambling toward me in the dark. There was nowhere to go with them blocking both avenues of escape. My breath began coming in short pants that sounded a lot like sobs, and tears splashed my face.

I was going to die. These two things twitching and ambling toward me would rip me to pieces. Cowering, I pressed myself back against the wall and closed my eyes, just as the first woman lunged for me, taking flight and hurtling toward me through the air with another one of her raspy whispers.

Leaning against the wood, I started, opening my eyes when I encountered a doorknob. I twisted it without thinking, falling back into a dark room just as the second woman mimicked the actions of the first, flying toward me down the dark hall. I slammed the door just before either could reach me, leaning against it with all my strength to keep them from coming in behind me.

After a moment of nothing happening, I turned my head and listened.

Not a sound—not even that haunting whisper.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I slumped against the door and lowered my head. Beyond me, a large, dark bedroom stretched, the drapes closed against the light of the moon. Despite the lack of light, I felt safer here. Who knew how I would get back downstairs with the twisted sisters waiting for me out in the hall? If the kids needed me, we were screwed.

The kids!

What if those things went after them?

Bringing a palm to smack against my forehead, I groaned. It had been stupid to come up here after I'd been instructed to stay away, not once but twice. If Ezra wasn't mad before, he was going to be livid now... especially if something happened to Max or Emma. Reaching for the doorknob again, I gave it a slow twist, wincing when it creaked. Peering through the opening, I found the hallway empty—even the rose petals were missing. Sucking in a breath and holding it, I listened for the sound of the whisper. When I was greeted only with silence, I gave another relieved sigh.

Suddenly, a soft breath tickled the back of my neck, sending a tremor down my spine.

"What are you doing up here?" a voice growled.

A man's voice... low, deep, and angry.

With a yelp, I turned to face him, pulling the door closed and falling against it as he advanced on me. From inside the dark hood of a sweatshirt, I could only make out the shadow of a face. A light had been turned on deeper in the room, framing his outline with a soft glow.

I couldn't see his face, but I knew it could only be one person. The answer to his question lay stuck to my tongue, which had become some thick, useless thing taking up space in my mouth.

He reached toward me, and I shrank away—but all he did was brace his hand on the door behind me, bringing himself closer to me. The smell of some kind of aftershave or cologne clogged my senses.

"I asked you a question."

Shivering, I swallowed and tried again to speak. "I... I'm sorry," I whispered. "I'll just go back downstairs now."

He drew his palm back and slammed it against the door so hard it rattled in the frame. His sudden movement and the sound startled a scream out of me, but I quickly covered my mouth to stifle it.

"You want a look at the freak who lives upstairs?" he demanded, backing away from me with a few steps. "Is that it?"

Shaking my head, but still unable to make my feet cooperate so I could run, I twisted the bottom of my shirt with trembling hands.

"N-no... that's not—"

"Look at me!" he bellowed, producing a light from his hand.

His cell phone, I realized. Using the backlight to illuminate his face, he advanced on me and snatched down the hood of his sweatshirt.

"Come on. Get a good, long look, sweetheart," he growled. "It's what you came for, isn't it?"

My throat constricted at the sight of Tate Baldwin's face—normal on one side, as it had been in the portrait, but caved in on the other, as if it had been smashed with a blunt object. Beneath an eye with a heavy lid, his cheekbone caved inward. His jawline had followed suit beneath it, curving in and causing his face to appear disjointed and ill proportioned. My chin trembled, and I felt myself beginning to cry. Why, I couldn't say. Out of fear, maybe. But also, because whatever had happened to him, it looked painful.

"Got anything to say?" he mumbled, clenching his jaw and huffing through widened nostrils like an enraged bull.

I shook my head, but then realized I really should say something after I'd intruded where I didn't belong. "I'm so sorry," I murmured.

"I don't _need_ your pity," he bellowed, tossing the phone aside.

It hit the wall, and the sound of it clattering echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"Get out," he added, advancing on me again, so fast that I dashed back out into the hallway without giving what might lurk out there a second thought. "Get the hell out!"

The sound of something crashing from inside the room resounded, then more breaking glass.

" _Go_ ," he screamed, just before he slammed the door in my face.

With tears blinding me, I turned and ran, sobs shaking my shoulders, wracking me from within. I stumbled on the stairs, but caught myself from falling by gripping the banister. Despite a twinge in my ankle, I kept running until I had reached the front door.

It wasn't until I stumbled out onto the front porch that I remembered my job. The Baldwins still hadn't returned, and two kids slept upstairs, heedless to what had just happened.

Taking a few deep breaths, I swiped at the moisture gathered beneath my eyes. After I had stopped shaking and hiccupping between sobs, I squared my shoulders and forced myself to go back inside. Resolutely, I marched up to the second floor and peeked in on Max and Emma. Both kids were just as I left them, sleeping soundly. Going back to the den, I sat down and put in another movie.

However, after a few minutes, I muted the sound and simply sat staring at the moving picture without truly focusing on anything. I counted the seconds as they became minutes, ticking down the time I had to wait before I could be free of this place.

The moment I heard the sound of the front door opening, I shot to my feet and bolted down the stairs. Faith started when she saw me rushing toward them. I was probably a mess—hair all over the place, eyes red from crying, dry rivulets from long gone tears on my cheeks.

"Bellamy, is everything okay?" she asked.

Douglas gave me a curious glance, the lines in his face becoming more prominent. "Did something happen?"

"The kids are fine," I told them, fighting to keep my voice even. "They're sleeping. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to come back again. You'll need to find another babysitter."

Faith gasped, horror striking her face as I breezed past her for the exit and the freedom beyond it.

"Bellamy, wait," she cried out. "Why? What happened?"

_Two things tried to kill me, and your son is a deformed psychopath!_

Without answering out loud, I broke into a run, making it down the stairs and to the circular driveway where their driver was pulling away to park their car for the night. Pulling into where he'd been parked, my dad sat behind the wheel of our car, looking at me expectantly through the window.

He frowned when I got in and slammed the door, falling back against the seat without a word.

"Everything okay, munchkin?" he asked, putting the car in gear and pulling away slowly. "How was your night?"

"Fine," I lied. "Just tired. I want to go home."

Pausing near the gate leading off the property, he turned to me. I could feel him staring at me, but closed my eyes and prayed he wouldn't keep probing. I didn't want to have to tell him about what happened. If I did that, I was going to have to admit that I had the same problem he did—I was starting to see things that weren't supposed to be real.

_But what if they are real?_

The sudden thought struck fear in the pit of my stomach. It terrified me far more than the notion that I might be losing my mind. It meant that I was going to have to come to grips with a reality in which ghosts existed.

# Chapter Five

The next morning, I lay dozing in bed as late as noon. It had taken me hours to fall asleep after returning home, and even then, I couldn't stay under. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the two white faces, their black eyes staring at me without blinking—I could hear their hoarse, rasping whispers. Then, there was Tate, one eye drooping and unfocused, the other narrowed and pinning me to the wall with a spiteful glare. His screams still rang in my mind, his accusations pricking my conscience. Aside from being scared to death by what I'd seen, I was embarrassed that when given the chance to speak to him, I'd choked and gawked at him like an idiot. It was no wonder he'd come to the conclusion that I'd snooped around his space for a glimpse of his infamous face.

It really hadn't been so bad. I'd certainly never seen anything like it, but it wasn't as if he had been covered in oozing boils or something. If anything, seeing him had only made me more curious.

What had happened to deform half his face, while leaving the other side practically untouched? With all the money the Baldwins had, why hadn't the damage been fixed? Had that been what led him to go into hiding?

Whatever the case, I was never going to discover the truth, because I didn't intend to go back to that house. It wasn't worth my sanity... or possibly even my life. I didn't know what those ghosts—or, whatever they were—wanted from me, but based on the way they'd both flown at me, it couldn't be good.

The more I lay there thinking about it, though, the more curious I became about them. If Baldwin House was haunted, then what my dad had been trying to tell me about ghosts must be true. And if his claim that they seemed to want something turned out to be accurate, what did these women want? I'd never heard of any other Baldwin family members living in that house, but I supposed it was possible. Maybe they were ancestors of Douglas or Faith.

Shaking my head, I sat up in bed and attempted to divert my thoughts elsewhere. None of that mattered because I wasn't going back. Ever.

Just as I'd stood, stretched, and removed the silk scarf protecting my hair from the friction of my pillowcase, my dad knocked on the door.

"Come in," I called, sliding my feet into a pair of slippers.

Poking his head in, he gave me a concerned glance. "Hey, munchkin. Sorry to wake you, but someone is here to see you... says he works for the Baldwins."

I frowned. "It's okay. I was already awake. Would he happen to be in a wheelchair?"

He nodded. "Yes. Are you going to tell me what's going on? You seemed upset when we left their house last night."

I shrugged and forced a smile, not wanting to worry him. "That would be Ezra. It's nothing... I had some issues with Max, but it isn't anything I can't handle. I'm sure he just came to talk to me about it."

Dad's frown deepened, and he stared at me in a way that clearly said he didn't believe me. He knew there was more going on, but seemed content to leave me alone about it for now. It was one thing I always appreciated about him—his ability to give me the space I needed to work through things on my own. He always insisted on letting me be independent, so that I would be prepared to handle things once I was out on my own.

"Okay," he relented. "Store needs to be open in less than an hour, so I'm going to walk over right now. He's waiting on the porch, and there's coffee made if you want to offer him some."

Already rifling through my drawers for something to wear, I called out to him over my shoulder. "Wait for me. I'll come with you as soon as I'm done talking to Ezra."

"No," he argued. "I want you to take the day off. I mean it, Bellamy. You better not bring your butt downtown unless you're there to hang out and shop or something."

I rolled my eyes, retrieving a pair of shorts and T-shirt. "Okay, but only if you let me take care of dinner tonight."

"You got it," he replied, before closing my door and leaving me alone.

I dressed quickly, pulling my hair back and slipping on my glasses before throwing on a pair of flip-flops. Making my way to the kitchen, I found Dad still there, stuffing his lunch into a paper bag. Once he kissed my cheek, he left for the bookstore, reminding me about the coffee.

Glancing through the blinds, I spotted Ezra sitting in his chair beneath a tree in the front yard, near the little table where my mother used to sit and read in the mornings over tea. Quickly pouring two cups, I laced mine with cream and sugar and left the other black. Walking out onto the porch holding both cups by their handles in one hand, I took a deep breath. It had been easy to blow the Baldwins off last night, because I barely knew them. Ezra, I couldn't turn my back on so easily. He'd never been anything but kind to me, and he deserved an explanation for my sudden decision.

He smiled at me as I approached. "Hi, Bellamy."

I wanted to smile back, but found myself feeling too anxious. "Hi. I brought coffee, but didn't know how you liked yours, so it's black. I can go back in for cream and sugar if you want."

Accepting the mug from me, he shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I prefer it black."

Watching him from the corner of my eye, I took a sip from my mug. As he stared off across the yard, he appeared more relaxed than he did at Baldwin House.

"You're wearing sweats," I commented, for lack of anything to say. "And a T-shirt."

He chuckled. "I get weekends off, so I hang up my suits until Monday. I was just on my way downtown to the gym, and I thought I'd stop by."

Raising an eyebrow at him, I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"What?" he quipped. "Dudes in wheelchairs work out."

I lifted my cup to my lips. "Do they also drive five minutes out of their way just to 'stop by' someone's house for coffee?"

Leaning toward me, his face became serious. "They do when they care about the person they're visiting and are concerned."

Sighing, I set the cup aside and braced my elbows against the table. "Ezra—"

"Tate told me what happened," he said, cutting me off.

My mouth fell open as my eyes almost bugged out of my head. "He did?"

Ezra nodded. "I got a call from him this morning, then one from Mrs. Baldwin informing me that you'd quit."

I lowered my eyes, unable to decide how much to tell him about what had happened. "I thought one of the kids had gone up there, so I followed," I said, which wasn't a complete lie. I _had_ thought the person running the halls in a nightgown had been Emma. "I ran into him up there... It was an accident and I regret it ever happened. But he..."

Pausing, I fumbled for more words. I didn't want to speak ill of Tate, even after he'd scared the daylights out of me.

"Bellamy," Ezra said, his voice firm but soft. "I didn't come here to get on your case about going upstairs. I came to offer you Tate and the Baldwins' most sincere apologies."

My eyebrows shot up so far, they almost flew clean off my face. "You what?"

Leaning back in this chair, he braced one arm on the table. "There's something you should know about Tate. The person you encountered last night... that isn't who he really is. He's been sick a long time, and it hasn't been easy for him."

I finally gave in to curiosity and asked the question I'd been holding back since first setting foot inside that house. "What happened to him?"

"Two years ago, Tate developed Parry-Romberg Syndrome," he said. "It's a rare disease that causes the fat and facial tissue beneath the skin to degenerate. In most cases, it only affects one side of the face."

"Is it fatal?" I asked. "Can it be cured?"

Ezra sighed as if uncertain how to answer my questions. After a moment, he took a deep breath, letting out on a long, slow exhale. Then he began again.

"The disease is rare, and Tate's case is even rarer. Parry-Romberg isn't fatal, but it's very painful—causing migraines, seizures, and problems with his eye on the affected side. There are medications and surgeries that can be used to treat the disease, but nothing seems to have worked. He tried the prescribed medications, and they only seemed to make him degenerate faster. At one time, it appeared he had gone into remission, so they tried reconstructive surgery using donor fat grafts. The disease flared up again, and his body rejected the grafts, so they had to be removed. Everything that has gone wrong to make his disorder worse has happened."

I placed a hand over my gaping mouth, my chest feeling as if something held it in a vise. It wasn't pity I felt... it was grief. Nothing could have prepared me for the truth of Tate's secret.

"That's horrible," I whispered, for lack of anything better to say.

He nodded in agreement. "After a year, he stopped trying. He didn't want to be seen in public, so his parents allowed him to be homeschooled. He has a high school diploma, but I fear he'll never use it. Nothing will convince him to resume a normal life or go to college, and because his parents have nothing to give him but money and things to keep him comfortable, they allow him to go on that way—closeted away in his wing of the house, alone."

Remembering the ghosts wandering the halls on the third floor, I began to wonder if there might be more to this than Ezra was telling me. I could understand Tate being shy about his appearance, but in my gut, I knew there must be something else. The boy I'd encountered in that room had been tortured, and it wasn't just migraines causing him pain. Something in me wanted to know exactly what.

"Why are you telling me all this?" I asked.

"Because you seem like a kind person," he replied. "A person who can understand how Tate's sickness has affected this family—those two kids. Max acts tough, but, deep down, he's suffering. His parents have devoted so much time and money to seeking cures for Tate that they've ignored their other children. To escape the air of sickness and despair hanging over that house, they bury themselves in their work and leave those two to fend for themselves. I think you're just what they need, Bellamy."

Ezra seemed to know exactly what to say to pull on my heartstrings, but my very rational mind kept reminding me of what I'd seen. If I went back into that house, would those _things_ come after me again?

"Having a good babysitter isn't going to fix that family," I mumbled.

He shook his head. "No, it's not. But maybe for the summer, you can make things better for Max and Emma. Tate has promised that what he did won't happen again, and the Baldwins are prepared to double your pay if you'll consider coming back."

That gave me pause. It would seem the Baldwins really were desperate. It was no wonder they couldn't keep a nanny or babysitter—between Tate and Max's attitudes, and wraiths haunting the halls at nights, the poor women were probably sent screaming for the hills.

"Can I have some time to think about it?" I asked, still not willing to say yes, but uncertain if saying no would be a good idea either.

Ezra nodded. "I can give you until tomorrow. Then I'll have to try to find someone else."

"That's plenty of time," I replied.

"Great," he said, backing his chair from the table. "You have my number. Just give me a call when you've reached a decision."

Standing, I stood to face him, hands in my pockets. "I will."

With a nod, he turned his chair and drove it toward the big black pickup truck parked on the curb. As I gathered our coffee cups, he produced a set of keys and pressed a button on the fob, which caused the driver's side door to begin to open. Instead of swinging on a hinge like a traditional car door, the entire thing slid forward like a panel, a humming noise emanating from it. It revealed a small platform, which Ezra backed his chair onto. Then, the ramp began lifting him into the car as the door pressed back inward. From where I stood, I got a glimpse of the interior, the steering wheel and dashboard outfitted with a series of knobs and handles—which I assumed he would use to drive using his hands. Once inside, he waved at me through the window before cranking the car. A few seconds later, he had disappeared around the corner, on his way downtown.

I washed our cups and placed them in the drying rack after I went back inside. Hunger made itself apparent now that the nerves over Ezra's visit had dissipated. It was one o'clock in the afternoon, and I hadn't eaten anything all day. Taking a quick peek in the fridge, I reminded myself that we needed groceries before Monday. I made a quick sandwich and grabbed an apple before retreating to my room. I would take Dad up on his offer of a day off, and while I was at it, make a decision about whether or not to return to Baldwin House.

I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and prepared to fire up Netflix for a veg session. I was two bites into my sandwich when I noticed the blinking light on my phone. I'd left it inside while talking to Ezra. Picking it up, I unlocked the screen to find that I had a text message from a number I didn't know. The area code was local, so I opened it, brow furrowed as I chewed and tried to figure out who it might be.

_Is this Bellamy?_ the screen read.

For a moment, I hesitated to answer. If someone had my number, shouldn't they know who they were texting? This had horror movie written all over it.

Cautiously, I texted a reply.

_Who is this?_

Good strategy. Get them to reveal their identity first. _Your move, mystery texter,_ I thought.

_Tate Baldwin._

I stared at the screen in silence for a full minute—until the words began to swim and my vision blurred. Blinking, I looked again and found the response unchanged.

_Ezra gave me your number,_ he said in a follow-up.

_Yes, this is Bellamy,_ I replied.

Taking another bite of my sandwich, I chewed and waited for his reply.

_I wanted to personally apologize for what happened last night. I'm really sorry._

I paused between bites, almost losing my grip on the phone. Never had I expected him to ask for forgiveness himself. Sending Ezra to do it had seemed like a jerky rich-guy move, and it hadn't really affected my decision about returning. The kids had been my main reason for hesitating to say no. But now... what was I supposed to think? Tate had gone out of his way to get my number from Ezra so he could say sorry to me himself. Sure, he had texted instead of calling, but the guy had been shut away for two years... he'd probably forgotten how to socialize.

It took me five minutes to respond while I tried to think of an answer. 'I forgive you' didn't seem quite right. After all, he hadn't been the only one in the wrong. I'd been on the third floor and gotten myself into that situation. My staring had been responsible for his outburst, probably making him think I found him disgusting. Guilt assailed me at the memory. Stuff like that was probably why he didn't go out in public. I had to make amends for it, which meant there was no way I could avoid going back.

Picking up my phone, I dialed Ezra first.

"Hello?" he answered, his voice breathy as if I'd interrupted his workout.

"I've made up my mind," I told him.

"That was fast," he said, laughing.

"You can thank Tate," I replied. "I'll see you Monday morning."

Ezra paused for a moment, and I could hear the music from the gym in the background. "Thank you," he finally said. "See you then."

I hung up, and then opened my conversation with Tate. Without hesitation, I typed a message and hit 'send' before I could talk myself out of it.

_I'm sorry, too._

* * *

The following Monday, I arrived at Baldwin House bright and early, ready to get back to work. My hands began to shake when I pulled up in the driveway, but I reminded myself that I had nothing to worry about as long as I stayed away from the third floor. Tate wouldn't be a problem anymore, if his text messages were any indication. It was the ghosts I needed to worry about—but as far as I could tell, they confined themselves up there. The sun was high and bright, meaning no dark shadows for anything to hide behind or jump out of.

Those thoughts in mind, I went inside, waving hello to Ezra as I breezed past his office. I'd expected him to want to talk about what had happened over the weekend, but he simply waved to me and went back to his work. Apparently, he didn't think any of it needed to be rehashed, for which I was grateful.

I found the kids in the living room, having finished an early breakfast. They talked me into letting them swim, and I relented even though I couldn't join them. I hadn't thought to bring a suit—something I'd have to remember from now on. While they went up to their rooms to change, I made my way to the library to find a book to read beside the pool. I entered the room with a spring in my step, but faltered in the doorway when I realized I wasn't alone.

A figure shrouded in black stood scanning the shelves, three books held in the crook of his arm. The un-marred side of his face was turned toward the door, the strong line of his jaw peeking from the confines of a hoodie. He turned his head slightly in my direction, one sharp, green eye swiveling toward me.

I froze, a hand on the doorknob, my throat constricting.

"Hey," he murmured, turning back to the shelves.

Unable to make my feet move, I simply continued staring in silence, shocked that he'd spoken to me. "Hi," I managed after prying my tongue from the roof of my mouth. "I'll just come back."

I got my feet to work again and began to back away, but Tate's voice reached out to me, drawing me back in.

"It's okay. I'm almost done here. Stay."

It wasn't a request, and it kind of felt like a test as well. If I went running for the hills, it would prove to him that I was horrified by his appearance... which was what I'd made him think Friday night by choking at the sight of him.

If there was one thing I hated, it was failing a test.

Without replying, I entered the room and joined him near the fiction shelves. To prove just how unbothered I was, I came up directly beside him, standing to his right and the sunken side of his face. After a moment, he pulled a book off the shelf, and then moved around me, going to look at books on another one.

I started scanning the titles, not entirely sure what I was looking for. It became difficult to think straight with Tate standing here in the light of day, a few feet away from me. He'd gone from being a rumor—an idea that floated around during idle gossip—to a breathing person who I could hear and see. Shaking my head to focus my mind, I went back to the books.

"Looking for anything in particular?" he asked in a low murmur.

I wondered if he always talked that way, with a low, ominous sort of growl underlying the bass of his tone.

Clearing my throat, I shrugged. "Just something to keep me occupied while the kids are swimming. I didn't bring a suit so... poolside reading it is."

He continued scanning the shelf he stood in front of for a few moments before grabbing a book and extending it to me. While reaching for it, I noticed he wouldn't turn to look at me full on. He seemed to be avoiding meeting my gaze altogether.

Turning the book over in my hands, I read the cover. " _A Brave New World_ by Aldous Huxley."

He nodded. "One of my all-time favorites. I know _The Hunger Games_ and _Divergent_ are the standard of dystopia these days, but that's a classic. It'll probably be required reading for you next year if you're in AP English, but... well, maybe you can get ahead of the class and check it out now."

Smiling, I looked back up at him, even though he was still slightly turned away from me. "Thank you. I can't wait to get into it."

His only response was a nod, and then his focus returned to the shelves. I stood there for another minute, feeling more awkward than I ever had in my entire life. Finally, I thanked him again and turned to leave. Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back again, but he never turned around. With a sigh, I pulled the door closed, putting Tate's hood-covered head and imposing back behind me.

I found the kids in the hallway waiting for me, swimsuits on and towels in hand. We stopped by Ezra's office for the key first, and then I led them outside for our day beside the pool.

After applying sunscreen to Emma and helping Max as much as he'd let me, I told the kids to dive in. They began splashing, swimming, and practicing handstands underwater. I opened the book. The pages seemed worn, many of them still creased from being dog-eared. Obviously, the book was well loved and had been read many times. Leaning back on the padded poolside lounge chair, I settled in for a morning of reading.

* * *

I found myself hard-pressed to put _A Brave New World_ aside, but my job demanded it. There were many interruptions—Emma's scraped knee after she left the pool, showers and changes of clothes after swimming, lunch and then a gaming marathon on the Xbox. By the time I left for the evening, I had only gotten four chapters in. Determined to get back to it as fast as I could, I rushed through my quick stop at the grocery store.

The book had consumed me so completely that everything else around me paled in comparison. I had become so absorbed in my own thoughts about what I'd read so far that I almost crashed into the guy rounding the corner of the next aisle.

I pulled my cart up short and narrowly avoided ramming Lincoln Burns in the stomach. He stumbled to avoid me, putting one hand out to halt my cart, causing me to fall against it.

"Hey, girl," he said, keeping his hand on the basket of my cart. A wide smile spread across his mouth, making him look like a cat cornering a canary.

"Lincoln," I said, purposely keeping my tone clipped.

"Where have you been? I haven't seen you around at all since school ended."

_Hiding from you_ , I wanted to say.

"Working," I answered brusquely, attempting to pry my shopping cart from his beefy hand.

No such luck.

"That's right." He chuckled. "I heard you were babysitting at Baldwin House. What a crappy way to spend summer vacation. Wouldn't you rather hang out with me? If it's money you're worried about, don't. My girl can have whatever she wants when she's with me."

Rolling my eyes, I gave the cart a yank toward me, loosening his hold. "I'm not your girl."

"No, but you could be," he argued, following me as I attempted to get past him.

He trailed me down the cereal aisle, his long legs making it easy for him to keep up with my short strides.

"Look, I didn't mean anything by it," he insisted. "If you give me another chance, things will be better. I'll keep my hands to myself and everything."

I highly doubted that, but I chose not to acknowledge it. "I told you, I have to work. The Baldwins keep me pretty busy."

He halted at my side while I browsed the oatmeal selection, looking for my favorite flavor.

"What's it like?" he asked. "I haven't been up the hill in years... not since Tate was still in school."

I paused, one hand on a box. For some reason, Lincoln's question didn't strike me as entirely innocent. The Baldwins' home life was none of his business. They were private people for a reason, and I had to respect that.

"It's fine," I replied through clenched teeth, throwing my oatmeal into the cart and continuing on.

"Come on, you can do better than that," he urged, steadily walking along beside me. "Do you ever see Tate? Is he is as nasty looking as they say? Is he covered in boils and scabs?"

I stopped and whirled on him, having lost what little patience I'd had. "Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?"

He wrinkled his brow. "What?"

"If you wanted to know how Tate was doing, you'd call him yourself and ask," I snapped. "Or better yet, take yourself up the hill, knock on the door, and find out. Aren't you two supposed to be friends?"

Lincoln shrugged. "Yeah. At least, we were until he got sick and turned into a weirdo no one ever sees. He stopped taking my calls."

"I can't imagine why," I muttered. "If Tate doesn't want to talk to you, that's his decision. And if you want to gossip about him, you need to find someone else to do it with. I'm not going to satisfy your curiosity about a guy who obviously just wants to be left the hell alone."

Kicking it up into high gear, I left him behind, heading to the frozen food aisle at a near run. Thankfully, he didn't follow.

Once safe in front of the frozen vegetables, I paused, leaning against my cart with a sigh. Despite what Tate had done Friday, I found myself feeling protective toward him. He hadn't struck me as a mean person... just a wounded one. It was no wonder he hid himself away, given the way people in this town talked about him. I made up my mind then that I would never tell anyone the things I saw or experienced within that house. It really was no one's business, and I couldn't hurt that family in any way. Even though they seemed to have everything in the world, material possessions couldn't fix what had been broken.

Ezra had been right. The Baldwins needed someone, and that person would have to be me. I would protect their secrets and their shame. Due to my father's eccentricities, I had plenty of experience in that area.

# Chapter Six

The rest of the week passed without an opportunity for me to talk to Tate again—which was really too bad, because I wanted to tell him how much I'd loved _A Brave New World_. Finishing it the night after he'd given it to me, I'd been a zombie the next morning due to lack of sleep. But it had been so worth it. I made sure to return to the library every day after that, but Tate never showed up again. Disappointed, I'd jotted a quick message on a sticky note and placed it inside the book. Before leaving Thursday evening, I stopped by Ezra's office and placed the book on his desk.

"Can you give this back to Tate for me, please?" I asked. At Ezra's curious glance, I added, "He let me borrow it."

With a nod and small smile, he picked it up and set it aside. "I'll see to it. That was nice of him."

Trying to keep a straight face under his knowing gaze, I nodded. "Yes, it was. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh, I almost forgot," he said, calling me back before I could leave. "The Baldwins have a Saturday night business dinner to attend this weekend. Would you be available from about six-thirty until eleven or so?"

Leaning against the doorframe, I smiled. "Ezra, you and I both know I have no life. I'll be here."

"Thank you." He laughed. "And it's not true that you have no life."

Frowning, I inclined my head. "How so? All I do is babysit, help my dad around the bookstore, sit at home, and read."

He raised his eyebrows at me. "Haven't you ever heard that saying? A reader lives a thousand lives. You're always off somewhere, Bellamy, exploring other worlds. You have many lives."

I let that sink in for a moment, realizing he was right. Besides, my life was pretty sweet. I had my dad, which was more than most people could claim to have. Plus, a job adjacent to one of the most amazing libraries on the planet.

"I think you're right," I said. "Thanks, Ezra."

"See you tomorrow," he murmured, lowering his head back over the files on his desk.

I returned home in such a great mood. It didn't even matter that Dad had left a massive mess in the kitchen. Oil stains, spare parts, and various mechanical odds and ends littered the table, where I suppose he spent his morning tinkering before heading to the bookstore. I started the laundry and made dinner while waiting for him to come home. We ate in front of the TV due to the mess in the kitchen, and then found a movie to watch together. By nine o'clock, he'd fallen asleep on the couch, his soft snores mingling with the movie sounds.

Turning off the set, I went into a nearby closet for a blanket. I took his shoes off, made him as comfortable as I could, and threw the cover over him. Because of his little problem, Dad hardly ever slept, claiming he often saw the ghosts when he closed his eyes. So, when he did manage to fall asleep without too much of a struggle, I never disturbed him. There were nights he drifted off at the dinner table—plate pushed aside, head rested on his arms. I would simply drape a blanket over his shoulders and leave him to rest.

As I headed to my room, I grabbed my bag, which held my phone. Retrieving it from the front pocket, I found that I had missed notifications. My heart skipped a beat when I noticed an unread text from Tate. For reasons I couldn't understand, my hands shook as I opened the message.

_Front porch._

With a frown, I left the bag on my bed and went back to the front of the house. I hadn't heard anyone ring the doorbell or knock. Peeking through the peephole, I found our porch—illuminated by the light—empty except for the porch swing. Opening the door, I left the screen door closed as I continued peering out into the night, finding nothing or no one. Cautiously pushing the screen open, I stepped out on to the porch.

"Tate?" I called, looking left and right.

No answer.

"Weird," I muttered, turning to go back inside.

The squeak of the porch swing moving back and forth caught my attention, and I turned to find something resting on the seat.

It was a package wrapped in brown paper with my name written across the front in neat handwriting. Picking it up, I took it inside, waiting until I was in my room with the door closed to open it. Inside was the copy of _A Brave New World_ I had given to Ezra that afternoon. I studied the book with a frown, wondering why Tate would leave it here, wrapped like a gift. I set it aside and reached for my phone, prepared to message him and ask. A slip of paper fell out from between the cover and first page, fluttering to the floor beside my foot.

Reaching down to grasp it, I unfolded the page and read the note.

_Keep it._

_-Tate_

A wide grin filled my face, and I reached out to take the book, holding it against my chest. It wasn't much, but I saw it as the peace offering he'd meant it to be. I couldn't imagine what it had taken for him to relinquish a well-worn and obviously beloved copy of his favorite book. From the little notes in the margins and the creased page corners, it bore all the signs of having been cherished by its owner. He'd cared enough about the content to add his thoughts in the margins—had read it so many times it was practically falling apart. It was the nicest gift anyone had ever given me.

Grabbing my phone again, I replied to his text.

_You didn't have to do that. Thank you._

A few seconds later, his reply came as if he'd been waiting for me to respond.

_It was no trouble. I'm glad you enjoyed it._

I pulled my trunk from beneath the bed and laid the book gingerly inside, on top of the others. Then, after a moment, I took the paper it had been wrapped in, folded it into a neat square, and tucked it into the book like a bookmark. I'd use it as such next time I wanted to read it.

A sudden thought occurred to me, and I messaged Tate with the question weighing on my mind.

_Why didn't you just ring the doorbell so you could put the book in my hands yourself?_

For a long while, he didn't respond, and I began to fear I'd gone too far. It had been a nice gesture, and he obviously wanted to make up for our first meeting. But it became clear to me that he was uncomfortable being seen.

_I didn't think you'd want to see me,_ he finally answered.

I felt a twinge deep in my chest at his words. It must hurt wondering what people thought when they looked at you, knowing they couldn't possibly be focused on what was inside when you looked a certain way on the outside.

I typed out a quick message before I could lose my nerve, and then set my phone aside to prepare for the night.

_You were wrong. Ring the bell next time._

* * *

Saturday night at Baldwin house turned out to be pretty low key. I'd been nervous about having to stay past dark, but after a dinner of Chinese takeout and another movie marathon, I put the kids to bed without running into any ghosts. That might have had something to do with the fact that I was determined to not even _look_ at the third-floor staircase—despite seeing the red rose petals every time I walked by. I was treating it like the tree in the woods that didn't make a sound if no one was around to hear it—if I ignored the third floor, then there were no ghosts to terrorize and scare the hell out of me.

With nothing to do until Faith and Douglas returned home, I made myself comfortable on the couch in the second-floor den with the remote and a variety of streaming services at my fingertips. I put on _Pride and Prejudice_ —the Kiera Knightley version, an old favorite of mine—and lay daydreaming over Mr. Darcy in the dark with nothing but the light of the TV. Instead of feeling frightened by the darkness, I found it soothing. After a long day of trampoline jumping, hula-hoop contests, and running up and down the stairs with the kids, I was exhausted. Thirty minutes into the movie, I began dozing, my eyelids growing heavier the more I tried to fight it.

I couldn't say how long I'd been sleeping, when I suddenly came awake, jolted to consciousness as a shiver wracked my body. Despite being under a fleece blanket, I was freezing, my arms breaking out in goose bumps. Sitting up, I found the movie had ended—but instead of going back to the Netflix menu, the screen showed the static-y, pixelated noise I hadn't seen on a set since digital televisions had become popular. Wrinkling my brow, I sat up straight, pulling my blanket tighter around me. As far as I knew, digital sets didn't experience problems with static, yet the black-and-white spots dancing on the screen and grating sound persisted, even after I'd picked up the remote and attempted to switch the input. Giving the remote a smack and a shake, I tried again, this time mashing the power button to turn it off completely.

The set didn't respond, so I stood and crossed the room, flicking the light switch up. It, too, failed to respond, the room remaining dark aside from the flickering light of the television. Glancing down the hall, I noticed that Emma's night-light no longer shone from the cracked door of her room. Wondering where the circuit breaker panel was, I stood, keeping the blanket tight around me. Maybe it had blown a fuse, affecting the air conditioner. It was entirely too cold in here—significantly chillier than it had been earlier. Pausing in front of the TV, I issued a slow exhale, watching as my breath turned into white mist in the air. The shivers penetrated deeper, shaking my entire body.

Something in me knew, then, that this didn't have anything to do with a blown fuse. I gripped the blanket tighter, my hands beginning to shake when I heard the sound I'd been trying to chase from my mind for an entire week.

Not only did I hear the hoarse, tortured whisper... but I also _felt_ it brushing the back of my neck in a chilly rush of air that sent a tremor down my spine. Breath catching in my throat, I turned slowly, too afraid to face what I knew I'd find, but unable to stop myself from confronting it.

A white face filled my vision, the colorless lips parted in a silent cry. The shard of glass jutting from her neck glowed from the light of the TV, her shoulder hanging limply at an angle, the arm twisted and mangled.

Screaming, I scrambled away from her, slamming back against the wooden entertainment unit. The television rocked in its place, but it didn't tip over, continuing its static noise. She advanced on me, limping and dragging her foot, using the momentum of her good leg to propel her forward. Pausing for a moment as if something physically impeded her, she shook her head rapidly from side to side, creating the sickening cracking sound I remembered from last time. Suddenly going still, she glowered at me with her black eyes and then continued toward me, surprisingly fast despite her bad leg.

I dropped my blanket and darted left, running toward the kids' rooms. I couldn't let her get to them, no matter how badly I wanted to run and save myself. Swiftly closing both the kids' doors, I turned back to find that she hadn't pursued me. The hallway remained shrouded in blackness, the light of the television glowing like a beacon from the den. Unable to stop the way my breath had begun sawing noisily in and out of my lungs, I tiptoed back toward the den to take a peek, wondering where she had gone since she'd neglected to chase me. I reached the room to find it empty; the only thing filling the yawning space was the light and noise of the TV. Glancing left, down the hall leading to the kids' room, I found it still empty and dark.

Turning right, I peered down the wing leading in the other direction, where guest rooms and the playroom were located. Nothing.

Leaning against the wall, I exhaled a long, low sigh of relief.

That was when I heard the sound again. The frigid breath brushed my cheek, chilling me to the bone.

When I opened my eyes, I found her right in front of me, close enough that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. Instead, I screamed, ducking when she reached out toward me, and breaking into a run. Thinking to draw her away from the kids, I headed for the staircase leading to the first floor.

On the landing, the ghost's twin—the one wearing the white nightgown with the black ring around her neck—stood with her back to me. As I scrambled to change course, she turned, swifter than a blink. Her black eyes widened as she advanced on me with swift steps, her head cocking to one side and causing a loud 'crack' to echo through the house.

This time, my scream burned in my chest, unreleased as I turned to run again, the way down the stairs blocked. The first ghost shuffled toward me from the other direction, cornering me and leaving me with only one way left to run.

Glancing up the third-floor staircase and at the red rose petals guiding the way up, I hesitated for less than a second. My footsteps echoed noisily on the polished hardwood as I ran, taking the stairs two at a time. I could hear them breathing, the hoarse sounds scraping my eardrums like fingernails against a chalkboard. They followed me, side by side, their steps noiseless, the only indication of their proximity to me the rasping of their breaths.

Reaching the third floor, I turned right and ran as fast as I could. There was only one thing left to do, and I didn't think twice about it.

Forcing myself to breathe, I inhaled, and then released one word on a panicked cry.

"Tate!"

My voice echoed, and—I hoped—carried down the hall to the only person who could help me now. He was just going to have to forgive me for intruding again... I needed a closed door between me and the two ghouls on my heels, breathing down my neck.

A sliver of light appeared, and then the silhouette of a person.

"Tate," I said again, my voice a hoarse cry this time.

" _Bellamy_ ," he bellowed, rushing forward, the hand still extended. "Bellamy, come on! Run!"

I wasn't sure where I found the strength, but I sped up on the last few steps and leapt, throwing myself away from the wraiths and straight into the arms of the beast. He caught me up, wrapping an arm around my waist and practically carrying me the rest of the way. Hurling me over the threshold of his bedroom, he ran in behind me, slamming the door just as the two women appeared. They lunged, but the heavy panel shut them out. Yelping, I clapped one hand over my mouth, expecting them to appear through the door or slip under the crack. Yet, the closed door seemed to impede them, and after a few seconds of sobbing against my hand, I collapsed to the floor in equal parts relief and exhaustion.

My chest heaved, my shoulders shaking as I tried to calm down but failed. I was hyperventilating, my lungs expanding and contracting faster than I could draw and expel air. My face grew damp from tears, and my entire body became wracked by shudders.

"It's okay."

I heard Tate's voice, but just barely, through the sound of my own harsh breathing and the terror turning me into a complete mess. I glanced up at him, still sobbing, unable to stop now that it had started. I'd been afraid... more than I'd ever been in my life. For a moment, I'd genuinely thought I wasn't going to make it out alive.

Coming toward me, Tate knelt, his face shadowed by his hood. His hands shot out, gripping my upper arms in a tight hold. Giving me a shake, he squeezed harder, jolting me out of my panicked state.

"Enough," he yelled, effectively silencing me. "It's all right. They can't get through closed doors. You're safe in here."

Taking a deep breath, I shut my eyes and exhaled, stifling my cries. Reaching up, I swiped the tears away and took another moment to compose myself before opening my eyes.

Tate had moved away from me, crossing the room to the door. He cracked it a bit and peered out for a moment, before swiftly closing it again.

"They'll get bored soon and leave," he said. "Once they do, I'll take you back downstairs. You should be safe there."

Standing, I approached him, but stopped short when I noticed him retreating into the shadowed part of the room, near a humongous four-poster bed.

He didn't want to be seen.

"I won't be," I insisted. "That's why I ended up on your floor. They came down to the second floor and chased me up here."

Seeming to forget his issues with personal space, he took a step toward me. The light of a lamp revealed the smooth side of his face.

"They did what?" His voice was so low and rough that, for a moment, I was scared to answer him.

"Th-they came downstairs... to the den."

Sighing, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. "That's impossible. You had to have come snooping up here again and got caught. What part of 'stay away from the third floor' didn't you understand?"

Taken aback, I stared dumbly at him as he began to pace, hands still in his pockets. Squaring my shoulders, I found my voice again.

"I _didn't_ come up here," I said, my tone a bit harsher than I'd intended. "After what happened last time, I didn't intend to set foot up here ever again."

Scoffing, he shook his head. "And what happened last time, exactly?"

I folded my arms over my chest. "I thought your brother was playing another joke on me. Apparently someone is, because there are rose petals all over the damn staircase, but everyone wants to pretend they can't see them."

Halting, he spun to face me. "You can see them?" he whispered.

Frowning, I gave him a confused glance. "I just said I could, didn't I?" Then, realizing what he'd said, I gasped. "Wait. You see them, too?"

Without answering me, he trudged to a sofa on the other side of the room, facing the television. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees, staring at the wall. I made my way toward him and the matching love seat positioned perpendicular to where he sat. Lowering myself onto it, I folded my hands in my lap and waited for him to answer.

"It's been two years since those things appeared and started leaving rose petals behind," he murmured. "In all that time, you're the only person who's been able to see them besides me."

"I noticed the rose petals the first time I came here," I told him. "I see them every day, and try to pretend they aren't there, because I thought someone would think I was nuts if I kept bringing it up."

Tate nodded, glancing up at me. "That's good. Keep ignoring them... both the rose petals and the ghosts. If you keep doing that, you'll be okay."

"Are you kidding me?" I blurted. "One of them was practically breathing down my neck. They _chased_ me as if they wanted to kill me! How am I supposed to ignore that?"

Giving me a grim look, Tate shrugged. "You'll learn, just like I did. They only chase you if you run. Once they realize you aren't going to give them the satisfaction, they'll leave you alone. They might hang around you sometimes, but the chasing will stop."

"Who are they?" I asked. Then added, " _What_ are they?"

He shook his head and shrugged. "Ghosts, I assume. I have no idea who they might have been. I'd never seen them before in my life before they started haunting the place."

Glancing down at my feet, I thought back to my dad's drawings. None of the faces were familiar, yet time and time again they appeared to him, as if drawn like a magnet. Was Tate like him, then? I'd thought I could see them due to some genetic thing... but Tate had been seeing them for a while, which meant whatever was wrong with my dad and me had to be affecting him, too.

"What do they want?" I asked.

"I don't know," he snapped.

Pausing, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, lowering his hood. I wasn't sure he even realized he'd done it, because he went on talking as if he hadn't just exposed himself to me.

"Look, all I know is that those two showed up two years ago, and, not long after that, I got sick and haven't been the same since."

I gasped. "Do you think they had something to do with it?"

He nodded. "I do. But what am I supposed to tell people? 'Hey, I think I know why none of the proven medical treatments for my disease are working... it's because I've been cursed by two ghosts!'" Snorting in disdain, he shook his head. "What I suspect doesn't matter. There's nothing anyone can do if no one can see the ghosts."

There wasn't much I could say to that, because he was right. I knew firsthand what admitting to seeing ghosts could do to a person. My dad wasn't the laughingstock of Wellhollow Springs for no reason.

"My dad can see ghosts," I murmured, for lack of something better to say. "He sees them all the time."

"Does his face look like mine?" Tate snapped.

Lifting my gaze to his, I found him looking at me, eyes narrowed and upper lip curled as if he didn't like what he saw.

"No," I whispered, lowering my eyes as he jerked his hood back over his head.

"Then he's lucky."

I wanted to disagree, but kept my mouth shut. My dad didn't have Tate's privilege, wealth, or the protection of a name that carried weight in this town. He certainly couldn't afford to disappear from society and hide away in the lap of luxury.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. We simply sat in silence, avoiding looking at each other in near darkness. After a while, I cleared my throat and attempted to break the uncomfortable silence.

"Thanks again... for the gift."

"It's just a book," he grumbled. "No big deal."

I leaned forward, seeking out his eyes from among the shadows of his hood. It unnerved me to stare at nothing more than the dark smudge of his face. He leaned back as if purposely avoiding eye contact.

"It was a worn-out copy of your favorite book," I insisted. "It wasn't 'no big deal.' Do you always give treasured books away to complete strangers?"

"Do you always analyze everything to death?" He huffed. "Is that like a girl thing, or exclusive to you? I acted like a dick... you didn't deserve that. I gave you the book because I felt like crap afterward, and I knew you'd like it. End of story."

"Are you always so surly?" I asked. "Or has being a hermit eroded all your social skills?"

He laughed, a dry, rough sound that sounded as if it didn't get used often enough. "Both, actually."

More silence. Now it was a bit less awkward. I rested my head against the back of the couch, closing my eyes. It had been a long night, and I was exhausted. I might have even dozed off for a moment, because before I knew it, Tate's hand was on my knee, shaking me awake—not very gently.

"It's all clear now," he said.

I blinked and sat up, fighting against drowsiness. Tate stood over me, his face indiscernible with the light of the lamp behind him and his hood giving him shelter. But his scent tickled my nostrils—masculine and spicy, like the body wash from the TV commercials.

Standing, I stretched and yawned. "Okay. Thanks for letting me hole up. I'll make my way back if you're sure they won't hurt me."

Swinging the door open, he revealed the empty corridor. "I'm positive, but there's no need for you to walk alone. I'll take you down and wait with you until my parents get home."

"You don't have to do that," I insisted, stepping out into the hall.

He followed me, closing his bedroom door behind him. "I didn't have to rescue you earlier, either... yet, here we are."

I rolled my eyes and blew a few stray curls off my forehead. "If the ghosts are harmless, you didn't exactly rescue me."

A sound like a chuckle came from him, and I smiled. "Was that a laugh?"

Leading me down the staircase, he shrugged. "It might have been. I don't know. Do monsters laugh?"

I paused on the second-floor landing, turning toward him. "That's not funny."

The moonlight from a window illuminated the space, and I saw his face clearly now as he jerked down his hood and advanced on me, bending down a bit until he was face to face with me. I held my ground, staring at him as he jutted his face out toward me, meeting my stare in a bold challenge.

"No?" he murmured. "It's true, isn't it? Look at me."

I did, not flinching away from him when he came even closer... so close I could feel his breath against my cheek. The handsome side of his face was shadowed by the dark, the moon shining on the marred half. I stared at his concave cheekbone, the sunken eye, unfocused beneath a drooping lid. My gaze traced the uneven line of his jaw and the hollow of his forehead.

"You don't scare me," I told him, though my wavering voice might have told him a different story. "Monsters are scary... you're just..."

"Ugly," he supplied, his tone harsh and clipped. "Say it."

I shook my head. "No. Not ugly. Just... scarred. We all have scars, Tate."

Snorting, he took another step toward me, so close now I could feel heat emanating from him. Far too close.

"You don't," he murmured. "Look at you... you're practically perfect."

Trapped in his stare, the green gaze penetrating mine without wavering, I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. "Some of us have scars that no one can see," I choked out before turning away.

He stood staring at me for another moment, but then turned to continue down the stairs, leaving me with no choice but to follow. Once on the second floor, I noticed that the television had returned to the Netflix menu, the static and pixel snow now gone.

"I'm okay now," I told him, gesturing toward the couch. "I've got the couch and TV. I'm sure it won't be much longer before—"

"I said I'd wait with you, didn't I?" he snapped, already heading into the den. "You want to be rid of me that badly?"

I stomped after him, scooping my discarded blanket from the floor on my way. "No. I just didn't think you'd want to spend too much more time in my perfect presence."

As I found the remote, I heard another sound come from him, much like the one before. Another laugh. Smirking, I cast a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He stretched out on the love seat, long legs sprawled in front of him, broad shoulders taking up quite a bit of space. Despite his height and the width of his shoulders, he'd lost a lot of the muscle I remembered him having back when he'd played football. Pity caused my chest to twinge as I thought of him forced to stop doing something he'd been great at. If what Ezra said about the amount of pain he experienced every day was true, then it was a wonder he functioned at all.

"Are you going to keep staring at me, or are you going to pick something to watch?" he said, in what could almost pass for a teasing tone.

Deciding not to respond, I chose an old sitcom, hoping it might help Tate practice that laugh of his a bit more. It needed some dusting off. After two episodes, the sound of the door opening sounded downstairs.

"Bellamy?" came Faith's voice from downstairs. "We're back!"

I stood, and, to my surprise, so did Tate. He silently gestured for me to precede him to the stairs. I descended with him behind me, finding the Baldwins standing in the foyer. Faith's smile faded as she glanced up to find her son behind me, stepping off the bottom stair.

"Tate," she whispered. "What are you... I mean... you're downstairs."

Beside her, Douglas stared at his son with a grim expression, his gaze betraying nothing about how his son's presence on the first floor affected him.

"There was a short power outage," Tate said smoothly. "I came down to make sure Bellamy and the kids were okay. The lights came back on after a while, but I hung out with her a bit to make sure they'd stay on."

Faith's smile was back as she approached her son. She reached toward him, but he stiffened, causing her to falter. After an uncomfortable moment, she patted his shoulder instead of embracing him as it seemed she had wanted to.

"That was sweet of you," she said. "Thank you, son."

Tate shrugged, but he said nothing else, gazing down at the floor.

The gleam of headlights appeared in the driveway, and Douglas gave me a tight smile. "Bellamy, it looks like your father's here. I'll walk you to the car."

"Thank you," I mumbled, casting another look over my shoulder at Tate.

But he was gone, already halfway up the stairs and rapidly disappearing from sight. Turning back to the door, I let Mr. Baldwin lead me outside.

# Chapter Seven

The next morning, I peeled myself out of bed early, intending to walk into town with Dad to open the bookstore. We'd had a shipment of books come in the day before, and I needed something to take my mind off what had happened at Baldwin House. I hoped a quiet Sunday spent shelving books would do the trick. After taking a few pancakes from the stack between us, I covered them in syrup under Dad's watchful eye.

"How were things at the Baldwin's house last night?" he asked.

His gaze fixed on me, as questioning as his tone. I knew he still waited for me to tell him what happened the last time I'd stayed late to babysit. My mother's death had brought us closer together, and there wasn't much I kept from him. But this was something I didn't know how to approach—especially since I had yet to make sense of it.

Shrugging, I dug into my pancakes. "It was pretty low key. I actually... spent some time talking to Tate."

It was better than telling him nothing.

He raised his eyebrows. "Did you? If he's around all the time, why doesn't he babysit his own siblings?"

"Well," I began, trying to choose my words carefully. "This disease he has... Ezra says it causes a lot of pain. He has migraines and trouble with his vision—even seizures. I guess they want him to be able to rest whenever he needs to."

"Poor kid," Dad mumbled between sips of coffee. "He didn't try anything with you, did he? I don't care if he's sick; I've still got a loaded shotgun for any punk who tries to get fresh."

I laughed. Then, thinking of Tate's harsh tone of voice and aversion to letting people get too close, I sobered. "The guy is as prickly as a cactus, Dad. No worries on that end."

He shook his head. "He'd have to be made of stone not to notice how beautiful you are. I know he seems weak because of his illness, but just be careful. You don't know him as well as you do Ezra or those kids."

I had a feeling no one really knew Tate, especially now that his illness had changed him. Despite how rude he'd been to me, I'd also seen that he could be considerate and kind—but only when he wanted to be.

"I will, Dad," I said, even though I knew Tate wouldn't hurt me. Despite his outburst the night I'd first encountered him, he hadn't laid a finger on me. In fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid making any physical contact with me at all.

Silence passed between us as we finished eating, and then Dad stood to clear the dishes. Rising to help him clean the kitchen, I cleared my throat. I glanced over at his back as he stood at the sink scrubbing plates and the pans I'd used to make breakfast. The question I'd been dying to ask lingered on the tip of my tongue, but I was afraid. He was the only person who could help me with this, but I didn't want to disturb his mind while he seemed to be doing so well. He hadn't mentioned ghosts in over a week, and I worried bringing it up would set him off again.

_There's nothing wrong with your dad,_ I chastised myself. _If you're both seeing ghosts, you can't both be insane._

"Hey, Dad?" I ventured.

"Yeah, munchkin?"

"I want to ask you a question about ghosts."

He paused, his shoulders going rigid at my question. Turning slightly, he gazed at me over his shoulder. "Bellamy, have you been seeing them?"

He sounded so frightened at the possibility that I couldn't bear to put that sort of strain on him.

"No!" I said in a rush. "No, I just... I'm just curious. You keep records about seeing them, so I thought maybe you had solved the mystery."

"What mystery?" he mumbled, going back to the dishes.

"Why?" I ventured. "Why do they appear to you? Is it that they choose who sees them, or do you have some sort of special ability?"

"I don't know," he admitted, laying rinsed plates in the drying rack. "At first, I worried they would hurt me. Some of them look downright terrifying."

Thinking of the ghosts I'd seen, with their dead, black eyes and the noises emanating from them, I shuddered. "Has one ever attacked you?"

He shook his head. "I thought one tried, once. But I really think he was just frustrated."

I frowned. "Frustrated with what?"

"Well, a ghost is a spirit that isn't at rest, right?" he said, turning to face me and leaning against the counter with arms folded over his chest. "How would you feel if you were trying to communicate with people who can't hear you, or who run at the sight of you?"

"You can't hear them?"

Just like I couldn't hear the two women from Baldwin House. Hearing this made me even more certain that we were experiencing the same thing.

"They open their mouths and move them, but no sound comes out," Dad replied. "I try my best to understand... sometimes, they try to show me things... but I must be missing something. The messages never seem clear."

For a while, I didn't say anything. I simply stood and stared off into space, the wheels in my head turning. Dad sighed, straightening and crossing the kitchen to where it opened into the living room.

"You must think your old man is nuts," he murmured.

"Of course I don't," I insisted, following him and halting him with a hand on his arm. "I just want to understand, is all. I think that's what Mom would have done, and I don't think anyone else has tried. You deserve that much, at least."

He turned and pulled me into his arms, crouching to rest his head against mine. "You don't have to do that."

Hugging him back, I took comfort in his nearness. The last few weeks had been emotionally draining and confusing, but it was nice to know that some things were constant. He might be unpredictable when he was out chasing ghosts, but when I needed him, he was always there.

Patting his round belly, I smiled. "Time to get a move on. Those books aren't going to stock themselves."

We parted ways to get dressed, and then joined back up for the short drive into town. Even though I insisted we walk to save gas, Dad claimed it was too hot. The further into summer we got, the stickier the air became, until even thinking about stepping outside caused your forehead to break out in a sweat.

Reaching the shop well ahead of our weekend one o'clock opening time, we set about filling the shelves with our newest shipments. While I tended to prefer the fiction section, I somehow found myself in the back, rifling through the non-fiction tomes.

It was in the 'sciences' section that I found it. A book on parapsychology, and, next to it, several about investigating paranormal phenomena. Putting aside the stack of child psychology books I'd been about to find a place for, I removed three of the books from the shelf—the one about parapsychology and two of the investigative ones. Holding them in the crook of my arm, I peered out from my aisle toward the register. Dad was nowhere in sight. Moving quickly, but with light steps, I made my way toward the front of the store, mentally counting the contents of my wallet. I wanted these books—needed them—but I wouldn't steal them. However, I didn't exactly want him to see me buying them. After our talk this morning, I could tell he didn't exactly like me prying into his ghost encounters. If he thought for a second I was having them myself, I wasn't sure what he'd do. He had enough to worry about.

I made it to the register and quickly scanned each book. I could hear Dad rifling around somewhere in the children's fiction section, and hoped he would stay there just a little bit longer.

"What are you buying now, munchkin?" he called, poking his head over the low kids' shelves.

Quickly tossing the books into my bag hidden under the counter, I straightened and smiled sheepishly, wallet in hand. "Just a few history books," I lied. "It's going to be time for me to start my college essays soon. I need some good material to pull from."

Dad chuckled. "Even during the summer, you can't help finding something educational to read. You are, indeed, your mother's child."

I shrugged, giving him my most innocent face. "Guilty as charged."

Or just plain guilty. I felt like crap while I paid for the books and fished my change out of the register. The subject I was studying was one he likely wouldn't approve of, and I hated lying to him. But, as he gave me a grin and went back to his work, I knew it was for the best... at least for now. I needed a better idea of what I could be dealing with. Besides, my research could prove useful to him, too. With that in mind, I went back to work, anxious to get it all done so I could focus on my reading when the store closed down for the evening.

* * *

That next day, I found myself on pins and needles to get to Baldwin House. I'd spent all of Sunday night poring over the books I'd bought about paranormal activity and ghosts. The subject was fascinating, and I needed to share what I learned with Tate. The kids were waiting for me in the kitchen, already wearing their swimsuits. Thankfully, I'd remembered to bring mine after having promised them Friday afternoon that we could swim on Monday. I joined them for bowls of oatmeal, and then asked them to watch TV in the living room while I went to the library for a moment. Used to me needing a book at my side during pretty much any activity, Max and Emma simply shrugged and did as I asked.

Grabbing my phone, I shot Tate a quick text, hoping he would get it right away.

_Come to the library, please. It's important._

About a minute later, my phone vibrated in my hand with his response.

_What do you want?_

Rolling my eyes, I plopped in a chair in the library and crossed my legs.

_To talk to you in person._

He answered almost immediately.

_If you wanted to see my ugly mug, you should have just said so. OMW._

My fingers froze over the keys, and I was seconds away from telling him he wasn't ugly. For some reason, I hesitated, and then the moment passed me by. Something told me he wouldn't have appreciated my saying that, so it was probably for the best.

A few minutes later, Tate appeared wearing a navy hoodie and matching pants, feet thrust into a pair of slippers. With the skylight overhead, the temperature in here was warmer than the rest of the house, yet he gave no indication that he was uncomfortable in the sweatshirt.

"Well?" he prodded once he'd entered and closed the door. "I dragged myself away from my bed and a Gotham marathon... this better be as important as you say."

Standing to face him, I slid my phone in my back pocket. The fact that he'd gone back to being so churlish gave me pause, but I powered ahead. I'd called him down here, so there was no turning back now.

"I spent my weekend reading up on parapsychology," I began.

"What?" he blurted, his brow wrinkling within the shadow of his hood.

"It's the study of mental phenomena—"

"I know what parapsychology is," he snapped. "Why would you spend your weekend studying it?"

"Because, I got to thinking... there has to be some way to get rid of the ghosts in this house. Have you ever tried to get them to leave?"

Tate gritted his teeth, hands balling into fists at his sides. "No, I invited them in for tea, then stood back and let them have full run of the house."

I sighed, feeling far less confident than I had this morning. Maybe I'd been mistaken, but I thought we'd come to an understanding before. Now, we were strangers again. He was no longer the boy who'd given me a book, or waited up with me when I was scared.

"Look, I wasn't trying to imply that them being here was your fault or anything," I ventured. "I just thought it couldn't hurt to do some research on the subject and try something you might not have done before."

Inhaling, and then releasing his breath on a snort, he shook his head. "You are unbelievable. It isn't enough that you put yourself in this situation by snooping around where you didn't belong, but now you have to make matters worse by trying to solve everything. This isn't a game, Bellamy. My life isn't some puzzle you can solve, or some project you can fix!"

I flinched when he began to yell, but I refused to let him scare me into backing away. "I know that."

He inclined his head at me. "Do you? Because I highly doubt it. You get chased by the ghosts once, twice, and now, all of a sudden, you know everything about it. You traipse in here trying to tell me what I should do, when you don't know the first thing about them."

"I'm just trying to help," I ground out from between clenched teeth. He was starting to piss me off.

"Do me a favor and don't bother," he argued. "You're here for one reason, and that's to babysit Max and Emma. Stay your ass off the third floor, mind your business, and they'll leave you alone. End of story."

Before I could respond, he turned on his heel and left me alone in the library, slamming the door behind him so hard that a framed painting fell off the wall. The glass shattered, sprinkling across the carpet. Shaking from head to toe, I sank down onto the closest chair. I tried to slow my breathing, but I was too wound up from the argument with Tate. A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal Ezra. He guided his chair into the room, concern creasing his features.

"Is everything all right in here?" he asked, glancing from me to the broken glass on the floor.

I nodded and forced myself to speak. "Yes, I... it was an accident."

Ezra watched me in silence for a moment, as if waiting for me to divulge more. When I didn't say anything else, he nodded.

"All right. It's okay... it's just a little glass. You go take the kids to the pool, and I'll handle this."

I stood and crossed the room toward him, kneeling to pick up the larger shards of glass. "No, I should help. It was my fault."

Ezra placed a hand on my shoulder. "Bellamy, stop."

Pausing with three pieces of glass in my palm, I glanced up at him. "I'm so sorry."

My voice wavered, and a lump rose in my throat. I had thought I could help this family, help Tate, but all I'd done was make a mess of things. I had no idea what I was doing.

Giving me a smile, he urged me to stand and held his hand out for the glass. "You have nothing to apologize for. Go. I've got this."

Nodding, I blinked back tears, feeling like an idiot after what happened with Tate. He'd made it clear not once, but three times, that he wanted nothing to do with me. My interference wasn't needed or welcome, so the best thing I could do was take Tate's advice. He would know better than I did how the ghosts behaved when someone ignored them. So, that was exactly what I planned to do.

# Chapter Eight

Thursday dawned with cloudy skies and rain, which I knew would make the humidity even more unbearable. When I opened my eyes to the sound of water drops tapping my window, I didn't want to get out of bed. I'd been dreading this day for a month now, and while the situation at Baldwin House had been a distraction for a while, there could be no avoiding it.

It had been two years to the day since my mother died. On other days, it seemed as if it had been forever since I'd seen her face. Today, the pain of her loss felt as fresh as ever.

I lay there, thoughts swirling in my head. _When people die, time moves on around you, no matter how abruptly your life has been upended. Over time, you begin to move again, too, pushing past the pain and taking things one day at a time—until the days begin to move at their usual pace. You don't count every minute or hour; you stop turning to talk to them, forgetting that they aren't there._

_But then, the date of their loss comes back around like hands striking twelve on a clock, and just like that, you're back where you started. Counting the minutes and the breaths in and out of your lungs, lying in bed and waiting to hear the sound of their singing come wafting from the kitchen along with the aroma of pancakes._

Shaking away the melancholy thoughts, I reached for the phone plugged in on my nightstand, noticing that it was seven o'clock. If I didn't get out of bed and start getting ready to go to Baldwin House, Dad would start to worry. Of the two of us, this day would be hardest on him. With that in mind, I forced myself out of bed, barely making an effort at choosing decent clothes before braiding my hair into a crown-like coil around my head to protect it from the rain. Leaving the curls loose wasn't an option in the rain and humidity.

I trudged into the kitchen and found it empty, which was unusual on a normal day. Dad was an early riser and liked to read the paper before heading out. But today wasn't a normal day.

I set a pot of coffee to brew, then retraced my steps back down the hall and paused in front of his bedroom door. I hesitated only a moment before knocking, knowing he was awake even though he hadn't come out.

"Come in," he said, his voice muffled.

I twisted the knob and slowly opened the door, peering around it cautiously. I wanted to make sure he was all right, but I didn't want to intrude on a private moment.

He stood near his desk, facing his wall of ghosts. Hands braced on his hips, he stared at them without turning around.

"I made coffee," I ventured, uncertain of how to approach him. I wasn't sure if he was having one of his episodes and needed to be left alone or not. "You want some breakfast?"

For a while, I stood there, waiting for him to answer, but he simply stared at his drawings with his hands clasped behind his back.

Finally, I began backing toward the door, deciding he needed to be left alone.

"I never see her," he murmured just before I could leave.

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. "Never see who?"

Glancing at me over his shoulder, he shrugged one shoulder. "Your mother."

His voice came out raspy and thick, as if he'd been crying. I wanted to cross the room to his side and comfort him, but found myself frozen to the spot. Even though we'd talked about the ghosts, I'd never asked him about this—despite wondering on several occasions if he ever saw Mom's spirit wandering around.

Clearing my throat, I took a step back into the room. "Do you want to see her?"

Turning to face me, he sat on the edge of the desk. "To be honest, I'm not sure. All the people I see are tortured. Their deaths were horrible and violent."

"Some would say cancer is torture," I whispered. "Do you think she'd look like she did when she died? All emaciated and tired? Is that why you're not sure you want to see her?"

After a moment, he hung his head, staring down at the bare feet peeking out from beneath his pajama bottoms. "I hope not. I hated seeing her like that when she was alive. It's my hope that she's whole now, in a better place."

I forced a smile, despite my eyes filling with tears. "Maybe that's why you haven't seen her. You told me the ghosts seem to want something. Maybe Mom doesn't want anything, and she is at peace. We don't need to see her, and she doesn't need to see us, because she knows we're taking care of each other. She trusts us to do that."

Lifting his head to meet my gaze, he smiled. A tear splashed his face and disappeared into his beard. "You know, I think you're right. It's just the sort of reminder I need today."

Finally able to move again, I crossed the room, throwing my arms around him. He held me, bending down until his head rested on top of mine.

"I'm sorry to be such a downer first thing in the morning," he murmured.

Pulling back, I stared up at him. "You get to be a downer today."

He shook his head and swiped at the tears pooling beneath his eyes. "That stops right now. We've both got to get to work, and your mother would scold us for being late. That coffee sure smells good."

Following his lead, I dried my own face and led him toward the kitchen. "I'll whip up breakfast. Mom's favorite?"

I could hear him rifling through the cabinets for coffee mugs while I opened the fridge.

"I haven't had a pumpkin waffle in forever," he answered. "Sounds perfect."

"Lucky for you we have some canned pumpkin in the pantry," I replied.

Working to prep the waffles, I pushed our conversation out of my mind. Talking about the possibility of Mom being a ghost made me think about Baldwin House and Tate. I'd spent the entire week doing what Tate had urged me to do—ignoring the rose petals trailing up the third-floor staircase, and pretending the two female wraiths didn't exist. It was hard. A few times, I thought I heard their whispers, and even spotted the hem of a white nightgown at the top of the stairs once. But I'd simply turned my head and went on about my business. It had been hard, but as the week passed me by, I'd realized Tate had been right. Ignoring the ghosts had worked, and I was able to babysit in peace.

Apparently, Tate was also doing his share of avoiding. I hadn't seen him again, in the library or anywhere else. He hadn't texted me or bothered to follow up and ensure I was following his advice.

It was just as well. The few moments of understanding I'd thought we shared didn't seem to have meant anything to him. Maybe I read too much into them.

So, I turned my mind to thinking up rainy-day activities for the kids, and away from ghosts and boys with baggage.

Unfortunately, the latter would be harder to forget than I'd thought. Deciding to take the kids into the library for some morning reading time, I found him seated in one of the chairs. He glanced up when we walked in, rising to his feet as if he'd been waiting for us. Max faltered in the doorway, staring at Tate as if uncertain of how to handle his brother's presence in the room. Heedless of the tension, Emma raced toward him, arms outstretched.

"Tate!"

Surprisingly, he grinned in response, kneeling and opening his arms to her. She threw herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He stood, though I noticed the strain on his face. He used his left arm, which led me to wonder if it hurt him to strain the other. Did Parry-Romberg syndrome also affect his body on one side?

"Hey, princess," he said, his voice still low and gruff. "Are you being good for Bellamy?"

Giggling, she nestled her face against the side of his neck, practically shoving her head inside his hoodie to do so. He didn't seem to mind her getting close.

"I'm _always_ good for her," she replied in a syrupy sweet voice. "Max is the bad one."

"That's not nice, Emma," I chided, despite being a bit amused at her throwing her brother under the bus. "No one here is bad."

Glancing at his little brother, Tate's face became serious again. "Hey, kid."

Max simply stared at Tate in silence, his expression giving no hint to his emotion. It would seem the frosty poker face ran in the family. I'd seen it on all the Baldwin males so far, and it never ceased to lower the temperature in a room by a few degrees.

Tate's face flushed, and he glanced down as if uncomfortable around his own brother. He set Emma back on her feet and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Can you guys give me a minute to talk to Bellamy?" he said.

Max was already gone, headed to the children's section of the library. Emma followed, her 'Bellamy' doll dangling from one chubby hand.

Gesturing toward the other side of the room, he cleared his throat but didn't meet my gaze. With a sigh, I obliged him, crossing the room and putting more distance between us and the kids.

Turning toward him, I crossed my arms over my chest. "What do you want, Tate?"

"To apologize," he blurted, as if needing to say it before he lost his nerve. "Again."

Unable to stop myself, I huffed, rolling my eyes. "Apologize? For what?"

"Being an asshole the other day," he replied. "You were trying to help, and I overreacted. You have to understand that I've been dealing with this on my own all this time, and—"

"Oh, I understand just fine," I interjected. "I understand that this kind of thing is just how you operate. One second, you're lashing out, then you're sorry, and then you're back at square one. I'm not interested in taking another ride on the bipolar roller coaster, Tate, so you can save your apology. I don't want to hear it."

His mouth trembled as if he were amused by my anger. "Mental illness isn't something to joke about."

Grunting, I stomped one foot, unable to find another way of unleashing my frustration short of punching him straight in the face. Which wouldn't be cool at all.

"I know that! You know what? Comparing you to a person with a real problem isn't fair to those who actually suffer from mental illness. There's nothing wrong with you mentally apart from the fact that you're a jerk who pouts when things don't go his way. I'm done being nice to you, and I'm finished trying to help you. You've made yourself clear on more than one occasion what you think of me, and how little you want to have to deal with me. Message received, Tate. We're done."

I brushed past him, making my way toward the kids, who obviously knew we were arguing even if they couldn't decipher exactly why.

"Bellamy—"

I stopped abruptly and turned, unprepared to find him directly behind me. I flinched away when he tried to steady me, holding my hands up to ward him off.

"Don't," I snapped. "Don't touch me, and stop saying my name. You don't get to say my name... my name is too awesome for you! And you know what? I'm awesome, too. I am a _nice person!_ I didn't do anything to deserve any of this. So do me a favor and leave me the hell alone. Think you can manage that?"

After a moment of silence in which he stared at me as if I'd lost my mind, he nodded and sighed.

"Yeah," he whispered. "You got it."

Nodding in satisfaction, I resumed my walk across the room, well aware that he was still watching me.

_Don't turn around. Don't turn around. Don't turn around._

I repeated the mantra to myself until I heard him leave the room, closing the door gently behind him this time.

Sighing, I buried my face in my hands and ignored the curious stares of the children. Now, more than ever, I wish I'd just stayed in bed.

* * *

Within an hour of my outburst toward Tate, I began to feel like absolute crap. That sort of behavior wasn't like me at all, even if I did find myself mentally chewing people out on many occasions. Tate had acted like a jerk, but he had a reason to be one—even if I hadn't deserved to be on the other end of his bad mood. Maybe it had served him right, but it still didn't sit well with me. Especially since I knew I wouldn't have treated him that way on any other day. He'd just so happened to try to approach me on the worse possible day, finding himself dealing with both my frustration and grief.

I went through the rest of the day on autopilot, feeling numb to everything going on around me. I barely remembered driving to the bookstore to pick up my dad, or having dinner once at home. Next thing I knew, it was eight o'clock and I lay in bed with a book, unable to concentrate. I'd barely been able to eat anything because my stomach was in so many knots.

My mother had always told me that when your stomach bothered you after a confrontation, nothing would soothe it like making amends. It was why my parents had never gone to bed angry—Mom's stomach wouldn't let her rest until she'd set things right. Reaching for my phone, I scrolled to pull up my past conversations with Tate. Staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, I paused, wondering what the heck I was supposed to say. How could I explain the reason for my sudden outburst?

Plunging in, I decided to just stick to the truth.

_Looks like it's my turn to apologize. I'm really sorry about earlier. I had a rough morning, and I took it out on you. I'll accept your apology if you accept mine._

As always, he responded quickly.

_Of course I do. It's not like I didn't deserve it. Mind if I ask what's wrong?_

For a moment, I put my phone aside, not wanting to answer. But then I remembered the worn copy of _A Brave New World_ resting in the trunk under my bed. Tate had given me a part of himself. He could have ordered a new copy of the book and shipped it. He could have given me one of his other copies. Yet, he'd given me his favorite copy of his favorite book.

I couldn't take that from him, and then refuse to give him something back. With a shaking hand, I took the phone up again and began composing my reply. After a few attempts, I erased what I'd typed and kept it simple.

_Today is the anniversary of my mother's death._

I hit 'send' as fast as I could, unable to take the words back once I'd done so. My phone buzzed in my hand, and his reply lit up the screen.

_I'm so sorry. I didn't know you'd lost your mother. How long has it been?_

_Two years,_ I answered.

_Anything I can do?_ he asked.

I smiled at the screen at the thoughtful gesture, even though we both knew there was nothing anyone could do to ease my pain.

_No, but thanks._

After a long stretch without a reply, my phone lit up again.

_I'd like to talk to you in person. Would you meet me?_

My eyes widened as I read his words a second time, and then a third. Glancing at the clock on my screen, I saw it was only eight-thirty. I wasn't going to get a good night's sleep, and going to meet Tate was better than lying in bed crying.

_Okay. Where?_

Standing, I swapped my pajama pants out for a pair of jeans, and then slid into my sneakers. By the time I'd done that, Tate had responded.

_Stonehill Park._

It was a short distance from here, a quick walk or bike ride along the walking trail stretching out behind our house. But it was getting dark and I knew Dad wouldn't want me out on my bike. Sneaking out wasn't an option this early, so as I walked to the living room, I fumbled for an excuse to leave the house.

Dad was at the kitchen table, tinkering with something—I couldn't tell what it was, but there were a lot of parts spread out in front of him. He didn't look up when I came in, focused on the odds and ends at his fingertips.

"Thought you were in bed," he mumbled.

"I was," I said, tugging at the bottom of my shirt. "But I can't sleep and I want something sweet. Can I use the car to go downtown and grab a milkshake or something? I won't be gone long."

"Keys are on the counter. Drive safely."

"I will," I promised, grabbing the keys and my purse before heading out.

The rain had stopped, but moisture still hung in the air, so thick I could taste it. I made the quick drive to the park with butterflies in my stomach, wondering what to expect. No two encounters with Tate were alike, and I'd meant what I said about being exhausted by the constant up and down. I chose to be optimistic, since Tate had expressed regret over the past. Besides, no one could exactly be mean to a girl on the anniversary of her mother's death. Even he wasn't that much of an asshole.

* * *

The sky had gone completely dark by the time Tate pulled his red Audi into a space beside mine. I could remember seeing the car in the school parking lot in the years before Tate stopped coming altogether, and I was surprised to see he still owned it. I exited my car, rounding it toward him as he followed suit, a cluster of roses held in one hand. He also wore a pair of rectangular-shaped glasses I'd never seen him in before.

At my surprised glance, he shrugged one shoulder while extending the flowers to me. "I thought... we could give them to your mom. Oh, and I need the glasses to drive. My right eye has diminished vision."

Glancing toward the walking path winding through the park, I realized how close we were to the cemetery. It hadn't been my plan to visit her grave today—because I preferred to remember her other days, and not just on anniversaries. But we were here, and Tate had brought flowers. It seemed wrong not to go visit.

"That was thoughtful of you," I said as we began our walk. "Thank you."

Tate nodded in reply, but didn't speak. I was content not to break the silence while we walked, my fingers stroking the velvety petals of the roses. There were a dozen of them, ruby red and only slightly opened. I thought of how ironic it was that he'd brought red roses, in light of the remnants of them littering the staircase at Baldwin House. Considering how unstable our peace agreement was, I didn't want to risk annoying Tate by bringing it up.

Before long, we arrived, and I solemnly led him between the rows and rows of stones and monuments to where my mother had been laid to rest two years ago. Removing the now brown and crumbling flowers resting in the small pot before her grave, I replaced them with the roses. For a while after that, we stood side by side, shoulders almost touching, staring at the headstone.

Tate was the one who broke the silence. "You should talk about her if you think it will help. Or don't. I'm listening either way."

I had a hard time controlling my facial expression, shocked that he even cared.

He laughed, but it was more a sarcastic snort than anything else. "Come on, I'm not _that_ mean."

Feeling bad now for second-guessing him, I turned to face him. "My mom was one of those people who, if you said she was a good person, you weren't just saying it to be nice. She was genuinely good—kind, loving, generous. She adored books, too, all kinds. And flowers... she used to grow them in front of our house. Dad and I tried to keep them up after she was gone, but it's almost like they knew she was gone. They withered away to nothing within six months."

"She sounds amazing," he answered. "You said it's been two years, right?"

"Yes," I replied. "Sometimes, it feels like it's been forever, and, other times, I wake up and my heart tells me it happened only yesterday. I don't have a lot of friends... not anymore. She was my best friend."

"I know saying 'I'm sorry' is really cliché," he murmured, glancing down at his shoes. "But I really am sorry. I don't know what it's like to be that close to someone, so I can't even imagine how it must feel to lose them."

I frowned, studying his profile. As usual, he situated himself to my left so I could only see the normal side of his face. "You're not close with either of your parents?" I asked, feeling sorry for him.

I couldn't understand it. Even the small lies I'd been telling Dad made me feel like the worst sort of betrayer. I couldn't stand the thought of him finding out that I'd kept things from him and being sad that I'd felt I couldn't tell him the truth.

"My mother tries. She loves us, and shows us that she does, but the kind of relationship you have with your mom isn't something I see ever developing between her and Emma. She's not absent or neglectful, just... occupied with other things most of the time. Max and Emma spend more time with you, Ezra, and Hilda than her."

"What about your dad?" I prodded, remembering the poker-faced Douglas Baldwin.

I'd never seen the man so much as crack a smile, and he always looked tired and strained.

"He actually _is_ absent and neglectful," Tate spat, his jaw going tight. "Especially in the past few years. Look, I want to tell you something... the truth about my sickness."

Gesturing toward a nearby bench, I led the way toward it. "Let's sit down."

Once seated, I turned a bit, propping a bent leg up onto the seat. Tate slouched, hiding his face with his hood, chin rested against his chest.

"Ezra told me that you know all about my disorder," he began.

I nodded. "He told me after the night I first ran into you. I think he wanted me to understand you better... to try to comprehend the reason you'd lashed out."

"What Ezra doesn't know is what really started the whole thing. Parry-Romberg Syndrome is an autoimmune disease, and it does appear out of nowhere, but I am almost certain that those ghosts in my house are what started it."

I sat up straighter, my heart dropping into my stomach as I absorbed what he'd just said. My dad had told me that ghosts seemed to want something from the people they haunted. The books I'd read stated they often had unfinished business. What could they want to accomplish that would make them cause Tate to become so ill?

"What makes you think that?" I asked.

"I first started seeing them a few months before I got sick," he replied. "There was no warning that I can recall—no death at Baldwin House, no accidents, no other strange events. All of a sudden, one day, they were just there. Like you, I began noticing the rose petals first. Coming and going from my room and other parts of the house, I saw them scattered on the stairs. But nobody else seemed to be able to see it—not even my parents, who came several times to investigate when I would try to show them. One night, I got home late from an away game at another school, and they were waiting for me. The house was dark because everyone was asleep, but I heard them first... this noise that sounded like someone exhaling."

I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. "I know the sound."

Knitting his brow in concern, Tate sat up and unzipped his hoodie. "You cold? Here."

I didn't want to deny his act of kindness, so despite being quite warm, I accepted the jacket. It was a mistake of epic proportions, because he smelled amazing—if the masculine scent coming from the fabric were any indication. It made me uncomfortable, even though part of me wanted to stick my nose down inside it and inhale again.

"At first, I thought they wanted to kill me," he continued, "and I would try to get away from them when they came at me. Over time, it seemed like they just liked screwing with me. It started to piss me off, and I tried everything I could to get them to leave. I read some of that parapsychology stuff, too, you know. All the things they suggested—telling the ghost to leave with authority, burning different combinations of herbs... I even learned from a Wiccan website how to cast a circle. None of it worked. Not long after I started trying to get them to leave, I got sick."

I gasped. "Do you think they did this to you out of revenge? To get back at you for trying to make them leave?"

Tate shrugged, and then hunched his shoulders. I could tell being without his hood made him antsy. "I used to, but now I'm not so sure. You said something about them having unfinished business?"

"I don't know a lot," I replied. "Just what I read and the things my dad told me."

"Your dad sees ghosts," he said with an eyebrow raised. "What is he, a medium or something?"

Shaking my head, I sighed. "I don't know what he is, to be honest. You haven't heard the talk about him because it started happening around the time you got sick, after my mom died. He sees ghosts all over Wellhollow Springs. For some reason, they seem to only appear to him. He believes they want something—his help in some way."

"Have you talked to him about this? Told him that you can see them, too?"

Lowering my eyes, I felt the niggling of guilt again. "No. I asked him questions about what he sees and made him think I just wanted to understand him better. I want to tell him, but he doesn't really like me trying to be involved in this. When I ask him about ghosts, he gets really edgy and tries to change the subject. I believe he thinks there's something wrong with him, and he's worried it'll happen to me, too."

"Maybe it would make him feel better to know it's not just the two of you," he offered. "It certainly made me feel a little less crazy to know you could see them. You were the first person to step foot inside that house to see them in two years."

"Not yet," I hedged. "I'm not ready for him to know."

Tate nodded. "I understand. But I was thinking..."

I leaned forward to search out his gaze when he fell silent. "What?"

He turned to look at me. "I'm tired of living in fear in my own house. Ignoring them for two years hasn't gotten me anywhere, so I want to do things your way."

My eyes grew wide as I realized what he was asking me. "Are you saying..."

"Yes," he confirmed. "I want you to help me figure out what they want."

# Chapter Nine

In the days following my meeting in the park with Tate, we worked together to try to summon the ghosts. It was a complete departure from our usual M.O., running like hell whenever we saw one of them. In the afternoons, while Emma napped and Max went to his room to read quietly—often dozing off himself—Tate and I walked the third floor and attempted to find ways to draw them out.

We tried calling them out—despite not knowing their names—as well as a variety of techniques we'd researched in our books and online. He even started leaving his bedroom door open to invite them inside. Yet, none of the supposed 'proven' methods worked. By the time Friday rolled around, we hadn't seen the hem of a single nightgown or even one rose petal.

"Do you think they're on to us?" I asked him as we settled in front of the television with popcorn, candy, and soda with the kids and a couple of DVDs.

The Baldwins had yet another event to attend, leaving us alone with the kids for the night. Tate had been hanging around a lot during the day in case the ghosts showed up, but I also sensed he liked spending time with his siblings again. Emma certainly enjoyed it, following Tate everywhere he went and insisting on being in his lap every time he sat down. She sat nestled under his arm on the couch, head against his chest while Max worked to get the DVD playing. Tate held a bowl of popcorn in his lap, which Emma and I ate from while we waited.

"You know what we need?" I said suddenly. "Peanut M&Ms."

"On the table," Tate mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn.

Finding a big bag of them among a variety of candy bars, I tore it open and proceeded to dump them into the popcorn bowl.

"What the heck are you doing?" he muttered, watching me warily.

"Try them together," I told him, mixing them around with my hand until ovals of blue, red, yellow, and brown lay interspersed with the white popcorn. "It's the best thing you'll ever eat."

Emma sat up, glancing at me across her brother's torso with a wrinkled nose. "That's so weird."

"Oh, come on," I prodded. "You can't say it's weird if you don't at least taste it."

Tate tried it first, taking a handful of the popcorn with a few pieces of candy mixed in. Chewing slowly, he nodded, eyebrows raised.

"She's right. It's amazing."

Emma reluctantly took two popcorn kernels with one piece of candy, screwing up her face when she first popped them into her mouth. I stifled a laugh, watching as she slowly chewed, her little jaw working back and forth. After a while, she opened her eyes, which were wide with delight, before going back for more.

"Max, you wanna try?" Tate asked, offering his little brother the bowl.

Settling in an armchair a bit away from us, Max worked to open a candy bar, avoiding Tate's gaze. "No, thanks."

Beside me, Tate scowled, his jaw becoming tense, but he said nothing as the movie started. Usually comfortable with the kids, I was still getting used to having their big brother around. Sitting so close to him on the couch, I caught wind of his scent again, which had clung to me that night in the cemetery, long after I'd given him back his jacket. Instead, I sat ramrod straight, careful not to get too close unless reaching for candy-laced popcorn. A few times during the movie, I felt eyes on the side of my face, but couldn't tell if they were Tate, Emma, or Max's. The constant wondering, along with trying to keep a certain distance, was exhausting. So much so that, before the movie had ended, I was asleep.

I opened my bleary eyes some time later to find myself alone in the den with Tate, a second movie playing with the sound lowered. I had leaned against the arm of the sofa, legs curled up beneath me. Someone had covered me with a light blanket.

Sitting up, I rubbed my eyes. "Where are the kids?"

"I put them to bed," he replied, voice low. "Go back to sleep if you want. I'll keep an ear out for them."

"I really shouldn't sleep on the job," I murmured. My words trailed off on a yawn.

Tate chuckled. "I'll wake you when I hear my parents pulling up outside. They never have to know. I'm here. You look exhausted. Go to sleep."

Rolling my eyes, I leaned back against my side of the sofa, stretching my legs out a bit more until they rested on the cushion between Tate and me.

"Is that a passive-aggressive way of telling me I look like crap?" I teased, already falling back asleep again.

Just before I nodded off again, I could have sworn I heard Tate whisper, "You're too pretty to ever look like crap."

Too afraid to open my eyes and acknowledge what he'd said, I let myself fall back under again. I wasn't sure how long I dozed this time, but was jolted awake again by the sound of a crash.

Coming upright with a jolt, I gasped, jerking my head left and right to glance around the room. Tate was already on his feet, heading away from the den. Heart hammering, I followed him, fully awake now that adrenaline had kicked in.

"What was that?" I whispered.

The sound came again, like something being thrown against a wall.

"I don't know," he murmured, "but you should stay here in case there's a break-in."

He halted on the landing of the stairs, his shoulders tense as he glanced up, then down, trying to determine where the sound had come from. I knocked into him, grasping his arm to steady myself, then maintaining my hold on it out of anxiety.

Again, the noise reverberated through the house, a slamming followed by what sounded like cracking wood.

Tate turned toward the staircase leading up, his mouth a grim line. "It's coming from upstairs."

I followed his gaze, a shiver running down my spine. "Do you think it's them?"

He nodded. "I know it is. No way did someone get past all the security crap in this house to make it all the way up to the third floor. It's them."

"Well, we wanted this," I reminded him.

"I know," he said, turning to extend a hand to me. "Shall we?"

Taking his hand without a word, I kept pace with him as we scaled the stairs. Both our steps were slow, as if we feared what we might find. Talking about making contact with ghosts was one thing... actually doing it was completely different. Thinking of the last time I'd been chased through the house by them, I shuddered, closed my eyes, and choked down bile.

Tate gave my hand a squeeze as we reached the landing and gave me a reassuring look. "We can do this."

Meeting his gaze, I forced a smile and squared my shoulders. He'd been dealing with this for two years, as opposed to my few weeks. If he could be so confident about this, I needed to stop being such a wuss.

Edging our way down the hall, we made quick progress to Tate's room, which we soon discovered was where the sounds came from.

"Stand back," he warned before stepping through the open door.

Peering over his shoulder, I felt a gasp get stuck in my throat as I watched objects fly in different directions around the room, slamming against the wall and falling to the floor. Books, various sports trophies and medals, and other things I couldn't identify whizzed across the room, bounding off each other, some of them even breaking to pieces. The overhead lights flickered rapidly—on, off, on, off.

"What the hell?" Tate muttered, coming more fully into the room.

He ducked to avoid a lamp, which soared over his head before hurtling through a window, shattering the glass.

Holding an arm out to keep me from stepping past him, Tate closed the door behind us.

"Okay, whichever one of you is trashing my room, you can stop now," he bellowed. "I'm here!"

Silence fell over the room as the objects that had been suspended on air suddenly dropped to the floor. I flinched at the sound, my body breaking out in goose bumps as the familiar sound of a ghost's ragged breath slid down my spine.

Tate and I both spun at once, finding ourselves face to face with the ghost sporting the bum leg and shard of glass protruding from her neck. Staring at us with her black eyes, she took a step forward, shuffling on her broken leg. I stiffened and muffled a low whimper, but Tate stood his ground, grabbing my hand and forcing me to stay, too. I straightened, making myself confront the wraith, looking her right in her coal-black eyes.

"Now that you have our attention," he said, "we're listening. What do you want?"

She inclined her head, causing the sound of snapping bones to echo throughout the room with a nauseating crunch. Watching Tate for a moment, she shook her head before gesturing toward me with her good hand.

Tate started, as if taken aback. "What? You want her?"

The ghost nodded, producing the crackling sound again. I forced myself not to be sick.

"No," he growled low in his throat. "Hell no."

"Wait," I said suddenly, grabbing his shoulder. "Maybe she doesn't mean she wants me, per se. They tried to get through to you before, and you disappointed them." Glancing up at the ghost, I addressed her. "Is that it? You want to talk to me?"

More crunching as she nodded again, and then extended her index finger at me once more. I moved to step around Tate, but he held me back.

"I don't like it," he mumbled. "What could they want from you that they can't get from me?"

"A level head and even temper for one," I joked. "Relax. We already know they won't hurt us."

Reluctantly releasing me, he stood back and let me talk to the ghost.

"Okay," I told her. "Here I am. What do you want?"

The ghoul turned her head left with a snapping of bones, staring at the wood-paneled wall, empty of all its décor now that she'd torn everything down. I winced when a sound like sharp fingernails against a chalkboard resounded through the room. Deep gouges appeared in the wood as if carved by a knife. I watched as the letters appeared, curved and straight lines aligning to spell out one word in capital letters.

JUSTICE.

"That's it?" I asked, staring at the word—pale wood showing through beneath the dark staining. "Who do you want justice for? You?"

She shook her head 'no' again, and held one hand out toward the white specter that had suddenly appeared beside her. The other ghost—in her usual nightgown with billowing hair, the raw, angry black bruise around her throat as prominent as ever. Almost as if she'd been strangled or—I realized with a difficult swallow past the lump in my throat—hanged.

"Her?" I prodded. "Something happened to her, and you want the person responsible brought to justice?"

Both ghosts nodded this time, still penetrating me with those dead eyes. I exchanged a glance with Tate; he looked as bewildered as I did. What did we look like, the cast of _Law & Order_?

"We'll do what we can," I said, not wanting to make promises we couldn't deliver. "It might help if you could show us where to start, or even who did it."

As one, both ghosts turned their gazes to the person standing behind me. Extending their arms, they pointed straight at him.

Tate took a step back, panic transforming his expression. "Me? But I've never hurt anyone in my life!"

Still, the ghosts maintained their positions, fingers pointed straight at the very person they'd begun haunting in the first place.

"Are you sure you have the right guy?" I questioned, glancing from Tate to the ghosts and back again. "Tate Baldwin?"

Nodding, they continued pointing, even as they began to fade, disappearing in open air and leaving me alone with Tate. I was more confused than ever now. It couldn't be a coincidence that the ghosts who haunted Tate also held him responsible for whatever had happened to the nightgown-wearing one. Something told me there was more to the story—something Tate wasn't telling me.

Turning to face him, I braced my hands on my hips. "Lucy, you got some 'splaining to do."

* * *

"I'm not a murderer," Tate insisted a few minutes later.

We'd gone down to the kitchen, where Tate had rummaged in the cabinets before finding a box of herbal tea. After putting a kettle on, he'd poured two cups, then offered milk and honey for mine. The box claimed it was a 'soothing blend', and I certainly hoped that was the case. After what had just happened, my nerves were fried, and I now had more questions about this whole situation than answers. Aside from that, a permanent chill seemed to have settled into my bones, making me cold from the inside out.

The tea helped as I sipped, the warmth curling in my belly before seeping outward toward my limbs.

"Then why would they accuse you of killing that girl?" I asked. "None of it makes any sense."

"I don't know if they were accusing me of hurting her," he said, staring down at his cup. "I think, maybe, they think I might know something at the most. But their problem with me isn't about that dead ghost."

I stared unwaveringly at his face, certain that his words meant he did know exactly what their vendetta against him was about.

"Care to elaborate?" I muttered.

He sighed, shoulders sagging as he held his mug with both hands, as if trying to absorb the heat into his palms. "Look, this is hard. I want to tell you, but... I'm not certain it won't make you hate me after. I did something terrible, and I've always had a feeling that my illness was their way of punishing me for it."

More curious now than ever, I leaned forward. "If our past encounters haven't made me hate you yet, then I doubt anything else will. Besides, we all do bad things sometimes. No one is perfect."

He raised his eyebrows, finally glancing back up at me. "You don't have a mean bone in your body. I've been around you enough to figure that out. What I did... it was on purpose, Bellamy. It wasn't an accident or a misunderstanding. I purposely set out to hurt someone, and I succeeded. Nothing about this story will make you like me more. Not that I have any delusions that you like me at all."

"You aren't exactly a basket of kittens," I replied. "But I do like you, Tate."

He stared at me in silence for a while, taking his time before beginning his story, as if wanting to have a few more moments of me liking him. Whatever he needed to tell me must be horrible.

"By my sophomore year, I had made the varsity football team," he began, maintaining eye contact with me. "It skyrocketed me to the top of the high school food chain, and being a Baldwin didn't hurt, either. I had girls all over me everywhere I went, coaches telling me I could be starting quarterback by my junior year, if not sooner, and scouts calling my dad with offers. Needless to say, it went to my head a little."

At my amused smirk, Tate sighed.

"Okay, a lot," he relented. "I was arrogant and cocky. At that point, I got pretty much everything I wanted, and very few people told me no. That sense of superiority was like a high or something. I liked it, more than I wanted to admit at the time, I think. It felt good being above people in my own mind—and maybe even in the mind of the people I hung out with."

"High school royalty," I murmured. "I always wondered what that was like. Never been very popular."

"That's because you're smarter than most of those kids combined," he replied. "And don't let them make you feel differently."

I smiled at his compliment, but it didn't take the sting away from being an outcast. I'd never made an effort to belong, but that didn't stop me from wondering sometimes how it might feel to be like everyone else.

"Anyway, I fell in with Lincoln and his crowd," he continued. "Being popular wasn't enough for those guys. They liked to rub people's faces in it—lord it over people and force them to acknowledge it."

Rolling my eyes, I thought of Lincoln's constant harassment. "I'm all too aware of how Lincoln operates."

He wrinkled his brow in bewilderment. "Something happen with you and Linc?"

Shaking my head, I waved it off. "Nothing important. Sorry I interrupted."

Tate looked as if he wanted to press me for details, but decided against it. "We were all hanging out one day talking about homecoming. At first, the conversation centered around who could bring the hottest date. But that wasn't much of a challenge for guys who could have their pick of the dance team or cheer squad. So, we decided to make things interesting."

Nausea began to boil in my stomach as I began to understand where this was going. "Oh, God. You didn't."

He nodded. "We did. I entered a bet with Linc and a few others to see who could bring the worst date. There was this girl, Lindsay... I made her my target."

I widened my eyes at that. "Lindsay Barton?"

"Yes, that's her," he replied.

"She graduated as valedictorian of your class," I said, for no reason in particular. I hadn't known Lindsay well, but she seemed like a nice girl.

"I'm not surprised," he said. "She was smart—too smart to have fallen for the prank, but for some reason, she did. I laid it on thick... started talking to her between classes, flirting with her. I even took her to a movie on a double date with Linc and another girl, all the while priming her for homecoming. She said yes when I asked her, which didn't surprise me."

"She found out about the bet," I prompted when he got quiet again, unable to help the biting edge to my voice. I felt sorry for Lindsay, and I didn't even have the whole story. Something told me it wouldn't end well.

"Oh, she found out what a jackass I could be, that was for sure," he scoffed. "I don't think she ever actually knew it was a bet. After the game, I went home to get ready for the dance, and then picked her up. I could see she had gone all out to look nice. New dress, hair done, makeup—which I'd never seen her wear. She even left off her glasses for the night. I hammed it up real good, giving her a corsage, posing for pictures, opening the car door for her. She never suspected a thing."

Hands shaking around my teacup, I took a deep breath and braced myself for what was next. "But then?"

"But then, we pulled up in the parking lot to find Linc and the guys with their dates waiting for me. They surrounded us when we got out, and the guys told me I'd succeeded in bringing the ugliest girl to homecoming before putting a plastic tiara in my hands and telling me to crown my queen. I did it, like an idiot, because nothing was worse than losing face in front of my friends. I didn't know they were planning this, but I went along with it anyway. I crowned her, then stood back and let them drape her in a toilet paper sash with the word 'pig' written on it in black marker. And it wasn't enough that we humiliated her among ourselves... It was recorded and spread around on Facebook, Snapchat, Instagram... everywhere. Clips of her crying her eyes out wearing that tiara and sash while they stood around her, hurling insults. I didn't join them, but I didn't stop them either. I laughed, even when she took her crown off and threw it at me, calling me a jerk. Then, she ran, and I never saw her again. She was out of school for about a week, and by the time she came back, I'd gotten sick. It started with pain in my face and migraines, then before I knew it, my face started changing—like it was caving in. I missed so many classes that I had to start doing my work from the hospital. Once my condition got so bad I didn't want to be seen, I switched to homeschool. I heard she graduated and went off to school in Florida."

I nodded, a tear streaming down one cheek. "She got a scholarship and was gone the summer after she graduated. Tate, how could you?"

He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze. "I won't make excuses, Bellamy. I told you, I was a different person then. The ghosts had already started haunting me, and I think they saw what I did. Because after that night, they would look at me with this gleam in their eye... it was like they _knew_. I always suspected it was their way of delivering karma. Lindsay wasn't the only person I'd hurt with my arrogance and lack of care for anyone but myself. So, they made me ugly."

Sniffling, I swiped at my damp face with embarrassment. I didn't know why I was crying over a girl I'd never really known. Maybe it was because I knew how it felt to face that sort of embarrassment. No one had ever crowned me as a pig, but I'd been branded a freak plenty of times because of Dad's oddities. There were people who wouldn't even sit next to me in class, certain my father's disease would rub off on them.

"What you did was ugly," I said after I'd composed myself. "Who you were inside was ugly. But you... your face... you are not ugly."

He shook his head, still refusing to look at me. "Say what you want, but I have eyes. Mirrors don't lie. They made me outside what I was inside, and they might also be the reason none of my treatments worked, or why I've never been in remission."

Running a hand over my face, I found myself feeling more tired than I had earlier, despite my nap. "That still doesn't explain why they pointed at you earlier."

"I know," he grumbled. "I still can't figure out how they're holding me responsible for what happened to that ghost. She was already dead when I did what I did to Lindsay."

"Maybe...." I murmured, thinking over what had happened upstairs. "It isn't that you killed her. They're mad at you for what you did and for avoiding them. Maybe this is about them wanting you to take responsibility for the things going on around you. You might not be involved, but you're in a position to do something."

He sat up straight, eyebrows raised. "Is that it? They wanted me to intervene with them, and I failed. Then, they saw me do nothing to help Lindsay, and it made them even madder at me. Maybe if I help them now, it'll end this... this curse on me."

I suppose his illness could be considered a curse. Maybe it had been deserved, but in two years, I knew he'd suffered for what he'd done. Not just because of his physical appearance, but also from the pain and shame it brought him. Perhaps, now, he understood how Lindsay had felt.

"So, where do we start?" I asked.

"With me," he answered, "or rather, with my family and this house. If they chose us specifically, there must be a connection."

I nodded. "I agree, and you're right. That girl was obviously strangled or hanged, so someone murdered her. Somehow, it's connected to you, so let's find out how. We need to look into murders of young women that happened in town around the past two or three years, and try to find the link."

The sound of the front door opening interrupted our conversation, and Tate stood as his parents' voices lilted to us from the entryway.

"You do that, and I'll try to dig up info on my parents or any strange occurrences surrounding the house," he replied. "We'll compare notes and try to figure this thing out."

Nodding in agreement, I stood as well, taking my cup to the sink to wash and return it to its place. "Sounds like a plan."

As I made my way from the kitchen, Tate reached out to take my arm. His voice was a rough whisper when he spoke.

"Bellamy, I... I'm so sorry. The whole Lindsay thing... I've regretted it every day since."

Glancing up at him, I wanted to feel pity. It was hard, because I identified with Lindsay so strongly. "I won't judge you for your past," I said. "But you need to really think about the reason for your regret. Is it because you genuinely realize what you did was wrong, and know you shouldn't have done it, or because you were made to suffer for it?"

He released me as I continued past him, and I could feel his eyes watching me go. I couldn't bring myself to look back.

# Chapter Ten

I spent my weekend investigating murders as far back as four years ago, trying to find some sort of pattern or connection to the Baldwin family. Wellhollow Springs was a small town, and things like that rarely happened here, so there wasn't much to go on. After devoting Saturday and part of Sunday to reading through old newspaper articles online, I gave up and decided to do something to clear my head. I'd just opened one of my unread books on parapsychology when my phone rang. Frowning, I picked it up and noticed Tate's name and number on the screen. That was odd, because he always texted, never called. Plus, we hadn't spoken since Friday night and his confession. For a moment, I wrestled with myself over whether to answer. While I still wanted to help him, I couldn't stop thinking about Lindsay.

Finally deciding to answer, I pressed the phone to my ear. "Hey Tate. What's up?"

"I think I'm on to something dealing with our little... investigation. Can I meet you somewhere? The park, maybe?"

Standing, I started searching for my shoes. It was eight pm and I hadn't eaten for hours, closeting myself in my room with my laptop for research purposes.

"Actually, I was thinking of going to grab some dinner. I'm starving. Want to meet me at Charlene's?"

Charlene's Diner downtown served breakfast all day and had the best waffles I'd ever eaten, so I hoped he said yes. For a moment, he hesitated.

"I don't usually like to go out in public," he said, his voice low.

"At eight o'clock on a Sunday, the place will be dead," I promised him, knowing from experience. "We'll sit in a booth in the back. I'll buy you dinner... or dessert if you've already eaten."

He chuckled. "I do miss their apple pie. You got yourself a deal."

"I'll be there in ten," I said, slipping my feet into a pair of flip-flops.

"See you in a bit," he replied.

I ended the call and slid my phone into my back pocket before grabbing my purse. Halfway down the hall, I had a sudden thought. Turning back to my room, I glanced at myself in the mirror. My hair was in disarray around my head in frizzy coils, and I looked exhausted. Cringing, I took a few minutes to make myself more presentable, running a handful of moisturizer through my hair before pulling it into a high ponytail—making it slightly more appealing than the mess I'd been sporting a second ago. I applied my favorite lip gloss and slipped on some earrings.

I couldn't say why I bothered to make myself pretty to hang out with Tate—it wasn't as if I wanted him to be interested in me. If anything, I should be turned off by the story of what had happened to the last girl he'd shown interest in.

_That's not fair,_ I argued with myself. _That was years ago, and he obviously regrets it. You can't hold it over his head forever._

Besides, I was definitely not interested in Tate _that_ way. Did I like the guy? Yes, despite his less-than-charming traits. I wanted to help him, and he needed someone. That was all there was or ever would be.

Satisfied, I left my room and made my way to the kitchen where Dad sat tinkering with yet another appliance. McGuire's Appliance Repair was getting steady business, which seemed to make him happy and keep him busy. He hadn't mentioned ghosts in a while, and there were no new drawings on his bedroom wall.

"Hey, Dad," I said, pausing in the entrance of the kitchen. "I want to go meet some friends down at Charlene's for dessert. Is that okay?"

He looked up at me with raised eyebrows, shock dropping his jaw. "You're actually going to do something normal on a Sunday night? With actual people?"

I laughed. "So it would seem. I'll bring you back a slice of pie if you want."

Rubbing his belly, he chuckled. "I don't think I need that. But you go, have fun. What time will you be back?"

"Oh, no later than ten, I think," I replied. I didn't think my conversation with Tate would take up much time.

With a nod, he went back to work on the toaster oven in pieces in front of him. "Sounds good. Be careful."

"I will," I called out, already breezing through the living room, keys in hand.

The drive to Charlene's was quick, and I found Tate waiting for me in the parking lot, seated inside his car. He came out when I approached the driver's side door, appearing like a burglar in his black hoodie and matching baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Only his nose and the line of his jaw were visible, hiding a great deal of his facial deformity. He held a manila envelope in one hand and gestured toward the diner with the other.

"Shall we?"

I nodded, preceding him to the door. His long arm reached out, and he grabbed the handle before I could, swinging the door open for me. To my relief, the place was all but empty, with an elderly couple seated near the window, and a few men seated at the long counter. I let Tate choose our place—a booth situated in the back corner of the restaurant, where he took a seat with his back to the door. I slid in across from him.

"Tate, there's hardly anyone here," I whispered, leaning toward him across the table. "You could at least let your hood down."

Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, he lowered the hood slowly. "The hoodie makes people more comfortable talking to me, and it guards me from the staring."

"This is Georgia," I pointed out. "You wear a hooded sweatshirt in June, people will stare."

He snorted and rolled his eyes, neglecting to reply. A moment later, our waitress appeared with menus, which Tate and I waved off since we already knew what we wanted. I ordered the pecan waffles, while Tate asked for his pie and a cup of coffee. The waitress smiled at us, oblivious to Tate or his condition as he'd conveniently situated himself so the smooth side of his face could be seen by her. She left us alone after bringing coffee, so Tate dove in.

"Before I tell you what I found, have you dug up anything on your end yet?" he asked.

Between sips of coffee, I shook my head. "Not yet. I've started looking into the deaths of women in Wellhollow Springs starting back four years ago, specifically seeking out murders. Nothing's come up yet, so I'll move on to the year following, leading up to when you got sick. I'm sure something will turn up if I keep digging."

Tate nodded. "Okay. Meanwhile, I started thinking about major things that happened in my family around that time, and I didn't come up with much. But then, I started digging around for info on Baldwin & Co. I figured, if anything has ties to this, it has to be the family business."

Considering the fact that his father's multi-million-dollar real estate development company was responsible for most of the town's housing districts, he might be right. Douglas Baldwin and his business had ties to everything and everyone in Wellhollow Springs. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it before.

"That makes sense," I replied. "So, what did you find?"

"It's not huge, but I think there's more beneath the surface," he replied, opening the folder and dumping a stack of photos out in front of me.

Glancing down at them, I flipped through the printed images. Most were of Douglas Baldwin, dressed in a dress shirt and tie, wearing a hard hat, surrounded by other people in similar attire. All around him, acres of undeveloped land stretched out. Behind him, a wooden sign surrounded by balloons read 'East Valley Village, Coming Soon to Wellhollow Springs. Baldwin & Co. Real Estate Development'.

"East Valley," I murmured. "Isn't that the neighborhood on the edge of town with the expensive houses?"

Tate nodded and fell silent while the waitress approached with our food. The aroma of waffles drenched in butter wafted up my nose, making my stomach growl. Tate's pie looked good too, with a scoop of ice cream on the side.

"Anything else I can get you?" the waitress asked.

"We're good, thanks," Tate said, obviously anxious to get back to our talk.

Once the waitress was out of earshot, he answered my question. "Yes, that's the place. Baldwin & Co. broke ground on that land two and a half years ago... about seven months or so before all this started."

"I don't understand," I managed between bites of waffle. "What does East Valley have to do with the ghosts?"

"I don't know for sure yet," he answered. "But what I do know is that something isn't right about the way East Valley came about. As you know, Baldwin & Co. is responsible for purchasing and developing a lot of the land around Wellhollow Springs, before selling it all off at a huge profit. East Valley was supposed to be my dad's crowning achievement. A luxury, developed community for people with means—houses that start at half a million, in a gated community, with private schools, pools, clubhouses, tennis courts, gyms, the works. Everyone was excited about it, even the local government, because they saw it as something that could boost the economy. If wealthy people want to live here, it brings more spending power. He worked on his plans for the place for a year or so before striking out to make it happen. There's only one problem with the whole thing."

I raised my eyebrows as he paused to take a huge bite of pie. I tapped my fork against my plate, impatiently waiting for the big reveal. "Well?"

Swallowing, he took a sip of coffee and wiped his mouth on his napkin. "Baldwin & Co. was almost bankrupt when the project was launched. I'm not sure how or why, but I overheard my dad talking to Ezra about it. Something needed to be done to get the company out of the red, or they would lose everything. Ezra was looking into various solutions, and Dad spent hours late at night locked in his office. I never told anyone what I heard, and I don't think my mother even knew about it, even though she works within the company."

I frowned. "But East Valley is almost finished, isn't it? Houses are already selling out there. How did he pull it off?"

He shrugged. "That's the thing. I have no idea. One day, they announced that Baldwin & Co. would be breaking ground on the land purchased for East Valley, and, within months, the houses started popping up. I completely forgot about what I overheard until I found these photos."

"Hmmm," I mumbled. "I don't know, Tate. Maybe they figured it out. Sold some of their assets, or whatever it is big companies do to regain their losses. Your dad is a shrewd businessman, just like his dad and grandfather, which is why your family is legendary around here. He didn't become so wealthy by accident; he knows what he's doing."

Shaking his head, Tate set his fork aside, now finished eating. "I'd be inclined to agree with you, if it weren't for the fact that there's simply no way he pulled it off in such a short time. Not with the amount they needed, plus how deep in the hole they were. I mean, maybe he could have raised the money himself for East Valley, expecting the sale of the land and houses to make him the money back plus profit, but even our family finances were in trouble from what I overheard. There's just no way."

I nodded. "So, you're thinking there was some back-alley stuff going on, and maybe it has something to do with the ghosts?"

"I know it's farfetched, but I also realized that not long after East Valley began construction was when the ghosts turned up, and, of course, right after that I got sick. Plus, he changed, Bellamy. I know you don't know him that well, but he wasn't always so cold. Whatever happened, it has affected him in some way. Maybe not the same way it's affected me, but somehow..."

He trailed off, his face growing pensive as he seemed to try to figure it all out.

"It could be a good lead," I relented. "Especially if what you say about your dad is true. I mean, maybe the ghosts pointing at you was a way for them to implicate him."

Still silent, Tate stared down into his coffee cup. Realizing what this could all mean, I reached out to touch one of his hands, covering it with mine on the table.

"You said he changed," I whispered. "But you don't think he's a killer, do you?"

He shook his head, but I couldn't tell if he was saying he didn't know, or if he simply wasn't sure. "A few years ago, I might have told you no. But now... I don't know, Bell. He's not the man he used to be. Now, he's cold and distant... I don't know who he is."

I inclined my head. "Bell?"

He glanced up at me sheepishly, as if just realizing he'd shortened my name. "Sorry, it just kind of slipped out."

Smiling, I gave his hand a squeeze. He turned it over, putting his palm against mine and squeezing back. "It's okay. I like it, actually. Bell has a nice ring to it. Ha! Get it? Bell? Ring?"

He laughed, a wide smile crossing his face, with one side of his mouth lifting a bit higher than the other due to his condition. I found the lopsided grin adorable.

"You are so corny."

I snatched my hand away. "Whatever."

He laughed again. "It's cute. I like corny."

My smile faded and laughter died in my throat. He _liked_ corny and wanted to give me a nickname? And I was wearing lip gloss and had styled my hair to look good for him. This could not be happening. I could _not_ develop a crush on Tate Baldwin.

Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair, lowering his hands to his lap. "Anyway, I think I should dig a bit deeper on this—maybe try to dig up whatever I can find on the family and business finances that year. The money had to come from somewhere. Maybe that can be our next clue, and it will lead to another piece of the puzzle."

"That's a great idea," I said quickly, jumping at the chance to breeze past the tension that had suddenly manifested between us. "Meanwhile, I'll stay on my present course. If I can figure out who those women were and how they died, I might be able to tie them to your dad or Baldwin & Co. and East Valley."

The waitress approached then with our check. I reached into my purse for my wallet, but before I could fish out any money, Tate had slapped a twenty on top of the receipt, adding more for a tip.

"Here," he said to the waitress. "Keep the change."

"Thank you," she chirped, taking up his payment before stuffing it in her apron and taking our plates.

Frowning at him, I dropped my wallet back into my purse. "I said it was on me."

He shrugged. "I know. Guess you need to be quicker getting your wallet out next time."

Next time. He thought there would be another 'time'. Of us. Eating together. And talking.

_Relax,_ I chastised myself. _He probably just means the next time we meet to talk over evidence._

Standing, I stretched, groaning as my stiff muscles protested over being seated for so long. Tate followed suit, rising and putting his hands in his pockets. Arms over my head, I caught his gaze, my face going hot when I realized that my top had risen a good two inches or so and that his gaze had dropped to my exposed stomach.

Quickly fixing it, I forced myself to speak even though my mouth had gone completely dry. "Yeah, well, next time I'll order half the menu and leave my wallet at home," I joked.

Tate laughed, but it was forced, his own face going red. Did he realize I'd caught him looking? Was there something about what he'd seen that appealed to him?

I didn't think I wanted to know the answer to those questions, so I began walking toward the door, forcing him to follow.

"So, I guess I'll see you tomorrow," I said as we approached the front of the diner. Pausing with one hand on the door, I glanced out into the night, dread curling in my gut at what I found.

Standing around Tate's car were Lincoln and two other guys from the football team. They seemed to be waiting for something, with Lincoln even leaning against the passenger door of the car.

"Shit," Tate muttered, coming up behind me and glancing out at them. "They recognized my car. Maybe if we just go sit back down, they'll go away after a while."

I turned to glance at him, saddened to find anxiety written all over his face. "Do you think I'm ashamed to be seen with you or something?"

He hesitated for a moment before answering. "No?"

I nodded. "Damn right, I'm not. Unless you don't want to be seen with me?"

Tate frowned. "Of course that's not the problem. It's just..."

"Hey, it's Tate the Great!" one of the guys boomed from outside, having seen us through the glass door.

"Damn it," Tate groaned.

The other two guys perked up, glancing our way. Left with no choice now that they'd seen us, I pushed the door open and stepped out into the night with Tate on my heels.

"What's up, man?" Lincoln said, his face fixed with a wide smile as he approached us with his friends flanking him. "Where you been?"

Pulling his hood up over his head, Tate lowered his eyes. "Nowhere, Linc. Just... been sick, is all."

Inclining his head as if trying to see through Tate's hat and hood, Lincoln came closer. "Too sick to take your best friend's calls... but not too sick to hang out with the ice queen here."

Rolling my eyes, I folded my arms across my chest and moved to walk past him. "Nice to see you too, Lincoln."

His hand shot out and closed around my arm, halting my progress. "Is this how it is?" he muttered, giving me a pull until I was almost pressed against him. "You blow me off, but you'll go out with _him_?"

"Don't touch her!" Tate bellowed, already moving in our direction.

The other two blocked him off, each grabbing one of Tate's arms to hold him back. They struggled to keep him away, but succeeded, using their bulky bodies to keep him from Lincoln and me, laughing as he fought against him.

"Leave her alone," he growled, his voice low and shaking with rage.

"Whoa!" Lincoln laughed. "What's this, buddy? I don't think I've ever seen you like this over a bitch. Though, I guess I could understand in this case. Lindsay was a dog, but this one..." He trailed off, pulling me closer and pressing his nose against my hair. "Mmmm, this one's cute _and_ she smells good."

I cringed, shudders of revulsion running down my spine. "It's called soap. Maybe I can teach you how to use it sometime. I'll show you just where you can shove it."

Pushing me away from him, Lincoln scoffed. "Smart-ass mouth, though," he muttered, ignoring me now for Tate.

I stumbled a bit, but I didn't fall, watching as Lincoln advanced on the two guys holding Tate. "Lincoln, don't!"

Ignoring me, he paused just in front of Tate, his smile turning into a sneer. "Let's see what all the fuss is about. Are the rumors true about you being a deformed freak?"

" _No_ ," Tate cried, panic creeping into his voice as Lincoln reached up to pull his hood down. "Stop!"

I made a move toward Lincoln, but he used one beefy arm to block me, still wrestling to pull the hood back with his free hand, while Tate struggled to keep it on.

"Oh, it must be really bad if you won't let..." he cut off in midsentence, now holding Tate's hat in his hand.

The hood had fallen away, and the bright lights coming from the diner hid nothing as he stood there, exposed to them all.

Lincoln's mouth fell open, and then laughter began to pour out as he tossed the hat aside, clutching his stomach as if it hurt from laughing so hard. Tate clenched his jaw and glared at him, redness flooding his face. A vein began to throb in his neck, and I thought he might blow a gasket any second.

"What the hell happened to your face, man?" he managed between laughs. "You look like shit!"

Refusing to reply, Tate simply stood there, unwilling to look away now that they'd gotten a full view of his face.

"Is this what you like, Bellamy?" Lincoln taunted, casting a glance at me. "Ugly guys turn you on? Here, let me make him uglier for you."

The punch happened so fast that there was no way Tate could have prepared for it. Thrown off balance as Lincoln drove a fist into his face, he fell to one knee, jerking his arm out of one of the guys' hold. I gasped, watching as Lincoln took another swing, catching Tate in the jaw with an uppercut this time.

"There," Lincoln spat, circling Tate while his friends backed off, leaving him lying on the ground. "How's it feel, hotshot? You might still be rich, but you ain't shit anymore! How's it feel to know you're not as good as you thought you were? You're no better than the rest of us!"

He lifted a foot to kick Tate, but I rushed toward him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling with all my might until we both toppled back onto the ground. I rolled away before he could fall on top of me, struggling to my feet as Lincoln sprawled on his back, an enraged roar tearing from him. Before he could get up, Tate had risen and was on him, pressing a knee into Lincoln's chest before returning punch for punch. Blood splattered the pavement as Lincoln's head was thrown left from the force of the blow. Tate raised his fist to go back for more, but the other two boys stepped in, each grabbing Tate under the arm and dragging him back so Lincoln could stand.

"Stop it," I cried, following them as they pushed him against the car, trying to hold him there for Lincoln to keep pounding on. "That's enough!"

"Let him go," Lincoln bellowed, stumbling toward him. "And get the hell out of my way."

The guys obeyed, backing off and watching with glee as their idiot friend advanced on Tate—who came away from the car, wiping his bloody nose on the sleeve of his hoodie before putting his fists up.

Lincoln swung first, catching Tate in the chest. Grasping his wrist, Tate twisted until Lincoln spun around, his arm at a painful angle.

Tate yanked up on it, causing an audible pop and snap, which mixed with the sound of Lincoln's pitiful screams. He fell to his knees, and Tate released his arm, but he didn't stop there.

"Tate, no," I urged, hoping to talk some sense into him before this went too far.

Apparently, we'd passed the point of no return, because Tate ignored me, putting a foot against Lincoln's chest and pushing him to his back. Then, kneeling over him, he drew his fist back and let it fly. Once. Twice. Three times. Then more... until Lincoln's groans faded away, and blood stained Tate's knuckles. Until I began to grow afraid he'd kill him.

Rushing toward them, I grabbed Tate's arm before he could take another swing.

Turning his head to glare at me over his shoulder, he screamed, "Let me go!"

"No," I yelled back, tightening my hold. "It's over, Tate. Look at him! Look at yourself."

At my last words, he seemed to notice the blood coating his knuckles. Glancing down at Lincoln, he grunted in acknowledgement of my plea. Standing, he shook his hand, causing droplets of blood to fly.

"Get up," he growled, staring down at Lincoln's prone form. "Now."

Cursing under his breath, Lincoln obeyed, struggling to his feet. Clutching his arm, which now hung at a weird angle, he glared and spat a stream of blood onto Tate's shoes.

"You dislocated my shoulder, you asshole!"

"I'll do worse than that if you ever touch her again," Tate replied, hand still curled into a fist at his side. "Apologize to her."

Lincoln glanced from Tate to me, then back again, as if trying to estimate whether he could get away with not following the order.

Tate grabbed his injured shoulder, giving it a squeeze, driving Lincoln back to his knees. "I said apologize!"

"Shit! I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay?" he squealed, squirming to get out of Tate's hold.

Nodding, Tate released him, and then went to retrieve his hat. "Get the hell away from me. Next time, she won't be able to stop me, so I suggest you keep your distance."

With the help of his friends, Lincoln was on his feet, walking toward his truck.

"This isn't over," he called over his shoulder from across the parking lot. "You both better watch your backs!"

Tate watched them go with narrowed eyes, his nostrils flared as his chest heaved with barely contained wrath. Once they'd driven off, he paced toward his car, leaning back against the hood and pressing the sleeve of his sweatshirt against his nose. Groaning, he tried to stop the flow of blood.

"Damn it, that hurt."

Coming toward him, I reached into my purse and retrieved a pack of tissues. "Here."

He flinched away from me when I came close, trying to help by pressing the tissue to his nose. "Don't," he hissed. "Don't touch me."

Brows furrowed, I backed away as he'd asked, uncertain why him pulling away made my chest ache. "Tate, I'm just trying to help."

Yanking his hood back over his head, he shook his head. "I don't need any help from you. You got that? Stop trying to fix me or make me whole again! I don't need it, and I don't need you!"

My mouth dropped open as I tried to digest what was happening. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you and your bright ideas," he snapped, now pacing back and forth. "'Oh, it's okay to go out to eat at Charlene's, Tate, no one will be there to see you.'"

Sighing, I ran my hands over my messed-up hair. "I had no way of knowing they'd come here. I was just—"

"Just don't," he said, pausing to glare down at me. "Whatever you were doing or trying to do, just stop it. I didn't ask you to try to make a project out of me. I don't like going out in public, I told you that already, but you just had to drag me out and turn me into a spectacle." Whirling away from me, he stomped toward his car, fishing his keys from the pocket of his jeans. "Go home, Bellamy."

Without waiting for me to respond, or to see if I even made it into my car, Tate threw himself behind the wheel and slammed the door. Seconds later, he sped off with a screech of tires, leaving me standing in the dark parking lot, alone.

# Chapter Eleven

I was pissed. Being left alone in a dark parking lot—my heart pounding like a sledgehammer, hands shaking, and my nerves frazzled beyond repair—had filled my veins with molten hot lava. Instead of finding an outlet for the feeling, I stifled it, stomping to my car and getting inside before making the short drive home. Once there, I was grateful Dad had gone to bed, or I might not have been able to face him without having a breakdown. I spent an hour trying to calm down, showering and changing into my pajamas, snuggling in bed with a book, and then giving it up in favor of Netflix.

Nothing I did made me feel better about what had happened in front of Charlene's, and I couldn't let it go. I couldn't stop replaying the encounter in my mind again and again, reliving the horror I'd felt as Tate's face was exposed to be made fun of, or the fear I'd experienced wondering if he and Lincoln would kill each other... not to mention the revulsion of having to suffer through Lincoln's unwanted touch. I still felt dirty, even after a hot shower. The whole thing left a bitter taste in my mouth, and there was only one way to get rid of it.

Once I arrived at Baldwin House the next morning, I stopped by the kitchen briefly to find the kids still eating. It looked as if they'd gotten a late start to their day—they had just sat down for breakfast and weren't even dressed yet. Perfect. I wanted the kids distracted while I handled some business. Hands balled into fists, I marched up all three flights of stairs, ignoring the rose petals as I came to the landing of the third floor. The ghosts were going to have to wait, because right then, I had another problem that needed to be set right.

Pausing in front of the door, I knocked, the sound reverberating with the force of my annoyance. No answer. I counted to ten, and then tried again, being met with silence once more.

"Open the door, Tate," I yelled to be heard through the thick wood. "You weren't in the library, so I know you're in there!"

A few seconds later, he hollered in response. "Go away!"

"Not until you open this door," I fired back. "I have some things to say to you, and I want to look you in the eye when I do."

"I'm not in the mood today, Bellamy," he replied, his voice lower this time. "Just leave me alone."

"Like hell I will," I muttered, grabbing the doorknob and throwing the door open.

I charged through the opening, prepared to give him a piece of my mind, but I faltered when I realized he was practically naked, standing in the doorway of the bathroom connecting to his bedroom, a towel wrapped around his hips. Wet hair clung to his forehead and neck, a few drops running down his chest.

I gasped, turning my back to him, but not before I got an eyeful of Tate's naked upper body. Much thinner than he used to be, he still had lines of definition etching through his abs and chest.

"Put some clothes on, because I'm not leaving," I grumbled, keeping my back turned and folding my arms across my chest. "I'm turning around in thirty seconds."

"What part of 'leave me alone' didn't you understand," he retorted, even though I could hear him moving around behind me.

"Twenty-five seconds," I warned.

He didn't answer, but a few seconds later, the sounds of movement stopped. "You can turn around now."

I spun to find him covered in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt—sans hoodie for a change. The bruise spreading from his nose toward his eyes caused me to experience pity for a split second, before I remembered my reason for coming up here. Pushing aside the sympathy, I reached for the rage. Hands on my hips, I came closer, pausing just in front of him, glancing up to meet his gaze.

"I came to talk to you about last night," I began.

"For what?" he interrupted, his neck and shoulders tensing as he fisted his hands at his sides. "Everything that needed to be said was said... it's over."

"No," I spat. " _You_ did all the talking last night, so now it's my turn. And you are going to stand here and listen to me until I'm done."

Folding his arms over his chest, he inclined his head and pursed his lips. "Well?"

"What happened last night sucked," I continued, refusing to back down now that we were face to face. "But that does not excuse your behavior. You had no right to talk to me like that, when I didn't do anything to deserve it, and leaving me alone in that parking lot was a jackass move."

Tate's nostrils flared and his mouth grew tight at the corners as he replied from between clenched teeth. "If we hadn't been there in the first place—"

"But we were there," I interjected. "Get over it! I know you've been holed up in this room for a long time, but in case you've forgotten, interacting with stupid people is a part of life. Being made fun of and called names is something I've dealt with much longer than you have. It happens when idiots like Lincoln, who know they're never going to amount to anything, take it out on the people they know probably will."

"You don't know what it's like—"

"To have a disfiguring disease?" I challenged. "No, I don't. But you know what I have experienced? Being called names and laughed at by rooms full of people. You think it sucked to have three people laugh at you in a parking lot? Try being the laughingstock of the entire junior class—or hell, the entire town! Why don't you ask my dad what it's like to be different and have people treat him like a leper because of it? Or better yet, why don't you give Lindsay a call and ask her how it feels to be humiliated on the freaking Internet by a bunch of immature assholes?"

Tate stared at me in silence, his eyes wide as if unable to believe what he was hearing. My voice had risen with every sentence, and I felt as if I were about to start crying. Despite not wanting to embarrass myself that way, I couldn't stop.

"You hide yourself up here because you're afraid someone will look at you and think you're ugly," I continued, my tone softening. "But all the hype built up about you around town is because of your decision to hide. If you weren't so protective of your weakness—your insecurity—people wouldn't be able to use it against you. And maybe, Tate, if you stopped being surly, irritable, and downright mean all the time, people could come to see you for who you really are—the person I thought I was starting to like. You think your face is ugly, and maybe it isn't perfect, but it's not the part of you that's jacked up."

Turning on my heels to leave before I could lose control of my emotions, I stalked toward the door with swift steps. Pausing in the doorway, I turned back to find him still standing where I'd left him, staring at his feet.

"Oh, and one more thing," I added. "If you ever leave me alone in a dark parking lot again, I will kick your ass."

Without waiting for a reply, I slammed the door and left, not bothering to turn back. The anger that had stolen hours of sleep from me the night before had eased a bit, and my hands had stopped shaking. Ready to get to work, I made my way back downstairs, putting all thoughts of Tate aside for now.

* * *

I wasn't able to forget Tate for long. I had only been home from work for an hour when the doorbell rang. I'd just been about to order a pizza, and Dad was on his way out to inspect someone's broken refrigerator. We exchanged bewildered glances at the sound, confused since no one ever visited. My aunt and her family lived hours away in Atlanta and would have called if they were coming. Neither of us had many friends who would just pop over to say hello.

"I'll get it," he said. "You finish that pizza order."

Going back to the app on my phone, I turned my attention back to picking pizza toppings while he left me in the kitchen to answer the door.

Just as I was submitting the order, he appeared again, his expression now more confused than ever.

"You have a visitor," he said, indicating the person appearing from behind him.

I glanced up and choked on a gasp when my gaze collided with Tate's. He was wearing shorts and the same T-shirt from earlier—no sweatshirt. There was a hat, but it was in his hands instead of on his head, his hair a bit mussed from him wearing it. There was a file folder beneath one of his arms.

"Hey," he said, almost appearing to be nervous. "Hope you don't mind I stopped by."

Forcing a smile, I tried not to cringe at the thought of how horrible I must look. I'd changed into my pajamas as soon as I'd come home and piled my hair on top of my head in a messy topknot. My pajama bottoms had tiny depictions of Yoda all over them, and the T-shirt I wore was one of my favorites—a worn black tee with Storm from _X-Men_ on the front; lightning crackled from her hands, and the words 'make it rain' were beneath her.

"No," I said, quickly finding my voice. "It's cool."

"Bellamy, I'm going to run that errand," Dad said, glancing back and forth between Tate and me with open curiosity. "Tate, you should stay. Bellamy ordered pizza."

"Thank you, sir," he replied, avoiding my dad's gaze and blushing.

I found myself strangely amused by the fact that he blushed when he was nervous.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," Dad said, extending a hand to Tate.

I smiled as they shook hands, and Tate glanced up to find that my dad was looking him in the eye and not cringing away because of his appearance. A bit of smugness struck me as I realized I'd been right. Maybe not everyone would try to see past his disease, but there were many who would. My father had just proved it.

"Be back in a bit," Dad said before kissing the top of my head and disappearing through the living room and out the front door.

Once the door closed behind him, we stood on opposite sides of the kitchen, staring at each other in silence. Without the hood and baseball cap casting shadows over his face, it really wasn't so bad. Or maybe I'd just grown used to it, having learned how to see beyond his deformity. His eyes seemed more striking now, accentuated by the dark color of his hair.

I cleared my throat and gestured toward the living room. "Wanna sit? Pizza shouldn't be long."

This was ridiculous. I saw him all the time—had spent weeks in his house. Why was this so awkward?

"Yeah, okay," he said, letting me lead the way from the kitchen. Once I'd sat on the couch, he sat beside me, leaving a bit of space between us. He held up the folder. "I gathered some info—records of my dad's personal and business finances from the year East Valley construction began. I thought we could go through it together to look for clues."

"Sounds like a good plan," I said, trying to force the tension out of my back and relax. "Where'd you get access to all that?"

"Ezra's office," he replied. "He locks it when he leaves every day, but Mom has a set of keys to every door in the house in her office. It didn't take long for me to find what I was looking for."

I laughed drily. "Something tells me Ezra wouldn't take too kindly to you poking around his office."

Tate laughed. "He would not, so let's keep this between us."

Accepting the folder from him, I opened it, revealing a thick stack of documents. "Well, let's get started."

Placing a hand over mine, he took a deep breath. "Before we get into that, I want to tell you something."

I set the folder aside, and then turned a bit on the couch to face him. "Okay?"

"I won't try to apologize... again," he said. "I regret what happened last night, and the fault isn't completely with Lincoln. I lost control, and I went too far. I just want you to know..." He lowered his head. "Part of the reason I lost control was because of the way he treated you. I didn't like it—the way he grabbed you, the things he said. What happened to me is my fault, and I brought it on myself. I treated people badly before, and now karma is biting me in the ass. But you... you're one of the kindest people I've ever met, Bell. You're sweet, you're smart, and I know you don't deserve to be treated like that by someone like him."

"I'm okay, though," I insisted. "He grossed me out, but I wasn't hurt."

He nodded, turning his head to look at me again. "I know. I knew that then, too. It won't happen again; I can promise you that. The violence, or the way I treated you. I wasn't mad at you, I was angry with Linc, hurt, and embarrassed... Very few people have seen my face outside you, Ezra, my family, and the doctors. I wasn't ready for it to happen, but what's done is done. I'm sick, and I can't change the way I look. What I can change is how I treat people. I'm going to do better, Bell. I'm going to try."

I lifted my eyebrows, feeling a lump rising in my throat as I found myself becoming emotional again. What was it about Tate that made me want to fix things—not him, per se, but the world around him? To be his friend when everyone else had abandoned him? To see the beauty in him when disease had rendered him deformed?

"Wow," I managed. "For a non-apology, that was well done. Thank you, Tate."

He shrugged. "You said a lot of things to me this morning that I needed to hear. No one has ever talked to me like that, and I think it's because no one cared enough until you. Everyone else let me get away with my bullshit, but you won't."

"Dang right I won't," I teased, leaning closer and nudging his shoulder with mine.

"That's why I like you," he murmured, his face flushing again. "I like being around you."

His declaration made my stomach flip and a rush of blood in my veins I wasn't sure I liked. Still, I did the one thing that would only make it worse. I reached out to take his hand.

As he glanced up at me, I smiled. "I like being around you, too... you know, when you're nice to me."

Tate laughed, still hanging on to my hand. "Fair enough."

After another few seconds, I took my hand back and stood. "You want a soda or something? We can start going through those papers while we wait for the pizza."

His voice followed me to the kitchen. "Sure, whatever you have is fine!"

I grabbed two canned sodas and joined him on the couch again. After I opened the folder, we split the papers, deciding to comb through them in search of anything that seemed out of place.

At some point, the pizza arrived, and, eventually, we ended up seated on the floor with paper plates, the pizza box on the coffee table, and papers and forms spread out all around us.

"I think I found something," Tate said, polishing off his second slice.

He'd replaced his hat on his head, but backward, causing a tuft of his dark brown hair to thrust up messily through the hole. I replaced the half-eaten slice of pizza on my paper plate and moved closer to him to see the handful of papers he held up.

"What is it?" I asked.

"A tax return from three years ago," he replied, pointing to the IRS logo at the top of the first page. "These are the business taxes, not the family's... look at these numbers. They're far too low. There's no way Baldwin & Co. could have afforded to launch East Valley."

Glancing over the paper, I saw a lot of big numbers, but I took Tate's word for it. It made sense, because a company as large as Baldwin & Co. had salaries to pay, including the millions Douglas and Faith brought home every year.

"That money had to come from somewhere," I murmured, going back to my stack of papers. "Let's keep looking."

Tate nodded and went back to his task. After a few more minutes of shuffling through papers while finishing my pizza, I struck gold.

"Tate, look," I said, lifting up the bank statement I'd just come across. "A bank statement from June of the same year. There's a deposit here that caught my eye."

Tate accepted the stapled pages, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "That's a lot of zeroes."

I nodded in agreement. "There are no deposits this big for the whole year—even your dad's salary wasn't this much. What changed?"

Taking the papers back from him, I continued flipping through them. "Maybe there's a deposit slip copy or something." Pausing on a page, I gasped, showing it to Tate. "Bingo. A check for an insane amount of money made out to Douglas Baldwin from Canton Haines."

Glancing at the photocopy printout of the deposited check, he frowned. "Canton Haines, the mayor?"

I met his gaze and shook my head. "Not anymore. His daughter ran for office a little over a year ago and won. It was a pretty big deal, since she's the town's first female mayor."

"Interesting," Tate murmured. "Canton was the first black mayor back in 1980. How did he manage to stay in office so long?"

"Wellhollow Springs loved him," I murmured, still looking at the check. "In the state of Georgia, there is no term limit. He kept running and winning, so he stayed mayor."

Tate set his papers aside and rested his chin in his palm. "This makes no sense. A mayor is a public servant. How does he have eight figures to just throw around?"

"I seem to remember a book deal and a lot of news appearances," I answered, searching my memory for anything that would fit in with what we'd found. "He's pretty famous in Georgia—lots of charity work and accolades. Plus, he came from a well-off family, if I remember correctly."

"Millions of dollars to just give someone for no reason?" he mused aloud. "Something's off about it. Even my dad would cringe at writing a check that big."

I nod. "You're right, it's weird. Is he friends with your dad or something? Maybe it was just a loan."

"A loan, maybe," he said grudgingly. "But I wouldn't call them friends. More like associates. I mean, they've both had a lot to do with making this town what it is, but they don't play golf together or go to each other's houses for dinner. Maybe it was just a loan and Dad is paying it back. Let's keep looking for any indication that he did."

After another half hour of digging, we found nothing showing that Douglas ever paid Canton Haines back a single penny. The entire amount had, however, been transferred to the company, which we now knew had been used to get the East Valley development off the ground.

"So," I said as we gathered all the paperwork to place it neatly back in the folder. "We know that your dad took money from the former mayor to use for East Valley. Now we need to know why."

Standing, Tate tucked the folder under his arm. "I'll do a little more digging to see if I can find more connections between my dad and Canton Haines. Maybe there's some stuff I missed. Meanwhile, you keep up your search for murder victims. You might uncover the missing piece."

I joined him, stretching as the blood rushed back to my legs. "Okay, I will. I'm glad you came over tonight. We're making progress on our little mystery."

Tate gave me a mischievous smile and took a step closer. "Is that the only reason you're glad I'm here?"

His voice deepened, and there was this gleam in his eyes that struck me as undeniable. Holy crapballs, Tate Baldwin was flirting with me.

I smiled, but it wobbled and my laugh came out all squeaky. "I guess it was nice to hang out. You sure can put the pizza away, though."

"Look who's talking," he murmured, reminding me I'd had three slices myself.

Luckily, my dad had an entire personal supreme pizza to himself—it was waiting for him in the oven. I couldn't stand all those vegetables on a dish that was supposed to be all about the sauce and cheese.

"Tell your dad thanks for letting me stick around," he said as I walked him to the door. "It was cool of him. I know if I were a dad, I wouldn't leave some random guy alone with my pretty daughter."

I stood staring at him in shock as he crossed over to the porch before turning back to say good-bye. I might have muttered a response, but couldn't remember being able to form coherent words. Yet, once he was gone and the door was closed, I turned to lean against it, a dopey grin on my face.

It was happening. I'd tried to avoid it, but there was no fighting it now.

He gave me his favorite book.

He called me Bell.

He fought for me when another guy tried to treat me like crap.

He liked being around me.

He was supposed to be ugly, but to me, there was more than met the eye.

That did it. I had developed a stupid, girlish, wildly inappropriate crush on Tate Baldwin.

# Chapter Twelve

"Hey, Dad! Bye, Dad!"

My father poked his head through the open door of his bedroom as I breezed past, in a hurry to get back to Baldwin House to pick up Emma and Max. I had come home for a quick change of clothes and to put on more comfortable walking shoes. Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin were both burning the midnight oil at work, and had asked me to stay late yet again. The kids had been disappointed by the last-minute change of plans, as their parents had promised to take them to Wellhollow Springs' annual summer festival. So, I'd volunteered to take them instead. Ezra was keeping an eye on them while I ran home to change and grab some extra spending cash.

"Hey, hold up," he called, following me down the hall.

I paused in the living room, turning to face him. "Kids are waiting, Dad."

He laughed, reaching out to grab and hug me. "I know, but I've barely seen you all week. Babysitting... dinners at Charlene's... pizza dates in the living room..."

Glancing up at him with a smirk, I stifled a laugh. "Dad, it wasn't a 'date'. He just happened to come by after I'd already ordered. You're the one who told him to stay and eat."

He shrugged but kept an arm around me, keeping me from escape. "True. Is he going with you and the kids to the festival?"

I had considered asking, but thought better of it. "No. Crowded events aren't really his thing. Dad, what are you really trying to ask me?"

Giving me his most innocent face, he avoided my gaze. "I'm not trying to be nosy or anything, just..."

Patting his belly, I rose up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Stop worrying. Tate and I have become friends. That's all."

"Okay, munchkin," he replied, finally letting me go. "Tate seems like a nice guy but... well, he did used to have quite a reputation with girls. As your father, it's my job to make sure you don't get hurt."

Thinking of Lindsay, I cringed. Tate's reputation certainly preceded him. But that should only be a problem if I were dating him. Which I most certainly was not.

"I know you want to protect me, but that won't always be possible, you know," I reminded him. "But I love that you want to try. You don't need to worry. Tate has been through a lot, and he's changed. I think he just really needs a good friend, you know?"

Dad gave me a smile. "Yes, of course. Just don't forget that the boy has eyes. You're a beautiful girl, and... you know... hormones."

I giggled. "We had the talk, Dad. I'm well aware of the, you know, hormones."

He made a face. "You and Mom had the talk... I tuned it all out and tried to pretend my baby girl wasn't old enough for all that."

"Thank goodness for Mom, then." Glancing at my phone, I shoved it in my back pocket and continued toward the door. "Gotta go, Dad. Bye!"

"Have fun," he called out, following me to the door. "Bring me back a funnel cake!"

Giving him a thumbs-up, I got into the car and quickly cranked it. I made the drive back to Baldwin House, trying not to think too much about Dad's warning. Apparently, he'd seen the same thing I'd realized last night when Tate had dropped by. I'd never been good at controlling my facial expressions, which mean if my Dad could see it, Tate could too.

How embarrassing.

It was just a little crush, and it would pass. There was no reason it had to turn into a _thing_. But what if Tate wanted it to be a thing? What if he felt the same way about me?

I told myself to get real. Even if he did, there was no way it could last. Our coming together had been completely accidental. Once the summer ended, what reason would I have to keep seeing him?

Arriving back at the mansion, I pushed those thought aside, deciding to throw myself into having a good time with the kids tonight. They'd both been really excited when I'd stepped in to take them—even Max, who had begun to warm up to me a bit more, seeming to realize I was there to stay.

Ezra and the kids met me outside the front door, smiling down at me as I ascended the front steps.

"Thank goodness you're here," he quipped. "I thought I was going to have to tranquilize this one."

He indicated Emma, who bounced up and down beside him, her usual French braids hanging beneath a pink baseball cap. Max stood on the other side of Ezra's chair, holding his sister's booster seat in one hand.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry!" she whined. "We have to get there before they run out of cotton candy!"

"Who cares about cotton candy?" Max grumbled, giving her an annoyed look. "I want to get there before the lines for all the good rides get too long."

Laughing, I reached for Emma's hand. "Okay, okay. Let's go!"

"Wait," Ezra said before we could take off. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved an envelope. "Faith and Douglas left money for the kids. They are to spend every cent."

Snatching the envelope out of the air before Ezra could place it in my hand, Max took off down the stairs.

"Score!"

Following with Emma's hand in mine, I laughed. "Hey, give that back!"

"Have a good time," Ezra called out before turning to return to the house.

I caught up to Max and retrieved the money, shoving the envelope into my shoulder bag before helping Emma into her booster and strapping her in. Max climbed in on the other side, buckling himself in.

Within seconds, we were on our way through the gates of the estate and toward the edge of town, to a large stretch of green field that had always been reserved as a fairgrounds of sorts. All the town's major outdoor events happened there.

"Did you guys eat dinner yet?" I asked. "If not, we hit the corn dog stand first."

"You eat those things?"

I glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "You don't?"

He shrugged. "Never had one."

"Never had a... okay, that's it. First order of business—carnival corn dogs. You can't go to the fair and not get one. The food is the best part! Me and my dad used to have a contest to see who could eat the most without hurling on the rides."

I laughed at the memory, a bit of sadness creeping in at the memory of Mom being grossed out by Dad and me. She'd spend the entire night of the fair making pig noises at us as we scarfed down corn dogs, chili fries, and funnel cakes between whirling rides.

"Your dad sounds cool," Max said, his voice lowering. "My dad never does fun stuff with us."

I pulled up behind a row of cars at a red light, and glanced back at Max. He was staring out his window, shoulders slumped a bit. Guilt pricked my conscience. I'd been so focused on the ghosts and Tate that I'd lost sight of the reason Max had been so frosty toward me in the first place. Poor kid probably felt neglected by everyone in his life.

"I'm sure he'd like to," I said—which might not have even been true. I didn't know much about Douglas Baldwin, except for the fact that he might be a murderer.

"Nah," Max muttered. "He doesn't care about anything except making money."

Flashes of bank statements and checks filled with zeroes filled my mind. That much might be true.

"And all Mom cares about is Tate," he continued, stringing together more words than he had since our confrontation on the third floor of the house. "Ever since he got sick, she's forgotten all about me and Emma. And Tate doesn't care about anyone but himself."

My heart felt as if someone squeezed it in a tight fist. This poor kid... he really felt as if no one cared about him. With a weak smile, I tried to cheer him up. "No one's parents are perfect. I'm sure yours do the best they can."

He shrugged. "I guess."

Reaching out, I placed a hand on his shoulder. "For what it's worth, I like hanging out with you guys. And I think Tate would hang out with you more if he knew you wanted him to. He might get the sense that you don't want him around."

Max sighed and met my gaze. "Do you think so?"

I couldn't speak for Tate, but the night we'd sat together in the den for movies, he'd seemed hurt by Max's behavior toward him. Apparently, both brothers misunderstood each other and just needed to talk.

"I do," I told him as we drew near the fairgrounds.

Seeming satisfied with that, Max dropped the subject, and he and Emma turned to discussing what they wanted to do after we'd eaten. Since we'd arrived early, it didn't take long to find a parking spot—the place would be overrun as the sun went down and the heat began to fade.

"Okay, guys," I told them as we exited the car and headed for the entrance. "Stay close to me, please. It's going to be crowded, and I don't want to lose either of you."

Emma put her hand in mine and held on tight, while Max kept pace with me on my other side. We paused at the entrance to buy tickets for the rides first, and then began searching for a food booth with a short line. We found one close to the large, wooden stage, where live music would be played by various local bands every night of the week. Quickly grabbing three corn dogs, orders of fries, and lemonade, we found a place to sit at a cluster of picnic tables near the stage.

I grinned as I watched Max destroy his corn dog in four huge bites. "What was that you said about corn dogs earlier?"

He smiled sheepishly, swallowing his last bite. "Can I have another one?"

Nodding, I reached back into the bag slung across my body and hanging at my hip. Handing him a few bills, I watched as he dashed toward the closest stand and got in line. Beside me, Emma dunked her fries in ketchup, humming happily while she ate, her little feet swinging beneath the bench seat.

While we waited for Max to return, the stage began to fill with people—members of the first act setting up to begin performing. Near the foot of the stairs leading up to the platform, I spotted the current mayor—Felicia Haines. Dressed in a pair of jeans and crisp, white blouse, she smiled and talked to the man beside her, a soft breeze teasing the strands of short, dark hair laying against her forehead. I paused, a handful of fries halfway to my mouth, as I realized the man was her father—former mayor Canton Haines.

I shot a glance at Max, making sure he was still in line, and then went back to studying the pair. Canton's age had begun to show in the deep lines marring his dark skin, and the salt mixed in with the pepper of his short, wooly hair. A thick mustache covered his upper lip, tinged with gray strands. He held a large paper cup with a straw in one hand, taking slow sip from it as he spoke to his daughter—a petite woman who reminded me a lot of Halle Berry. With tawny skin and dark brown hair cut into a pixie style, she had her father's dark eyes but her mother's fine-boned features. Mrs. Haines was nowhere to be seen, but she was known for her big, blonde hair. My father always joked that Johnson's Pharmacy never had any hairspray because Nancy Haines had bought it all. A true southern belle, Nancy talked with an accent, loved her rhinestones, and could make a mean casserole—many of which I'd tasted at various town functions.

Max returned, plunking onto the bench across from Emma and me with his back to the stage. He silently attacked his second corn dog, while I gazed over his head at the platform.

Mayor Felicia took the short walk up to the microphone, smiling down at the growing crowd waiting for her to kick off the weeklong festival. Below, her father left the side stage area, finding a seat at one of the empty picnic tables.

"Good evening, everyone," Felicia began. "Welcome to the Wellhollow Springs eightieth annual summer festival."

Polite applause rose from the crowd, along with a few whistles and cheers.

"This year brings back a lot of our fair favorites, as well as a few new things for everyone to enjoy. Make sure you grab a map of the fairgrounds, along with an itinerary from any of the ticket booths out there to keep up with everything we've got going on. Now, I hope everyone is ready for some good music!"

More cheers from the crowd. Glancing back over at Canton, I noticed he didn't even look at his daughter. Instead, his gaze remained focused inside the cup he held in his hand.

"Please welcome our first act to the stage," Felicia continued. "They have been opening the Wellhollow Springs summer festival every year for the past decade. Give it up for Aimless Nation!"

The band took the stage, striking up the first chords of their song, as the mayor smiled and waved to the crowd before making her exit. She was met at the foot of the stage steps by a reporter and camera crew for the local news, who were likely working on their yearly festival report—where they followed the mayor through the fairgrounds to show everyone what all there would be to do for the week.

All around us, people surged toward the stage, while others headed out in to the carnival area, ready for rides and games.

Looking back at the table where Canton had been, I found he was now gone. With a sigh, I went back to my dinner. The kids were antsy to get going, and I'd promised myself I would show them a good time.

After finishing up, we threw our trash away and made our way toward the rides, my ears filled with the chatter of the kids as they talked about what they wanted to ride first. The first half hour blew past me in a blur of rides and more food, bringing up the nostalgia of doing this past summers with my parents. Coming upon yet another ride, we hopped in line, sharing a bag of cotton candy while waiting. We had just reached the front when I spotted Canton again, grabbing another drink at one of the food stands.

"You know what?" I said to Max, a sudden idea gripping me. "You two go on the ride without me. I need to make a phone call."

Emma frowned. "I want you to come too, Bellamy!"

I gave her a smile and nudged her through the little gate to the ride's enclosure. "Stay with Max and have fun on the ride, honey. I'll be right here when you get off, okay?"

Nodding reluctantly, she let an impatient Max haul her off toward the ride, while I made a beeline for the former mayor, checking over my shoulder a few times to ensure they got onto the ride. What I wanted to do was risky, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity to attempt to find out why the former mayor had written Douglas Baldwin a multi-million-dollar check.

Reaching into my bag, I found a palm-sized spiral notebook and pen inside, grateful I always carried them with me. Adjusting my glasses, I walked up to him just as he was turning away from the booth, drink in hand.

"Hi there," I said in my most cheerful voice.

Giving me a curious glance, he halted before he could run into me. His drink sloshed over the sides and the odor of beer hit my nostrils.

"Hello," he grumbled, using a napkin to wipe his now-wet hand.

"I'm Bellamy McGuire, and I'm working on a summer project about the legacy of Wellhollow Springs. It'll become an article in the first issue of next school year's paper. Would you mind if I interviewed you, Mayor Haines?"

The look he gave me told me the last thing he wanted was to talk to some strange kid. He shrugged. "I'm not the mayor anymore. My daughter is."

I nodded, keeping a smile plastered on my face. "Yes, I know. I intend to interview her also, but I need you, too. The legacy of you passing the torch to your daughter as mayor of Wellhollow Springs will be a big part of my story."

Sighing, he tossed the napkin into a trash can close to us and shrugged. "Okay. Just a few questions."

"Great," I said, raising my pen to take notes on the pad. "After all you've accomplished, how does it feel to watch your daughter take the reins as our towns' first female mayor?"

"Um, proud, of course," he answered distractedly, swaying a bit on his feet.

The man was stinking drunk. Since he didn't elaborate, I launched into my next question.

"What would you like to see her accomplish that you perhaps didn't get a chance to?"

He scoffed as if I'd insulted him. "She'd be hard pressed to find many problems to fix in Wellhollow Springs. It's a wonderful town filled with great people. I would hope she'd simply continue in my footsteps and keep our town the best place to live in Georgia."

Nodding, I pretended to write down what he'd said. "Yes, interesting. But a lot of changes have been made in the few years since you were mayor. For instance, the emergence of East Valley."

He rubbed his chin with his free hand. "East Valley will bring a lot of wonderful new opportunities to our town. It's an exciting development that I've enjoyed watching come to fruition."

Leaning in closer, I went for the kill. "Yes, you're very invested in East Valley from what I understand. You attended its ground-breaking ceremony and lauded it in an interview as a great boost for our local economy."

"Yes, that's right."

"Then there's the several million of your own money that you devoted to the project."

He froze, narrowing his eyes at me, nostrils flaring. "What are you talking about? Who told you that?"

I paused, pen hovering over the page. "I'm sorry, I thought you had—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," he snapped, his empty hand closing around my arm, making me drop my notebook. I gasped as his beer splashed my shoes and his putrid, alcohol-soaked breath slapped me in the face. "Whoever told you that is lying, and if you write that, or tell anyone—"

"I made a mistake," I said, wrestling my arm away from him. "I mixed you up with someone else."

Eyeing me in disbelief, he frowned. As suddenly as he'd become angry, he calmed, squaring his shoulders and clearing his throat. "Yes, well, maybe you should do your research better. If you want to write for a newspaper, you should know your facts."

"Yes, sir," I mumbled as he brushed past me and disappeared into the crowd.

I bent down to retrieve my pen and notebook with shaking hands, then approached the food booth for a handful of napkins, which I used to try to clean my shoes. I was going to smell like beer for the rest of the night.

Just as I tossed the damp napkins into the garbage can, the kids bounded up to me wide-eyed and excited after their ride. Grabbing my hands, they dragged me off toward the next one, determined to ride everything before the fairgrounds closed for the night. I followed in silence, hoping my anxiety over what had just happened with Canton Haines didn't show. I hadn't expected to get any real answers out of him, but he had proven to me beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had something to do with what was going on at Baldwin House. Despite what he insisted, I had proof—a photocopy of a check written from him to Douglas. The question of why still remained. What did that man have to gain by paying into Baldwin & Co.'s largest and most expensive development to date?

It just didn't make any sense. One thing I did know was that Canton Haines was not to be trifled with. I could still feel the bite of his hand around my arm, and the warning in his tone hadn't been lost on me.

* * *

Enjoying the fair became hard after my encounter with Canton Haines. Even once my hands had stopped shaking, a nervous energy had me glancing over my shoulder, and my mind wouldn't stop racing at the idea that something deeper than I'd imagined was going on here. While part of me was terrified, the other part—the one that was most like my inquisitive mother—just had to dig deeper.

I was glad when the kids announced they had ridden all the rides they'd wanted. We made a quick stop on the way out to snag the funnel cake I'd promised Dad, and then put the summer festival behind us. By the time we'd arrived back at Baldwin House, both kids had fallen into a coma in the backseat, requiring their parents to come out to the car to carry them inside.

"Look at them, all tuckered out," Faith crooned while reaching for Emma, who clutched a pink teddy bear she'd won in the crook of one arm. "Thank you for taking them, Bellamy. It looks like they had a great time."

"Anytime," I told them, finding that I meant it. "Thanks for trusting me to take them out."

Douglas held Max with one arm and gave me one of his smiles—a grimace masquerading as a grin. "The kids adore you. Of course we trust you with them."

I tried to smile back, but found it hard. If my suspicions were true, this man had been involved in the deaths of two women. My stomach lurched at the thought.

"You guys have a good night," I told them, making a quick getaway.

I couldn't get home fast enough. Once there, I made quick work of dropping Dad's funnel cake in his hands and answering with a quick 'great' when he asked how the fair had been. Once alone in my room with the door closed, I retrieved my phone from my bag.

The screen lit up with two messages from Tate:

_I saw you drop the kids off through my window. Looks like you wore them out good._

_Also, still digging, but I found this. It might mean something._

With the second message came a link, which I clicked. It took me to an article from the website of our local news station, about a charity event happening at the former mayor's house just a few weeks before the East Valley groundbreaking event. At the top of the article sat a picture of Douglas Baldwin standing beside Canton Haines. Both men—dressed in tuxedos and bow ties—smiled into the camera, and the former mayor had his arm around Mr. Baldwin's shoulders. The story was a quick write-up chronicling the mayor's annual fundraiser for his charity, a non-profit organization dedicated to childhood literacy. The funds raised that night for a lavish dinner and entertainment were going to establish literacy programs all over the state of Georgia. It was a program Canton had launched back in the nineties, and the work continued all throughout his tenure as mayor.

Closing out the article, I called Tate. His voice sounded thick and heavy, as if he'd been asleep.

"Hey," he murmured. "You didn't have to call. I just wanted you to see the article. Apparently, there are ties to Canton Haines I didn't realize my dad had. It's a clue, and I intend to follow it."

"I called because I have something to tell you that couldn't be put in a text," I replied in a rush.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice clearer now, as if he heard the urgency in my voice and it had woken him up. "Is everything okay?"

"I don't know," I replied. "While at the festival tonight with the kids, I saw Canton Haines. He was alone and drinking... so I thought it couldn't hurt to approach him."

"You did what?"

"I pretended that I was a writer for the school paper working on an article about the town's history. I asked him some questions just to see if I could get him to open up, and he did."

"Well, what did he say?" Tate asked, his voice edgy as if he didn't like where this was going.

"That's the thing. He seemed kind of bored with the whole thing, until I mentioned East Valley."

"Bellamy, you didn't!"

"You should have seen him, Tate," I rushed on. "His entire demeanor changed. He grabbed my arm and asked me where I'd gotten the information about him donating money. When I pretended it had been a mistake, he pretty much warned me to keep my mouth shut."

A long pause passed between us, and, for a moment, I thought I'd lost the call.

"Hello?"

"How could you do something so reckless?" he asked, his voice low and ominous.

"I saw an opening and I took it," I argued. "Look, now we know that the money changing hands was a dirty deal. If he wanted to help the economy of the town flourish by supporting the East Valley development, there would have been news about it. A public event with one of those big, fake checks being handed over... something. But that isn't what happened. Canton wrote your dad a check from his personal bank account, and then gave it to him under the table. Now we know that it's information they don't want to get out. The question we need to answer is why."

"We can answer that question without taking unnecessary risks," he countered. "We don't know what we're dealing with here, and it sounds like we might be in over our heads. Letting anyone know what we're doing could be dangerous."

I sighed, running a hand over my hair and pushing a few stray curls back from my face. "Look, I was just trying to move things along here. All the discoveries we've made have been on your end. I just wanted to help."

"You can help by continuing your search on those murdered women," he insisted. "I don't want you putting yourself in a dangerous position because of me, okay? Promise me, Bell."

Taking a deep breath, I exhaled past the butterflies that appeared in my stomach at his shortened version of my name. I liked it way too much.

"I promise," I mumbled.

"Thank you," he replied. "So, did you have fun at the fair?"

"I did. The kids had a blast, too. I wish you would have come."

He paused. "Yeah, maybe next time."

"We could go at night," I prodded. "It'll be fun. I always enjoyed the fair at night... all the lights and stuff. The Ferris wheel sucks during the day because it just puts you closer to the sun and the heat. But at night... well, it's my favorite thing."

I heard him sigh on the other end of the phone and knew I was asking for too much. Going out in public hadn't ended well for us last time.

"Sorry, Bell," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I'm just not ready."

"Well, that's okay," I replied, injecting cheer into my voice. "Maybe you can hang out with me and the kids at the house this week. Max could really use some male bonding time."

"He said that?"

I smiled at the hope I heard in his voice. It was just as I'd thought—Tate and Max needed each other and just didn't know how to go about being there for one another. It was no wonder with their dad being so cold.

"Not in so many words, but trust me. He wants you around more, Tate."

"Okay," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow then?"

"Definitely. Dress for trampoline jumping."

He laughed, a low and deep sound that pulled on the corners of my mouth until I was grinning. "I can't wait."

# Chapter Thirteen

As the days following my encounter with Canton Haines began to pass me by, I grew more and more frustrated with my search. There was simply no information to be found on murders, because it wasn't something that happened in Wellhollow Springs often. Three years' worth of obituaries and news stories had turned up very little—and no victims who looked like our ghosts.

Seated with my laptop on the bed, I grunted in frustration and buried my face in my hands. I'd come to the end of my rope and there wasn't a single lead for me to follow. Meanwhile, Tate was still busy looking for some thread tying his father to the mayor, or a reason why such a large check would have changed hands. Our investigation had stalled and hit the wall, which just annoyed me. I was used to being good at things. I did not fail. Messing this up wasn't an option, because Tate's health and future could be on the line. If he was right about the ghosts having caused his disease, then getting rid of them might cure him. But we couldn't get rid of them until we found justice.

Slamming the laptop shut, I stood, deciding a break was in order. It was late, but Dad had volunteered to work at the festival in the kids' tent. McGuire's always provided a reading corner in one of the kids' activity tents. Handing out our business cards and bookmarks at the event tended to lead to more sales following the festival, so it was great for business. I'd offered to help, but he'd urged me to stay home and relax. Little did he know that taking it easy wasn't going to happen. I could hardly sleep now for trying to puzzle things out.

Trudging to the kitchen, I made a sandwich and grabbed a soda. On my way back to my room, I noticed Dad had left his door open and the light on—something Mom had continually gotten on his case about when she'd been alive. Stepping inside, I reached for the light switch with my elbow, both hands carrying my snack and drink. The wall of drawings and written notes caught my eye. Stepping away from the light, I approached the desk, scanning his hastily scrawled records beside the haunting pictures. Taking a bite of sandwich, I chewed, inclining my head as I began to notice something very strange.

Swallowing, I put the soda and sandwich down on the table, careful to use my napkin to keep crumbs off the surface. I pushed his desk chair aside and stepped closer, narrowing my eyes to read some of the more illegible words.

It struck me that a lot of the deaths he'd recorded from three years ago were accidental. I frowned at the number of them. Wellhollow Springs being a small town, it didn't make sense that there should be a sudden increase in accidental deaths in one year that didn't continue to the next. It might have been just a fluke, but my gut told me I was on to something.

Snagging a sheet of paper from the printer, I lifted a pencil from the nearby holder and scribbled down five names and dates. I scooped up my food and hightailed it back to my room, forgetting about the light and the door.

Once seated on the bed again, I renewed my search, this time beginning with the five accidental deaths on my sheet of paper. Their obituaries were easy enough to find, and, before long, I had notes taken to show Tate later. Something was definitely off. Each death had been bizarre, yet each had been labeled an accident by the sheriff—who in our county also acted as coroner.

Noticing that most of the accidents had happened six months or more before Canton had written the check to Douglas, I wondered what I would find if I searched closer to the timeframe we were dealing with. Moving my cursor to the 'search' bar of the local news website, I input 'accident' and waited for the results. I filtered my search by date, and then quickly scrolled to the year I was looking for. Along with the stories of the deaths I'd already looked into was a headline that dropped a cold stone of dread into my gut.

SINGLE VEHICLE CAR CRASH NEAR BALDWIN HOUSE ENDS IN TRAGIC DEATH.

My hands shook as I clicked to open the article, my mouth going dry while I waited for the page to load. I felt my lips moving as I read the words of the story about Camila Vasquez, who had lost control of her car on the winding road leading up the hill Baldwin House sat on, then back down and straight out of town via Highway 8. She had been an FBI agent visiting from Virginia on assignment. Her car had hit the guardrail and gone over the side of a steep drop-off, sending her into the ravine. She'd died on impact.

I winced as I glanced at a photo of the wreckage—a small sedan turned to a hunk of twisted metal. Toward the bottom of the article, I found a photo of Camila that looked as if it might have been taken in official capacity for the FBI.

My breath caught and held in my lungs as I zoomed in on the picture, my eyes widening in recognition. She was young and pretty, with dark olive skin and sleek, black hair pulled into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. She wore minimal makeup, and her expression portrayed toughness. Her starched white blouse contrasted sharply with her skin and black blazer, her only jewelry a pair of small diamond stud earrings.

"Well," I murmured. "Hello, Camila Vasquez, aka Glass-in-Neck Ghost."

Picking up my laptop, I ran into my dad's room and plunked it down onto the desk. It only took a moment for me to plug it in and begin printing. By the time I printed everything I'd gathered, I had used up all the paper. Finding paper clips in the little side drawer of the desk, I organized everything in clusters, grouping information on each of the deaths in separate piles. Then, I shoved them all in a large manila envelope I found in one of the bigger drawers. By the time I reloaded the printer with paper and took everything back to my room, Dad's key sounded in the front door lock.

I swiftly closed my door, hoping he would think I was asleep and not try to talk to me. My mind was racing a mile a minute, and I didn't think I could suffer through mundane conversation. Heck, I didn't think I'd make it through the ten hours that were left before I could get to Baldwin House to show Tate what I had found.

Sleep was as elusive as ever, and I lay tossing and turning for hours before finally drifting off. I only dozed for four hours, but impatience to deliver my findings to Tate made it hard to feel tired. I jumped out of bed and got dressed, not bothering to eat before leaving for Baldwin House.

I arrived to find Ezra in the entryway chatting with Tate, who was dressed in shorts, a tank top, and sneakers—but no hat. They both glanced up and smiled when I walked in.

"Hey," I said. "What's going on?"

"I was just on my way out," Ezra replied. "I'll be gone for a few days visiting family. I had a few last-minute things to take care of for Mr. Baldwin before I left."

I shifted under his gaze, well aware of the bulky envelope I held and his seeming curiosity over it.

"Okay, well... have a good trip."

"Will do," he replied, making his way toward the hall to a side exit—one with a ramp that led down to where he parked his truck. Pausing, he turned to glance at me over his shoulder. "By the way... I've been asked to inform you that the ban on the third floor of the house has been lifted. You are free to come and go throughout the entire house as you please."

At my shocked expression, he gave a coy smile, and then continued on his way down the hall. Turning to Tate, I found him watching me with a smug smirk, his eyebrows raised.

"Did you..." I trailed off, uncertain what to say.

"I did," he confirmed, coming closer and folding his arms behind his back. "Making it off limits to visitors was my decision, and I don't want that anymore. So, you know... feel free to walk in on me fresh from the shower anytime. Oh wait, you already did that!"

We laughed, but my stomach did a little flip. Had he been insinuating that I was welcome in his bedroom? Pressing a hand against my middle, I told myself to get a grip. Of course he hadn't meant it that way.

Realizing we were now alone, I peered over his shoulder to make sure Hilda and the kids were still in the kitchen before I held up my envelope.

"Tate, I found something," I whispered. "Something big."

Plucking the envelope from my hand, he hid it behind his back. "Not yet."

Frowning, I made a grab for the envelope, but he backed away, putting it out of my reach. "What are you doing? This is important."

"I'm sure it is," he said with a shrug. "Feels like there are a lot of papers in here, which means it's going to take some time to go through. The kids are going to want your attention soon, so there isn't time now. It can wait."

"But—"

"Uh-uh," he interjected. "Hilda made blueberry pancakes, and the kids want to play outside. Pancakes and playtime first... ghostbusting later."

I raised my eyebrows and fought back a smile. "Ghostbusting?"

He shrugged. "Whatever you want to call it."

"Fine," I relented, falling in step beside him for the short walk to the kitchen.

"That's my girl," he murmured, draping an arm across my shoulders.

I was so shocked that I couldn't speak for a full minute. He glanced down at me and smiled at my slack jaw, seemingly amused by the reaction he'd gotten out of me.

"Hey, save some for me," he bellowed, letting me go to join the kids at the table, laying my envelope across his thigh. Stacking four pancakes onto his plate, he drenched them in syrup. "Who's ready to break out the water guns?"

Max and Emma's faces lit up. "Me!" they cried in unison.

Taking a few of the pancakes for myself, I gave in to the hunger gnawing on my stomach. Tate was right; it would be hours before Emma went down for her nap. Talking over what I'd found would have to wait.

"Since when are there water guns?" I asked, reaching for the syrup bottle.

"Since forever," Tate replied around a mouthful of pancake. "They're in the shed."

"Okay," I said with a shrug. "If you guys insist. But I must warn you, I'm deadly with a water pistol. You're all going down."

"Please," Tate muttered, rolling his eye. "I'm the master. You're in so much trouble."

We finished breakfast quickly, then Tate and I herded the kids outside. The guys went to the shed for the water guns, while Emma and I began planning our strategy of attack. The guns were passed out, then the fight was on, with Emma and me running and hiding behind trees and waiting for the guys to come after us before unleashing on them from our hiding places. It worked until Tate bum-rushed Emma, picking her up and throwing her over his shoulder before taking her gun. That left me at the boys' mercy, with Max coming up behind me, and Tate hitting me from the front with Emma's pistol. The boys' triumphant victory ended our game, but we couldn't step foot inside still soaked head to toe, so we spent some time on the trampoline.

After a while, I was worn out from jumping, but Max and Emma weren't ready to stop. So, I retreated up the steps to the porch, where I sat with my legs hanging over the edge, watching as Tate taught Max how to perform backflips on the massive trampoline. After Max had mastered the backflip and forward somersault, he attempted to teach Emma, who had a harder time of it.

Tate left them to it and crossed the yard to join me on the porch. He sat beside me, so close his leg brushed mine. I sucked in a breath and swallowed past my constricting throat, thanking God that my skin was too dark for him to see me blush.

"I'm tired," he said between short breaths. "I haven't played with them like that in a while."

I turned to glance at him and smiled. He looked happier than I'd ever seen him—his waves turned to curls by the water, his face a bit flushed from all the jumping and flipping, that lopsided smile curving his mouth. His eyes glittered with excitement as he glanced back at the trampoline and the two kids jumping and squealing there.

"You were right, you know," he said.

When he didn't elaborate, I leaned into him and gave him a nudge with my shoulder. "About what? You're going to have to be more specific, because I'm generally right about everything."

He laughed, nudging me back, his shoulder pressing against mine. "About Max. I didn't think he wanted anything to do with me, but you were right. I feel like I've missed out on being there for him. My dad turned into a robot around the time I got sick, and I got so caught up in my own problems that I neglected them."

I placed my hand over his. "You didn't mean to neglect them. You were sick. But you're trying now, and they seem to appreciate it. Especially Max."

He glanced at the kids, and then back at me. "They're so happy with you here. I don't think I've ever seen them respond to their past sitters or nannies like they do you."

I shrugged. "I just do my job. They make it easy being such great kids."

Shaking his head, he intertwined his fingers with mine. "Don't be modest. Making people happy is kind of your thing. The kids aren't the only ones who look forward to you being here every day."

He fell silent, lowering his eyes as if embarrassed. I wasn't sure he'd meant to say what he did, but once it had come out, there was no taking it back.

I studied his face, my gaze skimming his lowered lids and long lashes, the line of his nose, undisturbed by the degeneration on one side of his face, then down lower... to the perfect pillow of his mouth.

Seized with a sudden urge, I didn't second-guess it. The tension between us had become so palpable I could barely breathe in his presence. He'd dropped so many hints, but I was tired of guessing.

I needed to know.

Closing the distance between us, I brushed my lips against his. The contact only lasted for a second before Tate jerked away, sucking in a sharp breath. His eyes went wide, and then his eyebrows furrowed as if he wasn't quite sure what had just happened. I bit my lip, staring back at him in silence and waiting for him to say something.

Tate didn't say a word. Instead, he reached up with one hand, cupping the back of my neck and pulling me toward him again. His forehead rested against mine, and he stared at me for another moment, his fingers curling into the hair at the nape of my neck. Then, he was kissing me—gently at first, slowly, as if afraid I might not like it. I did. His lips were soft and feather light against mine, the gentle touch of his fingers on the back of my neck sending tingles down my spine.

I reached up to cup his face, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss. His other hand found my waist, sliding across my back until he was holding me against him. Our mouths moved together like a dance, opening, touching, pulling apart, and coming together again at a different angle. His scent invaded my nostrils—that masculine smell I was coming to associate with him. He tasted like syrup and something else... something I had never tasted before, but found myself craving it the second our mouths had pulled apart.

His breath raced as he stared at me in silence, a slight smile curving one side of his mouth—now slightly red from the pressure of mine. Closing his mouth, he cleared his throat, lowered his eyes, and then raised them to look at me again.

"Wow," he whispered.

"Yeah," I agreed with a smile.

We sounded like a couple of morons, but there wasn't much that could be said about what had happened. The kiss had been perfect—sweet, slow, and bone melting. I had never felt this way after being kissed, and, at the moment, I didn't know if I should be excited or afraid.

"Eeewwwww!" Emma cried out from the trampoline, sitting cross-legged on the mesh while Max continued bouncing beside her. "They're _kissing_!"

"Gross," Max teased, turning a front somersault and continuing his up-and-down motion, causing Emma to bounce beside him. "Tate and Bellamy sittin' in a tree," he sang as he jumped. "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Tate chuckled, and I put a bit of space between us, embarrassed at having been caught. The last thing I needed was one of them blabbing to Ezra about what they'd seen.

"We'll have to do that again when they aren't around," he murmured.

Turning to look at him, I experienced a little thrill at the thought of doing it again. "Definitely. But, you know, now that we've kissed..."

He wrinkled his brow when I trailed off. "What?"

I grinned. "You're really going to have to man up and ask me out."

A laugh shook his shoulders, and he stood from the porch, turning to face me. "I can't exactly avoid it after being called out like that. Will you go out with me Saturday? We can catch a movie or something."

"Do I get to pick the movie?" I teased.

"Yes, and if you pick a good one, there will also be popcorn mixed with M&Ms," he fired back.

Rising to face him, I reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him toward me until our bodies were touching. Standing on tiptoe, I gave him another, shorter kiss on the lips.

"You got yourself a date," I murmured.

Before he could reply, Max's voice rang out across the yard. "They're doing it again!"

Emma retched, pretending to throw up, while Max continued to sing about love, marriage, and a baby carriage for Tate and me. Giggling, I released him and backed away, while Tate took a few steps back as well, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

"Let's not bring them," he muttered.

"Yeah, good plan," I replied with a smirk.

* * *

After lunch, the kids were so worn out from their time outside that they collapsed in the playroom in a heap, both falling asleep on the rug. After covering them with blankets, Tate and I retreated to the den, where we finally found the solitude and silence to go over the information I'd gathered.

"Okay," I said, retrieving my papers from the envelope. "I think I figured out the identity of one of the ghosts."

Tate widened his eyes, giving me an incredulous look. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

I shrugged. "You were all 'pancakes first.' Who was I to argue with that? Anyway, I got to thinking last night that I was on the wrong track looking for murders. So I switched my search to accidents and discovered something. There were more accidental deaths in Wellhollow Springs in the year leading up to the groundbreaking of East Valley than any other year before or after it. For some reason, people were dying in bizarre ways. While going through news stories about these accidents, I came across this."

I separated the paper-clipped article about Camila Vasquez from the stack and handed it to Tate, whose eyes moved side to side as he quickly scanned it. Once he reached the end of the article and the photo of Camila, he froze, his gaze locked on the image.

"This is incredible," he murmured. "Add a shard of glass in her neck and misshapen limbs, and you have one of my ghosts. It says here she died not far from Baldwin House. Maybe her haunting us has something to do with proximity."

I shrugged. "Maybe... or, could be she was here for a reason. The woman was an FBI agent from Virginia. What the heck was she doing in Wellhollow Springs?"

"Hell if I know," he murmured, accepting another article from me. "This guy fell off a ladder while fixing his shingles and broke his neck."

Holding up another article, I raised my eyebrows. "This woman wandered into a construction site, where a steel beam fell, severing her almost in half. And here's another one who drowned in his hot tub—according to the article, he had been drinking, which caused him to pass out before sinking down into the tub."

"Okay, granted, those are some bizarre ways to die," he relented. "But this Camila woman was in a regular car accident. Highway 8 leads past these hills and out of town—there are a lot of twists and turns, and, at night, it can be dangerous if you aren't careful. Maybe she just lost control of the car."

"Yes, but she isn't the one whose death requires justice," I reminded him. "She indicated the other ghost when I asked her who the justice was for. Camila was in the FBI, so maybe she was in the process of seeking justice when she died."

Tate nodded. "That makes a lot of sense. The fact that her search for justice brought her to Wellhollow can't be a coincidence."

"No, it can't," I agreed. "Camila Vasquez is the key. We need to know why she was here."

"Maybe the case of the other dead woman brought her here. Were there any women who looked like her who suffered accidents in town?"

I shook my head. "There were two women, but neither look like the other ghost. But there's a connection; we just have to find it."

"You did good, Bell. This is a huge piece of the puzzle," he said. "Now we know how to move forward from here. Let's set the info about the other deaths aside for now and concentrate on Camila. I'll keep digging on Canton Haines. We'll get this figured out."

Removing my glasses, I rubbed my eyes, which had begun to water from fatigue and focusing too long on the pages. "I know. I thought we'd hit the wall, but I'm glad we have more to go on now."

Snatching the papers from me, he tossed them aside. "Okay, enough of that."

I scowled when he tossed them, causing the pages to fly free of their paper clips, fluttering through the air and making a mess all over the carpet.

"Dude, do you know how long it took me to organize all that?"

Reaching for me, he rose up on his knees, pulling me until I rested in the same position facing him. "I'll pick it up in a sec. First, I do believe we were so rudely interrupted earlier. I got cheated out of a kiss."

I brought my hands up to his waist, holding on to him as he cupped my face in his hands. As he lowered his lips to mine, I sank against him and lost myself in the moment. I hadn't wanted to let myself hope that something could come of this thing that had developed between Tate and me, but, at this point, there was no going back. I was invested in him, in more ways than one. I didn't know if what we'd found would last, but I did know I'd never experienced anything like it.

# Chapter Fourteen

Saturday night came way too fast. When Tate had first asked me to go out with him, it had seemed so far off—several days spanning between then and now. But as I stared at myself in the mirror, critiquing my outfit and wondering what the hell I could be thinking, I wished I'd had more time to prepare. Or at least talk myself out of it. I didn't have any delusions about myself. Being the kind of girl who prefers Converse over heels and books over boys, I didn't typically attract the high school male species. But Tate wasn't in high school anymore, and our situation was anything but regular.

Yet, here I stood in a dress, wearing makeup with my hair down, experiencing the worst case of the butterflies. Tate had seen me in frizzy ponytails and ripped jeans. He'd seen my face contorted into expressions of terror and streaked with tears in grief. Why did it matter if my lipstick was right, or if my curls lay in perfect order?

Because this was the first real step toward taking us out of the friend zone, that was why. I couldn't seem to make myself settle on an outfit or make a decision about how my hair should be styled.

Grabbing a large butterfly clip from my dresser, I gathered my hair in the back, twisting it and allowing a cascade of curls to fall forward, sweeping the rest off the back of my neck. Securing it with the clip and a few bobby pins, I studied myself. The updo showed off my neck and cheekbones. But Tate had seemed to like twining his fingers through it, so maybe I shouldn't have restricted it with a clip.

Sighing, I plucked out the pins and the clip, shaking my head to loosen the curls. Much better. Or was it?

"Ugh!" I grunted, frustrated with both myself and my wayward hair.

Turning away from the mirror, I realized I didn't have much more time until Tate would arrive to pick me up. I had offered to meet him at the theater, but he'd insisted on coming to get me himself. Going into the closet, I grabbed a pair of black flats—cute enough to match my dress but still comfortable enough that I wouldn't be tripping over myself all night. After sliding them on, I grabbed a jacket in case I got cold in the theater.

By the time I made my way to the living room, the headlights of Tate's car were shining through the front window. Glancing up from the TV, Dad raised his eyebrows.

"You look pretty, munchkin. Tonight's the date, right?"

I fumbled with the strap of my purse and avoided his gaze. Not long after insisting Tate and I were only friends, I'd found myself forced to admit that we were possibly going to start dating. Dad had seemed okay with it, though, so I was glad he didn't intend to give Tate a hard time. He seemed content to let me make the decision on my own.

"Yes, Dad. He just pulled up outside. We're going to a movie, and then probably to Charlene's for something to eat after."

The doorbell rang, and I tensed, tightening my grip on the strap of my purse.

Dad stood, giving me a playful glance. "I'll get it."

I groaned. "Do we have to do this?"

He chuckled. "I'm your dad. You've never let a boy come to the house to pick you up. Let me have this."

I stood back and tried not to look like I was about to be sick. "He's all yours."

His big body kept me from being able to see Tate when he opened the door, but I could hear his voice when he spoke.

"Hi, Mr. McGuire. I'm here to pick up Bellamy."

Dad backed away from the door. "She's ready. The girl only changed her outfit six times."

My eyes almost bugged out of my head. "Dad!"

Tate smirked, but I could see he was trying not to laugh. "Well, it paid off. You look great."

My stomach quivered as his gaze slid over me, taking in the short dress and my exposed legs. "Thank you."

Dad cleared his throat, reminding us that he was still in the room. Tate's cheeks flushed red, and he glanced away, clearing his throat.

"So, we should be back by eleven, sir," he said.

I glanced at the clock on our cable box. It was eight now... which wouldn't give us much time after the movie ended. Bummer.

"Make it midnight," Dad said, shocking me with a smile. "So you don't have to rush back after the movie."

Tate's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Okay. Thank you, sir."

"You can call me Nate, son," Dad said. "Relax."

Nodding, Tate cleared his throat again. "Okay... Nate."

Staring back and forth between them, I fought the urge to giggle. Tate was clearly nervous, despite having already met my dad, and Dad was having a lot of fun with it.

"We're going to miss the movie if we don't hurry," I said.

"I won't hold you up," Dad replied. "You kids have fun. Bellamy, I'll see you when you get home."

Tate held the door open for me, and we made our escape, stepping out onto the porch. Dad watched from behind the screen door while we walked to the car, and I waved as we pulled off in the direction of downtown.

"Holy crap," Tate said, exhaling with relief once we'd made it up the street. "I don't think I've ever been that nervous picking a girl up for a date. I was afraid I would say something stupid and make your dad hate me."

Glancing over, I took in his navy blue shirt and carefully combed hair. Deep waves undulated through the strands, which glimmered in the light of the street lamp shining through the driver's side window.

"Tate, you've met my dad before," I reminded him. "Besides, I happen to know that you dated a _lot_ of girls when you were still in school."

He slouched a bit in the driver's seat, more relaxed now that we were alone. It made me feel more comfortable, too. It had been silly to be nervous about going on a date with a guy I had already started to get to know. We'd spent a lot of time together over the past few weeks. The only difference now was that we'd put a label on this night, referring to it as an actual date.

"Yeah, well, I never liked those girls the way I like you," he said. "And with my reputation, I wouldn't blame him if he didn't trust you within a mile of me."

We had arrived at the theater, and Tate smoothly pulled his car into a space close to the front. I reached out and placed a hand on his leg, drawing his attention to me.

"Your past is behind you," I insisted. "I'm not going to hold it against you, and neither will my dad. He trusts me to make good choices, and I consider giving you a chance to be one of my better decisions."

He leaned closer to me over the center console, reaching up to stroke my cheek. "Thank you for that. I know I don't deserve—"

I cut him off with a quick kiss. "Stop that."

"Mmm," he mumbled against my lips. "Stop what?"

"Being so hard on yourself," I clarified. "I like you for who you are now, and that's all that matters."

He kissed me back, and then pulled away with a nod. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'll try to stop doing that."

"Good," I said, reaching for my car door. "We better hurry if we want to hit the concession stand. M&Ms are a must, right?"

He laughed, leaving the car on his side while I did the same on mine. "Definitely."

Reaching for my hand when I rounded the car to his side, he twined his fingers through mine and guided me through the parking lot toward the theater.

The person working the ticket counter stared, slack-jawed, at Tate when we approached, but he pretended not to notice while buying our tickets. The same thing happened in the concession line—the people working—as well as those standing in line—gaped at him without even trying to hide it. A few even whispered behind their hands, and I heard his name drop from a few mouths. Word would spread fast that Tate Baldwin had come out of hiding.

Noticing the tightness pulling at the corners of his mouth and clenched jaw, I reached out to help him by grabbing our sodas while he took up the popcorn and candy.

"Are you okay?" I whispered. "We can leave if you want."

Pausing on our way toward the podium and the person checking tickets, he turned to face me. "I'm fine. As far as I'm concerned, there's no one here but you and me."

I smiled, encouraged by that. It had occurred to me to ask him if we could go someplace more private, but I hadn't wanted him to think it was because I didn't want to be seen with him. This was a huge step for him, going on a date for the first time in two years, plus allowing himself to be in a very public place with his face on full display.

Squaring my shoulders and lifting my head, I walked beside him to the theater playing our movie. I'd never been prouder to be with someone in my life. I felt honored that he would let me be part of his transition from the shadows and out into the light. I held no delusions that he was doing it for me—this was something Tate needed to do for himself.

We decided to sit in one of the upper rows, as Tate claimed being too close to the screen was hard on his sensitive eyes. He'd taken his glasses off after driving us here, but kept them hooked in the neckline of his shirt—he'd need them to see the screen. As we ascended the steps to the seats we'd spotted in the last row, we spotted Lincoln sitting with a big group of kids from school. He had one arm around the girl sitting to his right, but the other rested close to his body, cradled in a sling.

Someone spotted us and began nudging Lincoln to point us out. He scowled when we made eye contact, but I looked away, concentrating on not tripping up the steps. By the time we reached our seats, the entire group had grown aware of our presence. They were whispering among themselves while staring at us with undisguised curiosity. A few snickers passed between them, but Tate either didn't hear them or was really good at pretending he couldn't.

The previews started not long after we sat, and I was relieved for the surround sound and darkened room offering some relief from all the scrutiny. Was this what it was like to be one of the 'in' crowd? People talking about your every move? Speculating about your actions? Treating you like a stranger once you left the inner circle?

I supposed it really couldn't be as great as it seemed. For once, I was grateful to be a nobody. Except, if I was going to date Tate Baldwin, I wouldn't be a nobody for long. The talk about me would shift from speculation over whether I was crazy like my dad, to how I ended up with the rich hermit from the top of the hill. I wasn't certain if the change would prove to be any better.

Once the movie began, I focused on it and forgot about everything else. It was a comedy, which had been a good choice because it erased a lot of the tension surrounding our arrival at the theater. By the end, I realized I'd heard Tate laugh out loud more times than I ever had, and that made the date a success no matter what else might have happened.

By the time we left the theater and began our walk back to the car, it was ten-thirty.

"Well, we still have an hour and a half before you have to be home," Tate said, draping one arm across my shoulders. "Which means we have plenty of time for your surprise."

I frowned. "Surprise? I thought we were going to Charlene's after."

"Trust me," he said with a grin that told me he was up to something. "You want this surprise."

I gave him a wary glance from the corner of my eye. "It better be good. I'm giving up apple pie for it."

He laughed as we arrived back at the car. "It's better than Charlene's apple pie. Oh," he added once we were inside. "You have to wear this."

My eyes widened when he held up what looked like a black blindfold. "Kinky."

Laughing, he handed it to me. "Nah, that's more of a fifth date thing. This is just so you can't see where we're going and guess the surprise before I'm ready to show you."

I relented and put on the blindfold, wondering what Tate had up his sleeve. The car ride seemed to take forever, each turn of the car making me antsy about where we were headed. To make matters worse, Tate fell silent during the drive, leaving only the radio filling in the silence.

By the time we came to a stop, my clenched hands were shaking in my lap.

"Keep that on," Tate urged me as I reached up to remove the blindfold.

Groaning, I dropped my hands back into my lap and waited. I heard the sound of Tate leaving his side of the car and the jingle of his keys as he came around to get me. My vision still impaired, I allowed him to help me from the car, and then guide me forward with his hands on my shoulders. The ground beneath my feet wasn't concrete, nor was it gravel. Dirt, I realized, which eventually gave way to grass, and then more dirt. Where the heck were we?

Finally, we stopped and Tate turned me in the direction of whatever it was I was supposed to be seeing. There was another pause that seemed to stretch on forever, and I was two seconds away from snatching off the blindfold. But then, Tate's hands gently pulled it away from my eyes.

We stood in the middle of the fairgrounds, with the majority of the rides and booths broken down, their pieces being loaded onto massive trucks to be hauled away. However, looming several feet over us, the Ferris wheel still stood, its light casting a white glow over us.

Mouth hanging open, I turned to Tate. "What is this?"

He shrugged, gesturing toward the gray-haired man in coveralls standing in the control booth of the ride. "Well, I came down here last night before they closed down and talked to my guy Rick over there. He drives a hard bargain, but I eventually got him to let me pay to keep the Ferris wheel up after everything shut down."

I grinned, glancing back up at the empty Ferris wheel. "You remembered."

Nodding, he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I felt bad about not coming after you suggested it, so I wanted to make it up to you. You did say this was your favorite thing, so... here we go. It's all ours as long as we want."

Taking my hand, he gave me a little tug, reminding me I needed to make my feet move if I wanted to actually get on the thing. Rick came out of his booth, giving me a smile as he opened the gate to let us in.

"You were right, young man," he said to Tate. "She is a looker."

Glancing at Tate, I found him giving me a sheepish smile and shrug. "I told Rick I had to have the Ferris wheel tonight, because I had a date with _the_ prettiest girl I'd ever met."

My grin was so wide I was surprised it didn't tear my face in half. Taking Tate's hand, I followed him to the car, which was open and waiting for us. He stood back and gestured for me to get in first, and then followed. Rick made sure we were buckled in before closing the compartment and checking to make sure everything was secure.

"I'll let you get some time at the top," Rick called as he walked back to his booth. "Scream for help if the boy gets fresh, Miss!"

Laughing, I turned to glance at Tate. "You heard the man."

Holding both hands up, he smirked. "Best behavior, hands to myself."

After another moment of waiting, the wheel creaked and groaned, then we were moving, floating forward and up. I gripped the rail laid across our laps and stared out over the field looming below us, then farther out at Wellhollow Springs, the streetlamps and traffic lights causing it to glow in the distance.

"I can see why you like this," he said as we continued, up and up. "It's nice."

I nodded. "I always thought it was amazing. I like feeling as if I'm closer to the stars."

"Hey," he said suddenly. "I'm sorry about what happened at the theater. All the staring and whispers. I expected it, but I didn't think about how you might feel about so many people gaping at us. I'll understand if you don't want to go out with me again after that."

"Are you insane?" I asked. "You rented a Ferris wheel for me. Why _wouldn't_ I want to go out with you again?"

He shrugged, avoiding my gaze to glance up. "I'm aware of what dating someone like me could mean for you. It won't be easy, and the last thing I want is for you to be hurt."

Placing my hand over his on the rail, I spread my fingers out until each of mine lay on top of each of his. "Most of them are curious about you, not me. I'm not the kind of person people notice, Tate."

Turning his head, he met my gaze. "Are you really that unaware of how beautiful you are? Bell, people notice you. Even though I didn't want to the first time we met, I noticed you. And it's not just because you're physically pretty... you have this glow that comes from the inside. The kind of person you are shows through."

I could feel my mouth going dry, my throat seizing again, and a feeling like the start of tears pricking my eyes. I cleared my throat and blinked, trying not to lose my cool. No guy had ever talked to me the way Tate did, and as good as it felt, it also left me unsettled.

"Lincoln noticed you, too," he pointed out. "You guys dated, right?"

I rolled my eyes. "I wouldn't go that far. We went on _a_ date, and only one of us had a good time."

Tate's grip on the rail tightened and his jaw ticked. "He didn't... hurt you... did he?"

Shaking my head, I moved my fingers back and forth over his in a soothing gesture, trying to reel him in before he jumped to conclusions. "No, he didn't. We went to dinner and a movie, and he spent most of the night talking about himself and trying to feel me up. I'd driven myself, so after the movie was over, I left him standing in the parking lot and took myself home. He's been trying to get me to give him another chance, but I'm not interested."

Tate nodded once, a bit of tension still stiffening his shoulders and neck. "Good. Lincoln doesn't handle rejection well, and girls who say no to him... well, let's just say they don't all make a clean getaway like you did."

An acrid taste crept into my mouth at the implications of what Tate was saying. I'd known Lincoln was bad news, but I hadn't realized how bad. My face must have clued Tate in on the direction of my thoughts, because he suddenly touched my shoulder.

"Hey," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I just don't like the idea of Lincoln anywhere near you."

"Well, he never really got that close. Anyway, I'm not with him, I'm with you. I _want_ to be with you, and I don't care about people staring or whispering. I'm used to it, remember?"

His mouth curved into a little smile, and he nodded. "You amaze me sometimes, you know."

Leaning against him, I trailed my hand up his arm to his shoulder, urging him toward me. "Well, I am pretty amazing."

His hand moved across this rail, and then dropped to my thigh. Gripping my hip, he pulled me closer until our lips brushed.

"I'm going to call Rick and tell him you're being fresh," I murmured.

"You started it," he mumbled, taking my mouth with short, openmouthed kisses.

"Tate?" I whispered, tangling my fingers in his hair.

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

He laughed against my mouth, but pulled me even closer, wrapping an arm around me. Our seat swayed, but I'd never felt safer. Obeying my command, he kissed me again, this time long and deep. Above us, the moon loomed bright, the stars twinkling like diamonds. Never had any moment felt more perfect.

* * *

Carefully balancing the wooden tray I carried with one hand, I knocked on the door to Tate's bedroom. For a moment, I worried he hadn't heard it, but, eventually, his weakened voice called out to me from the other side.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open, and then went back to a two-handed grip on the tray. The lights were off and the curtains closed, so it took a moment for me to adjust to the dark. I found him in bed, lying propped up on several pillows with his eyes closed.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice at a low whisper.

Max had informed me when I'd arrived that Tate was fighting off a migraine, thus my lowered voice and the dimmed lights.

Opening his eyes, he looked up as I approached the bed, laying the tray on his nightstand. "Hey, you. What are you doing up here?"

"Hilda was going to bring you lunch, but I volunteered. The kids are busy eating, so I thought I'd come up here to see how you're doing."

Glancing at the tray, he didn't seem very interested in lunch. The eye on the deformed side of his face drooped, the eyelid lowered over it more than usual. He was exhausted.

"I won't stay long," I said.

"Come here," he mumbled, reaching out one arm.

I stepped up to his bedside, letting him grab my arm and pull me down until I was sitting on the mattress. Giving me another tug, he urged me to lie down, pulling my head against his chest.

"Don't go yet," he said. "Tell me what else you've found about Camila Vasquez. Anything good?"

I nodded, the fabric of his T-shirt soft against my cheek. "Yes, but you don't need to worry about that right now."

"I need something to distract me from the feeling of a jackhammer chipping away at my skull," he answered dryly. "Tell me."

"Okay," I replied. "Last night, I Googled Camila. There wasn't much to see—not even a Facebook page or Instagram account. With her being an FBI agent, I guess that makes sense."

Tate shrugged. "Probably didn't have much time for social media."

"Exactly," I agreed. "There's more. She lived in Virginia, but she grew up in Fayehill."

"Isn't that just up the road?"

"Yep. About a five-hour drive from here. There was a story about her online from the Fayehill Chronicle about her death. Turns out, we were right. She was in Wellhollow on a case—but the article didn't say what the case might be. But then, the article mentioned her family, which included a sister who had died just a few short months before her."

He wrinkled his brow and frowned. "Okay, that can't be a coincidence."

"Nope," I agreed. "So, I looked up the name—Isabella Vasquez, and guess what I found?"

"The nightgown ghost?" he ventured.

"Precisely," I confirmed. "Turns out she hung herself in her apartment, which was right here in town."

"Do you think that's the case Camila was investigating?" he asked. "Doesn't make sense. Someone hangs themselves, that seems like a pretty cut-and-dry case."

"That's where I'm getting stuck," I admitted. "I think if we can find out what Camila was investigating, it might point us in the right direction. I mean, maybe someone did something to Isabella that made her want to kill herself."

"How do we figure out what case she was working on?" Tate murmured. "It's not like we can just call the FBI and ask."

"Maybe she worked with the local police on her case," I offered. "Isn't that what cops do? Call in the feds when something big happens?"

His hand found my head, and I could feel him absently toying with a few of my curls. "That's how they do it on TV."

I choked back a laugh, not wanting to be too noisy. "How are we going to get access to police information? It's not like we can just walk in and ask about a federal case."

"True, but I might know a guy who can help," he said. "There's this family friend... he's retired now, but he was still on the force at the time. If anyone would know why Camila was here, he might."

"And you think this guy is just going to give the info up?" I asked.

Tate shrugged. "He's a talkative old man who lives alone. Once he gets going, it's hard to shut him up. We can go over there this afternoon and talk to him."

Raising my head, I glanced up at him and scowled. "Today? Don't you think you should rest?"

He shook his head, and then winced as if it had hurt. "I'll be fine in a few hours."

"Yeah, but fighting off a migraine is going to take a lot out of you," I argued. "It can wait until tomorrow."

"Bell, I've been laid up since last night," he retorted. "By the end of the day, I'll feel better and I'm going to want out of this bed."

I stood, crossing my arms over my chest. "Fine, but I'm driving."

"Deal," he agreed.

"I'll go so you can rest up," I said. "Try to eat, too. Okay?"

"Wait," he called. "Come back here."

Walking back to the bed, I ran a hand through his hair. "What now, you big baby?"

He smiled. "Kiss me."

Leaning closer, I kissed his forehead.

He groaned. "Not there."

With a smirk, I kissed him again, lower this time, right between the eyes. He sighed, closing his eyes as I worked my way down the bridge of his nose. Finally, I kissed his lips, lingering there longer than I had anywhere else.

"All better," he mumbled when I'd pulled away.

"Not even," I scoffed. "Eat and go to sleep, or I'm not taking you anywhere later."

"Fine, you big bully," he grumbled, reaching for his tray and pulling it into his lap. "Happy now?"

"Extremely," I chirped before turning to leave.

# Chapter Fifteen

The home of Grayson Smith sat a few blocks over from mine—a small, one-story cottage with a white picket fence and an immaculate lawn. As I pulled up to the curb, with Tate reclined in the passenger seat of his car, I noticed two large Labrador retrievers running around the backyard.

"This is it," Tate said, sitting up a bit, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.

He claimed to be feeling better, but I could tell he was still experiencing light sensitivity and weakness.

Killing the engine, I turned to face him. "How are we going to approach this?"

Tate shrugged. "I'll play on his sympathy to get us through the door."

I cringed. "Seriously?"

Chuckling, he reached for the door handle. "What's that saying about using what you got? This face makes people uncomfortable and less likely to go against me when I ask for things. Pity and all that."

Following him from the car, I braced my hands on my hips as I followed him up the short path to the front door. "You are terrible."

Reaching back for me, he took my hand. "Desperate times call for desperate measures."

Giving the doorbell a ring, he removed his sunglasses, sliding them into the neckline of his shirt. The dogs out back began to bark, running up to the side of the fence and yapping at us.

"Quiet, you rascals!" called a voice from inside as the heavy tread of footsteps rang out on the floorboards.

The door opened to reveal Grayson, a man with wrinkled, sun-weathered skin and a receding hairline. The little hair he did have clung to the back of his head in thin, white wisps, matching the silvery stubble along his jaw.

"Can I help you?" he asked in a gruff voice, swinging open the screen door.

Stepping out onto the porch, he faltered when he looked up at Tate.

"Hey, Mr. Smith," Tate said, his voice suddenly weaker than it had been in the car. "How've you been?"

Running a hand over the bald top of his head, he avoided Tate's glance. "I've been fine, son. Retired now, you know. Got nothing but time on my hands, now. What about you?"

"I've been okay," Tate replied, pausing to fake a cough. "Don't leave the house much these days."

I rolled my eyes. Boy, he was laying it on thick. However, it seemed to do the trick.

"Well, what brings you here?"

"I need to ask you a few questions, for a friend," he said. "It'll only take a minute."

Grayson looked at Tate again. This time, his brow wrinkled as if in sympathy. "Of course. Come on in."

He held the screen door open for Tate, who took hold of it as Grayson retreated into the house, indicating that we should follow. Sweeping an arm toward the open door, Tate smirked, raising his eyebrows at me.

"Ladies first."

"The cough was a bit dramatic, don't you think?" I whispered as I walked past him into the house.

"The man doesn't have to know my disease doesn't cause a hacking cough."

He did it again for good measure, loud enough that he knew Grayson could hear. I scowled at him as he followed me inside and closed both the screen and inside doors.

"You are going straight to hell," I hissed.

"You guys want something to drink?" Grayson called from the kitchen.

We made our way to the living room, where an ancient television set played the news with the volume lowered.

"No, thanks, we're good," Tate replied as Grayson reappeared. "We really won't stay long. I just have a few questions."

"Okay, well, you guys make yourself at home."

"Oh," Tate said suddenly. "This is Bellamy, my girlfriend."

I didn't have a choice but to recover quickly from the shock at being named Tate's girlfriend for the first time in front of a stranger.

Smiling, I took Grayson's offered hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Nate McGuire's girl, right?" he said. "While working for the department, I made it my business to at least be able to put names with faces."

I nodded. "Yes, sir, he's my dad."

He released my hand and gave me a sympathetic glance. "I was awful sorry to hear about your ma. Always seemed like such a nice woman."

"She was, thank you."

We followed Grayson's instructions on making ourselves at home, sitting beside each other on a worn love seat. He sat across from us in an old recliner, pulling the handle to prop his feet up.

"All right then," he grumbled in his gravelly voice, folding his hands against his belly. "What can I do for you?"

Reaching into the pocket of his shorts, Tate retrieved a sheet of paper and unfolded it, revealing the last page of the article I'd printed out.

"Does this woman look familiar to you?" he asked, handing it over to Grayson.

The man sat up to reach for the slip of paper, then sat back, pulling a pair of glasses out of the front pocket of his shirt and slipping them on.

"Ah, yes," he murmured, studying the photo. "Special Agent Vasquez. Poor thing died in a car crash on the edge of town. Sad business."

"The story says she worked for the FBI," Tate said, leaning forward and bracing his elbows against his knees. "I was wondering... or rather, my friend needs to know... do you remember what case she might have been investigating in Wellhollow Springs before she died? Just seems odd for an FBI agent to come snooping around this small town."

Grayson chuckled. "I hate to disappoint you, but it wasn't anything particularly interesting. She seemed overly involved in a death that had been ruled a suicide. The girl lived here, died here a couple years ago. Despite all the evidence pointing toward suicide, Vasquez wouldn't let it go. She kept coming up to the station, bugging the detectives about it. Even took herself to the county sheriff looking for stuff that wasn't there."

Tate and I exchanged a glance. So, Camila had been investigating her sister's death after all.

"Did she find anything?" I asked.

Grayson shook his head. "Weren't nothing to find. Oh, we humored her... let her have access to some evidence and answered her little questions. But not long after she showed up, the chief put in a call to Quantico to ask about her. Turns out her little investigation wasn't authorized by the FBI. Camila had been placed on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation. Apparently, the girl was acting under her own impulse to investigate when her supervisory agent had told her to let it go. After that, the chief put out the word—we weren't to cooperate with Vasquez any longer. She got iced out and couldn't make much progress after that. It was my understanding that she was about to leave town when she passed."

"Thank you," Tate said. "We won't take up anymore of your time. That was all we needed."

Frowning, Grayson stood. "Are you sure?"

"We're sure," Tate said, rising to his feet. "Thanks for your help."

"Sure thing," Grayson replied. "You certain I can't convince you kids to hang around for a bit? I was just about to fire up the grill. I make a mean steak."

Tate smiled. "Maybe some other time, Mr. Smith. I really shouldn't be out of the house for too long."

Grayson nodded in understanding. "I get it, son. You take care of yourself, okay?"

Shaking his hand again, Tate preceded me down the hall toward the front door. The old man followed, his boots pounding out a heavy tread on the hardwood.

"Mr. Smith?" I asked, turning to face him in the doorway.

"Yes?"

"Do you know if she might have passed any information on to anyone else? Something she might have thought of as evidence?"

Grayson's expression grew solemn as he shook his head. "Sorry, honey. I have no idea. As far as I know, if Vasquez did find anything, no one else knew about it. Whatever she thought she'd found, it died with her."

* * *

"Well, that got us nowhere," I muttered a few minutes later, cranking the car and pulling away from Grayson's house.

"Sure it did," Tate replied, slipping his glasses back on. "We found out that Camila was going rogue to investigate her sister's death... which means she probably thought it was a murder, not a suicide."

"Yeah, but it looks like she hit a dead end just like we did," I argued. "Maybe she was delusional, and still can't see the truth even as a ghost. Maybe her sister really did kill herself."

"If the death was just a suicide, why so much obstruction against her?" he argued. "Why not just give her access and let her see for herself that Isabella hung herself? I smell a cover-up."

My eyes widened as I realized he could be right. "That makes a lot of sense. We need to figure out what Camila did with whatever evidence she might have gathered."

Laying his head back against the headrest of his seat, Tate sighed. "I don't know, Bell. The deeper we dig on this thing, the more dangerous it starts to feel. Maybe it isn't worth it."

Pulling up to a stoplight, I turned to face him. "This is your life we're talking about. Not to mention the fact that Isabella's family is going through life thinking she killed herself. I can't even imagine how they must feel, not just losing two daughters, but losing one in such a horrific way. There's too much at stake. We can't stop now."

"What if we go back to Grayson and tell him what we suspect?" he mused. "He can help us get the chief or sheriff involved. The proper authorities should handle this."

"After the way they brushed Camila aside, I doubt they would find us any more credible," I pointed out. "We have no evidence, and we can't just go around telling people about the ghosts. Trust me, that's a sure way to get labeled a lunatic in this town."

The light turned green and I continued. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tate run a hand through his hair.

"You're right," he replied. "Which means there's only one thing left for us to do. We're going to have to take a trip to Fayehill and visit the Vasquez family. Maybe they knew why Camilla suspected that her sister had been murdered. Something she told them might give us another lead."

"Don't you think that would be tacky?" I asked. "Intruding on their family like that? Their daughters are dead, and I know it's been a few years, but still... it might be hurtful for them to have strangers come around asking questions."

"I know, but we don't have many other options," he replied. "Maybe it will help them to know that someone else is picking up where Camila left off, pursuing justice."

Sighing, I nodded in agreement. "Okay, but Fayehill... that's a ten-hour trip—five there and five back. I can't exactly tell my dad what we're up to."

"Right," he replied. "Well, don't worry about it. I'll go alone. My parents hardly pay attention to me anyway. It's not like they'll notice I'm gone."

"Are you kidding?" I argued. "I'm not letting you go on that long a drive alone. What if you have a migraine?"

"Bell, I'll be fine."

"No," I insisted. "I'll think of something. We're going together."

Laughing, he reached out and rested his hand on my thigh. "Yes, ma'am."

I glanced down at that hand, biting my lip and refocusing on the road. He did things like that, as if they came naturally to him. Like he couldn't keep his hands off me. I wasn't used to being in this position with a guy... at least not one who wasn't doing it just to try to get laid. There was no pressure with Tate—just affection and a sense of comfort that seemed to come easy.

"So," I said slyly. "Word on the street is that Tate Baldwin has a girlfriend."

Tate laughed. "Yeah, about that... You didn't mind, did you? I mean, if it's premature, I understand."

I shrugged one shoulder. "Well, we have made out multiple times. But... there was only one date. Don't you have to go on like, two or three dates in a row without seeing anyone else for it to be official?"

"Hey, I rented you a Ferris wheel," he argued. "That, plus the movie, counts as two dates."

I snorted. "Sorry, man. All of it happened in one night... it was a single date."

"Okay, let's stop off for dinner somewhere," he said. "That'll make this a date. Ooh, there's a Shake Shack right there!"

"Drive-through from Shake Shack is _not_ a date," I muttered even as I stopped to turn into the long line snaking from the drive-through window.

"It is if I buy you a burger _and_ a shake," he reasoned. "That's not cheap... I'll even spring for onion rings instead of fries."

Putting the car in park to wait for the others in front of us to pull up, I shook my head at him with a chuckle. "You are a mess. What am I going to do with you?"

Leaning toward me over the center console, he kissed my cheek. "Whatever you want, Bell."

I squirmed when he began nibbling on my ear, groaning when he found a particularly sensitive patch of skin beneath it. "Stop that," I demanded, swatting him away. "Behave yourself. You're still weak."

"I'll be good for now," he grumbled, falling back into his seat.

After a few moments of waiting in silence, I glanced over at him. "Hey, I was thinking..."

When I trailed off, he peered at me over the rims of his sunglasses. "What's up?"

I took a deep breath and plunged in, blurting out what had been on my mind since our first date. I'd been afraid to ask, but I figured it was worth a shot.

"I was wondering if you'd given any thought to going to the Founder's Day ball," I said in a rush. "It's in two weeks."

He fell silent for a long while—for so long two cars made it to the window ahead of us and drove off before he replied. "I would like nothing more than to see you all dressed up, and dance the night away with you," he murmured. "It would be wildly romantic, and a solid third date to seal our relationship according to your lofty standards."

I wanted to laugh, but I knew his little joke was only to take the sting out of the inevitable refusal.

"But?" I prodded.

"But," he continued. "I'm not sure I'm ready to be in public around quite so many people."

"We went to the movies," I reminded him.

"At night," he countered. "One of the last shows of the night, and there wasn't a ton of people there. The Founder's Day ball is the biggest event of the year in Wellhollow Springs, Bell. Hundreds of people who have been gossiping about me for the past two years, all gathered in one place, at an event created for people to show off, see, and be seen. It's not the same."

Despite the disappointment sinking into my gut, I could understand his reasoning. I decided not to try to push him into things he wasn't ready for yet. I'd gotten him out of his room, and he hadn't worn a hat or a hoodie in over a week. Progress didn't happen overnight.

"That's okay," I said as we pulled up to the speaker to order. "I didn't really want to go that badly, anyway."

We dropped the subject and ordered our food, eating it while I drove us the rest of the way to Baldwin House. I dropped Tate off, promising to let him know when I could figure out an excuse for our trip to Fayehill. The fact of the matter was—there existed no way on earth that my dad would let me go out of town overnight with a boy—any boy. I was going to have to lie, which put a sour taste in my mouth. But this was important. Perhaps if I could help Tate banish these ghosts, I could then help my dad get rid of his.

Watching Tate ascend into the house, I sat in the car until he disappeared through the front door before pulling away from the circular drive. My mind wandered as I cruised toward the gate, thinking over some excuses I might give my dad for going out of town with Tate. I was on autopilot, which was why I almost didn't see the person standing out in the middle of the road. With a gasp, I slammed the brakes, screeching to a stop. I shook from head to toe, a death grip on the wheel as I glanced up and found one of the ghosts standing in front of me, a shower of red rose petals drifting around her, fluttering toward the ground like snowflakes. My bumper would have shattered her kneecaps if she'd been an actual person. A handful of the petals now sprinkled the hood of the car.

Hands still trembling, I reached out to put the car in park, my chest heaving as I fought to calm my breath. Opening the door, I stepped out, squinting against the high afternoon sun. Seeing one of them in the daytime was jarring, the white glow muted in the daylight, causing her black eyes and the dark smudge around her throat to stand out even more.

"Isabella," I whispered, watching as her nightgown fluttered around her ankles, despite the fact that the air around us remained still.

She stood staring at me with her dark, unblinking eyes, her mouth a thin, unmoving line.

I reminded myself that she wouldn't hurt me. Still, when she approached me, I flinched away, cringing at the sound of her bones snapping beneath her skin. I bit back a whimper, falling back against the hood of the car. The heat from the metal stung my skin, but instinct kept me there, more willing to take the pain from the heat than let Isabella get her hands on me.

"We're not there, yet," I said, fighting to still my trembling voice. "But we're trying. Tate... he's really trying."

She inclined her head with another crunch, wrinkling her brow as if trying to understand.

I tried again. "You're Isabella, right?"

She seemed confused, lowering her eyes, then glancing left and right as if trying to remember her own name. Then, she nodded, making the joints in her neck crackle.

"They say you hung yourself, but Camila didn't believe that," I continued. "And neither do I."

Reaching up to her neck, Isabella pressed her fingers against the dark bruise staining her white skin. When she fixed her black eyes back on me, I realized that a tear had escaped one eye. Even though she was dead, I imagined Isabella felt very much alive. If she could cry, that meant she could feel—sadness, despair, and pain. Where I'd once feared her and Camila, I now experienced pity. I'd be angry, too, if I found myself trapped between life and death, stuck feeling the pain I'd been subjected to at death.

"We need a little more time," I told her. "Please. We're so close to ending this."

Glancing back up at the house, Isabella didn't indicate that she'd heard me for a long while. Following her gaze, I wondered if Camila remained inside. Maybe the two silently communicated somehow.

Finally, she turned back to me and nodded.

"Okay?" I asked, edging away from the hood and back to the open driver's side door. "More time?"

Isabella nodded again, that unnerving sound sending a shiver down my spine.

"Thank you," I said. "I promise you, we'll get justice for you. Soon."

Glancing down into the car, I lowered myself to the driver's seat. When I looked back up, she was gone. Breathing a sigh of relief, I closed my eyes, giving myself a minute to calm down. When I opened them, the rose petals were gone too. There was nothing but the gate ahead of me, and the turn-off for the road leading into town.

Once I felt able to drive again, I pulled out, turning the encounter over in my head. It had been a while since Isabella and Camilla had appeared to us, and I wondered if the fact that one of them had come to me directly meant they were getting impatient. Dread settled in my gut at the thought of being cursed by the ghosts like Tate... or watching him get worse once the ghosts became dissatisfied with our progress. More than ever, I was resolved to see this through until the end.

Cruising to a halt at a stop sign, I glanced in the rearview mirror, wrinkling my brow at the sight of a black Lincoln pulling up behind me. Maybe I was being paranoid, but it seemed as if every time I had glanced in my rearview mirror, that car was tailing me.

Testing the theory, I hit my turn signal to go right, instead heading straight—the way I needed to take to get home. The car continued straight after I'd turned, and I loosened my grip on the wheel, releasing my breath on a sigh of relief. The encounter with Isabella had left me shaken and now I was being paranoid.

I flicked the signal to turn left and get back on course, but when I did, the black car appeared again from an intersection at my left, having made a turn to come back in my direction.

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and fought the urge to panic. I took another turn, left, and then right again. Each time, the car wasn't far behind, trailing me wherever I went.

"What the hell?" I whispered.

Why would someone be following me around? The details of my day-to-day life were not that interesting.

_They didn't used to be,_ I thought. _But they are now._

A tremor rocked me at the thought that someone could be on to Tate and me. Had our digging got us into a hole we couldn't climb out of? Who would care that we were asking around about Camila Vasquez?

Whatever the case, this guy was definitely trailing me, and I was not about to lead him to my house or my dad.

Clenching my jaw, I led him around a bit more before pulling into the parking lot of a gas station. As I got out of the car, the black Lincoln continued past, disappearing down the street, back in the direction of downtown. I slumped against the driver's side door, taking a few deep breaths before getting back in. I wasn't sure how long I sat, waiting to see if the car would come back, but after a while, it appeared they didn't intend to bother with me anymore. For now.

Pulling away from the gas station, I took the long route home, ensuring no one was behind me before I allowed myself to pull into the driveway.

Once inside the house, I headed straight to the kitchen to start dinner. Dad would be home soon, and I wanted it ready when he got here. But my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't still them, and by the time I realized I was in no condition to cook, I had spilled an entire box of rice and dropped several kitchen knives.

I cleaned the mess, and then slumped in a chair at the kitchen table, giving myself some time to calm down.

Why would someone follow me? If I'd come home and they had found me here alone, would I have been in danger?

Burying my face in my hands, I forced myself to face the fact that Tate might have been right. This was getting deep, and we were in over our heads.

But then, I thought of Camila Vasquez and her fruitless investigation. The woman had died trying to prove something, and it was up to us to figure out what. All this meant was I needed to be smarter about how I went about gathering information, and I had to watch my back whenever I was out alone.

Finally, I decided Tate didn't need to know about any of it. It would only upset him to think I might be in danger, and I didn't want him to cancel our trip to Fayehill. I had a feeling there were so many of the answers we were looking for there.

Resolved, I stood and went to splash some cold water on my face, then returned to the kitchen to make dinner. When I heard Dad coming in, I plastered a smile on my face and pretended that everything was okay.

# Chapter Sixteen

The light breeze whipped through the open driver's side window of Tate's car, lashing my curls into a frizzy mess—but the evening air felt nice, so I let it go, despite knowing my ponytail would be ruined by the time we reached Fayehill. Beside me in the passenger seat, Tate lay reclined with his sunglasses on, eyes closed behind them. Another migraine had put him in bed all day, but he was determined that we make this trip to Camila's hometown. Especially since this might be our only chance. I'd told Dad that the Baldwins needed me to stay overnight because they were going to be out of town on business.

He'd been a bit reluctant, but I'd told him about Tate's migraines over the past week, and he relented, knowing he was in no shape to look after his siblings.

"Call to check in with me while you're there," he'd insisted. "And let me know when they've arrived back home, so I can come pick you up."

So, Friday, after my time with Max and Emma was up, I'd thrown my overnight bag into the back of Tate's car and taken the wheel for the five-hour drive to Fayehill. Since it would be late when we arrived, we would have to visit the Vasquez family first thing in the morning, then hightail it back to Wellhollow Springs.

Chewing my lower lip, I sighed, gazing out at the long stretch of highway looming in front of me. I hated lying to Dad, and it was becoming a habit. I would be glad when this whole thing was behind us, because I hated feeling like I was being forced to choose between him and Tate.

"Are we there yet?" he mumbled, turning his head slightly to look at me.

I smirked, stifling a giggle. This was the fifth time he'd asked me—likely because he was bored. He'd been sleeping off and on during the four hours I'd been driving, and each time he came awake, he asked if we were there yet.

"No," I said, trying to sound serious, but failing. "Ask me again, and I'll pull over and put you out on the side of the road."

"You could let me drive," he offered. "I'm okay now."

I rolled my eyes. "Bull. You are not driving anyone anywhere right now. I've got this. Only one more hour to go."

"I forgot to tell you something I found while doing some more research on Mayor McShifty," he said suddenly.

"Mayor McShifty?" I laughed.

"Fits Canton Haines to a 'T' don't you think? Something about the guy doesn't sit right with me."

"You don't have to tell me," I said with a shiver, remembering our encounter at the festival.

Since the night I'd been followed on my way home, I'd often wondered if it had been a result of that conversation. Was the mayor trying to cover his tracks? If so, why? What had he done that needed to be covered up?

"Well, turns out, we aren't the only ones who can see through his 'town hero' façade," Tate continued, adjusting his seat so he could sit up straighter. "There was a man named Jim Barnes. He wrote for the Wellhollow Springs Sentinel and published a few pieces on local government corruption. Canton Haines ignored a lead-poisoning crisis in one of the town's oldest and poorest neighborhoods, leading to several deaths, according to Jim. There might also have been some city money that went missing. Jim seemed to think the funds for road maintenance and water purification were pocketed. He was adamant about exposing this stuff, and had earned himself a reputation at the Sentinel for his editorial pieces."

"Jim Barnes," I murmured. "Why do I know that name?"

Tate glanced over at me, raising his sunglasses up into his hair. "Hot tub guy."

I gasped. "The man who accidentally drowned in his hot tub was Jim Barnes?"

"Yep," he confirmed. "Fishy, no?"

"Fishier than a can of Chicken of the Sea," I muttered. "It can't be a coincidence that this man dies in a weird accident after publishing those articles."

"My thoughts exactly," he replied. "I hope this trip yields some more answers. If we can just make that connection to Canton Haines, I think we'll nail this thing."

Keeping a grip on the wheel with one hand, I reached out to take his. "We will. I have a good feeling about this."

Tate clutched my hand back, but didn't reply. He'd turned to look out the window at the sky, now dark and blanketed in stars.

We spent the rest of the trip talking about mundane things—stuff we liked, didn't like. The standard 'we just started dating' questions and answers. It felt nice to forget about everything else for a little while and act like a normal couple, which we certainly were not. At least, the circumstances bringing us together weren't exactly typical.

We arrived in Fayehill late and parked at the first hotel we came across—a decent-enough place that let Tate pay in cash. Seeming to feel better now, he suggested we grab dinner and eat before calling it a night.

Unlocking the door to our double queen bedroom, I pushed it open while Tate toted both our overnight bags over the threshold. The room smelled clean, had a working AC, television, and coffee pot, so I was content. A long counter held two sinks against a far wall, with a mirror above it. The door to what I assumed must be the bathroom sat to its left. It wasn't a palace, but we'd only be here overnight. Glancing over at the two beds separated by a single nightstand, I felt my pulse begin to gallop in my throat. This would be the first time we spent more than a few hours alone together. Without a curfew or the threat of Emma and Max walking in on us at any time, anything could happen. My palms began to sweat at what the notion of 'anything' could entail.

For now, though, there were more pressing concerns—like the fact that we hadn't eaten for hours. I reached for the small binder resting on the nightstand. I was glad for a distraction when I flipped it open to find several local places to grab food. Sinking onto the closest bed, I flipped through the different offerings.

"Looks like there are some places around here that deliver to the hotel," I murmured, glancing over the various menus. "You want a burger or pizza? Ooh, there's Chinese!"

He laughed. "You sounded excited about Chinese, so let's do that."

Reaching for the phone, I dialed the number. "Okay, I'll order. Hopefully, they're still open this late."

"I'm going to hop in the shower while you do that," he replied.

I nodded in response, frowning when the phone continually rang without an answer. They must have been closed. Dialing the number for a place advertising the best burgers in town, I ordered. By the time I'd finished, Tate was out of the shower, sitting on the other bed across from me. He wore a pair of gray pajama bottoms and nothing else, using a towel to dry his damp hair. I watched him, unable to look away. The way the light of the lamp played over his wet hair was downright hypnotic, making strands of gold shimmer among the dark brown coils, made curly from being washed. A few stray droplets slithered down his neck, and then lower, over the bulges of his chest. Frowning, he used the towel to catch them, and then dropped it on the floor before glancing up at me.

Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the wet mass back from his forehead. "Um, Bell?"

"Yeah?" I answered, my voice hoarse from the lump taking up residence there. I could barely think past imagining pressing my hands against his bare skin and smoothing them over the lines and planes making up his naked torso.

"Can you hand me my bag?"

Tearing my gaze away from him, I realized both our bags sat close to the door, which my bed was nearest to.

"Sure," I replied, turning my back to him, grateful for the distraction.

If I'd stared at him any longer, the urges seeing him half-dressed made me feel would be harder to ignore. When I turned back to hand him the bag, he stood, accepting it with a smile.

"Thanks," he murmured.

Reaching into the bag, he produced a comb and began raking the wet curls back from his face, taming them into smooth waves. Since I couldn't go on staring at him all night, I reached for my own bag and retreated into the bathroom. Closing the door, I leaned against it and took a moment to calm my frazzled nerves. I could do this. I could spend the night in the same room with Tate without losing my mind. Especially since it seemed as if he was being cooler about this than I was.

Of course, he'd probably been in this situation a bunch of times. I was the inexperienced one here.

Peeling myself away from the door, I dropped my bag on the closed toilet, proceeded to undress down to my underwear, and then turned the shower's nozzle all the way to 'hot'. Waiting for the water to heat up, I took my hair from its loose ponytail and worked to make sure the stray strands were pulled to the top of my head so they didn't get wet. I didn't have the time or energy for a conditioning and detangling session tonight, so washing would have to wait. I must have tugged the rubber band too hard, because it snapped in my hand, stinging my fingers.

"Crap," I muttered, glaring at the broken band in my hand.

Going into my bag, I began rummaging for another, but realized there weren't any.

I sighed. "Double crap."

"Everything okay in there?" came Tate's voice from the other side of the door.

"Yeah," I replied. "Just broke something, is all. No big deal."

"Broke what? Let me see."

His voice sounded much closer now, as if he stood just outside the door. Glancing down at myself, I became all too aware of the fact that I was pretty much naked. Reaching for a clean towel, I wrapped it around myself and made sure it was secure before opening the door a crack.

Tate stood on the other side, now wearing a shirt. I extended my arm through the cracked door with the broken rubber band in my palm.

"It's just a broken hair tie," I told him. "I told you, no big deal."

Chuckling, he plucked it from my hand. "I've heard the 'don't get my curls wet' speech enough times to know you need this thing. Gimme a sec."

Leaning against the frame, I let the door fall open a bit more and watched as Tate attempted to tie the two broken ends of the rubber band together again. After a few seconds of fumbling, he managed to get it tied into a knot. Holding it up, he grinned.

"Success. Turn around and let me do it. This thing is fragile now, and you're just going to break it again with your manhandling."

"I did _not_ manhandle it," I grumbled even as I turned my back to him. "It's an old rubber band."

Tate didn't respond, going silent as he began piling my hair on top my head, gently pulling it up with one hand and gathering it in his opposite fist. Closing my eyes, I sighed at the feel of his fingers stroking the strands, swaying back into him as he stroked the back of my neck between pulls, lingering on the sensitive spot just where it met the top of my shoulders.

His breath caught and released on a rush, tickling my exposed skin. I shivered, swaying back against him as he quickly and neatly pulled my hair into a topknot.

"You're good at that," I murmured, reaching up to feel his handiwork. Not a strand had escaped the band.

Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulled me back against him, lowering his head until his lips brushed the side of my neck.

"What? This?" he murmured, kissing his way down to my shoulder.

"Hmm, that too," I whispered, placing my hand over his where it rested against my belly.

If the shortness of his breath as he continued kissing his way up until he nibbled on my earlobe was any indication, he wasn't as cool about this as I'd thought. His free hand shook as he raised it to my chin, angling my head to the side so he could kiss me.

Heat flared between us when our lips met, and Tate groaned against my mouth when my tongue met his. I turned in his arms without breaking our kiss, standing on tiptoe to wrap my arms around his neck. Tate's hands came up to my shoulders, skimming down my arms, then back up, stroking my neck, then my jaw as he cupped my face and pressed me back against the sink.

I forgot that I was naked except for a towel... at least, I did until a knock sounded at the door, prompting Tate to tear his lips from mine with a ragged sigh. His lips were a bit red from the pressure of mine, and his chest heaved as he breathed as if struggling to pull in air.

Gripping my towel, I made sure it stayed up over my chest as Tate pulled away. "Food's here," I whispered, lowering my eyes.

Nodding, he took a step away from me. "I got it. You better hurry and shower before the hot water runs out."

Realizing that steam now drifted from inside the bathroom where I'd left the shower running, I took a step toward it, putting more distance between us.

"I won't be long."

Leaning in toward me, he kissed me one more time, hurriedly, before turning away to answer the knock. I stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door. My hands shook as I removed the towel and quickly finished preparing to get in the shower. The hot water stung my skin, but I only turned it down a bit, needing the heat to relax my tense muscles. After what had just happened between Tate and me, I felt as if I were made of a bundle of nerves—the endings of which all lay on the surface of my skin.

I took longer than I'd planned in the shower, not leaving until the trembling stopped and I felt more in control of my limbs. When I finally emerged, Tate sat at the small table near the window with our dinner spread out on the surface.

"Smells good," I said, dropping my dirty clothes inside my bag before joining him.

"It's not bad," he replied before taking another bite of the burger he'd begun demolishing the second he got the wrapper off. His voice had been strained, making me wonder if he might still be thinking about what had just happened, or what it might have led to if our food hadn't been delivered. Yet, he seemed content to concentrate on eating for now, so I followed his lead. Maybe eating would soothe my stomach, which experienced both the flutter of butterflies and the twisting of hunger.

I opened a few ketchup packets for my fries, and then dug in, sighing with contentment as my stomach calmed a bit.

"Did you call your dad?" he asked.

"I did before we left the house," I replied between bites. "I'll call again in the morning, then one more time once we get back to your house, so he can pick me up."

Glancing up at me, he frowned. "You didn't have to come, you know. I told you, I would have been fine on my own."

Shrugging, I took a sip of my soda. "I wasn't going to let you come by yourself. We're in this together, remember?"

"Sure," he said. "But I don't like lying to your dad. The guy likes me, and I want to keep it that way."

Pausing with burger in hand, I gave him a half smile. "Don't worry about it. I'm the one lying, not you. It makes me feel terrible, but he's indicated that the thought of me seeing ghosts bothers him. He has enough to worry about without me adding to it. Well, more than I already have, anyway. Me bringing home a guy I'm dating probably stresses him out."

Tate chewed and swallowed the last of his burger, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. "He's not used to you bringing boys around?"

I snorted. "No, because I've never done it before."

He gaped at me in openmouthed shock. "Are you joking?"

"Nope. I've never really dated anyone... not seriously enough to bring them home, anyway. A few first dates and group dates... but nothing like you and me."

Tate shook his head in disbelief. "I have a hard time believing that. Look at you. You're gorgeous... smart... and you're cool as hell. How is it that you've been single all this time?"

Sighing, I set my burger down and leaned back in the chair. Folding my hands in my lap, I avoided his stare, embarrassed. "I don't know."

For a moment, he didn't respond, but I could feel his gaze on my face, searching. Now I was feeling uneasy again, but not in the same way as before. It was embarrassing, having reached seventeen without really experiencing much in regards to dating. Especially given the reason why—something I didn't really like to discuss out loud. The sound of his chair sliding back on the carpet told me he had stood, and then he was there, crouching in front of my chair so I was forced to look at him.

"I don't believe you," he murmured. "I think you do know. It's okay if you don't want to say... I didn't mean anything by that."

He rested his hands in my lap, enveloping mine in his. I lifted my head to meet his gaze. What had I been thinking to be embarrassed to talk to him about this? We had been very honest with each other up until now—and in the case of Tate, giving voice to the horrible things he'd done. If he could trust me with those parts of himself, the parts he had every right to want to hide, why couldn't I reciprocate?

"There have been a lot of guys who've asked me out," I admitted before I could lose my nerve. "But the truth is, I'm always scared to say yes."

"Worried they'll all treat you like Linc?" he asked, an edge of bitterness creeping into his voice.

I shook my head. "No, nothing like that. It's just... I never really know if they actually want to get to know _me_ , and not just do it for bragging rights. There's all this speculation and talk about my dad, so people wonder if I'm insane, or if I'm going to start twitching and foaming at the mouth at any moment. It just seems better to protect myself from that than to say yes to anyone. I never know who's real."

"And what about me?" he whispered. "Do you have any doubts about me?"

"Sometimes," I whispered. "I wonder if you only like me because I'm available. If you could pick anyone else, would you still choose me? When this is all over, and you get better, will we end, too?"

I closed my eyes as I said the words, shame flooding me for letting them out. Still, I wanted to be candid with Tate. I cared about him, but I worried about those things all the time.

"The truth is, you scare me most of all, Tate," I continued. "Because when I'm with you, I'm comfortable and happy. I don't have to pretend or hide parts of myself. But I'm so afraid, because if this ever ends, it'll be so much more hurtful than being rejected by guys I didn't really care about that much. As afraid as I am, though, I can't seem to convince myself to walk away. I don't want to."

His hands cupped my face, and his lips brushed my forehead. "Bell, I don't like you because you're 'available.' I like you because you're the first person in a long time who has tried to get through to me, and you didn't back down when I lashed out."

His lips found my face again. This time, skimming the bridge of my nose. I sighed, the tension in my shoulders relaxing as I realized what I'd said hadn't upset him.

"I like you because you were kind to me when I didn't deserve it, and because you look at me in a way no one ever has... even when I was good-looking."

I opened my eyes and looked into his. "You're still good-looking," I insisted. "Anyone who can't see that isn't looking at you right. They're focused on the wrong things."

He grinned, that uneven movement of his mouth making my heart stutter. "See? This is what I'm talking about. You're the kind of person who looks at something that's broken, but still sees it the way it was before. Those idiots who make fun of you and talk about you behind your back have no idea what they might have had if they'd bothered to pay attention. It didn't take me long to discover what's inside you, and now that I've found it... I don't want to let it go. I'm scared, too, but I'm in this with you, as long as you're in it with me. So, to answer your question, no, Bell, we are not going to end when this is over. At least, I don't want us to end."

Reaching up to cover the hands cradling my face with my own, I smiled, my eyes beginning to sting with tears. "I don't want that, either."

He brought me closer, kissing me more tenderly than he ever had—yet despite his gentleness, the heat from before sparked between us again. His fingers tickled my scalp as he reached up to loosen my hair. He caressed the strands, gently pulling them down to my shoulders while he went on kissing me, moving from my mouth, down my chin, and then to the side of my neck. I melted, feeling as if I'd become a puddle on the floor if he didn't stop. Then, I realized I didn't want him to stop. And now, there wouldn't be any interruptions—not even my own doubts making me afraid to let things progress in the direction I knew they were going.

"You should finish eating," he murmured, moving abruptly as if to stand and let me go. He watched me as if waiting for me to take the lead and guide him—putting the control in my hands.

So I accepted that control, reaching out to grab his shoulders, keeping him crouched in front of me. "I am finished."

Without taking his gaze from mine, he reached out and swiped our bags and wrappers into the nearby trash can. Then, grasping my waist, he stood, pulling me to my feet along with him.

I clutched his shoulders, holding on tight while he kissed me again, deeper this time and with far more possessiveness. My heart raced, galloping in my chest as his kiss seemed to reach the outer parts of my body, even making my fingers tingle and my toes curl. He backed me toward the table, picking me up and setting me on its edge without pulling his mouth away from mine. His hands left my face, trailed down my shoulders, and followed their previous path, skimming my arms, then taking my hands and threading his fingers through mine. I clutched at his hands, holding tight to keep mine from shaking as the magnitude of what was about to happen sent a tremor down my spine. I was afraid, but also excited and anticipating something beautiful. Part of me felt guilty that we had come to this in a hotel room six hours away from home, where our parents had no idea where we were or what we were doing. Another part of me didn't care, because in this room, at this moment, Tate and I were the only things that mattered.

He tore his mouth from mine and stared down at me, his lips parted, breath racing between them. "Bell, I want this, so bad, but... I don't want to rush things if you aren't ready."

Smiling at him, I slid my hands beneath his shirt, encountering his flat stomach. He shivered when my fingernails traced the lines between his ab muscles. "But I am ready. Keep going."

Tate hesitated for only a second, seeming to ask me with his eyes if I were sure. To drive the point home, I reached down to grip the hem of my T-shirt. I pulled it off and tossed it to the floor. He clenched his jaw, looking at me with his breath now gone quiet, as if he held it. He released it on a rush as he reached down to pick me up, keeping a firm hold on me as he walked toward one of the beds, unclasping my bra as he went. Laying me back against the pillow, he climbed on over me and tossed the undergarment aside, leaving me naked from the waist up. He followed suit, tearing his shirt off over his head and dropping it to the floor before lowering himself to lie on top of me. I wrapped my arms around him, surprised to find his weight wasn't crushing like I'd assumed. It was comforting, the warmth of his skin suffusing into me as he rested his chest against mine.

He lowered his head to kiss me again, but I stopped him, reaching up to grab his face. Pausing, he watched with wide eyes as I lifted my head toward his, aiming for his jaw instead of his mouth. He sucked in a sharp breath when my lips found him, on the side of his face where only bone met my mouth beneath his skin. The imperfect side of his face. He stiffened when I did it again, moving a bit higher, my fingers tracing a path behind my lips, touching where my lips had kissed. Then, he sighed, relaxing as I forged a trail upward, over his hollow cheek and the jutting cheekbone, even brushing my lips over the lid of his drooping eye.

I paused at his brow, my lips lingering there as I spoke. "I don't care what anyone says," I whispered. "You are beautiful to me."

Resting his forehead against mine, he closed his eyes. "Thank you," he rasped, his arms tightening around me. His voice came out uneven, as if he fought back tears. I found them glimmering in the pools of his eyes when he opened them to look at me again. "If anyone else had said that to me, I'd think they were just saying it. But I know you... you don't say things unless you mean them."

Resting my hands against the muscles in his back, I stared up at him. "I've never done this before."

Smiling down at me, he stroked a lock of hair back from my forehead. "That's okay. I've done it far less than you'd think."

Lifting my eyebrows, I smirked. "Playboy Tate Baldwin, inexperienced? Say it ain't so!"

He chuckled, shaking his head. "You know how it is. Stories get exaggerated. I dated a lot of girls, but this... it wasn't something I did a lot of."

I released a sigh of relief, feeling a lot better about my lack of experience. "Should we... I mean... condoms or something?"

Tate cringed. "Crap. Didn't think to bring any. I wasn't planning to take advantage of you, you know."

Laughing, I ran my fingers through his hair. "You're not taking advantage of me. Try the nightstand drawer. This is a hotel off the interstate... I bet there's one in there."

Rolling to his side, he turned his back to me to reach out toward the nightstand. I lay back and waited, hands folded against my bare stomach. A moment later, he turned back to me with a square, foil-wrapped package held between two fingers.

"Jackpot," he murmured. "There's also a Bible in there, which just felt wrong. Who puts those things together?"

Laughing, I reached for him, pulling him back toward me. "Try not to think about it."

"I'm not," he insisted. "The only thing I'm thinking about right now is you."

Taking my mouth in a fiery kiss, he then set about proving just how true that statement was.

# Chapter Seventeen

Taking a bite of the syrup-soaked pancakes in front of me, I sighed in bliss. The pancakes were light and fluffy—much like the cloud I'd been walking on since waking up that morning beside Tate. Glancing up from my plate, I found him watching me, his expression pensive. We hadn't spoken much since waking up in the same bed, Tate's arm draped across my middle, with my back pressed up against his chest. I'd turned over to look at him and smile, and he'd kissed me. We had traded 'good mornings' before taking turns freshening up in the bathroom and getting dressed.

Glancing at myself in the mirror while getting ready, I tried to determine if I looked as different as I'd felt. After all, I'd just made a monumental decision the night before. It had been more than I'd expected, and I figured that was because of the person I'd chosen to take the step with. As with everything Tate did when it came to me, he'd demonstrated a great amount of care and thoughtfulness. I couldn't have asked for better. There had been a lot of uncertainty on my part, and a bit of pain, but it was made all the sweeter by the feeling of giving myself to him with no regrets.

I supposed I should feel a sense of loss—yet there was none. Maybe, I decided, that was because I hadn't actually lost anything, so much as I'd chosen to give it to someone I cared about.

How in the world could I say all that to him without sounding insane? I could hardly make sense of my feelings in my own head, let alone put them into words.

"Breakfast?" Tate had asked once I'd finished getting dressed.

"Sure," I replied.

Holding hands, we'd walked to the little restaurant next door, where the aroma of coffee and bacon had met us at the door. The silence wasn't strained or awkward—it was comfortable. Still, we hadn't discussed what had happened last night, and something told me that Tate wanted to. He kept looking at me as if trying to figure something out.

Taking a sip of coffee, I set my mug aside and glanced up at him. "Everything okay?"

Blinking and staring at me a moment as if he'd been deep in thought, he cleared his throat. "Yeah, fine. I was just thinking we should talk about last night."

I raised my eyebrows. "Okay. Was it bad for you or something?"

The notion hadn't occurred to me until just now, striking dread in the pit of my stomach. A guy who knew what he was doing might have different expectations than the virginal girl who'd never even had a serious boyfriend.

"Of course not," he said, furrowing his brow. "Was it not good for you?"

Nervous laughter escaped me as I realized we'd both had the same fear. "Don't be silly. It was amazing."

Exhaling in a rush, he slumped back against his chair, his shoulders relaxing. "Thank God. I've wanted to ask all morning, but I didn't know how to bring it up without sounding like an idiot."

I relaxed, relieved to no end to know that I wasn't the only one with uncertainties. "I know you said you weren't as experienced as rumors made you out to be, but I didn't expect you to be as anxious the morning after as me."

Snorting, he shook his head. "I'm not, usually, but... well, as a rule, I usually don't... you know..."

Nodding, I realized what he was getting at. "You don't generally do virgins."

He cringed. "When you say it like that, it sounds so crass. But yes, I tended to avoid virgins in the past. I might have been a jerk, but that was a line I never wanted to cross. I couldn't be responsible for a girl making that decision and then regretting it. I figure the first time is something a girl remembers pretty much for the rest of her life. I didn't want to be responsible for a bad memory, you know?"

"What changed your mind about me?" I asked.

Lacing his fingers through mine, he raised my hand and kissed the back of it. "I care too much about you not to work my hardest to make it a good experience. And if you did wake up regretting it, then I'd do whatever it took to make it up to you."

Pulling our hands back to my side of the table, I mimicked his actions and kissed his knuckles. "Don't worry. I woke up this morning with no regrets. I'm happy we did it, and I wouldn't have chosen anyone but you to have my first time with."

Nodding, he went back to his breakfast, attacking his omelet with far more gusto now that the air had been cleared between us. Taking my hand back, I did the same.

"If you're going to walk around all day looking like that, it might just happen again," I teased, giving him a once-over with my eyes.

The suit he wore fit him like a glove, the jacket hugging broad shoulders, and the stripes in the tie bringing out the green hue of his eyes. He'd slicked his hair back from his face, parting it on one side.

He grinned. "You like FBI Special Agent Tate Baldwin? He's pretty suave, isn't he?"

I laughed. "Let's just hope Mrs. Vasquez will buy it."

"Oh she'll buy it," he replied. "The FBI badge design was ridiculously easy to find online, and adding my photo only took a few minutes. Besides, she'll be so uncomfortable looking at my face, she won't take too close a look. I doubt she'll notice how young I am."

I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. "Stop staying stuff like that about your face. I don't like it."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Look, I've been walking around with this mug for two years. Granted, I spent much of that time locked in my room, but I've been around people enough to know how it goes. Illness and disability make people uncomfortable. They don't want to look straight at it, because it reminds them of how fragile they are, too. It's just a fact... one we will use to our advantage to get the information we need."

Grudgingly admitting he had a point, I went back to eating. I still didn't like it, but he was right. Whatever it took to get us through the door, we needed to use it. My leg bounced under the table, my nerves making themselves apparent. I was anxious to get this over with, but still afraid to proceed. Tate impersonating an FBI agent had to be a crime, and I didn't want him to get caught. But we'd come too far to stop now. We could be one interview away from solving our little mystery.

Once finished eating, we returned to the car, with Tate feeling well enough to get behind the wheel. Plugging Rosita Vasquez's address into the GPS of my phone, I guided him to the house where Camila and Isabella had grown up. We found it easily—a charming two-story house with an old-fashioned Victorian feel to it. Flowers bloomed from patches closed in by tiny little white picket fences. The large porch held wicker rocking chairs and several potted plants, along with a doormat that read _Bienvenidos_ in a cursive scrawl.

"Welcome," I read, remembering the Spanish word from the little I'd retained of last year's required class. "Hopefully, she'll be as welcoming as her porch."

Adjusting his tie, Tate reached out and rang the bell. A soft breeze shifted through the air, jingling a few wind chimes hanging above us. A few moments later, a slender Hispanic woman with deep brown skin and dark hair streaked with gray answered the door. Her face was heavily lined with wrinkles, her mouth pinched and turned down. As she pushed open the screen door, I was struck by the sadness in her dark eyes.

"May I help you?" she asked in a thickly accented voice.

"Rosita Vasquez?" Tate asked in a short, clipped tone. He sounded just like a TV cop.

" _Si_ , I am Rosita," she replied, giving us wary looks. "What is this about?"

Reaching into the inside breast pocket of his jacket, Tate retrieved the little leather wallet holding his fake ID badge and held it up, flipping it open.

"Special Agent Baldwin, ma'am," he replied. "And this is McGuire—a trainee at Quantico. She's shadowing me to learn the ropes as part of her education."

Rosita's eyes widened. "FBI? Did you work with my daughter?"

Flipping his badge closed, he replaced it in his jacket. "No, ma'am, but we're looking into a few open cases she was investigating before she passed away. We were hoping you might be able to help us with one of them."

Nodding, Rosita held the screen door open wider. "I don't know if I can be of much help, but I can try. Please, come in."

Tate and I exchanged a glance before stepping inside. He looked as shocked as I did that it had been so easy. Rosita ushered us into her kitchen, where she motioned for us to take a seat at the table.

She offered us water, but we both declined, so she took a seat across from Tate. As he'd predicted, Rosita seemed uneasy about staring at him head on, averting her gaze to the surface of the kitchen table.

"Camila was very dedicated to her work," she said. "She would have wanted her open cases solved. My husband is at work right now but if I can help you, I will."

"Thank you," Tate replied, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "We're sorry for Camila's loss. She was a superb agent and will be missed."

Rosita inclined her head in acknowledgement of his words, but didn't reply.

"When she passed, Camila was working on a case in Wellhollow Springs... a death that was ruled a suicide. She seemed to think there might have been foul play."

The woman's eyes filled with tears, and she nodded. " _Si_ , her sister... Isabella."

She gestured toward a photo hanging on a nearby wall. I stared at the image of three people—a man who could only be Rosita's husband, along with Camila and Isabella. The differences between them then and now were striking. They'd both been beautiful in life, and they seemed much happier in the photograph.

"Yes," Tate agreed. "It would seem that Camila became involved in investigating her sister's death, despite being warned against it."

"It had become her life—trying to prove that her sister had been murdered," Rosita replied. "No one could convince her otherwise."

"Did Camila ever tell you why she suspected foul play?" I asked.

Rosita shook her head, reaching up to swipe away a tear. "No. My husband and I had very little contact with Camila after Isabella's death. We begged her to let it go. Isabella had a troubled past, and we hadn't heard from her in years. She was no longer the woman we'd known, and her suicide came as a surprise to no one but her sister. Camila could not accept the truth."

"Do you mind if I ask why Isabella's death did not surprise you?" Tate asked.

Lowering her head, Rosita took a deep breath, releasing it on a shaky exhale. "I don't know where we went wrong. Marco and I tried to be good parents. We raised our girls right, but they turned out so different from each other. Camila was an overachiever—perfect grades, good behavior, ambitious. Isabelle was her complete opposite—wild, untamable, rebellious. It led her down a dark road. Her drug addiction and partying created a rift between her and the family. We tried to help her, but she resisted and eventually left home altogether. She lived a lot of places, but had settled in Wellhollow Springs a few years before she died. Camila found out that she... she worked as a prostitute."

Rosita sniffled, cringing as if ashamed to even speak of her daughter's illicit activities. "When she turned up dead, the coroner in Wellhollow Springs declared her death a suicide. All the evidence suggested she hung herself, and she was found dangling from the ceiling, an overturned chair beneath her. What else were we to think? But Camila insisted she had been strangled, and she set out to prove it. I'm sure you know how much trouble it got her in with the FBI."

Tate nodded. "Yes, she was on administrative leave pending a psych evaluation when she died. Ms. Vasquez, do you know if Camila's investigation led to anything? Did she ever share her findings?"

Rosita shrugged. "After she died, we traveled to Wellhollow Springs to collect her remains and her belongings. In her car were a bunch of files and papers, but the FBI didn't seem interested in taking them. So, I boxed them up with the rest of her things and put them in the basement. I couldn't bring myself to toss any of it out. I glanced at some of the files, but none of it made sense to me. There were case files in the box that had nothing to do with Izzy... so I simply..."

I nodded, sympathy pricking my heart for this woman who had been forced to bury both her daughters. Losing my mother had caused the worst pain I'd ever felt, so I couldn't even fathom what she must be going through.

"Would it be too much trouble to ask for those files?" Tate asked, his voice low and soothing. He was doing a great job of conveying both authority and empathy. It was working.

Rosita sniffed again and wiped at the tears pooling beneath her eyes. "Of course. If you give me a moment, I'll go find them."

"Take all the time you need," he replied with a smile.

With a nod, Rosita stood and exited the kitchen, still sniffling and wiping her eyes as she disappeared down the hall.

I didn't dare speak, worried Rosita would hear something she shouldn't. So, I simply sat in silence with Tate, his impatience becoming more evident with each passing second. Sitting back in his chair, he furrowed his brow and stared down at the table. His knuckles rapped against the surface in a steady rhythm, impatience seeming to set in while we waited for Rosita to come back.

After a while, she returned, a small cardboard box in her hands. She sat it on the table in front of Tate.

"This is everything they found in the wreckage of her car," Rosita said. "Some of the pages are smudged and wrinkled, but it's all there."

Reaching into her back pocket, she retrieved something small and rectangular. Placing it on top of the box, she revealed a cell phone with a cracked, black screen.

"This is Camila's phone," she added. "The screen is cracked, but it still works. It just needs a charge. Maybe it can help you, too."

Taking the phone, Tate stood, opening the box and putting it inside on top of a stack of file folders with stained pages sticking out of them.

"I'm certain it will, ma'am," he said. "Thank you for your help."

I joined them on my feet, watching the exchange in silence. Tate extended a hand to Rosita. She shook it, and then offered her hand to me.

"I hope you can finally put this to rest," she said while shaking my hand.

"I do, too," Tate replied. "I have just one last question before we go."

She inclined her head. "Of course."

"Camilla's accident... did it seem strange to you, the way she died?"

Rosita frowned and shook her head slowly. But then, she raised her eyebrows as if having just thought of something. "Her father mentioned that the junkyard owner in Wellhollow Springs had inspected her wrecked car and said that the brakes were badly in need of service. The brake light would have come on, but maybe Camila forgot to get them checked out. Her father seemed convinced that she would never let something like that slide. Camila was a stickler for that sort of thing. But... as I said, she changed in her last few months of life. She forgot about everything except her sister's death."

Tate's jaw hardened, but he nodded and forced a smile. "Thank you. We'll get out of your hair now. Have a nice day."

"Gracias, you too," Rosita said before ushering us to the door.

She stood on the porch watching as we walked to the car. Tate placed the box in the backseat, and then slid into the driver's seat beside me. He cranked it and backed down the driveway in silence, his grip tight on the wheel.

He waited until we were no longer in view of the house before speaking. Braking at a stop sign on the end of the street, he turned to look at me.

"Okay, that's it. We are done."

I started, wrinkling my brow. "What do you mean?"

Shaking his head, he fixed his mouth in a grim line. "This little investigation is over."

* * *

"Tate, I know what we just found is scary, but we can't stop now. We're too close to unlocking the truth!"

Avoiding my gaze, Tate kept his eyes fixed on the highway in front of us, his jaw clenched. We'd made a quick stop at a gas station so Tate could fill up and change out of his suit. Now on our way back home, we had five hours to hash it out over his declaration that we could no longer involve ourselves in the deaths of Isabella and Camila.

"Listen, I agreed with you before," he retorted. "But that was before Rosita dropped that bomb on us about Camila's brakes. Her accident, just like all those others, doesn't make sense. Which means whoever killed those other people also killed Isabella, and then Camila, to cover their tracks."

"We're in no more danger than we were yesterday," I argued. "We've dug so deep that whoever knew Camila was investigating Isabella's death has to know that we are, too."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" he snapped. "Because it isn't. Look, I know you wanted to help me get rid of the ghosts, and possibly my illness. But this has gone too far, and we're in over our heads here. It isn't worth it."

My mouth fell open in shock, and, for a moment, I couldn't speak. Fumbling for words, I tried to think of how to convince him that we had no choice but to follow through on this.

"Tate, you could get sicker," I argued. "Parry-Romberg has no cure, and remission isn't always permanent. You could continue to degenerate until it affects the entire right side of your body. The seizures could get worse. You could have a stroke. The pain—"

"I'm well aware of the realities of my disease, Bell," he muttered between clenched teeth.

"What about Camila and Isabella?" I argued. "They chose you in an outright challenge. They watched you stand by and do nothing while Lindsay was tormented by your friends. They're waiting for you to man up this time, and they will continue to punish you for your inaction."

And possibly me as well, I realized as I thought back to coming face to face with Isabella the other day outside Baldwin House.

"I'm nineteen freaking years old," he shouted. "What the hell do they expect me to do?"

"The right thing," I answered, keeping my voice level despite his red face and sharp tone. "We have information concerning a murder. It would be wrong of us to sit on it."

"Not if acting on it could get you killed," he said, his voice a bit gentler now.

"I'm not going to get killed."

He snorted. "I'm sure Camila thought the same thing. Whoever murdered Isabella staged Camila's car accident to keep her from exposing the truth. If they're onto us, we could be next."

Falling silent, I stared out the window, hands clenched together in my lap. I didn't know what else to say to get through to him. His fears were valid, but as far as I was concerned, we had already gone too far.

"The only way to eliminate the danger now is to see this through," I reasoned. "If we can catch this guy, he can't be a threat to anyone else."

Tate shook his head. "After we get back home, I am going to give Camila's case files to the sheriff and tell him our suspicions. The police can take it from there. The ghosts can't blame me for giving this over to the authorities. They wanted justice, and those are the people who can go about getting it for them."

Shaking my head in disbelief, I lapsed back into silence. Trying to talk some sense into Tate felt too much like arguing with a tree. I was wasting my breath, and the tree wasn't listening. Busying myself with looking out at the passing scenery again, I found myself wishing I'd brought a book. I hadn't thought I'd need one because I'd be busy talking to my supposed boyfriend. Now, I wanted to punch him in his stupid, arrogant face.

Except I didn't want to punch his stupid, arrogant face. I wanted to kiss that stupid, arrogant face, just as I had the night before. His entire argument against pursuing this further centered around protecting me. I couldn't fault him for that. In fact, I was pretty sure I had to admire him for that.

I was just about to apologize and try to change the subject when a black shape caught my attention in the side mirror. The sound of my sharp inhale was like a gunshot in the quiet car, drawing Tate's attention.

"What's wrong?" he asked grudgingly—plainly still pissed at me, but not so much that he'd stopped caring.

"Nothing," I replied, aware that my voice sounded high and squeaky.

The dark shape was following us—the same black Lincoln that had tailed me home after our visit to Grayson Smith's house.

_Don't be ridiculous. There have to be hundreds of those black Lincolns in the state of Georgia._

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling in the pit of my gut telling me that we were being followed. My hands began to shake, and I clenched them tight in my lap, my throat constricting as I kept my gaze on the mirror. The car switched lanes every time Tate did, while maintaining a bit of distance. If I hadn't been paying attention, it would be easy for the car to simply blend in with the others traveling down the highway.

Not wanting to panic just yet, I took a deep breath and forced myself to speak. "I need to pee."

Tate frowned, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. "We've barely been on the road thirty minutes."

"Tell that to my bladder," I muttered. "Look, there's an exit up here and a sign with some gas stations on it. Can we stop, please? I won't be long."

Sighing, he nodded silently, hitting the turn signal to exit. I fixed my gaze on the mirror, watching as the black car mimicked our actions, having to cross three lanes of the highway to exit behind us. Okay, still suspicious, but not a certainty. I would know for sure soon enough.

Tate stopped at the first convenience store we found, finding a parking spot near the front doors and throwing the car in park.

"I'll wait out here," he said, still avoiding eye contact.

I made quick work of getting out of the car, glancing over my shoulder as I walked into the store. The black Lincoln passed us on the access road, continuing on until I could no longer see it. But I wouldn't sigh with relief just yet. Finding the bathroom, I went inside, standing around just long enough to make Tate think I'd gone in for a reason. Hurrying back to the car, I sat back and buckled up as we pulled out again, quickly finding our way back to the highway. I kept my eyes glued on the mirror, watching for the black car to reappear. For a moment, I got my hopes up. When it didn't show up right away, I wanted to let myself think that I'd been imagining things.

No such luck.

At the next ramp leading from the access road onto the highway, it appeared, once again falling into the lane behind us.

"Damn it," I whispered.

"What?" Tate asked, stealing a glance at me from the corner of his eye. "Are you okay? You look sick. Do I need to pull over?"

I shook my head. "No, but we have another situation. Don't panic, but I'm fairly certain we're being followed."

Scowling, Tate glanced through his rearview mirror. "There's like eight cars behind us, and a semi."

"Black Lincoln with Georgia plates," I told him. "They were behind us before we exited, then they backed off when we stopped, but now they're on us again."

Taking another look in the mirror, he pursed his lips. "I've seen that car somewhere, but I can't place it. Somewhere in Wellhollow Springs, I think."

"I've seen it, too," I admitted, cringing as I said the words. Tate was about to be pissed—not that I planned to hold it against him.

"Really?" he asked. "Where?"

"The day we visited Grayson Smith," I replied. "When I noticed it following me home from your house."

" _Bellamy_ ," he roared, the vein in his neck starting to swell. "Why didn't you tell me about this before?"

"I'm sorry," I replied. "I didn't want you to worry, and I thought—"

"You thought what?" he snapped. "That the person following you would just give up after one try? Jesus Christ, Bellamy!"

I opened my mouth to retort, but the car lurched and the sound of metal hitting metal struck fear in my gut. Tate fought to regain control of the car as it veered from the impact.

"What the hell?" he murmured, glancing up into the rearview mirror.

Turning to look out the back window, I realized the Lincoln had come directly behind us now. They had given us a little tap, and, at highway speed, we could have lost control of the car completely.

"Oh my God," I whispered, turning back around and closing my eyes, pressing myself against the back of the seat. "He's trying to make us crash."

Another tap, this one a bit harder, and Tate fisted the wheel tight, struggling to keep the car in its lane. Speeding up, he tried to move over, but the Lincoln simply followed. One lane over from us, it sped up some more, their front tires now aligned with our back ones. Glancing over, I noticed that the windows had been tinted so dark I couldn't see anything more than a shadow inside.

"Tate, _watch out_ ," I screamed as the shadow inside jerked his wheel to the left, attempting to sideswipe us.

Tate hit the gas, speeding up enough that his bumper merely scraped the fender of the other car. The sound was nerve-wracking, driving home just how dangerous this situation had become.

"We have to get off the highway," Tate said, his voice remaining surprisingly calm. "Hang on, Bell."

Checking to ensure no other cars were in the way, he veered right sharply, crossing three lanes to the far right. He sped up, attempting to put some distance between the Lincoln and us. The driver of the black car chased us, crossing those same lanes and coming behind us again within seconds. The stretch of highway between the next exit and us was long, with nowhere for us to go but off the road. I didn't want to think about what might happen to us if we dared to pull over.

The car tried to come alongside us again, and while Tate kept speeding up, the Lincoln kept pace, bringing their front tires parallel to our back ones within seconds. When it veered toward us in another attempted sideswipe, Tate pressed the brake again. But the Lincoln's driver had anticipated that and braked along with him, while jerking to the right. Tate tried to floor it to get away once he realized what he'd done, but that only gave us more momentum once the cars made impact. We were out of control, spinning at fifty-five miles an hour off the shoulder and into the grass. My heart seized in my chest, and I couldn't breathe as the line of pine trees off the side of the road loomed in front of us. I threw my arms up just before the car made impact, the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass becoming the totality of my world... until the burn of the airbag scraping my forearms brought me out of it.

I flew forward, my face thrown against the airbag and my arms. The seat belt locked, pulling me back against my seat with a jolt.

For a long while, I couldn't breathe—couldn't feel anything past the sting on my forearms from the airbag, and the soreness in my shoulder from the yank of the belt.

"Bell," Tate called out, his voice pulling me back, grounding me and keeping me from panicking. "Are you okay?"

"I think so," I replied, slowly moving my extremities to make sure nothing was broken. I was going to be sore as hell in the morning, but there weren't any serious injuries that I could feel.

I turned my head to check him out and winced. There was a cut on his forehead, and blood now trickled down the side of his face. His glasses lay in his lap, knocked loose from the impact of the airbag, one of the lenses cracked.

"You're bleeding!"

"I'm fine," he insisted. "It's just a cut."

A sudden thought had me reaching for my seat belt. "Tate, we have to get out of the car!"

"Bell, calm down."

"They just forced us to crash," I reminded him. Calm had officially gone out the window. "They could come down here to see if we're dead!"

"Baby, you have got to calm down," he insisted. "They're gone. They kept going after they pushed us off the highway. It's okay."

Closing my eyes, I forced myself to take some deep breaths. My chest heaved, and I felt as if I might start hyperventilating at any second.

"Are you sure they're gone?"

Before Tate could respond, the face of a man appeared on my side of the car, peering at us through the closed window.

"Hey," he called out, his voice coming through clearly due to the broken windshield. "You guys okay in there?"

Reaching out to roll down the window, I went to unbuckle my seat belt. "Yes, we're fine," I replied.

"You shouldn't try to move, Miss," he insisted, reaching out to gently grab my arm before I could open the door. "You could be hurt and not know it. I called 911, so an ambulance should arrive shortly. Just stay put, okay?"

"Okay," I replied, despite feeling more restless the longer we sat there.

"Man, that was wild," the man continued, shaking his head. "I saw the whole thing... that asshole tried to push you guys off the road. But, don't worry, I got down his license plate number. Not sure how much that'll help, though... the guy didn't have any registration tags. Weird. Anyway, I got the description of the vehicle and everything. The cops will catch the jerk-off."

I nodded, and then turned to exchange glances with Tate. "Did you hear that?"

He huffed a sigh, then leaned back against the headrest of his seat and closed his eyes. "Yeah, I heard him," he murmured. "I'm going to have to call someone. This car isn't going anywhere, and we're stranded."

Dread filled me at the thought of having to call my dad and tell him where I was. He was going to kill me.

"Ezra," Tate said suddenly.

I nodded. "Good idea."

Ezra was a good call. Maybe he could get us out of this without having to involve our parents. But, as Tate reached for his phone to dial, the sound of sirens came from the distance and I realized that this had gone too far. There was no way we could avoid involving our parents. At this point, our lives pretty much depended on it.

# Chapter Eighteen

As it turned out, Ezra was more than willing to come to Fayehill when Tate called him. He did, however, bring my dad with him. I shot to my feet in the hospital waiting room when Ezra drove his chair around the corner, his mouth pinched, Dad not far behind. Dad searched the room with darting eyes for a moment before finding me, rushing forward, and grasping my shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, looking me over as if to make sure for himself.

I shook my head. "I'm fine."

Grasping my hand, he turned it over, revealing the white bandage taped to the inside of my forearm. "Then what is this?"

"Just an abrasion from the airbag," I assured him. "This arm was worse than the other, so they gave me an ointment for it and told me to keep it covered for a few days. Nothing major."

I didn't want to mention the purple bruise on my shoulder caused by the seat belt. He was upset enough as it was.

Sighing in relief, he nodded. "Okay, good."

"Tate?" Ezra asked, his brow knit in concern.

"He's okay, too," I replied. "Because of his disorder, they wanted him to have an exam to make sure he didn't sustain any serious injury to his face."

Tate hadn't wanted to suffer through their poking and prodding, but the doctor had insisted. I felt fairly certain he'd only agreed to get away from me. Since I wasn't family, they wouldn't allow me in the room during the exams. Not that I wanted to be in there. Tate had barely spoken to me since the accident, still fuming over my omission about the black Lincoln stalker. I couldn't blame him, but, at the same time, I wished he would stop acting like a child. He couldn't give me the silent treatment forever.

The doctor came back out, finding me standing with Dad and Ezra. "Are you all with Tate Baldwin?"

Ezra moved his chair forward a bit. "Yes. Is there an update?"

The doctor nodded, removing a pair of round glasses and hooking them in the pocket of his lab coat. "He's going to be just fine. There might be a bit of bruising that pops up in the next day or so on his face. With the fatty tissue on the right side of his face degenerated to almost nothing, the skin is more fragile. Fortunately, he only needed a few stitches to close the cut on his forehead. He can go home, but I don't recommend that he drive—a seizure might be induced by the head trauma he sustained. I suggest he follow up with his doctor in a few days to ensure that more problems don't arise later."

Ezra nodded. "Thank you, Doctor. Can he have visitors?"

"Certainly," the doctor replied. "Room 425, just down that hall."

"Can I come?" I asked, wanting to see for myself that Tate was all right. Guilt assailed me at the thought of him possibly suffering more because of the car accident.

"Of course," Ezra replied, leading the way toward the room.

Dad's hand came down on my shoulder, his voice strained and clipped when he spoke. "Just long enough to say good-bye, then we're going home."

I nodded in response, preparing myself mentally for what was about to happen. He was calm now, and relieved that I hadn't been hurt. Once we left the hospital and began the long drive home, I was in for it.

We found Tate sitting upright in bed, staring glumly at a tray of gross-looking hospital food. He pushed it away when we entered, panic showing on his face the second he saw my dad looming in the doorway behind me.

"Hey, Ezra... Mr. McGuire."

"I got here as fast as I could," Ezra said, stopping his chair at Tate's bedside. "Are you in any pain?"

He shrugged. "A little, but I've been through worse. They had to tow the car."

Ezra nodded. "We'll take care of that later. For now, we need to get you home and make an appointment with your doctor."

"Do Mom and Dad know yet?" he asked, glancing down at his hands.

It was hard not to pity him in a moment like this, when my dad stood at my back, but Tate's was nowhere in sight.

"Yes, and your mother is worried sick," Ezra answered. "The sooner we get you home, the easier she'll rest. She wanted to come with me, but Max and Emma were upset to think you might be hurt, so I urged her to stay home with them."

No mention of Mr. Baldwin. That didn't surprise me, but it didn't stop me from being angry with the man. If his wife had stayed behind, the least he could do was make the drive to check on his own son.

"Mr. McGuire, I'm so sorry," Tate said, glancing warily at my dad, as if afraid the man would cross the room and strangle him. "The accident was entirely my fault, and I never meant to put Bellamy in danger."

I had a hard time smothering my shocked reaction. He was giving me the chance to tell Dad the truth on my own, instead of busting me out. I gave him a small smile of thanks, but he barely looked at me long enough for me to know if he'd noticed. I hated that he wouldn't look at me.

"The important thing is that no one was seriously hurt," Dad replied.

Tate nodded, his gaze back on his hands again. I could tell having my dad in the room right now was stressing him out. Taking a step toward the bed, I placed a hand over his. I wanted to sit on the edge of the mattress and put my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him. But with Dad and Ezra in the room, it felt so awkward.

"Dad's taking me home," I murmured. "So, I guess I'll see you later?"

He nodded, sparing me a glance. "Yeah, sure. I'll call you."

That he was still mad at me stung, but I supposed he just needed space to get over it.

"Okay, bye."

I paused in the doorway, glancing over at the cardboard box from Rosita's house, resting on a chair in the corner of the room. Everything inside it had remained intact, including Camila's cell phone—which I had lifted from the box before it was taken from the car. In the event that the box and its contents got lost, I wanted to at least have the phone. Luckily, the towing company had allowed Tate to remove everything from the car before they'd taken it. The rest of his stuff rested in a plastic bag next to the box. Camila's cell phone lay safely in my purse.

As Dad and I left, I wondered what information might be on it, and whether it would be worth pursuing. The crash had rattled me more than I wanted to admit, but I still felt strongly about making sure justice was served. There remained not a doubt in my mind that both the Vasquez sisters had been murdered.

Dad was silent for the first thirty minutes of the ride home, his big hands clutching the steering wheel so hard the skin over his knuckles lightened. He was furious, but my dad was always a man who dealt with things calmly and objectively. He wouldn't yell or scream, but he would be stern with me.

"I've been a teenager before," he began, finally, his voice low and gruff. "So I know what it's like to think you're in love and want to defy the rules to be with that person. Understanding that doesn't make me less angry about the fact that you lied to me to sneak off with your boyfriend, to a place five hours away from home, _overnight_."

My face got hot at the mention of 'overnight'. Obviously, I couldn't lie and say that nothing had happened, when he had to know we'd spent the night together.

"Dad, I'm sorry for lying," I began. "But, us sneaking off wasn't for... that. It's not what you think."

He frowned. "I might be old, but it hasn't been that long since I was your age. You don't have to lie about what might have happened last night."

I wasn't going to lie about it... but I also wasn't going to admit to anything or tell him about it. That time with Tate felt too personal, and talking about it wouldn't change anything. Telling him about it would feel too much like confessing something bad, and I wouldn't think of what we'd shared that way, when it had truly been one of the best moments of my life.

"Dad, if I wanted to sneak around with Tate to fool around, I wouldn't drive five hours outside of town to do it," I reasoned. "There are plenty of other places between home and here we could have gone if that's what we were trying to do. There was something in Fayehill... it was important."

"Fair enough," he murmured. "Tell me what was so important that you would lie to me, go behind my back, and leave town without telling anyone where you were. If something had happened to you—something worse than that accident—no one would have known where to find you."

Awesome. I was already feeling guilty enough over Tate, now I carried the weight of realizing that I could have died today, and my father could have found out where I'd been by a cop walking up to our front door.

"Lying to me isn't something you do often," he continued when I didn't answer. "So, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt here. Whatever it is, I'm sure you felt it was important, or you have a reason for hiding it from me. But that's over. I want to know what's going on, and I want to know right now."

Nodding, I swallowed past the lump in my throat and forced myself to speak. "Baldwin House is haunted, Dad. Two female ghosts, and Tate and I are the only ones who can see them."

His jaw clenched, one of his hands tightening even more on the wheel. "Bellamy, this isn't funny—"

"I'm serious," I interjected. "They're white as a sheet, and when they move, their bones and joints make these weird popping and snapping sounds... like they're falling apart from the inside. And they move their lips like they want to talk, but no sound comes out... except this... this sound, like..."

"Like an exhale," he whispered. "It sends a shiver down your spine every time, no matter how many times you've heard it."

Glancing over at him, I found that he looked as if he would be sick. This was what I'd been afraid of.

"How long have you been seeing them?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"Just since I took the job at Baldwin House," I said. "It didn't take me long to do some research and find out that if a ghost is haunting a space, they have unfinished business. Tate seems to think it has to do with him—specifically, that the ghosts are what caused him to get sick."

"They can do that?" Dad asked, his tone incredulous. "How?"

Backtracking a bit, I told him Tate's story from the beginning, leaving out the details concerning Lindsay. I didn't think it was important for him to know. Besides, Tate had told me that story in confidence, and I wouldn't betray him that way. Dad was already going to have a hard time trusting Tate after this incident, and I didn't want to give him any more ammunition.

Then, I told him about Camila and Isabella, and how our investigation had lead us to Fayehill—again leaving out things he didn't need to know, like how I'd given Tate my virginity in a hotel room off the interstate. I did, however, mention that the accident had been caused by someone who had been following me. By the time I'd finished, his face had cycled from shock and concern to worry and fear.

"Tate's right," he said. "You don't have a choice anymore; your life is in danger. The police need to handle things from here."

"But there's still so much we don't know yet," I argued.

"The less you know, the better," he reasoned. "If the person who murdered these women is on to you, then you need to back off. I can admire that you and Tate were able to get so far on this by yourselves, but you're still just kids. It isn't your place to go around investigating and snooping around in matters that are over your head. You're not a cop or a detective, and neither is Tate."

He had been for about an hour, but I didn't think it was appropriate to joke about right now.

"Monday evening, I'm going to pick you up from work, and me, you, and Tate are going to go talk to the sheriff. You'll turn over anything you found and let the proper authorities handle things."

I raised my eyebrows. "After work? You're not going to make me quit?"

Dad shook his head. "You made a commitment to the Baldwins, and you're going to uphold it. But after what you've done, you are going to have to regain my trust, Bellamy. The car is off-limits. I'll be driving you to and from Baldwin House for work every day. Also, dates with Tate, or any other social outings, are a no until further notice. When I feel like I can trust you out of my sight again, we'll discuss restoring your privileges. The only exception is the Founder's Day ball. Regina already ordered your gown, and it's on the way from Atlanta. You can be my date."

I couldn't fight back a grin. "Auntie Gina got me a gown?"

He nodded. "She knew I couldn't afford to get you one, and she wanted you to look your best. From what I understand, it's perfect for this year's theme."

I didn't doubt it. My mom's sister, Regina, had good taste. The fact that Tate wouldn't go with me to the ball still bothered me, but seeing as how I was about to be on lockdown, I'd jump at the chance to go with Dad.

"Thank you," I murmured. "What about Tate? You mentioned I couldn't go out with him while I'm grounded, but beyond that..."

He sighed, running a hand over his mussed hair. "Look, Tate's a nice kid. He seems to care a lot about you, and I know you care about him. I'm not going to tell you not to date him anymore, because that'll just lead to more lies and sneaking around. Just promise me it won't happen again, and I won't try to come between you."

"That's a promise I can make and keep," I replied.

"Good," he said. "Also... you know... if you're going to... just remember protection. You know what to do."

I pinched my lips together, stifling a laugh. Apparently, this was just as uncomfortable for him as it was for me. He and Mom had always advocated for abstinence above all else, but they were smart enough to at least remind me to be safe if I wasn't going to wait. The last thing I wanted was to become someone's mother at seventeen. Not that I planned for what had happened last night to become a constant thing. Tate and I were barely on speaking terms right now, anyway.

"Yes, I do," I said.

He relaxed a bit, seemingly content to have that out of the way. Turning the radio on, he let me pick a station, and we turned to small talk the rest of the way home. It was comforting to know that I hadn't completely destroyed his trust in me. For him to be angry was the last thing I wanted, and while he certainly seemed disappointed, I didn't sense that he'd hold this against me for long. He, at least, understood my reasoning, if not my actions.

* * *

The first thing I did the following morning was check my phone for messages from Tate. My heart sank to find no notifications. I hoped it was simply because he'd been tired after arriving home yesterday, and hadn't had the energy to call or text. Since it was Sunday, the bookstore would be closed, and I could spend a relaxing day at home. Except, I couldn't relax—not when I remembered the phone stashed in my purse. Reaching for the bag, I dug around until I found Camila's phone, pulling it out and running my thumb over the spidery cracks splitting the screen into prisms.

This phone might have everything that would be needed to nail Isabella's killer. Just because my dad had decided we needed to hand everything over tomorrow didn't mean I couldn't take a peek and see for myself what was there. Noticing that the phone was the same brand as mine, I tried my charger on it and found that it fit. The light at the top glowed red, indicating that it wasn't completely destroyed and was charging. The smell of bacon drew me to the kitchen, where I joined Dad for breakfast and tried not to think too much about the phone. I wanted it to get a good charge before I tried looking through it.

We didn't talk much during the meal, but once we'd finished and I stood to help Dad wash the dishes, he broke the silence.

"The people from my wall... the ghosts whose deaths you said seemed suspicious... I think that might be why they were haunting me," he murmured. "Only certain people seem to be able to see them, and maybe all they want is for us to pay attention. I can't believe all this time I never thought that their modes of death might be the reason they stuck around. Like Camila and Isabella, they all just want justice."

Placing a hand-dried glass back in the cabinet, I turned and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we'll give it to them. Once the police look into everything, maybe they'll discover the whole truth and those ghosts can finally be at peace... and then, so can you."

"Maybe," he said, sounding doubtful. He'd seen so many ghosts that they couldn't all possibly be connected to Isabella and Camila.

Finishing up with the dishes, I took my time sweeping the floor and putting things away, even vacuuming the living room and starting a load of laundry before finally returning to my room for the phone.

The screen had lit up, and the phone now had a sixty percent charge. Swiping my finger carefully across the screen, I found it required a password to get into. Frowning, I tried to remember what I knew about Camilla. The article I'd read about her said she'd been born October twelfth. I tried the four numbers—1012—without success. I tried her birth month and year next—1081. Nothing. Sighing, I tried to remember Isabella's obituary. I had to go back to my little folder full of articles and clippings to find it. February seventeenth. Yet, the numbers 0217 didn't work. Neither did trying her birth month and year—0284. Frowning, I tried to think harder. What kind of person had Camila been? A straight arrow, her mother had said. Smart, dedicated... even photos of her portrayed a no-nonsense person. Being a female agent in what must be a male-dominated profession meant she had to be tough.

However, she'd had a weak spot, and that spot's name was Isabella. A big sister who'd loved her sibling more than anything, Camila had no husband or kids... her work and sister made up her world. Isabella had been the most important person in the world to her—so much so that she'd died trying to catch her murderer.

Glancing down at the screen and the four empty slots for Camila's passcode, I tried to think of shortened nicknames for Isabella. 'Bella' was obvious, but one letter too long. I tried 'Ella' without success. Then, it hit me. One of my favorite shows was Grey's Anatomy, and in the earlier season, Dr. Isobel Stevens was known to her friends as 'Izzy'. Rosita had referred to her daughter as Izzy during our conversation.

Holding my breath, I tried again, hoping this one worked, because I was out of ideas. I grinned when the screen unlocked, showing me all of Camila's apps lined up in front of a photo of her and Isabella.

The phone had been dormant for so long, there wasn't anything recent on it. Scrolling through her old texts, I found conversations between her and someone named Jones.

_Let me know if you have a hard time downloading that file with the DNA results,_ Jones had said. _Good luck with the D.A._

There had been no response from Camila, and I realized it was timestamped on the evening she'd died. Scrolling up, I found many messages between them that indicated he'd helped her in her investigation. Perhaps they'd been friends, and he'd wanted to help. From their conversations, it looked as if Canton Haines had been the center of their investigation.

_He murdered her. I know he did,_ Camilla had said in one of her earlier messages to Jones.

_I know you believe that,_ he'd replied. _But you have to prove it._

Canton Haines, a _murderer_?

I placed a hand over my mouth, choking back bile at the realization that I'd all but confronted him about it. If the money that had changed hands had something to with Isabella's death, then it was no wonder I was being followed. The man was covering his tracks.

But what kind of juice could the mayor of a small town have with the sort of thugs who would follow, stalk, and attempt to kill a seventeen-year-old? I had a hard time believing that Haines had done the dirty work himself. Remembering the info Tate dug up about charity funds being misappropriated, I began to realize that this was bigger than Isabella.

_The man's corruption goes back two decades,_ Camila said in one of her messages to Jones. _I've dug up enough evidence against him to put him away for years. The only thing left to do is prove he murdered Izzy, and he'll go away for life._

The papers from her car! Tate had them in a box at home, and if he hadn't already started sifting through them, he needed to get a move on. If Camila's texts could be believed, she'd put together quite a case against Canton Haines.

Suddenly, I remembered the first text I'd read from Jones about a DNA test. Because she'd been dead for so long, there was no actual service—but I was hoping all I'd need was Wi-Fi to get into her email inbox.

The phone began to ding and chime, vibrating in my hand with dozens of email notifications once I was connected. Finding her inbox flooded with emails, I did a search for 'Jones' and pulled up a string of correspondence between them. Finding the one with the subject line 'DNA results', I opened it.

_If this won't nail that bastard to the wall, nothing will,_ Jones had written.

Opening the file, I found the DNA test, which had compared skin cells found beneath Isabella's fingernails against saliva recovered from a coffee cup. The DNA was a match. Reading back a few more emails, I found some emails forwarded from Jones concerning the findings of a medical examiner who had handled Isabella's corpse—which Camila had insisted on, not trusting the word of the Young County sheriff/coroner. The skin cells beneath her nails and defensive wounds on her hands indicated that she'd been in a fight. When Camila had tried to get Jones to help her convince her superiors that the defensive wounds were proof she'd been murdered, he'd reminded her of Isabella's rough background and profession. They would simply say the wounds and skin cells came from a fight with a john or drug dealer. The way she'd been found indicated that she'd hung herself.

"I believe you, Camila," I whispered with a sigh.

Isabella had been strangled, and then her body was staged to make it look like a suicide. Still, without any witnesses to prove it, Canton could easily get away with it. He could claim she'd attacked him, and that was how his skin cells got under her nails. And who would accuse him of lying? It was his word against those of a dead woman—and a hooker with a history of drug abuse. Add to that the fact that Canton Haines was considered a hero in the state of Georgia, and there was no case.

Standing, I reached for my own phone. We needed more, and I could only hope Tate had the missing pieces at his house. Dialing him, I began to pace, hoping he wasn't still too mad at me to answer.

He picked up on the third ring. "Hey."

His voice sounded strong—a good sign.

"Hi," I replied. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," he replied. "A little headache, but it's not a migraine. No seizures. I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow, but... Bell, we need to talk. In person. I've been looking through Camila's files, and I found something."

"Can you come over?" I asked. "I'm grounded, so I can't drive. You aren't the only who found something. Camila's phone was a gold mine."

"I was wondering what happened to it," he said. "Give me twenty minutes to shower and get dressed, and I'll be there. Unless... is your dad going to point his gun at me through the door before I can step foot on the porch?"

I laughed. "Actually, he's being really cool about the whole thing. I told him the truth, Tate—about the ghosts, Canton Haines... all of it."

"Really?"

"Yes. It was time. He wants us to go with him tomorrow to turn this stuff over to the local police. He actually agrees with you."

Tate chuckled. "That's because he's smart. We can definitely do that tomorrow, but you have to see this first. Camila was building a case against Canton Haines that could put him away for a long time. I'm talking life behind bars here."

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn't see me. "I know. I got into her text messages and email. Hurry up and get dressed so we can put these pieces together. And don't worry about Dad. He is madder at me for lying to him than anything else."

"I'll take your word for it. Be there soon."

Hanging up, I quickly went about choosing something to wear. Despite the worry in my gut over the things I'd found, I couldn't help smiling. Tate didn't sound as if he was angry with me anymore, which I took as a good sign. The things that had happened between us in that hotel room—the things that had been said—reminded me that we couldn't be so easily broken. Tate was proving his words and reminding me that being angry for a short time didn't spell the end for us. It gave me hope that when this had all ended, we really could carry on together. Even though I was grounded and possibly still being stalked by a murderous psychopath, I found myself feeling unbelievably happy.

# Chapter Nineteen

I didn't get to talk to Tate for the first ten minutes after he'd arrived at our house—because Dad had insisted they have a private conversation before he could see me. Pacing in the living room, I kept glancing through the open blinds, chewing my lower lip. They sat out under the tree, at the same table where I'd had coffee with Ezra. That seemed like so long ago, and a lot had happened since the day he'd convinced me to come back to work at Baldwin House. It seemed like forever, but it had really only been about a month.

There was no yelling, or even angry faces, so I took that as a good sign. Both talked to each other, with Dad going first and Tate listening quietly, then taking his turn. I wondered what they were saying to each other and how it might affect our relationship. One thing I did know was that Camila's phone was burning a hole in the pocket of my shorts, reminding me that we had some important business to get down to.

Finally, they stood and shook hands before Dad left him standing beneath the tree, coming back into the house. When he found me in the living room, eyeing him nervously, he laughed.

"Relax," he murmured. "You can have your boyfriend back."

"What did you say to him?" I asked, trailing him to the kitchen.

"That's between me and him," he replied, opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles of water. "Take these out there; it's hot today."

"You're going to let me see him?" I asked, accepting the water.

He shrugged. "You're still barred from going anywhere with him until I feel I can trust you both again. Until then, I've told him he is free to come visit you whenever he wants... as long as I'm home."

Smiling, I threw my arms around him, still clutching my water bottles. "You're the best."

Patting my back, he laughed. "Tell me something I don't know. Go on, he's waiting."

Kissing his cheek, I made a beeline for the front door, quickly hopping down the stairs and tracking a straight path to Tate. He gave me a small smile as I approached, his mouth curving in that boyish way that made my stomach quiver. I sat the water down on the wrought-iron table beside his box of files, and then faced him with my hands shoved in my pockets.

I didn't know how to act with him after a fight.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm a snake about to bite?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Fiddling with the hem of my shirt, I shrugged. "I thought you might still be mad at me."

He laughed, coming forward to reach for me. He grasped my waist and lifted me until I was eye level with him. I gripped his shoulders, but didn't have to hold tight, since his hold on me was so secure.

"I wasn't mad. I was scared. You could have died yesterday, and I would have been helpless to stop it. You should have told me about being followed, but we can't change that."

I gazed down at him and smiled. "Okay, then. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, and I'm glad you're not mad at me."

"Of course I'm not mad at my beautiful Bell," he murmured. "Now stop talking crazy and kiss me."

I lowered my head and obliged him, threading my fingers in his hair and making it last. The fact that my dad could be watching from the window didn't even occur to me until he'd sat me back on my feet. I was going to have to get back in his good graces so Tate and I could have some actual privacy.

"Okay, show me what you got," he said, gesturing toward the table. "My stuff is going to take a while."

Reaching into my pocket for the phone, I took one of the seats at the table, while he took the other. I showed him the text messages between Jones and Camila, then the emails.

Tate's eyebrows shot up as he glanced over the DNA test results. "Do you think this is Canton Haines's DNA?"

I shrugged. "It could be. The only thing we haven't done is tie him to Isabella. If we can prove they knew each other somehow, and that he had a reason to kill her... maybe we can solve this thing."

"Bell, we're supposed to be taking this to the police, remember?" he said, his voice far too stern. He sounded like my dad.

"Right," I said with a sheepish smile. "I meant, if the _police_ can prove it."

Rolling his eyes, Tate shook his head at me, obviously not convinced. "Well, we might not be able to verify a connection between Canton and Isabella, but Camila has proof in these files on a lot of other deaths."

As he reached into the box and produced a handful of files, I frowned. "Canton Haines killed all these people?"

"Not himself," Tate clarified. "But each of these people died in weird accidents, and, in some way, had an issue with the former mayor."

Opening one of the files, he revealed a photo of a man who looked familiar to me. I recognized the man who had drowned in his own hot tub, Jim Barnes.

"Remember Jim?" Tate asked.

I nodded. "The journalist who was writing all those editorial pieces on Canton."

"Right. Well, Camila got access to his laptop and found the last story Jim was working on before he died."

Pulling a stack of stapled papers from the file, he handed them to me. "Prepare yourself... it's insane."

Taking the papers, I read Jim's headline: _Investigation Reveals Criminal Organization Ties to Mayor Canton Haines_. Eyes widening, I glanced back up at Tate. He nodded as if to assure me what I saw was real, and then gestured for me to keep reading.

I skimmed the article, in which Jim laid out years' worth of investigative journalism that proved Canton Haines had ties to a crime organization based in Atlanta. According to Jim, there was a paper trail of money laundering that led from Canton's charities, straight to his bank account, and then into the pockets of the thugs working for the organization. The story accused Canton of embezzling city funds and using them to line his own pockets—fancy cars, lavish parties, designer clothes. It also called out some of the local police for being in Canton's pocket—taking bribes to turn their back on certain crimes, losing evidence... it was bad.

"No wonder these suspicious deaths weren't investigated," I said once I'd gotten to the end of the article. "But why have them killed in the first place?"

"Well, we know why Jim was murdered," Tate replied. "There are a few more in here who seem to have ties to Canton."

Retrieving another file, he sat it in front of me. "This is Mary Hinckley. She was a community organizer as part of a program advocating healthy school lunches for kids. There was a fundraiser held for the program, but Mary was only given a third of the money that was raised, despite being led to believe she'd get all of it. She was persistent in going after him for it, showing up at his office and raising a fuss at city council meetings. Guess what happened to her not long after?"

Glancing at the photo of her, I recognized her from one of the obituaries I'd found. "She wandered into a construction site and never came out again."

Tate nodded. "Exactly. There are more. Every one of these files connects a suspicious death in town to the mayor."

"Yeah, but how do we prove it?" I argued. "An attorney could just claim that it's all circumstantial. Unless he confesses, they can't prove anything."

Tate reached into the box and pulled out another file, his mouth curving into a smirk. "Bell, meet Jameson Whitlock... organized crime thug and Canton Haines' pit bull."

Dropping the folder in front of me, he opened it to reveal a photo of a man with weathered, tan skin, cold, black eyes, and a grimacing mouth.

Lifting the documents paper-clipped to the photo, I skimmed them with wide eyes. "This guy has quite the rap sheet. Wow."

"He has ties to the Atlanta crime family that Jim wrote about in his story."

Lifting a page that appeared to be a phone record, I raised my eyebrows. "These are a lot of phone calls between an Atlanta area code and a Wellhollow Springs one."

Tate nodded. "Calls from Canton to Jameson... there are texts in there too. There are also some stoplight camera images that put Jameson in town during every single one of these accidental deaths. And guess what kind of car he drives?"

"A black Lincoln?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

"Wow," I whispered. "Haines is a monster."

"He is," Tate replied. "He obviously put Jameson on our trail after he realized you knew something."

My pulse leapt at the thought of having survived a brush with a hit man. "You were right when you said we were in over our heads. This goes way deeper than I thought."

"You got that right," Tate muttered. "It's cool to see where it all leads, though. We followed our instincts and look how far it got us. Forget Library Science, I think you need to study Criminal Justice in college."

Giving him a pointed look, I pursed my lips. "And what are you going to study?"

Cheeks flaming red, he glanced back down at the papers. "You know what I don't get?" he said, changing the subject completely.

"What's that?" I asked, deciding to give him an out for now. One step at a time. If I couldn't get him to take me to a dance, then I certainly couldn't convince him to give college a try.

"The connection to Isabella. I mean, she was a prostitute, right? Maybe Canton was one of her customers or something."

"Good luck proving that." I snorted. "Prostitution leaves no paper trail. The girl does her thing, the guy hands her money, end of story. Unless someone got them together on tape, we can't prove that. Maybe it will be enough that we turn over the evidence we have. He'll still go down for the other crimes, and Camila and Isabella can finally rest knowing he can't hurt anyone ever again."

"Unless..." Tate paused.

I leaned toward him. "Unless what?"

"Well, times have changed," he mused. "A lot of prostitution occurs over the Internet now. Girls sell themselves on Craigslist and other sites, and some make a lot of money doing it."

Raising my eyebrows, I folded my arms across my chest. "And just how do _you_ know that?"

He laughed. "Relax, Bell. I've been a hermit for the past two years... I watched _a lot_ of TV. Documentaries are my favorite, and there are a lot of them about sex trafficking."

"Fair enough," I muttered grudgingly. "So, do you think Isabella was using the Internet to sell herself?"

Tate shrugged. "Could be. When I get home, I'll poke around online for a bit and try to see if I can find anything. But we might still hit a dead end here. No matter what I find, we still have to go with your dad to the sheriff's office tomorrow and turn all this evidence over. We've done what we can for Isabella and Camila. All we can do now is pray it'll be enough."

Helping him reorganize the papers and photos into their proper files, I stacked them inside the box. Then, I stood and faced him, reaching out to take both his hands in mine. "The Vasquez sisters will get their justice and be happy," I assured him. "Then, we can both move on with our lives."

Tate nodded before bending his head to kiss me. I heard what he didn't say, even as he tried to steal my focus. We knew what moving on would be for me. Finishing my last year of school, graduating, and then college. But for him? We had no way of knowing if his illness would continue to progress or get better—and even if it did, would he ever be ready to step fully out of the shadows and live his life in the open?

Saying good-bye, I watched as Tate collected the phone and files before taking them to his car, promising to have them ready Monday for our trip to the sheriff's office. I raised my hand to wave as he backed down the driveway, and then retreated into the house, trying not to dwell on it for too long. Things would work themselves out. I might have been skeptical before, but I was now fully invested in Tate. There could be no other outcome other than one that ended with us happy and together, living full lives.

* * *

Monday seemed to creep by with aching slowness, each minute feeling like an hour. I found myself distracted, my palms becoming damp whenever I thought about what we were about to do. Finally, when the Baldwins returned home from work, I found Dad waiting for us outside, parked in the driveway.

"How were things today?" Faith asked, while Douglas continued past me, removing his suit jacket as he retreated to his office.

"Great," I said with a forced smile. "We painted, and then the kids swam for most of the afternoon. They should sleep good tonight."

Faith smiled. "That's good to hear. I have to say, Bellamy, how wonderful it's been having you around. The kids have never been happier."

I smiled back, this time genuinely. "Thank you, ma'am. They really aren't any trouble at all. You have great kids."

"And the things you've done for Tate..." Her eyes grew watery. "I've been trying to get him out of that room for years. You've been here six weeks, and it's like he's a new person. I can't thank you enough."

"Hey, I'm standing right here," Tate quipped, appearing at the bottom of the staircase, toting the box of files.

Faith blinked back her tears and turned to greet Tate, who sat his box down on the entryway table before gathering her close for a hug.

"Hi, Mom," he said, kissing her cheek.

Faith gasped. "Well, my goodness. What was that for?"

He shrugged. "Can't a guy hug his mother?"

"Yes, but... well, I... thank you," she stammered, blinking rapidly.

She had obviously grown used to Tate being withdrawn and sullen. As she'd said, he was a different person now. I wanted to tell her that I didn't deserve all the credit—Tate had made an effort to change of his own free will. I'd simply been there for him when he'd needed me. But I didn't get a chance.

Tate gathered the box again and turned to me. "Ready?"

I nodded. "Sure."

"Where are you going?" Faith asked, glancing back and forth between us.

"I need to help Bellamy with something," he hedged, keeping his tone light. "I'll only be gone an hour or two."

She nodded. "Okay. Hilda's making lasagna for dinner. Will we see you?"

"I wouldn't miss Hilda's lasagna," he replied. "I'll be home for dinner, I promise."

Faith waved us off before bending to remove her heels, and then marching up the stairs. Tate preceded me out the front door with the box, and I followed, closing it behind us. We trotted down the front steps to where Dad waited, idling in the car.

"Hey guys," he said as we got in—Tate in back and me in the front passenger seat. "Bell, how was your day?"

"Pretty low key," I replied. "When I wasn't thinking about what we're about to do, anyway."

Nodding, he threw the car into drive and pulled into the long lane leading off the Baldwin property. "I understand that you guys are nervous about it, but you're doing the right thing."

"How do we explain how we came across all this stuff?" Tate asked. "I mean, we can't exactly tell the truth."

"No," Dad agreed. "What you'll do is say that you found the box, and once you saw what was inside, you knew you needed to report it to the police."

"Found it where?" I asked. "What can we say that'll be believable?"

"Well, by now everyone knows Tate's car got towed back to town and is sitting in the local junkyard, getting pulled apart for scrap."

"My poor baby," Tate murmured from the backseat.

Dad chuckled. "In a town this size, people will know about it. Just tell them you went to the scrap yard to collect some belongings they found in the trunk, and they mixed your stuff up with stuff from Camila Vasquez's wrecked car. Hers was taken there after her accident, and it's entirely possible the police didn't recover everything. Don't explain too much, give minimal details. Once they see what you have, it won't matter to them how you found it. It'll be up to them to use it how they see fit."

I nodded in agreement, but fell silent as we drew closer to town. I was still leery about giving up our evidence, but after all that had happened, we had no choice. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed Tate looked anxious as well. Was he having second thoughts about this whole thing?

"We're here," Dad said a few moments later, pulling to a stop in front of Wellhollow Springs' municipal plaza—where city hall, the courthouse, and sheriff's office were located. Not far from where we were parked, I could see the sign pointing the way to the office of the Young County Sheriff, Phillip Bailey.

I was reaching for my door handle when a heavy hand grasped my arm, pulling me back into my seat.

"Wait," Dad whispered.

Glancing at him, I frowned to see fear in his expression. "Dad, what's going on?"

"Look," he said, inclining his head to the left and the opening front door of the courthouse.

"Holy shit," Tate muttered as he turned to follow our gazes to the two men talking like old friends together in front of the courthouse.

One of them wore an officer's uniform, a black gun and pair of handcuffs hanging from his hip. The other was dressed casually, sipping from a coffee cup. He smiled and laughed like he didn't have a care in the world as the officer said something that must surely be a joke.

"Is that—" Tate began.

"Canton Haines and Sheriff Bailey," I confirmed. "Chatting it up like they've been friends their whole lives."

"Damn it," Dad mumbled, shocking me. He almost never used profanity.

"Maybe it's nothing," I offered, even though my every instinct told me otherwise. "They're both elected officials in a small town."

"Except Canton isn't the mayor anymore," Tate pointed out. "What's he doing at the courthouse talking to the sheriff?"

"I don't like it," Dad said. "Not one bit."

"Well, what are we going to do?" I asked. "We can't just sit here with this stuff."

The two men finished talking and parted ways, with the sheriff coming toward his office, forcing him to pass us as he did. Glancing toward the car, he seemed to recognize us. Lifting his sunglasses, he stared straight into the car, and then began sauntering toward us.

"He's coming this way," I squeaked, feeling as if my heart were going to pound right out of my chest. "What do we do?"

"Stay calm," Dad urged. "Tate, the box."

"I'm on it," he replied.

I could hear him moving around, and by the time I turned to look back at him, the box had completely disappeared from view.

Dad rolled down the window as the sheriff approached, flipping his glasses onto his head and leaning down until his face appeared in the driver's side window.

"Mr. McGuire," he drawled. "How you folks doing today?"

"We're doing well," Dad replied, his voice even.

"I would expect you to be down at the bookstore this time of day," he said, gazing from Dad to me and back again. "You all closing early?"

"Just had to shut the place down for an hour," Dad replied. "Personal business."

The sheriff nodded, but he didn't back away. He leaned against the car, one arm braced on the door, the other sliding a toothpick into his mouth. It moved around his mouth when he spoke.

"Personal business," he murmured, slowly nodding his head. "Wouldn't it be nice if everyone just minded their personal business instead of running around sticking their noses where they don't belong? What a better world it would be if we could all learn to follow your example. Know what I mean?"

Dad inclined his head, studying the sheriff in silence for several seconds. Finally, he forced a smile. "Yes, I know exactly what you mean. Like you said, I'd better be getting back now. You have a good one."

Backing away from the car, the sheriff gave us another smile, but the warmth of it never quite met his eyes. I shivered, despite the ninety-eight-degree weather sweltering through the open window.

"Y'all have a pleasant night," he replied, reaching up to replace his sunglasses. "Hope to see you at the Founder's Day ball next week."

As he strode away, continuing toward his office, I fell back against my seat and sighed with relief. "Anyone else interpret that as an all-out threat?" I muttered.

"I would have been a fool to take it as anything else," Dad replied, throwing the car into reverse and backing out of his parking spot. "He all but warned us to back off."

"Which means those two are in on all this together," Tate supplied from the backseat. "I shouldn't be surprised. Jim Barnes mentioned police corruption in the article he was writing. I assumed he was referring to the city police, but the county sheriff is dirty, and his deputies might be also. And with the sheriff also functioning as a coroner, he could declare the murders accidents or suicides with no one the wiser."

"Too bad Jim didn't mention names in his articles," I said as we began the drive back to Baldwin House. "Maybe then we'd know who to trust. With the sheriff corrupted, who knows how deep this goes?"

"It doesn't matter," Dad lamented, shaking his head. "The county sheriff's office might as well be a nest of snakes as far as I'm concerned, and I'm not convinced the local police department will be any better. We are not turning that information over to any of them."

"Then what are we going to do?" I asked. "We've hit a wall here. If we can't trust the cops, who can we trust?"

"I know what we have to do," Tate said, his voice so low I had to strain to hear him.

"What?" I asked, turning to glance back at him.

His jaw clenched and he took a deep breath, nostrils flaring. He looked as if he wanted to be sick. "We know that Canton possibly had another accomplice... someone he gave a lot of money to after Isabella was killed."

My eyes widened in realization. "You don't mean..."

Tate nodded, his expression changing to one of resolve. "We're going to have to confront my dad."

# Chapter Twenty

I couldn't sleep. After all that buildup and suspense leading to our confrontation with Sheriff Bailey, I felt wrung dry. I also felt helpless. Tate, however, seemed more determined than ever, especially now that he'd decided his father needed to answer for his part in all this.

However, hours after leaving him at Baldwin House, we still hadn't made any progress on that front. We'd been informed once arriving back at the mansion that Douglas had left to go back to the office and wouldn't be home until late. We'd decided to try again the next day, as opposed to driving back across town to Baldwin & Co. We were all tired, confused, and shaken from the encounter at the sheriff's office.

Leaving the bed, I began pacing, trying to figure out how Tate's dad might have played a role in Isabella or Camila's deaths. It just didn't make sense. In this puzzle, Douglas Baldwin was the one piece that didn't fit. My head was starting to hurt, and I gave it up after a while, looking for a distraction. I'd just decided on a book when the sound of a tap against my window startled me. I smothered a cry of fear as I heard a muffled voice through the pane.

"Bell," Tate hissed. "It's me."

Sighing with relief, I pulled the blinds up, revealing Tate on the other side, illuminated by the moon. Unlocking the window, I slid it up in the frame. I reached out to give him a hand up so he could climb into the room. Peeking back out into the night to ensure he hadn't been followed, I closed the window and turned back to him.

"Are you crazy?" I whispered. "If my dad catches you in here—"

"I know," he murmured, keeping his voice low. "I figured he'd be asleep this late, but I knew you'd be up."

Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rested my head on his chest. "I can't sleep... can't stop thinking about your dad. What are we going to say to him, Tate?"

"That's why I'm here," he said. "I found new information, and now I know for sure that my dad was at least aware of the fact that Isabella Vasquez was murdered."

Drawing back a bit, I glanced up at him. "You do?"

Nodding, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone. "Remember when I told you about the world of prostitution online? Well, I did a little searching for hooker listings on Craigslist in the area, and turned up very little... so I started thinking outside the box. That's when it hit me... escort services."

I frowned. "Wellhollow Springs is a small town in the Bible belt. We don't have escort services here."

Tate smirked. "Not that you know of. They don't operate out of storefronts or anything... they have websites. There are three that service the Young County area... and guess who was working for one of them when she died?"

"Isabella," I said with a gasp. "How did you figure that out?"

Cringing, Tate opened up his camera before tapping on a video recording. "Watch this... and try to remember that the only girl I'm interested in is you."

The video was a bit dark, but I could make out Tate sitting in the backseat of a car... with a half-dressed woman laying her hand on his thigh.

My hand curled into a fist at my side. "Is that a hooker?" I growled from between clenched teeth, giving him a narrowed glare.

"How else was I going to get information?" he argued. "The service picked me up from the gate outside the house, and the driver left us alone in the backset. She never knew I was recording and gave up everything once I'd paid her. Just watch."

I turned back to the video playing on the phone, but the scowl on my face wouldn't disappear. Tate letting some prostitute feel him up... I didn't like it.

"What happened to your face, baby?" the girl asked, her voice low and soothing as if to portray pity.

Tate cringed away when she tried to reach out and touch his cheek. "Car accident," he lied. "I'm fine now. Listen, I need to ask you some questions."

Smiling, the girl rose up on her knees and tried to straddle him. "You can ask me anything you want as long as you have that eighty bucks."

Grasping her shoulders, Tate placed her back in her seat, putting more distance between them. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a roll of bills. "I'll double it if you keep your hands off me and tell me what I want to know," he said.

Snatching the money from him, she counted it, then stuffed it down her shirt and into her bra. "You got it, honey. What do you need?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a picture of Isabella cut from her obituary. "Do you know this woman?"

"Yeah," the woman replied. "That's Izzy. Real sad how she killed herself."

Tate nodded. "Yeah. I was wondering... how long did she work for this company?"

The girl shrugged, flipping her hair. "I don't know. Three or four years, maybe. But the last year or so, she wasn't really working."

"Why not?" he asked, inclining his head.

"Her favorite john set up an exclusive arrangement with the boss, you know. He paid a whole lot of money to make sure Izzy was available to him day and night. She stopped going on dates, taking new clients, and going to parties."

"Parties?" Tate asked.

"Well, sure," she laughed. "Sometimes a guy wants to unwind and needs better entertainment than a stripper, if you get my drift."

"How many of these parties went down here in Wellhollow Springs?"

"You'd be surprised," she replied. "The men in this town have their vices, and they'll spend the money it takes to get what they want. You know those high-profile parties and fundraises they're always having? It would blow your mind to know how many of those were just cover ups for those men to go into back rooms with girls like me."

Tate nodded. "I get it. So, these parties are a big part of your business?"

"Those are the jobs with the biggest payouts... which was why I couldn't understand why Izzy would give all that up for some old black guy."

Tate raised his eyebrows. "Old black guy? Happen to have a name to go with that description?"

The girl pursed her lips. "That's going to cost you extra."

Tate snorted. "Don't try to hustle me. I just paid you twice what you usually collect for doing your job, and all you've had to do is sit on your butt and answer my questions. You won't get another dime out of me."

"Then no name," she argued.

Tate shrugged. "Okay, then get your driver back here and tell him we're done. And when I get home, I'll be sure to let your boss know how dissatisfied I was with your service."

The girl's mouth fell open, and she looked as if he'd just threatened to throw her into a den of wolves. "You wouldn't."

He shrugged. "I guess there's only one way for you to find out. Call my bluff if you want... makes no difference to me."

With a heavy sigh, the girl deflated against the back of the car's seat. "Fine. The guy used to be mayor... Canton Haines. He would sneak her around behind his wife's back, giving her money, gifts, and drugs. Those parties I mentioned? That's how they met, you know. We got invited to one, and he set his sights on her from the start. Started asking for her by name when he called in, and, before we knew it, she was his."

"Thank you," Tate said. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that no one can know we talked about this."

She rolled her eyes. "I look stupid to you?"

The video ended a few seconds later, when she turned away to grab her phone from her purse and call her driver back. Tate quickly took his phone from where he'd placed it to record the conversation and killed the camera.

"Wow," I whispered, letting what I'd just heard sink in. "So, Canton Haines was having an affair with Isabella... now that's what I call a motive."

Tate nodded in agreement. "Right. A guy with a reputation like his can't afford to get caught having an affair with a drug-addicted hooker. Maybe she threatened to tell his wife or out him to the public. Or he stopped paying out and she got angry. Whatever the case, I believe he strangled her with his bare hands, then staged her suicide."

"That only leaves one question unanswered," I said. "What does your dad have to do with all this?"

"That's another thing," he said. "These parties she talked about... I'm fairly certain my dad might have been at some of them."

"Hmmm," I mumbled. "That's right. We did see that article with a photo of them together at a party."

Tate nodded. "So, we are going to just ask him outright what he knows about Isabella and Canton, and I'll make it clear we already know the truth, so there's no need for him to lie. He won't be able to avoid it. He can put the rest of this together for us—I know he can."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked, knitting my brow as I stared up at him. "This is your dad we're talking about. If he's involved with this, he could be in a lot of trouble."

He shrugged, trying to look nonchalant, but I could tell this was upsetting for him. "It's not right for him to get away with whatever he's done if others are going to go down for it. Besides, my dad has a lot of pull in this town. He'll know what to do with the evidence we've found... maybe if he admits to his role in it, they'll go easy on him."

I forced a smile for his benefit. "Yeah, maybe."

Reaching toward me, he pulled me against him and kissed my forehead. "Guess I better go. I managed to worm my way back into your dad's good graces, and I don't want to screw that up."

Pulling him down for a real kiss, I giggled against his lips before letting go. "Probably a good idea. Oh, and Tate?"

He paused halfway to the window. "Yeah?"

"If you ever let some girl paw you like that again, I'll rip her arm off and beat you with it."

"I didn't _let_ her—"

My scathing glare cut him off, and he shut his mouth.

Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

I laughed, probably louder than I should have. Tate opened the window and paused halfway out, turning back to me.

"Lock up after me, okay? Until this is over, we still aren't completely safe."

"You be careful going home, then," I urged him.

He disappeared quickly, and I closed the window behind him, watching as he crossed the yard toward the black vehicle idling across the street. I recognized it as Faith's car and wondered if she'd known where he was going when he took it.

Making sure the window's lock was secure, I lowered the blinds and attempted to try to sleep.

* * *

The following afternoon, we were prepared for our showdown with Douglas. By the time he and Faith arrived home from work, Dad had arrived, and Tate had retrieved the box containing Camila's files and phone from his room. When he and Faith came through the front door to find the three of us waiting for them, they both eyed us with different degrees of curiosity and concern.

"Mr. McGuire," Douglas said, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over our little group. He reached out to shake Dad's hand. "It's good to see you again. If I haven't gotten a chance to tell you, we have really enjoyed having Bellamy as our sitter. Your daughter is a wonderful young woman."

Dad nodded in response, but didn't smile. "Thank you."

Tate stepped forward, the box held in his hands. "Dad, we need to talk to you. All three of us. It's important."

Faith frowned, laying her briefcase on the entryway table. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm sure it's nothing, Faith," Douglas assured her, even though his gaze remained locked on his son, filled with suspicion. "Why don't you go check on Emma and Max? I'll take Mr. McGuire, Tate, and Bellamy into my office."

Faith looked as if she wanted to argue, but nodded, plastering a forced smile across her face. "Sure," she replied.

"They're in the kitchen having a snack," I told her as she walked by.

She nodded and headed for the kitchen, leaving us alone with Douglas. He extended an arm toward the hallway that led to his and Faith's home offices.

"This way," he said, his voice clipped.

I glanced into Ezra's office on our way past and found him still behind his desk, the handset of a landline pressed to his ear. He was talking in a low tone, but he glanced up to watch as we walked by. He looked bewildered by what was going on, but turned his head back to his computer screen and continued his conversation.

Once inside of Douglas' office, Dad and I took seats in the chairs facing a large, dark cherry-wood desk. Behind it loomed massive bookshelves holding heavy-looking books on finance and real estate, interspersed with photos and glass figurines, some of which looked like awards.

Removing his suit jacket, he rolled up his sleeves, and then sat in the leather chair behind the desk. Folding his hands on the surface, he glanced up at us.

"Now," he said, inclining his head. "What is this about? I had hoped we'd be able to move past the little incident that happened in Fayehill, but if there's an issue, we can handle it, I'm certain."

"That's not it, Dad," Tate snapped.

Douglas frowned. "Bellamy, are you not happy working here?"

I shook my head. "That's not it either, Mr. Baldwin."

He turned his curious gaze on my dad. "Mr. McGuire?"

Dad cleared his throat. "I'm simply here because Bellamy and Tate came to me with information... and, among ourselves, we've been trying to figure out what to do with it. I believe your son should tell you what it is, exactly."

Coming forward, Tate dropped the box onto the desk with a heavy thud before reaching inside and pulling out the photo of Isabella.

"You know this woman?" he asked, his tone accusatory.

Douglas glanced at the picture, and, for a moment, I could have sworn I saw the flicker of some emotion in his face... but it happened so briefly I couldn't be sure. As quickly as it had happened, he was his stoic self again.

"Should I?" he asked, sounding as if he were already growing bored with the conversation.

"Isabella Vasquez," Tate growled from between clenched teeth. "The mistress of your buddy, Canton Haines."

Douglas scoffed. "Haines and I are hardly friends, and who he keeps company with is none of my concern."

"How can you pretend not to know her?" I accused, Tate's frustration making me feel feisty. There was no reason for Douglas to continue lying to his son after all he'd put Tate through with his neglect. "When that woman died, her face was all over the papers."

Douglas took the photo from Tate and examined it. Standing behind his desk, he nodded slowly. "Oh, yes. The prostitute who hung herself in her apartment. I remember now. It's been years since that happened... You can't expect me to remember everything that goes on in this town."

Tate raised his eyebrows. "Do you remember taking a fat check from Haines to fund East Valley?"

Douglas had begun pacing, but he went still at his son's accusation. He clenched his jaw, glancing up at Tate with a slight movement of his jaw—as if he were grinding his teeth. Like father like son. He reminded me so much of Tate when he became angry.

"How do you know about that?" he asked, his tone low and ominous.

"It doesn't matter," Tate retorted. "The fact is, I know all about how broke Baldwin and Co. was a few years ago. You couldn't possibly have afforded to get East Valley off the ground. There's a lot of proof in this box of money laundering plus embezzlement of city funds by Canton, along with a bunch of other illegal activities. You took a check from him not long after that woman was killed. What I want to know is why. What did you do for the mayor to earn yourself a piece of his dirty money?"

"That's enough," Douglas thundered, slamming one hand against the desk. "You are sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, speaking on things you know nothing about."

"I know more than you think," Tate continued, ignoring his father's command. "I know that you haven't been the same since you took that money, and neither have I. We both know that you pretend not to see the ghosts of two dead women... just like you want to pretend that I don't exist since I got sick. It's all so you can go on pretending you did nothing wrong!"

At Tate's revelation, I gasped, exchanging a shocked glance with Dad. He furrowed his brow, glancing at Tate first in pity, and then Douglas in confusion.

"Is it true?" I asked when no one else spoke. "You can see them, too?"

Douglas met my gaze, his mouth a grim line. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Tate growled in frustration. "Stop lying! You can hardly stand to be in this house, and I know why. Their blood is on your hands, just as much as it is Canton's. And if you don't admit what you did, Bellamy and I might be next."

That got a reaction out of Douglas. He started, his eyes going wide. "What do you mean by that?"

"The car crash in Fayehill," Dad clarified. "It wasn't an accident."

"A black Lincoln started following me a few weeks ago," I added. "It was the same car that ran us off the road, and I believe the intent was to kill us... or to scare us into being silent about what we know."

Douglas ran a hand through his hair, issuing a low, slow sigh. "My God."

He sank back into his chair, avoiding everyone's gazes as he seemed to absorb all the accusations being hurled at him. Dad stood and approached the desk, bracing his hands against it and leaning toward Douglas a bit.

"Mr. Baldwin, Bellamy and Tate are in danger, and we believe you are the only one who can help them. Haines has the sheriff in his pocket, and God knows who else."

Douglas laughed, but it was a humorless sound. Once he started, it seemed as if he couldn't stop, his face reddening as he laughed as if Dad had just said the funniest thing in the world.

"God knows who else," he repeated, swiping a tear away from one eye. "That's a good one. Everyone, Mr. McGuire. Haines has just about everyone in his pocket. That includes me."

"Why?" Tate demanded. "What did he do to earn your loyalty?"

Douglas sneered. "I don't owe that son of a bitch a thing... not after he's threatened my son. I know that black Lincoln well, and so does anyone else who's ever had a run-in with a certain Atlanta-based crime syndicate. Jameson Whitlock drives it, and he's Canton's right hand. If he's after you, that means Canton knows you're onto him. How did he figure that out?"

"It doesn't matter," Tate said.

"It's my fault," I said, unwilling to let Tate cover for me. "I might have asked him outright why he invested in East Valley... He seemed upset by the question."

"That's because the investment was under the table," Douglas said. "I'm going to tell you what happened, and then you three are going to keep your mouths shut about what you know and let me handle this."

Tate crossed his arms over his chest and jutted out his chin. "What makes you think we trust you?"

"You don't have a choice," Douglas retorted. "I'm the only person who knows all the players involved, and who to take this to. I'm the only one who can save your life. Now, sit down and listen."

Tate grudgingly perched on the arm of my chair, placing an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him, equal parts excited and nervous. Excited to finally have the final piece of the puzzle... afraid of what Douglas' confession might mean for Tate and the rest of their family.

"Canton and I were never close friends," he began. "But like all people of influence, we ran in the same circles, knew the same people, and often attended the same events. A lot of these events had backroom deals going on, money exchanging hands for bribes and extortion, gambling, drugs... you'd be surprised how many of these people are involved in illegal activities."

Tate scoffed. "Nothing about any of this surprises me anymore. What about escorts from the Arm Candy agency?"

Douglas nodded. "Yes, they're the most popular escort service in the Young County area. How did you know about that?"

Raising his eyebrows, Tate indicated our box of files. "I have a story to tell, too, but you finish first."

"Right," he replied. "Anyway, I usually turned a blind eye to all that stuff. If I was at an event, it was usually for a photo op or business, and, most nights, your mother would be with me. She indulged in a little gambling from time to time, but nothing serious."

I fought back a look of surprise at that. Faith didn't seem like the type, but I wouldn't judge her. Her husband was the one in the hot seat here.

"One night, when Canton was still mayor, he held a fundraiser at his house for one of his charities. Your mother wasn't feeling well, so she stayed behind and insisted I go alone. We had just acquired the land for East Valley, and I needed to make connections for the type of people who might live there one day. So, I went. While I was there, I started feeling bad myself. Whatever your mother had, she had passed it on to me. So, I went looking for a bathroom and found all the ones on the ground floor occupied. So, I went upstairs, hoping to find some privacy. I opened the wrong door and found myself in the master bedroom. That's where I found Canton standing over a woman's body. She was wearing a white negligee, lying on a bed that had been covered in rose petals, and her throat was bruised. She'd been strangled to death."

"Isabella," I whispered, my eyes filling with tears.

The poor girl hadn't deserved to die like that. I didn't care that she'd been a junkie and a prostitute—she had been a person. And if falling for Tate had taught me anything, it was that no one was beyond redemption.

"Yes," Douglas confirmed. "I'd never met her, but I recognized her as a woman Canton had been with at some parties when his wife wasn't around. I supposed she'd been trying to seduce him or something, and it had gone bad. He was in a panic, pacing and cursing to himself when I came in. He pulled me into the room, closed the door, and told me I couldn't say anything. I checked her pulse, realized she was dead, and told him that I couldn't keep this a secret. He had killed that woman. It wasn't right."

"But then, you took a bribe to keep your mouth shut," Tate spat with disgust. "Is that it?"

"It isn't so cut and dry, but yes," Douglas replied without batting an eyelash. "Baldwin & Co. was going bankrupt. We were hemorrhaging money because we'd been overambitious. We'd bought some expensive property in Atlanta and begun construction on these luxury condos that should have been a quick, easy project. Only, one thing after another went wrong, and we had to spend more and more money to fix the problems—shoddy materials being ordered and having to be replaced with better ones, problems with electrical and plumbing, and there was even a fire that caused us to lose an entire building, forcing us to start from scratch. It was a disaster. But we'd already bought the land for East Valley and begun construction on the houses. We were doing everything we could to recoup our losses, but if something didn't happen, we'd lose everything in less than a year. Everything your mother and I worked for, that my father and grandfather built... gone."

"You want me to believe you helped cover up a murder for your family?" Tate asked incredulously. "Most days, you act like you can't be bothered with us."

"Think what you want about me, but I work as hard as I do for your mother, you, and your siblings," Douglas argued, the hard set to his jaw coming back. "I would have done anything to keep from losing our family home, or having to sell everything we owned. When I first refused him, Canton pulled out his checkbook. He told me he knew East Valley would be the project that could make or break Baldwin & Co. He said if I kept my mouth shut about what I'd seen, he would make it happen for me. The amount he wrote on that check was more than enough—it would get us out of the red, with enough left over to put into the construction at East Valley. I figured the girl was a prostitute and a junkie... she would have ended up dead at some point anyway. Canton had panicked when she threatened to tell his wife about them if he didn't leave Nancy for her, and then killed her. But no one needed to know that, and I doubted anyone would believe it if I snitched."

Tate shook his head. "You told yourself what you wanted to believe to justify what you did."

"I did," Douglas admitted. "That night, I took the check and walked out of that room, just as Jameson Whitlock and some of his thugs came up the stairs. I knew who Jameson was... had heard of some guys getting roughed up by him over gambling debts. I assumed they would dispose of the body. It wasn't until I saw the news in the paper a few days later that I realized they'd staged her suicide. Not long after her death, I started seeing Isabella, here in this house. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. I figured it was my guilt over having turned a blind eye to her murder. She was wearing the same nightgown, and I could see the bruise from her being strangled. It wasn't until Tate first noticed the rose petals and mentioned them to me that I realized the truth. She was haunting me—holding me responsible for what happened to her, and Tate could see her, too. And how can I blame her? I was a witness to her murder... or at least the aftermath of it. I failed her, and she has never stopped haunting me for it. I see her every day."

He stood, turning to look at Tate. "So, you see, you are not the reason I can't stand to be in this house... they are. Her and that other ghost—I can't figure out who she is, but she seems angrier than Isabella."

"That would be Camila," I said. "Isabella's sister, who also happened to be an FBI agent. She was investigating Isabella's death because it didn't sit right with her. I guess Canton was on to her, too, because she died in a car accident when her brakes went out on her on Highway 8. That Canton probably arranged the accident is the one part of this we can't prove, but it falls in line with his M.O."

"That box contains files," Dad chimed in. "Camila was building a case against Haines, and she was closing in on him. She found evidence of all his illegal activity—the extortion, bribery, embezzlement, and his ties to Jameson, which also could connect him to other suspicious deaths. She died trying to take him down, and now the kids might be next."

"How did you two get involved in the first place?" Douglas asked.

We sat in his office for another half hour while Tate told him the entire story—from first encountering the ghosts and getting sick, to realizing I could see Isabella and Camila, too, to our decision to investigate in order to rid the house of the ghosts. It ended with the last of our discoveries, and all the information included in the files. By the time he was done, Douglas looked as if he would be sick.

"This has all been my fault," he whispered. "Every bit of it. I brought your illness on you, and invited those ghosts into this house by not doing the right thing. Mr. McGuire, I put your daughter in danger... I can't apologize enough for that."

No one spoke for a long time. I felt a bit of pity for the man, but not as much as I felt for Isabella and Camila.

Finally, Douglas took a deep breath and exhaled, running his fingers through his hair again—a habit I realized he shared with Tate. Then, he squared his shoulders and schooled his expression to the same passive one he always wore. An amazing transformation.

"Here's what's going to happen," he declared. "I'm going to take this box and make a visit to the Young County district attorney's office. She's a friend of mine, and I know for a fact she's one of the few Canton can't reach with his extortion and bribery. From here on out, you guys are no longer involved in this. I'm taking over."

"Are you kidding me?" Tate argued. "Do you know what we went through to collect this evidence? I'm not just going to hand it over to you so you can burn or shred it!"

"I understand that you don't trust me," Douglas replied, remaining calm. "But like I said, I'm the only person who can fix this. I messed everything up, so let me make it right."

Tate lifted his chin and frowned. "I'm going with you to make sure she gets these."

Douglas shrugged. "Fine, but after that, you're done. I don't want you involved in this any longer."

"Fine by me," Dad agreed. "I can appreciate that you want to make things right, Mr. Baldwin. I think we can both agree our kids should have never gotten mixed up in this in the first place."

A knock came at the closed office door before Douglas could reply.

"Come in," he called out.

Ezra opened the door, peering in at us, his face a mask of worry. "Mr. Baldwin, security cameras spotted a black Lincoln parked outside the gate. It's been there since Mr. McGuire arrived to pick up Bellamy."

Douglas' face went red, and the light of raged sparked in his eyes. "Ezra, go to my safe and get Lucille. Mr. McGuire, Bellamy, come with me."

"I'm coming, too," Tate declared, shooting to his feet as Ezra turned his chair and left to do Douglas' bidding.

Douglas didn't seem inclined to argue as he jerked his tie loose before removing it and throwing it down onto his desk. Ezra returned a moment later with a menacing-looking shotgun laid across his lap. Crossing the room toward the door, Douglas took the shotgun from Ezra, who backed away to allow us to leave.

"Oh my God," I whispered as Douglas gripped the shotgun with both hands, so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Dad, what are you going to do?" Tate asked, eyeing his father warily.

Pausing near the front doors, he turned to face Tate. "What I should have done a long time ago. I failed you once... I won't make that mistake again. Mr. McGuire, it is my belief that Jameson intends to follow you and Bellamy when you leave here and finish the job he failed last week. We cannot allow that to happen."

Dad's eyes widened, then he nodded, his mouth set with grim determination. "No, sir, we cannot."

Douglas nodded once, decisively. "Good. If you don't mind, I'll need a ride down to the gate. Park the car at the fence and let me handle Jameson. Once I'm done, you should be safe to leave."

My hands began to shake as we followed Dad down the front steps to the car, where he and Douglas got into the front seat, while Tate and I took the back. Reaching for my hand, Tate looked at me as if wanting to reassure me that everything would be fine. But this had spiraled so far out of control by now, and I wasn't sure anymore if things would ever be the same.

No one spoke during the ride to the gate. Before long, we were there, with Jameson Whitlock's car parked on the curb just as Ezra had said. A shudder rocked me when I noticed the scratches in the black paint from where he had rammed Tate's car, almost ending our lives on the highway.

"Stay here," Douglas commanded once the car had stopped just within the gate.

Getting out of the car, he marched forward, activating the gate's motion sensors and causing it to roll open. As he drew closer to the other car, Tate opened his door, going to step out. Reaching out, I grasped his arm, holding him back.

"Tate, don't!"

Glancing back at me, he shook his head. "I can't stand back and let him get hurt."

Shrugging out of my hold, he continued, following Douglas through the gate. Dad must have sensed that I'd want to follow, too, because he shot me a glare over his shoulder.

"Don't you dare," he whispered.

Gripping the back of the seat in front of me, I peered over it to see out the front window, my heart in my throat as Douglas paused just at the curb, the shotgun still clutched in his hands.

"Jameson!" he barked, raising the gun with both hands and bringing its butt down against the passenger window with enough force to shatter the glass. "Get out of that car and face me, you coward!"

I flinched at the sound of the shattering glass, watching as the driver's side door swung open, and the large, hulking figure of Jameson Whitlock emerged.

"Hey!" he yelled, rounding the car toward Douglas with his hands curled into fists. "What the hell are you doing?"

Douglas took a swing with the gun, ramming the butt into Jameson's face as he approached. The thug crumbled, falling to one knee on the ground and pressing one hand against his now-bleeding nose. In the blink of an eye, Mr. Baldwin had taken another swing, throwing Jameson onto his back with another jab of the gun against his face.

"Goddamn it," the other man roared, rolling onto his side and cradling his abused face.

Douglas went back to assaulting the car—leaving several dents along its side and busting out one of the side mirrors. He had just raised it to bash in the windshield when Jameson found his feet and lunged for him. Douglas swiftly flipped the gun around and leveled it at Jameson's chest. The man paused, one foot on the curb, his dark eyes narrowing murderously at Douglas.

"Not another step," Douglas growled. "Tate, go back," he threw over his shoulder at his son, who had come up behind him with his arms folded across his chest.

"I'm not going back without you," Tate insisted.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" Jameson asked, his voice low and gravelly. Giving up trying to stop the flow of blood from his nose, he curled his hands into fists at his side.

"No," Douglas retorted, his voice still low, but holding a steely edge. "For the first time in a long time, I'm thinking clearly."

"You really want to go against Haines?" Jameson growled, pausing to spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground. "After what you did, he could end you."

"If I'm going down, I'll take both of you with me," Douglas fired back. "Now, listen up. You take another step, and I will blow a hole in your chest the size of Jupiter. Every bit of land up to this curb belongs to me, and Georgia castle defense law says I can meet an intruder on my property with deadly force."

"You're not a killer," Jameson scoffed. "Just a rich little snot with a God complex."

Douglas cocked the weapon, jabbing Jameson in the chest with it. "I haven't shot this thing in a while, but, at this range, I can't miss." Keeping one hand gripping the gun, he lifted the other to point at Tate. "You see this boy? This is _my_ boy! You come near him again, I will end you. Same goes for his girlfriend. Bellamy McGuire is off-limits, too. You go on back to Canton and tell him what I said. Tell him he can have every cent of his money back... I'm done playing his game. If he wants to come after someone, he can make me his target. He knows where to find me."

For a moment, Jameson didn't respond—simply standing there and staring at Douglas as if wanting to tear him limb from limb. I began to fear that Mr. Baldwin was really going to have to shoot him. Finally, he moved away, stepping back onto the street. Keeping his gaze on Douglas and Tate, he backed around to the driver's side of his car and got inside. The sound of screeching tires on asphalt faded away as he sped back down the hill toward town.

Grasping Tate by the shoulder, Douglas led him back through the gate toward where we sat waiting in the car. We got out as they approached. Laying the shotgun against his shoulder, Douglas came to a stop in front of us, keeping a firm hold on his son.

"That should buy us a day or two," he said. "Giving me time to get to the D.A.'s office. If we're lucky, Jameson will end up in a jail cell next to Haines."

"What about you?" I asked. "Can't they arrest you for what you did?"

Douglas nodded. "They can, and they might. But I'm beyond caring about that right now. I meant what I said—I will go down if that means those two will pay for the things they've done, and it keeps you kids safe. I'm only sorry I didn't do it sooner." Turning to Tate, he sighed. "Come on, son. Your mother's going to wonder what's going on, and I've got a lot of explaining to do."

Just as they moved to walk past us, Dad extended a hand out to Douglas. "I can't pretend to approve of the things you've done," he said. "But I can admire a man who works to fix his mistakes. Thank you, Mr. Baldwin."

"Call me Douglas," he replied, shaking Dad's hand.

"Then you'll call me Nate," Dad replied.

Douglas nodded and smiled. "Nate, if I were you, I'd keep Bellamy close over the next week or so. If you'd like, I can have the D.A. contact the police chief about setting a protection detail around your home and business. He'll know which officers can be trusted. Canton is more likely to retaliate against me for what just happened, but we can't be too careful here."

Dad draped an arm around my shoulders. "We'll be fine, thanks. You aren't the only one who owns a shotgun."

Turning me, he began leading me back toward the car. Glancing back over my shoulder, I waved good-bye to Tate. He watched me solemnly, his brows furrowed, mouth pinched tight. I wanted to run back and throw my arms around him. The next few days would not be easy for him, as he and his family would be forced to confront the reality that Douglas could face a prison sentence. But I could do nothing but get back in the car, glancing back at him in the mirror as we drove away.

# Chapter Twenty-One

I was shaken awake, pulled abruptly out of a sound sleep by Dad's heavy hand on my shoulder.

"Bellamy! Wake up, munchkin. You have to see this!"

"Hmm?" I mumbled, eyes still closed. "What time is it?"

"Six-thirty," he replied, giving me another shake. "I know it's early, but it's been all over the news for the past half hour!"

Rubbing my eyes, I shook my head, trying to throw off the last remnants of sleep. "What's on the news?"

"Canton Haines has been arrested."

That woke me up. I shot upright in bed, and then came to my feet. Dad grabbed my hand and pulled me through the door toward the living room.

"Come on," he huffed impatiently.

Sinking onto the couch, I focused on the television screen as Dad increased the volume. A photo of Canton Haines' mugshot filled my screen as a reporter spoke.

_"For those just joining us this morning, our top story is quite a shocker. Former Wellhollow Springs mayor, Canton Haines, was arrested late last night, being taken into custody by local police at his home. According to the chief of police, an arrest warrant was issued for Haines after evidence of a crime was brought to light by an anonymous source. Haines is scheduled to be arraigned later this morning, while both the police chief and Young County district attorney's office have remained tight-lipped on the charges being brought against the former mayor. A press conference has been scheduled for after the arraignment, during which the chief of police and district attorney have promised to give more details to the public regarding the arrest. While the family of Canton Haines—his wife of forty years and daughter, our current mayor, Felicia Haines—declined to comment, they do maintain that he is innocent of any crime."_

Turning to look at Dad, I felt my jaw dropping. "Wow. Mr. Baldwin works fast. It's only been three days since he told us he would go to the D.A."

Nodding, Dad shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. An early riser, he seemed to have been up and dressed for at least an hour.

"I can imagine that once the district attorney got a hold of all the evidence you and Tate gathered, she wanted to act quickly before anyone else got hurt. It's good to know that the police chief hasn't been corrupted like so many other people in this town. It's kind of scary to think about how many of them might be in league with Haines."

Standing, I stretched and groaned as my muscles began to wake up. "I wonder how long it'll be before they go after the others?"

Dad shrugged. "It's only a matter of time, I suppose. For now, they've cut the head off the snake, and with him in jail, we should all be much safer."

Nodding, I trudged to the kitchen. "I hope so. Coffee?"

"Sure," he replied. "Hey, don't forget your gown for the ball should arrive today. Make sure you schedule your hair appointment, too."

Smiling, I placed a new filter in the coffee pot and began spooning the grounds in. "I don't need my hair done, Dad. I can do it myself. You should save the money."

Coming up behind me, he grasped my shoulders and gave me a little shake. "Don't argue with me, just make the appointment. This might be your last Founder's Day ball. This time next year, you'll be getting ready to go off to college and might not have time for it. Just humor me."

Starting the coffee, I turned to face him. "Okay, fine. I'll make the appointment."

"Good," he replied with a nod. "I'll start breakfast, and then I need to get you to work. Do you mind if I drop you off a bit early? I need to make a bank run before we open."

"No problem," I said.

Actually, being early would give me a chance to talk to Tate about what I'd just seen on the news. I wondered what it might mean for Mr. Baldwin, since I assumed he'd told the district attorney about his part in Canton's crime.

I found out once I'd arrived at Baldwin House an hour later to find Tate sitting in Ezra's office. The door hung open, and I could see that Ezra looked as if he hadn't slept in days, while Tate looked like he was about to puke.

"Hey, what's going on?" I asked, stepping into the room. "Have you guys seen the news about Canton?"

Ezra nodded. "It's all the local news is talking about—and now it's also made the Atlanta news. He's being arraigned in an hour. Another warrant has been issued for Jameson Whitlock, but he's left town. I'm sure it's only a matter of time before they track him down. But there's something else..."

I glanced over at Tate, who ran a shaking hand through his hair. "They issued an arrest warrant for Dad. They'll probably be picking him up within a few hours. The police chief called to warn him as a courtesy... not that they owe him one. He asked them to pick him up from the office, so Max and Emma don't have to watch it go down."

Sinking into the chair beside Tate, I reached out for his hand. He latched on to me, his grip a bit tight. I traced the lines of his face with my gaze and found a confused muddle of anger and sadness there. I couldn't imagine how hard it must be to know his father deserved this, but also be hurt by watching the consequences unfold.

"Well, he only helped cover up a crime," I ventured, trying to look on the bright side. "Maybe he can get one of those plea deals or something."

"That's the hope," Ezra replied, leaning back in his wheelchair. "Douglas was a witness to the murder, can point out Cantons' accomplices who helped clean up the crime scene, and he was the one who brought all the other evidence to them. They'll take that into account. If he pleads guilty to the charges, maybe he'll get a softer sentence in exchange for testifying against Haines."

For a while after that, we simply sat in silence, avoiding looking at each other. Suddenly, Tate glanced up at Ezra.

"Did you know?" he asked. His tone wasn't accusing, simply curious.

Ezra shook his head. "I had no idea. He only told me after that visit from Jameson Whitlock. I was, to say the least, shocked."

"Hmm," Tate mumbled. "And here I thought Dad relied on you for everything."

"Apparently, this is one thing he wanted to keep close to the chest," he replied. "Listen, you two can't spend all day moping around in my office. Things are set in motion that we can't stop or change. I know it's hard, but you need to go on about your day. I'll let you know if there are any new developments."

Glancing at the clock set on Ezra's desk, I realized it was time for me to get in the kitchen. If Faith hadn't left for work yet, she would be gone soon. With Douglas headed to jail, she was going to have to step in and fulfill his duties.

"How is your mom holding up?" I asked as we left Ezra's office, closing the door behind us.

Tate paused just outside the kitchen, shaking his head as he turned to face me. "She's hanging in there, but she's obviously hurt... angry with my dad for what he did, and for hiding it from her. I can tell she's trying to be strong for Max and Emma, but this is hard on her."

Reaching out to take his hands, I pulled him closer to me, and then wrapped my arms around his waist. "And what about you? How are you?"

Sighing, he hugged me back, resting his head on top of mine. "I don't know, Bell. I can't say how I feel. I'm relieved this is going to be over soon, and that you're not in danger anymore. But I don't know how I feel about being happy that the ghosts could leave and finally end the hell I've been going through for the past two years, but it could cost my dad years of his life in jail."

"I know," I assured him. "But your dad made his choices, now he has to make amends. We have to be responsible for our actions, Tate... all of us."

Glancing down at me, he nodded. "You're right. Watching him step up to take responsibility for what he did... it made me realize that I still have some things I need to do to make up for my past."

"What things?" I asked. "You've come so far, Tate. You can't keep beating yourself up for what you did in the past. You've moved beyond it."

"No," he insisted. "There's still one thing I can't move on from. Not until I make it right with the person I hurt."

"You mean Lindsay," I said.

"Yes," he confirmed. "I heard she's in town visiting her parents. I'm going over there today. Would you come with me? I know I need to do this, but I can't... I don't know how..."

Cutting him off with a kiss, I smiled. "I understand. I'll have to call my dad and see if he'll let me. I'm still grounded, you know."

Disengaging from my hold, he grabbed my hand and continued leading me toward the kitchen. "Tell him I'll bring you straight home after."

I made the phone call quickly while Tate joined the kids at the table for breakfast. After assuring Dad that it was important and not a date, he reluctantly agreed, as long as I was home within an hour after getting off work. I sat at the table with Tate and the kids, my hopes high for both him and his dad.

The day passed with aching slowness, each hour that went by without an update concerning Douglas was excruciating. Ezra did emerge from his office once to inform us that Canton Haines had plead not guilty to one count of first-degree murder, several counts of conspiracy, grand larceny, and embezzlement of federal funds. It would seem the prosecutor intended to throw the book at him, insuring he never saw the light of day again if he was convicted of even a few of the charges. The judge had set his bail at an amount so high even he couldn't afford it, which meant he would stay behind bars until his trial, giving me no end of relief. If he wasn't free to roam town, that meant he couldn't continue sending his thug, Jameson Whitlock, after us. The news had mentioned that more arrests would be made to include his accomplices. I took that to mean both Jameson and Douglas, and hopefully anyone else who had been a part of the embezzlement schemes.

Tate seemed worried over how things would go once it was revealed that his father had been arrested in connection to Canton's crimes. But, to his credit, he threw himself into helping me keep the kids busy. They still had no idea what was going on, and I wondered when their mother intended to tell them. I didn't know how one might go about explaining something like this to an eight and five-year-old.

When the end of the workday came for me, we stopped by Ezra's office for another update, learning that Mr. Baldwin had been taken into custody by the local police. All we could do now was wait for his arraignment.

Borrowing his father's car, Tate drove us into town toward the house where Lindsay had grown up. We made the trip in silence, our hands entwined and resting between our seats. Tate's face was fixed into a stoic expression—much like the one his father often wore—leaving me wondering what he could be thinking. Was he more worried about Douglas, or the impending confrontation with Lindsay? I gave his hand a tight squeeze, and then smiled when he glanced over at me, hoping to reassure him that I had his back no matter what. He silently raised my hand to his lips and kissed it in response.

We arrived at Lindsay's house after what had felt like forever, stepping out onto the curb in front of a house that looked a lot like mine. Small, one story, with a high porch and screen door. A tire swing hung from a large tree in the front yard. Tate clung to my hand as we walked up the front steps, holding on so tight that our knuckles pressed together painfully. I didn't pull away, but he must have sensed my discomfort because he loosened his grip before ringing the doorbell.

"Sorry," he murmured. "I'm just nervous."

"It's okay," I replied. "We got this far. All you have to do now is ring the bell."

"What am I supposed to say to her?" Tate replied. "I'm sorry doesn't feel like enough."

"Just be honest with her," I urged him. "And you'd be surprised how far 'I'm sorry' will go in helping someone else heal. Ring the bell."

Nodding, he wiped his free hand against the leg of his shorts, and then reached up to ring the doorbell. A moment later, a short, slender man with a receding hairline and kind blue eyes answered the door.

"May I help..." He fell silent as he swung open the screen door and recognized Tate. "What the hell are you doing here?"

His tone had changed from friendly to venomous in the span of a few seconds. Even the eyes I'd thought were kind became cold. To Tate's credit, he didn't falter in the face of the man's anger.

"I'm sorry to be a bother, sir, but I was wondering if Lindsay was here?" he said.

"No," the man snapped. "Absolutely not. Haven't you and your friends done enough? Lindsay has moved on, and she doesn't need—"

"Please, Mr. Cunningham," Tate pleaded. "I just want the chance to apologize to her in person."

Mr. Cunningham scoffed. "Apologize? You're about two years too late on that one." He turned his gaze on me, and he became his friendly self again. "Young lady, I don't know what you're doing with this boy, but my advice to you is to run for the hills."

Tate's jaw tightened, and I could tell he was becoming frustrated. Before he could open his mouth to reply, a girl with dirty-blonde hair and the same blue eyes as her father appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy, what's going... on?" she stammered, eyes growing wide when she realized who stood on the porch. "Tate?"

The tips of his ears and back of his neck flushed as he looked down at his shoes, avoiding her gaze. "Yeah, it's me."

"I told him he needs to leave," Lindsay's dad insisted, holding out an arm to keep her from stepping out on the porch.

"It's okay," she insisted. "Go back inside, Daddy. I've got it."

Turning a concerned gaze on his daughter, he lowered his arm. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'll be fine."

Shooting a murderous glance in Tate's direction, Mr. Cunningham reluctantly retreated back inside. Lindsay stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her and gesturing toward the patio furniture situated at the corner of the porch on our left.

"We can talk out here," she said.

"This is my girlfriend, Bellamy," he said, gesturing toward me.

"Hi," I said with a smile.

"Nice to meet you," she replied.

She sat first, in a wicker chair sporting blue cushions, then Tate and I sat beside each other on a small bench that matched. A wicker table separated us, arranged with a vase of fresh flowers.

"What do you want, Tate?" she asked, folding her hands in her lap.

The girl in front of me had changed a lot since graduating and going off to college. She appeared far more confident, but with the same quiet intelligence she'd always had. She'd cut her hair, getting rid of the mousy curtain and exchanging it for a layered bob that framed her face and caused her cheekbones to show to their advantage.

Clearing his throat, Tate leaned forward a bit, resting his elbows on his knees. "I realize it's been a long time, and you've moved on. But when I heard you were in town, I wanted to come by and do what I should have done a long time ago. I owe you an apology for what happened at homecoming. I've regretted it every day since."

For a moment, Lindsay was silent, observing Tate with shrewd eyes. As he always did when people stared at him, Tate looked away, presenting only the unflawed side of his face. I placed a hand on his knee, reminding him he didn't have to do that. If people didn't want to see his face, they shouldn't look. It wasn't on him to make them more comfortable. But then, Lindsay's gaze was simply curious—not disgusted or pitying.

"I can appreciate that," she replied slowly, as if thinking over every word. "The truth is, I could see what was happening. Lincoln and your other friends roped you into bringing me, and they sprung that prank on us when we arrived. I always placed the blame for the whole tiara stunt on him, not you. If you hadn't disappeared after that, I might have been able to tell you so in person."

Tate shook his head. "That doesn't excuse my part in it. And my disappearing was kind of necessary."

"No, it doesn't excuse you," she agreed. "Sucks having everyone stare at you, doesn't it?"

"It does," he replied. "But I'm not sorry because I've gotten a taste of my own medicine. I'm sorry because I should have never let it happen."

Inclining her head, she frowned. "Why didn't you defend me? It's the one question I've wanted to ask since it happened. It was obvious that you weren't in on the plan... but once they put that tiara in your hands, you went along with it. Then you stood back and let them swarm me like a bunch of vultures."

"Because I was a coward," he admitted, lowering his gaze. "The truth is that nothing would have felt worse to me than losing face in front of them. It wasn't until I got sick that I realized how stupid that was. I've learned how easily they could all turn on me—one of them literally did as soon as he got a look at my face, and the rest of them have followed suit. They were never really my friends, but I wanted to think being one of them made me someone. I should have stood up for you, Lindsay. I'm so sorry."

Sighing, Lindsay ran a hand through her hair. "Look, I've got a good life now. I got to go off to school, where no one knew me, and start over. If anything, what you and your friends did just made me stronger. It taught me just how strong I can be, and how much I can take while still keeping my head up. But that doesn't mean the memory stops hurting. Every now and then, I remember, and it hurts. Your apology means a lot to me, even though I've moved on. So, I forgive you, Tate. And not just because of what happened to you—"

"Some might call that karma," Tate said with a dry laugh.

Lindsay shook her head. "If you're waiting for me to agree that you deserve to be sick, then you'll be waiting a long time. No matter what you've done, I wouldn't wish what's happened to you on anyone. I do mean that."

Tate rose his eyebrows, as if he were surprised. "Wow. I can't believe how gracious you're being, when I've never done anything to deserve it."

Standing, Lindsay smiled. "That's what happens when you're happy with your life. You don't have time to spend wishing bad things on others. I'm happy now, Tate. I've moved on. Now, I hope you can do the same."

We stood also. As we rounded the table, Lindsay reached up and wrapped her arms around Tate's shoulders in a hug. He stiffened for a moment, as if uncertain what to do. Then, he placed one hand at her back and hugged her back.

"I hope you got what you came for," she said.

Letting go as she backed away, Tate smiled. "I did, thank you."

Nodding, she stood back and waved as we left, descending the porch steps and making our way to the car. Once inside it, Tate fell back against his seat, exhaling with relief.

"I can't believe I went through with that."

"You did it," I replied. "I'm so proud of you."

Turning to glance at me, he wrinkled his brow. "Are you? Every time I think about what I did, I feel sick. How can you want to be with me knowing what I did to her?"

Leaning in, I offered him my lips. He kissed me, reaching up to cup my face, his thumb stroking my cheek. The kiss dragged on as he lingered, engaging my lips, then my tongue... making it last. By the time he finished, I was breathless.

"You aren't that person anymore," I replied, once I'd found my words again. "Lindsay forgave you and has moved forward with her life. I know it's hard, but you have to move past it and let it go. You have to forgive yourself now."

Giving me a smile, he kissed me again, a shorter peck on the lips. "You're amazing. You know that?"

"I am fully aware of how incredible I am," I quipped. "Now, let's go before my dad sends out a search party."

Tate had just thrown the car in drive and started toward my house when his phone rang. Glancing at the screen on his dashboard, I noticed Ezra's name and number. Hitting the button to answer through the Bluetooth system, Tate took a deep breath.

"Hey, Ezra. Is there more news?"

"I'm afraid so, and it's not good," came Ezra's voice over the speakers. "Is Bellamy still with you?"

"Yeah, I'm about to drop her off at home right now," Tate replied. "Ezra, what's wrong? Did something happen with Dad? He's not supposed to be arraigned until tomorrow."

"It's not your dad. It's Mr. McGuire."

My heart leapt into my throat, and, for a moment, I couldn't breathe. Rolling to a stop at a red light, Tate reached out and placed a hand over mine. I clutched it, clinging tight as I fought to breathe.

"What happened?" I managed, my voice coming out all hoarse and scratchy. "Is he okay?"

"Tate, turn around and get back to Baldwin House immediately," Ezra said. "Do not, under any circumstances, go near the McGuire's house."

Tears sprung into my eyes, and dread filled me. Something was very wrong. "Oh my God. What's going on? Where's my dad?"

"I'm still trying to get all the details," Ezra replied. "But it would seem your father has been arrested."

* * *

"I want to see him."

Wrapping my arms around myself, I paced, feeling as if I might explode if I didn't keep moving. Tremors had wracked me the entire car ride back to Baldwin House, where Ezra and Faith waited for us in the kitchen. Faith offered me dinner, but I couldn't eat—couldn't even think about putting anything in my mouth with my stomach twisted in so many knots.

"Right now, that isn't possible," Ezra said, gazing at me from where he sat beside the couch in the downstairs living room.

Tate sat on the sofa beside his mother, who watched me with tears in her eyes. "Bell, it's going to be okay."

"No, it's not," I snapped.

On the television, the local news replayed the police dash camera footage of my dad getting into a scuffle with Sheriff Bailey before being taken down by a couple of his deputies. I'd seen it three times already—the sheriff approaching my dad in front of our house, where the two exchanged words. Within seconds, Dad had lunged for the sheriff, almost as if attempting to place him in a chokehold. The two grappled for a bit before the sheriff threw a punch, and then took one from Dad. Then, two deputies jumped onto his back, taking him down the pavement. I'd cried out in horror watching his head smack against the asphalt. He'd gone still as they handcuffed him—and that was where the footage ended. I'd never seen him move again after that, and if it weren't for the fact that Ezra assured me he had survived, I might have worried the blow to his head had killed him.

Shaking my head, I paused, choking back tears. I failed miserably, sobbing as the warm drops splashed my face.

"That's enough," Tate muttered, reaching for the remote and turning the news off. "They're just going to keep playing that over and over, and it's going to continue to upset you."

"My dad wouldn't hurt a fly," I managed between sobs. "If he felt the need to attack Sheriff Bailey, it's because that man threatened him. I know him!"

"So do I," Tate said, standing and pulling me to my feet, then against him. "Everyone in town knows him, too. No one is going to believe the sheriff's story."

"Except everyone knows that Mr. McGuire has some... eccentricities," Ezra pointed out.

"My dad isn't crazy," I snapped, glaring at Ezra from the haven of Tate's arms.

"I know he isn't," Ezra replied. "But they're trying to say that your father is mentally unstable and unfit to be released into his own care. So... he's been admitted to Ridgeview Hospital for psychiatric evaluation."

"He's been committed?" Tate asked, one arm tightening around me. "They can't do that!"

"Yes, they can," Ezra said. "Legally, an officer can take a person into custody and transport them to a medical facility if they feel the person is a danger to themselves or others because of their mental state."

"They fear no such thing," Tate spat. "This is nothing but Sheriff Bailey retaliating against us for turning Canton Haines in. He knows he's next. Once the police finish searching Canton's house, phones, and computers, they'll find what we already know—Sheriff Bailey is one of Haines' cronies and has bent and broken the law for him on many occasions."

"I know that, and you know that," Ezra retorted. "But the public doesn't, and neither will the judge he goes before."

"Oh God," I whispered. "What are we going to do? How long can they hold him?"

"That he's in the hospital is probably a good thing," Ezra replied. "If he were in county, the sheriff and his deputies could have access to him, and we don't want that. He can't leave the psych ward, but at least he won't be hurt. They can only hold him seventy-two hours, and by the end of that time, a doctor has to evaluate him and decide whether he can be released to the public. The only problem is that if it's decided charges are to be brought against him, he may be released into police custody. If the doctor decides he needs to stay in the hospital, they can obtain a court order requiring him to stay."

"Charges," I repeated. "What kind of charges are we looking at, here?"

"Assault against a police officer, most likely," Ezra replied. "But don't worry. We don't think it will go that far."

"That's right," Faith chimed in. "I've contacted our lawyer, and he is going to represent your father if comes to that."

"We can't afford it," I lamented.

"You don't worry about money," she assured me. "It's on us. Douglas would want that, and so do I. We are going to do everything we can for Nate."

"Meanwhile, you need to remain here until things get sorted out," Ezra said. "We're worried that if you return home, Bailey and his goons might come for you, and we don't want to take that chance."

"I completely agree," Faith said, rising to her feet. "We are going to take care of you until he's released. Don't you worry."

"I should call my aunt," I said, swiping at the moisture gathered beneath my eyes. "If this ends up on the news or something, I don't want her blindsided. Will I be able to see him at all?"

Ezra nodded. "Visiting hours are in the morning from ten until noon. You can see him then."

"Okay," I said, taking a deep breath and letting it out. "Okay, that's what I'll do. Can we go to my house so I can get some things?"

"I'll go for you," Ezra insisted. "Make a list of the things you want and give me your keys. I'll make sure you get what you need."

Accepting a slip of paper and pen from Faith, I sighed in frustration, but complied. The thought of him rummaging through my underwear drawer was embarrassing, but if I was going to stay at the Baldwin's house, I was going to need them, and other stuff, too. After I made my list, I took my phone into the kitchen. Regina tried to insist on coming to get me and taking me to Atlanta, but I assured her that I was safe with the Baldwins. Besides, I didn't want to leave town, needing to be close to Dad so I could visit him and make sure things were going the way they should. She relented, but urged me to keep her posted before we hung up.

Finishing the call, I turned to find Tate standing nearby, leaning against one of the counters.

"What do you need?" he asked, watching me with concern. "Whatever you need, I'll do it."

I gave him a shaky smile and almost burst into tears again, but I managed to keep my composure. "Make this all go away?"

"I wish I could," he murmured. "What a mess. I'm sorry, Bell. Maybe if we hadn't taken this stuff to the police—"

"It was the right thing to do," I interrupted. "Dad knew that, and he was just as adamant as you that we turn Canton and the others in. Sheriff Bailey is trying to intimidate us, but it's not going to work."

Taking my face in his hands, he kissed my forehead. "That's my Bell. Come on, you should try to eat."

Feeling a little bit better now that I knew my dad wasn't in actual jail, and that we had a plan in place to free him, I followed him to the cabinet where he pulled down two plates and handed one to me. By the time we'd finished eating, Ezra had returned with my things. After handing me the bag he'd packed, he motioned toward a box lying on the floor in the entryway.

"This package was waiting on your doorstep when I got to your house," Ezra said. "It has your name on it."

My heart sank as I knelt beside the box with my aunt's return address. My gown for the Founder's Day ball. Ripping off the tape, I opened the box and pulled away the tissue paper cradling the gown. Shimmering yellow-gold fabric glistened in the light of the setting sun shining through the windows. The dress was huge, having been folded to fit in the oversized box. I stood, lifting it to reveal an off-the-shoulder neckline, full skirts and a bustle—in keeping with this years' 'back in time' theme. The dress was absolutely beautiful. And all I could think was that my dad should have been with me when I opened it.

Sinking to my knees on the floor, I buried my face in my hands, unable to hold it back any longer. Shoulders shaking with forceful sobs, I burst into tears.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

I woke up the next morning to find Tate in the bed beside me. Blinking groggily, I tried to remember whether he'd still been here when I'd fallen asleep. My meltdown the night before had sapped what remained of my energy, prompting Faith to hustle me upstairs to one of the guest bedrooms. I'd managed to get out of my clothes and into pajamas before sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in my own thoughts. Tate had found me there a few minutes later when he'd knocked on the door to check on me. Not wanting me to be alone, he'd climbed into the bed next to me, kicking his shoes off and gathering me against his chest. He'd said he would stay until I fell asleep, but, apparently, he'd drifted off not long after I had.

Squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window, I sat up, running my hands over my hair and groaning. I'd forgotten to tie it down with a scarf, and now the friction from the pillowcase had frazzled my curls.

"God, I'm a mess," I murmured.

"Oh, it's not so bad," Tate replied, his voice husky from drowsiness

Turning, I found him staring up at me with drooping eyes. He smiled, reaching up to stroke a frizzy lock of my hair.

"It's terrible," I replied. "Sorry you had to wake up to this."

He chuckled and pointed at the right side of his face. "You had to wake up to _this_. No judgement here."

I scowled at him. "Stop that." Reaching for my phone on the nightstand, I saw it was nine o'clock. "Crap! I overslept! I'm supposed to be with Max and Emma."

Sitting up in the bed, Tate placed a hand on my shoulder. "Relax. Mom is taking the next couple of days off work. She told me last night that she wanted you to be free to go see your dad for as long as you wanted today. She's got the kids."

I sighed with relief and fell back against my pillow. "Thank God. I would have felt awful to leave her hanging today."

"Don't worry about any of that," he replied. "Getting to the hospital to see your dad is our top priority."

"What about Douglas? His arraignment is today."

Tate shrugged. "There's nothing we can do about that until it's over. If the judge sets bail, he'll pay it and be home for dinner. Today, my focus is you. So, if you want me to go with you to the hospital, I will."

I nodded. "That would be nice. I'll need a ride, anyway."

Standing and stretching, he bent to pick up his shoes. "Great. I'll go up to my room and get ready, then I'll come back for you. We can grab breakfast before we go."

"Sounds good," I replied.

Once he left, I opened the bag Ezra packed for me, pleased to see he'd been thorough, thinking to bring the various hair products lining my bathroom sink. I was definitely going to need them today. After a shower and washing the now-dry locks, I moisturized and quickly styled it, then dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. By the time I'd finished tying my sneakers, Tate had come back, his hair still damp from the shower.

I shoveled down my breakfast, anxious to get to my dad, and then followed Tate out to the car. The drive to the hospital was short since it sat on the edge of town rather than in its center, and after locating the psych ward on the fifth floor, we made our way there.

A nurse in pristine white scrubs directed us to a large, open recreation room where patients in gowns and robes sat around in various areas—some watching TV, others playing cards or board games, while a few spoke with visitors. I spotted my dad seated near a window at a small table, talking to a man in a suit.

"Dad," I called out, swiftly crossing the room toward him.

At the sound of my voice, he stood and turned, a smile crossing his face as his eyes began to water. He pulled me into his arms when I got closer, pulling me into a tight hug.

"Munchkin," he whispered hoarsely. "It's so good to see you. I've been worried sick."

Pulling back to look at him, I found his eyes heavy-lidded as if he'd hardly slept, the whites tinged red with fatigue.

"You don't need to worry," I assured him. "The Baldwins have taken good care of me, and Aunt Regina was all ready to make the drive from Atlanta if I needed her. I'm okay, Dad."

Nodding, he kissed my forehead and smiled. "I can see that."

"What about you?" I asked, cringing as I noticed an abrasion on his forehead. "What happened?"

"Here, come sit down," he urged, motioning for Tate and me to join him and the other man at the table. "This is Peter Beck, the attorney Mrs. Baldwin hired to represent me."

Taking his offered hand, I shook it. "Thank you so much for doing this."

Mr. Beck smiled. "It's no trouble. I was just telling your father that I might be able to get any charges brought against him dropped... if we can get our hands on certain evidence. Your father shouldn't have to appear in a courtroom more than once."

"That's great news," I exclaimed, reaching out to grasp Dad's hand. "What evidence do we need? How do we get it?"

"Well, I recorded the conversation that happened before Sheriff Bailey and I came to blows," Dad said. "But they took my phone when they arrested me."

"Maybe you should start from the beginning," I urged him. "We saw the police dash camera footage, but there wasn't any audio. Why did you attack him?"

"I was walking home from work," he began. "When I got there, I found Sheriff Bailey and two of his deputies parked outside. I had a feeling it had something to do with this whole mess with Haines, so I pulled out my phone and set it up to make an audio recording before slipping it back into my pocket."

"Smart," Tate murmured.

Dad shrugged. "When I approached, they got out of the car and surrounded me. Bailey started talking to me about our last conversation in the courthouse. He said I needed to learn what happened when people didn't mind their business."

"He outright threatened you," Tate mumbled, shaking his head. "This guy is out of control."

"It gets worse," Dad said. "I warned them that I'd make sure the police chief knew about their behavior, but he didn't care. We were all going to pay, he told me, starting with my daughter and me. He started saying all these disgusting things... things he would do to you, Bellamy... and I just lost it."

Tate stiffened at my side, his jaw clenching so tight I was afraid he might grind his teeth into dust. "They threatened Bell?"

Dad nodded. "I've never been a violent man, but in that moment, all I could think about was that you were on your way home, and if they were still there when you arrived, something terrible might happen. They took me down, smashing my face in the concrete, and cuffed me. Everyone in town knows I'm crazy, they said. No one would take my word against theirs if they said I had a psychotic break and attacked them. Next thing I know, they've called backup, and another car shows up. They put me in the back of it and drove me here, where I've been since last night."

Eyes wide, I turned to Peter. "We have to get that phone. Do you know where it is?"

"Bailey has it, most likely. Along with any other belongings Mr. McGuire would have had on his person at the time. Right now, it looks as if they're going to file charges for assault on a police officer. They have dashboard camera footage of the incident, but there's no audio due to the distance they stood from the squad car."

"They're going to try to portray him as some kind of cop hater," Tate spat. "In a town like this, the sheriff's word will be taken as the truth. I wouldn't put it past them to delete the recording either."

"No worries there," Dad replied. "Everything I save to that phone gets uploaded automatically to a cloud. The app I used automatically ends the recording at one minute, then saves what's been captured. Whatever was recorded is already out of their reach, even if they wipe it from my phone."

Peter nodded. "That's why I intend to contact the D.A. myself. She's building her case against Canton Haines, and the local police are cooperating in collecting more evidence. A search warrant has been obtained for Haines' home, and it won't be long before a connection is made between him and the sheriff. Since it will be the D.A.'s office that will bring the charges against Mr. McGuire, I intend to inform her about the cell phone recording and urge her have the police get a search warrant for the phone, which will allow them access to what's on it. It's my hope that we can use the recording to coerce the sheriff into dropping the filed charges, and cooperate in our investigation against Canton Haines."

"Wait a minute," Tate argued. "That means he might get off for all the dirt he's done over the years. Testifying against Haines could give him a free pass."

"Or a reduced sentence," Peter agreed. "It's the same sort of deal I'm working on for your father. It's unfortunate, but if we want those charges dropped against Mr. McGuire, we have to play the game. Sheriff Bailey will lose his position and be forced to plead guilty to whatever charges the D.A. finds appropriate. It's the best we can do when we have bigger fish to fry. Canton Haines and the Atlanta crime syndicate are those fish, and we can't afford to let them off the hook."

I nodded in agreement. "Whatever it takes. So, what now?"

"For now, you don't need to do anything but wait," Peter replied. "We have a little more than forty-eight hours before Mr. McGuire is arraigned, and that would be when the charges are formally brought. It is my intention to have this put to bed before then, so that no charges are brought at all and your father is released. If you'll trust me to get this done, I won't let you down."

"If the Baldwins trust you, then so do we," Dad declared. "Tate, you'll have to convey my gratitude to your mother for me. I can't thank her enough for sending Mr. Beck. I didn't know what I was going to do."

"I'll be sure to tell her," Tate promised.

Peter stood, adjusting his tie. "I've got to get to work on this, so I'll leave you folks to visit. Mr. McGuire, I'll be back tomorrow to update you."

Dad rose to his feet, and the two men shook hands. "Thank you."

Crossing the room, Peter made a quick exit. Turning back toward the table, I caught sight of the large television in the middle of the room, where several people sat watching the news. The headline grabbed my attention, and I grasped Tate's arm.

"Look," I murmured, pointing to the set. "They're talking about your dad on the news."

The sound was too low for us to hear from across the room, but the headline stated that Douglas was to be released on bail pending a trial—his charge being accessory to a felony, which might carry up to three years in jail.

"You all right, son?" Dad asked, placing a hand on Tate's shoulder.

Tate nodded. "Yeah. That he's out on bail is good. If the D.A. can cut him a deal like Peter said... well, it'll be more than he deserves."

"This will all be behind us soon," Dad assured him. "Now, you guys better go. Visiting hours will be over soon, and I'm sure Tate needs to be with his family right now."

Glancing at a clock on the wall, I realized it was already eleven-thirty. Visiting time would end in half an hour.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I asked. "How are they treating you here?"

Dad shrugged. "As well as they can. The food is not half bad, and I'm getting to catch up on some much-needed sleep."

I couldn't help but smile at that. My dad was his usual self, even when life had dealt him a harsh blow.

"I'm going to stop by the store on the way home," I told him. "Just to make sure everything's okay."

"Don't stay long, and don't try to open," he urged me. "Just make a sign for the door that says we're closed for maintenance or something. I don't want you there alone until we know that the sheriff has been dealt with."

"If he's smart, he'll leave town after he's been exposed for the corrupt piece of shit he is," Tate said, reaching for my hand. "Ready, Bell?"

I hugged Dad one more time before taking Tate's hand. "I'll come back tomorrow to check on you."

* * *

A chill raced through me, jolting me from a sound sleep. I opened my eyes to find the room completely dark except for the television—which had gone silent, despite the white-and-black static blinking across the screen. Sitting up abruptly, I reached for Tate, who had dozed off beside me on the couch.

We'd spent the rest of our afternoon with the kids, and then had dinner with the rest of the family. Douglas had, as Tate predicted, been home just in time for the meal. He seemed a bit less reserved than usual, even cracking a few smiles as Max and Emma chattered at the table. There hadn't been much talk about the impending trial or his time in the county jail. Douglas had simply assured us that he'd been allowed to get his statement on record concerning what happened the night Isabella died. It would seem the weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and, without a guilty conscience, Douglas could move forward with the rest of his life. He'd been assured that a plea deal would mean no trial for him, if he'd agree to testify against Canton Haines and Jameson Whitlock in court—something he seemed more than happy to do.

But now, after falling asleep on the couch with Tate, I'd woken up to a cold, dark room, and a static-y television. This was far too familiar, and fear gripped me at what it could mean.

"Hmmm," Tate mumbled when I gave him a shake. "What's up, Bell?"

"Wake up," I hissed, glancing around the dark room. Even the kids' night-lights weren't visible, which meant power had been killed on the entire floor.

Sitting up, Tate shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. "It's cold in here."

"Look at the television," I whispered.

With a scowl, Tate glanced at the digitized snow dancing across the screen. "What the heck?"

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I slowly stood, glimpsing something red on the ground a few feet away. Following me, Tate bent as we neared the landing of the stairs, coming back up with a ruby-red rose petal clutched between two fingers.

"Camila and Isabella," he confirmed, glancing up the stairs to where a trail of rose petals led to the third floor.

"We did what they wanted," I replied. "What now?"

Shrugging, Tate pointed up the stairs. "Only one way to find out."

Taking his hand, I followed him up the steps, my breath caught and held in my lungs. Were Camila and Isabella satisfied with what we'd done? Had it been enough for them?

Reaching the landing, we followed the petals down the usual path of the darkened hallway toward Tate's room. The door hung open, though no sound could be heard from inside. Silently, Tate held me back with one arm, stepping inside first.

Near the window, the two women stood, their translucent forms glowing from the light of the moon filtering through the glass. As they turned to face us, grasping each other's hands, I gasped at the startling difference. Gone were the shards of glass embedded in Camila's face and neck, as well as the angry black bruise surrounding Isabella's throat. Except for their pale glow, the two women appeared whole and healthy. They were smiling.

"What is this?" Tate whispered as they started toward us, the nerve-wracking sound of their bones snapping and popping non-existent.

"I don't know," I replied, fighting the urge to back away as they drew closer.

Camilla paused, but Isabella kept coming, reaching one arm out toward Tate. Drawing in a sharp breath, he backed away, but I grabbed his arm, sensing that this was a good thing, not a bad one.

"Wait," I said. "Let's see what she does."

Nodding, Tate stepped forward again, his shoulders stiff as he waited for Isabella to reach for him again. She brought her hand up to his face, smoothing her palm over his forehead, down his cheekbone and the line of his jaw—touching every part of the deformed side of his face.

Tate gasped, and his breathing became labored as he closed his eyes. "I can feel her hand," he whispered. "I can actually feel it down to my bones."

"What is she doing?" I asked aloud, despite knowing Tate couldn't possible understand either.

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, and then backed away, placing both hands over her heart and moving her lips as if to say something. The same soft, breathless whisper came out. She still couldn't communicate, but I'd watched her lips and understood what she'd been trying to say.

"I think she said 'thank you'," I told him.

Isabella moved back beside her sister, and the two linked hands. Looking to me, Camila moved her lips, mimicking her sister.

_Thank you._

Nodding, I gave her a smile. "You're so welcome. I'm sorry for what happened to you... to both of you."

Camila reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder, as if to assure me that it was all right. The past couldn't be changed, but we had gotten justice for them both. The people responsible for their deaths wouldn't go unpunished.

Like Tate, I could feel the touch of Camila's hand against my shoulder. It burned, but not hotly like fire... it was like the burn caused by touching ice for too long. But I didn't pull away, wanting to remember what it had been like to stand face to face with a ghost and not feel fear any longer. My dad was going to be fascinated when I described this to him.

Backing away from us, the sisters began to fade, their glow becoming more muted. Then, I could see straight through them to the window beyond, until they were no more than smoky outlines, drifting through the glass and out into the night.

I glanced over at Tate, who watched the window in shock, his mouth hanging open.

"It's over?" he asked, though it didn't seem like a question he required me to answer. He seemed more in disbelief than anything else. "They're gone?"

Turning toward him, I smiled. "Yes, they're gone. Look out in the hall... no more rose petals."

Glancing out the open door, he noticed the same thing I did. The flower petals had disappeared, just like the sister ghosts had, leaving no trace that they'd ever haunted this place.

Reaching out for me, Tate pulled me against him, crushing me in a tight hug. He exhaled in a rush, the sound like sweet relief.

"It's really over," he whispered. "We did it."

Clutching him back, I held on tight and buried my face in his shoulder. "No, you did it. They challenged you to step up, and you did. You confronted your dad and made things right with Lindsay. It was all you, Tate."

Smiling, he cupped my face in one hand and lowered his head to kiss me. It was slow and sweet, with an urgency unlike anything I'd ever felt when kissing him.

"I couldn't have done it without you," he insisted. "You forced me to face what I'd become, and confront how I got there. I might still be hiding away if you hadn't found your way to my doorstep."

Laughing, I gave his hair a playful tug. "Aren't you glad I never listen to anybody?"

With a chuckle, he came in for another kiss. "You have no idea."

# Chapter Twenty-Three

"Dad? Are you ready?"

Silence. I swept into the living room, carefully holding the skirt of my gown to keep from stepping on the hem. Glancing around, I found both the living room and kitchen empty, even though I'd expected to find Dad waiting for me. He'd only had a suit and tie to put on—maybe brush his hair for once. I'd had to get into a gown with all the required layers underneath _and_ apply my makeup. Thankfully, my hair had been taken care of earlier that afternoon. I'd left the salon with freshly flat-ironed and curling-iron spiraled hair, arranged on top of my head with a few curls framing my face.

But, for some reason, he hadn't emerged from his room yet. Fear clutched me for a moment until I reminded myself that the danger we'd been in had passed. Peter Beck had done just as he said and gotten the district attorney to obtain the warrant for the contents of Dad's phone. The D.A., Peter, and the judge had all agreed that my father had been provoked, and an investigation had been launched into the sheriff and his deputies. Another judge had appointed a new sheriff, taking Bailey out of a position of power until the investigation was concluded. According to Peter, the new evidence found at the Haines' house implicated the sheriff in so many crime cover-ups that he'd never get hold of a badge and gun again, even if he did escape jail time. According to Peter, the city and county officials were afraid we might sue for the way he'd been treated, so Dad had been released without bail. With no charges filed against him, he was now free to move forward.

Jameson Whitlock had been found in Atlanta and transported to Young County Jail to await trial. His mugshot had been plastered all over the news since this morning, his face still battered and bruised from the butt of Douglas' gun. Mr. Baldwin was taking his offered plea deal in exchange for testimony—no jail time and one year's probation for helping put Canton and Jameson behind bars.

While the spreading news of his involvement in a murder had smudged his reputation and that of his business, Douglas didn't seem concerned. He had done the right thing, and his conscience was clear. According to Tate, he seemed happier than ever, even taking off work earlier than usual to come home and spend time with his family. Maybe almost losing them had taught him a valuable lesson.

I hadn't wanted to go to the Founder's Day ball, but with all the loose ends tied up, there seemed no reason not to. Dad wasn't seriously hurt from his ordeal with the sheriff, and I had the gown hanging in my closet. So, here I stood, waiting for him to emerge from his room so we could leave.

"Dad?" I called again, backtracking to his room. "Dad, you in here?"

I knocked softly, and a few seconds later, his muffled voice told me to come in. Opening the door, I found him standing in front of his desk. With long arms, he reached up toward his wall of ghost drawings and newspaper clippings. Pulling the thumbtacks free, he began dropping the papers into the trash.

"Hey, munchkin," he replied without turning around.

He wore a black tuxedo and a matching bow tie, I noticed as he turned to continue his work. He'd even combed his hair.

"What are you doing?" I asked, coming closer to watch as he went about disassembling the thing he'd been obsessed with for the past two years.

Pausing, he pointed at the copy of the Wellhollow Springs Sentinel resting on the desk. "Today's front page included a complete list of Canton Haines and Jameson Whitlocks' victims," he said. "Every single one of them was on this wall."

Gasping, I came forward and bent to retrieve an obituary that had fallen to the floor. It was for Jim Barnes. There were dozens more in the trash can—more than I could count. I never could have imagined that their crimes had extended so far.

"You were seeing his victims," I murmured. "All this time, they were reaching out to you for help. They wanted justice, too."

Dad nodded. "Now that the men responsible for their deaths have been dealt with, I don't suppose I'll be seeing them around anymore. I can get back to what's important. Like enjoying my daughter's last year at home before she goes off to college... getting my repair business off the ground... taking care of your mother's legacy, her bookstore. It's time, munchkin, and I'm ready."

Setting my little clutch aside, I began helping him, silently working to remove every single image or newspaper clipping until the wall was left bare. Once we'd finished, we stood back and stared at the white space.

"What are you going to do with this wall now?" I asked.

Turning to me, he smiled. "I was thinking a portrait of your mother."

I found myself getting choked up but fought it back, remembering my painstaking makeup job and the mascara that would undoubtedly make a mess all over my face.

"I think that sounds amazing," I told him, fighting down the lump in my throat.

"All this time, I think I became obsessed with those ghosts because I didn't want to face the fact that she was gone," he remarked. "I couldn't rationalize or explain how a seemingly healthy woman could get sick one day and never get better... then just die. I wanted to make sense of these other deaths, because I couldn't bring myself to come to grips with hers."

"And now?" I prodded.

"Now," he replied, "I feel blessed to still have you, and I'm glad she isn't suffering anymore. Seeing those ghosts so miserable reminded me that she is not in that place. She's in a better place, and that's what matters."

Leaning against him, I placed an arm around his waist. "Yes, she is."

"Oh, it's almost time to go," he said suddenly, glancing at his watch.

"Almost?" I questioned. "We'll be late if we don't hurry."

"Not until your surprise gets here," he said, taking my arm and leading me from the room.

"Surprise?" I asked. "You paid to get my hair done, and Aunt Regina sent this dress. What else is there?"

The doorbell rang, and Dad released my arm, looking at me with a gleam in his eye as if he could hardly contain himself.

"One last thing," he replied. "I think you'll like it. Go answer the door."

Frowning at him, I shrugged and crossed the room to do what he asked. Swinging open the front door, I found a man dressed in a suit. Tall and unassuming, he also wore a pair of driving gloves and chauffeur's hat.

"Miss Bellamy?" he asked, giving me a pleasant smile.

"Yes?"

Sweeping an arm toward the sleek, black limousine idling at the curb, he stepped aside. "Your date has arrived."

I raised my eyebrows, glancing back at Dad. "I thought you were my date?"

He shook his head. "Guess again."

Glancing back outside, I found the door opening to reveal several people inside. I barely spared them a glance, though, when one of them emerged and began the short walk up to the porch.

Tall and lean, the lines of his tux accentuating the width of his shoulders and slender waist, he looked like my every dream come true. Rogue waves rippled through the hair slicked back from his face, reminding me of his stubborn nature. That lopsided grin of his made my stomach do a little flip as he paused in front of me, hands behind his back.

"Wow," he murmured, looking me over from head to toe. "You look..." He shook his head. "Beautiful doesn't seem right, but it's the best I got."

Laughing, I took another step toward him. "You look pretty amazing yourself," I said.

He really did. The Victorian-style waistcoat and cravat he wore fit tonight's theme, a matching shade of gold to my gown. Moving one hand from behind his back, he revealed a clear container holding a corsage made of red roses and baby's breath.

My smile widened. "You got me a corsage?"

He shrugged, opening the box and sliding it onto my wrist. "I never went to prom. Humor me."

I raised my wrist to my nose and inhaled the fragrance of the roses. "It's beautiful, thank you. I'm happy to see you, but... well, I thought you weren't ready to be around so many people."

Tate's face became serious as he shook his head. "I wasn't, but I'm not letting that stop me. Now that all that other stuff is behind us, I want to live again, Bell. I don't care if people stare or say things behind my back, because not one of them will be as lucky as I am to have the most beautiful girl in the room on their arm. Nothing is going to stop me from enjoying the night at your side and dancing you dizzy."

Smiling, I felt myself getting misty again and blinked to hold it back. "Dang it. You have to stop that, or I'm going to ruin my makeup."

"Then, by all means, let's go," he said, bending his arm and offering it to me. "Coming, Mr. McGuire?"

Dad stepped out onto the porch, locking the front door after ensuring the porch light remained on. "Right behind you."

Tate escorted me to the waiting limo, with Dad on our heels. From inside, Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin watched us with smiles, while Emma and Max poked their head out one of the windows.

"Bellamy, you look like a princess," Emma exclaimed as I came closer.

"She sure does," Tate agreed, standing aside and gesturing for me to enter the car before him.

"Hold on," I said, turning to my dad as he approached.

I threw my arms around him and squeezed him tight. "Thank you."

Hugging me back, he patted my shoulder gently. "You're welcome, munchkin. Your punishment is officially lifted. A fresh start for both of us, okay?"

Pulling away from him, I nodded. "Okay. Now we can go."

I slid into the car between Max and Emma, who refused to make room for Tate next to me. He and Dad squeezed in on the other side of Max, and the driver closed the door before getting in the driver's seat.

"You look beautiful, Bellamy," Faith said.

"So do you," I replied, taking in her scarlet gown, complete with embroidered bodice and high collar. Her full skirts took up more than half the seat she shared with Baldwin.

"Hey, what about me?" Emma demanded.

I gave one of her little curls a tug. "You look like a little angel in your white dress. You'll be the prettiest girl at the ball."

"Hey, where's Ezra?" I asked, feeling as if something was missing without him here.

"Ezra has a date for the ball," Tate said with a smirk. "Obviously, he didn't want to scare her off by bringing her around us. Can't say I blame the guy."

Faith reached across the car to slap Tate's knee with a frown that turned into a smile as she burst out laughing. "You're terrible, but probably right," she said between chuckles. "We'll see him at the ball, I'm sure.

Our ride to the Wellhollow Springs Event Center was lighthearted, with conversation leaning more toward what the decorations might look like and what sort of food would be served, as opposed to court cases and murders. It was a pleasant change, to be in the same space with all these people and just be happy. Tate was lit up like a Christmas tree, smiling and laughing with his siblings, while my dad held a conversation with the Baldwins.

We arrived to find the front doors of the event center hanging open, the stone staircase draped in a red carpet. Situated in a historical building—the town's first courthouse—it was the perfect location for the ball given this year's theme. As we left the limousine, several others appeared from their cars, handing keys over to valets and waving to friends as they ascended to go inside.

Tate caused quite a stir when he appeared, several pairs of eyes settling on him, while a few whispers followed us up the stairs. I held on to his arm and glanced up at him. He had eyes only for me, ignoring everyone else.

"See?" he murmured. "I told you. Everyone's staring at you."

I wasn't certain if he was right or simply trying to deflect the attention off himself, but I didn't argue. It didn't matter anyway, because as far as I was concerned, Tate was the only person in the world right now... my world. His gaze was the only one that mattered, and, at the moment, it told me he very much liked what he saw.

We climbed the stairs together, Dad right behind us, with Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin taking up the rear, herding Max and Emma ahead of them. We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a photographer who gathered us for a photo session—first snapping an image of our entire group, then Tate and me, Dad and me, and the Baldwin family. Taking the order forms we were given for the photos, we tucked them into purses and pockets before continuing inside.

The entryway of the old courthouse boasted painted ceilings, with images of angels against a cloudy sky staring down at us. Another set of open double doors led into the event hall, once a courtroom. Large floral arrangements and lit candles set the mood, while soft music played from inside. The smell of food made my stomach rumble, even though I knew my dress wouldn't allow me to eat too much. The corset-laced back had me cinched in tighter than a pearl inside a clam.

Standing just within the entrance were Mayor Felicia Haines and her mother, Nancy. Dressed beautifully, they smiled and chatted with people as they came in. It seemed apparent to me that they were faking it. Nancy looked as if she hadn't slept since her husband had been arrested, and the dark circles under Felicia's eyes couldn't be hidden with makeup. When it was our turn to be greeted by them, they simply stared at us, their solemn expressions saying it all.

Letting Tate lead me past them, I avoided their gazes, trying to push down the remorse I felt. I had nothing to feel guilty about. I couldn't blame them for not being thrilled to see us—they had to know we'd been the ones to take down Canton. But that didn't mean we were to blame for this mess. Canton had made his own choices, and that it had so badly affected his family was on him, not me.

"Ooooh, chocolate," Emma squealed, breaking away from our group and running toward a table covered in desserts, surrounding what appeared to be a chocolate fountain.

"Emma," Faith exclaimed, lifting her heavy skirts to run after her.

"Dad, can we go too?" Max asked, staring wistfully at the table full of miniature cakes and pastries.

"Dinner hasn't even been served yet," Douglas replied, trying to keep a straight face. He failed, laughing and breaking out in a wide smile. "Okay, fine. Just one piece of cake."

The two took off after Emma and Faith, leaving Tate, Dad, and me to find a place for us to sit. We found one of the empty, round tables with just enough chairs for our group. After we'd settled there, the room became fuller by the second, with people arriving and either heading toward the cash bar or mingling around the various tables with friends and neighbors. Several people stopped by our table to speak with Tate—though most were more interested in satisfying their curiosity than actually seeing how Tate had been doing. He handled them better than I expected, smiling and assuring them all that he had been ill but was on the mend now.

Watching him, I wondered if that would prove true. When Isabella had touched his face, she had only touched the damaged side. Had she broken the curse? Would he go into remission, and, if so, could the surgery that once failed him now restore him to normal?

Grasping his hand under the table, I decided it didn't matter either way. As far as I was concerned, Tate's greatest transformation had been inside. It had no bearing on how he looked outwardly, and that was okay. He seemed to have come to terms with it, for better or worse.

By the time Faith and Douglas returned to the table with the kids and an assortment of desserts and fruits, Felicia Haines had taken the microphone to welcome everyone to this year's ball. Once she had finished her speech, dinner was served. The band began to play and conversation resumed. After three courses of trying not to stuff my face and only tasting a little bit of everything, I was stuffed and ready to bust out of my dress. I was grateful when Tate stood and offered me his hand.

"Wanna dance?"

I smiled and took the offered hand, standing and fixing the skirt of my gown. "Do you even know how to dance?"

He inclined his head. "Better than some, no worse than most."

"Good," I quipped. "That means you won't embarrass me."

* * *

After a couple of hours of dancing, with a few breaks in between, Tate and I were exhausted. He'd proven how well he could dance, even giving me a crash course in waltzing. As if he couldn't be anymore swoon-worthy, he'd whirled me across the dance floor to one of the slower songs, making it easy to fall into the steps. Taking my hand, he led me from the dance floor and toward the open doors leading out into the foyer.

"Okay, I fulfilled my promise to dance you dizzy," he declared. "It's hot in here. Let's go get some air."

Falling in step with him, I glanced back over my shoulder to find Dad on the dance floor with Emma. He held her hands, twirling her in circles as she giggled with glee. Smiling, I noticed Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin not far from them, locked together in a slow dance. Apparently, Douglas' secrets hadn't ruined them completely. I was glad to see it. Despite the wrong he'd done, Douglas wasn't a bad person. Just like Tate, he deserved his second chance. At our table, Max sat chatting with Ezra and his date. They had arrived about thirty minutes late. She was a beautiful Asian woman with a short, black bob snipped to her chin, wearing a simple black gown. If the way Ezra kept smiling at her was any indication, he was smitten.

It didn't escape my notice that Max had a plate full of various desserts in front of him... again. The boy was a bottomless pit.

Finding the front steps and parking lot crowded with people, Tate gave my hand a tug and guided me toward a set of steps just off the entrance.

"Follow me," he said as the darkness of the staircase swallowed us. "I know a place where we can be alone."

Clinging to his hand, I followed him up. "Is this the part where you try to take advantage of me in a dark room?"

He chuckled, giving my hand a squeeze as he led me up the staircase, which was illuminated only by moonlight streaming through stained-glass windows. "I will have you know that I'm reformed. Taking advantage of girls is something I don't do anymore."

"Damn," I muttered as we reached the top of the stairs. "I don't know whether to be proud of you or disappointed."

Tate laughed again, this time out loud—the sound echoing down the dark staircase. "I might be convinced to break my code of honor if you flash me a little leg from beneath all those petticoats. Isn't that what would be considered scandalous back in the day? A girl could go a long way by flashing a little ankle."

By now, I was laughing so hard my belly ached, but stifling it with my hand so no one would hear us up here and follow. I wanted that privacy as bad as Tate did.

Finally, he opened a door at the top of the staircase and led me out onto a stone balcony, which jutted out over the front of the building. Glancing around as I stepped out onto it, I realized it stretched left and right, seeming to turn along the sides of the building instead of ending.

"This is amazing," I whispered as Tate paused to prop a cinder block up within the doorway so we wouldn't be locked out. "Does it wrap around the entire building?"

Nodding, he came to stand beside me at the stone rail, resting his elbows on it and gazing out toward town, which was lit up in the distance by streetlamps.

"It does," he replied. "Me and some of my friends used to come out here. You know, when the ball got boring."

I raised my eyebrows. "To do what, exactly?"

He shrugged. "Drink beer and make out with our dates. What else?"

Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes at him. "Guess I should have brought a six-pack."

Wrapping one arm around me, he pulled me against his side. "Are you kidding? I got to watch Max and Emma eat chocolate until they almost puked and dance the night away with you. I'm exhausted, but I've never had this much fun at one of these things. You?"

"Hmmm," I murmured, snuggling closer against him and inhaling the scent of his cologne. "So much fun. You're the best prom date ever."

Laughing, he snaked an arm around my waist, holding me more securely to his side. "This was definitely a prom-y date. Nothing beats the Ferris wheel, though."

"Definitely not," I agreed. "You're going to have your work cut out for you topping that."

"Challenge accepted," he declared.

Raising my head, I offered him my lips. He kissed me back, the action growing with intensity by the second. Pulling away with a ragged sigh, he shook his head.

"We can't do that here," he murmured. "I'm going to forget we aren't technically alone."

Giving him a mischievous smile, I peered over the edge of the balcony at the people standing around smoking cigarettes and talking. "Those people don't even know we're up here... They'll continue not knowing as long as we're quiet."

Raising his eyebrows, he turned and pressed me up against the wall, pinning me there with his body. "Now who's taking advantage?"

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I tilted my head back to invite another kiss. "Guilty as charged and not ashamed," I murmured.

He smothered my laugh with a kiss, pressing his hands against the brick and trapping me between his arms. Sighing, I sank against him, closing my eyes and reveling in the moment. The warm summer air, wearing a gown while being kissed by a guy in a dashing suit, the taste of chocolate and strawberries on his tongue...

I didn't hear the footsteps until they were right on us, and, by then, it was too late.

Tate was snatched away from me, and a hand clamped tight around my arm in a bruising grip.

"What do we have here?" drawled a familiar voice.

Trying to pull my arm from his grasp, I found myself face to face with Lincoln Burns. The same two guys who had been with him at the diner held Tate away from me, laughing as Lincoln grasped my other arm. I hadn't noticed him inside, but he and his friends wore suits. A half-empty twenty-four case of beer rested on the ground at their feet, and I supposed they'd come up here for their old past time of drinking the night away where their parents couldn't see them.

"Didn't anyone tell you?" he joked. "You can kiss this frog all you want, but he won't get any prettier."

"Get your hands off her," Tate growled, pulling against the arms holding him back.

It was like a replay of that night at the diner. Only the stench of alcohol on Lincoln's breath and the glint in his eye worried me.

"What are you going to do about it?" Lincoln challenged, keeping a hold on one of my arms and wrapping the other around my waist. "Dislocate my shoulder again?"

I squirmed against him, trying to escape his groping hands. The guy was strong, the steroids juicing his muscles to freakish proportions.

"I'll dislocate your head from your shoulders if you don't let her go," Tate challenged. "You want to pick a fight with me? Fine. Let her go back inside and we'll settle this."

I began to struggle when Lincoln's hands went groping at the front of my dress, picking up one foot and stomping it down on his as hard as I could. He grunted, releasing me briefly. I tried to make a run for it, to go get help, but he had me back in his hold before I could make a clean getaway. Keeping me against him with one arm, he used the other to close the door, kicking the cinder block away with one foot.

"Fight?" Lincoln laughed. "No... there won't be a fight. The way I figure it, I'm owed a little revenge."

Lincoln shoved me aside and went for Tate, sticking him with a left hook to the midsection. Tate doubled over but stayed on his feet, still struggling to get free. The other two boys pinned him against the rail of the balcony, each holding one of his arms.

"Stop it," I screamed, throwing myself at Lincoln's back.

His elbow jabbed my chest, throwing me away from him. "Stand back and let your boyfriend take his medicine like a big boy."

Another swing, and Lincoln struck him again in the same spot, knocking the wind from him. With his back to me, I made a dash for the door, hoping to be able to open it.

"Damn it," I cried, tears springing to my eyes as I realized it had locked from the inside. We were stuck out here.

I turned just in time to find Lincoln going for Tate again, this time with the cinder block held in both hands, raised over his head.

"Lincoln, no!"

I ran toward him again, putting myself between him and Tate, who struggled to his feet as the other two boys backed away to avoid being struck. I placed my hands against the cinder block, attempting to topple it from his grasp. It had to be the heaviest thing I'd ever tried to lift, scratching my knuckles with rough edges.

"This has gone too far," I panted as he struggled to snatch his weapon back from me. "Let it go!"

"Bell, stop," Tate rasped, hanging onto the edge of the balcony and trying to catch his breath. "Run... go get help."

As Lincoln snatched the cinder block back from my hands, I made a run for the rail, leaning over and crying out to the people below us. "Help! Someone help us, please!"

"Shut her up," Lincoln ordered, causing the other boys to jump into action, each grabbing me and pulling me back from the rail.

I never saw if anyone looked up at the sound of my voice, and I despaired that no one would know where it had come from. Opening my mouth to scream, I never got it out—one of the boys' hands came down over my mouth, stifling the sound and making it hard to breathe.

"Hold her," Lincoln growled, now advancing on Tate. "Make her watch."

Tate lunged toward Lincoln, and the two went down. The cinder block fell to the ground, cracking in half as they rolled back and forth, wrestling to gain the upper hand. Tate swung first, his fist colliding with Lincoln's jaw with a dull thud. Lincoln retaliated by jabbing a knee into his stomach, and then following it up with an elbow to the jaw, throwing Tate off. I screamed against the hand covering my mouth as Lincoln struggled to his feet, grasping Tate's head in one hand and giving it a shove, cracking it against the brick wall.

Falling face-first onto the ground, Tate groaned in pain, obviously dazed by the blow. Panting like an enraged bull, Lincoln stooped to grab one half of the broken cinder block.

I struggled against the guys holding me, whimpering as their holds on my arms tightened, sure to leave bruises. The hand covering my mouth slipped away, and I turned my head to avoid being smothered again.

"Stop this," I wailed, my voice growing hoarse from screaming. "Lincoln, you could kill him!"

"Like anyone would miss the ugly son of a bitch," Lincoln spat.

Tate struggled to his hands and knees, shaking his head as if to clear it. His movements were sluggish and slow—far too slow to avoid the downward trajectory of the block. It came down on the back of his head, dropping him back onto his stomach on the ground. Tears blurred my vision and my throat burned from the pain of screaming, even as I continued calling out for help. Yet, I knew no one would be able to hear us over the music inside, while those on the ground might still not know to look up for the source of the screams.

If I couldn't help Tate, who else would?

Blinking the tears away, I elbowed one of the guys holding me as Lincoln waited for Tate to try to stand, taking up the other half of the cinder block. I stepped on the second guy's foot, then turned and kneed him in the crotch. Leaving them both cursing and holding the parts of them I'd injured, I ran to get between Lincoln and Tate just before the cinder block fell. Behind me, I could hear Tate's harsh breathing, the sound of his shoes scraping the pavement as he struggled to stand.

"Get out of the way," Lincoln bellowed, blood trickling from his lip from where Tate had struck him. "He isn't worth protecting! _This_ is what you want? Some diseased asshole who can't even fight for himself!"

"He doesn't have to fight," I hissed, glaring up at him. "I will stand between you and him any day. If you want at him, you're going to have to go through me, because I'm not moving."

"Bell, don't," Tate managed between gasps.

With one arm, he pushed me aside gently but firmly, with more strength than I'd have thought he possessed after being clocked in the head with a cinder block. Blood coated the back of his head and trickled down to stain the collar of his shirt, but he stayed on his feet. At this point, he had to be running on pure adrenaline.

"You want me that bad?" Tate challenged, words slurring as he spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Come on. I'm right here."

"How's it feel to know you can't protect her?" Lincoln growled, stalking closer to Tate. "When I'm done with you, I'll get a piece of her, and there won't be a thing you can do to stop me."

Snarling his rage, Tate made a move for Lincoln. He dodged when the cinder block was hurled at him, and then threw himself against Lincoln, pinning him against the side of the balcony. Everything happened so fast, I might have missed it if I'd blinked. Despite the blow he'd taken to the head, anger seemed to fuel Tate's strength, and after a few traded punches, he had Lincoln by the lapels of his jacket, bent back over the edge of the balcony. I gasped as Lincoln's feet left the ground and he teetered precariously on the edge, held up only by Tate's fists gripping his jacket.

"What the fuck, man?" Lincoln rasped between ragged breaths, struggling to free himself from Tate's hold. "Is this how it's going to be? You gonna kill me?"

"You... threatened... Bell," he replied between labored breaths. "Damn right... I will... end you!"

"Tate, don't," I cried, rushing toward them. Shooting the other two idiots a glare over my shoulder, I scowled. "Don't just stand there. Try to get the door open!"

Jumping into action as if forgetting they'd just held me down while their asshole friend beat up on Tate, they obeyed—likely realizing now just how serious this had gotten.

Laying a gentle hand on Tate's arm, I fought to steady my voice. "Tate, baby, look at me."

Trembling with anger, he cut his eyes at me, one of which was starting to swell. Blood stained his hair and the side of his face, and he was paler than I'd ever seen him.

"You're hurt," I crooned, stroking his arm. "We need to get you help, and this won't fix matters."

"No," Tate growled from between clenched teeth, fighting to maintain his grip on Lincoln. "I warned him... to keep... his hands off you."

I shook my head. "But I'm not hurt. Look at me."

Standing back, I held my arms out to my sides, so he could see for himself. My shoulders would be bruised later and the sleeve of my gown had been torn, but I was no worse for wear.

"I'm okay," I whispered, tears springing to my eyes. "But if you do this, you won't be. What happened to starting over? You can't do that if you kill him."

"Self-defense," he argued, turning his gaze back to Linc and scowling. "He... came at me first."

I nodded. "Okay, but now's the time to walk away. It's over, okay? Put him down, and let's find a way off this balcony. Do it for me, Tate. There isn't anything I wouldn't do for you, so do this for me. Let it go."

"Listen to her, man," Lincoln said, still struggling to get back on his feet. At the angle Tate held him, it was impossible... unless Tate set him back on his feet. "Listen to your girl."

Tate hesitated only a moment before backing away and releasing Lincoln, who slumped to the ground with a sigh of relief, leaning back against the rail. Tate collapsed on the opposite side of the balcony, leaning against the wall just as the door swung open, hitting one of Lincoln's two cronies in the head and knocking him back. The second dashed and made a run for it down the stairs, just as Douglas stepped out onto the balcony.

"What in the world..." Douglas trailed off at the sight of Tate, now passed out near the door. "Tate!"

He crouched beside his son, reaching out to give his shoulder a shake. Tate was unresponsive.

The second boy, recovering from being dazed by the door, made a run for it, too. I watched as he disappeared down the steps, and then turned back to Douglas, who worked to get his arms beneath Tate so he could lift him from the ground.

"Son of a bitch isn't worth saving," Lincoln growled from across the balcony.

I glanced up just in time to see him lumbering toward Douglas and Tate with the forgotten half of the cinder block raised over his head, his eyes wide and wild with rage. Glancing from him to Tate and Douglas, I didn't think twice—I simply made a decision. Rushing toward him, I pushed both hands against his chest and heaved with all my might. The weight of the cinder block carried him backward, and he stumbled away from me, toward the rail again. This time, he couldn't fight the momentum as it took him up and over the side of the balcony, and then down to the ground below with a bloodcurdling scream. A second later, the sound of his body making contact on the ground caused a surge of nausea to well in my gut.

Rushing toward the edge with my heart in my throat, I bit back a sob at the sight of Lincoln's crumpled body lying in a heap on the front steps. People began to gather around him, a few of them glancing up toward the balcony. Trembling, I felt my knees buckle as I realized the magnitude of what I'd just done.

"Oh my God," I whispered, falling to my knees on the ground. "Oh my God... I killed him."

"Bellamy," Douglas said, his voice firm. "Look at me."

Turning, I pressed myself against the railing and glanced up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I killed him."

Douglas shook his head, seated on his knees with Tate in his arms. "You don't know that. What you do know is that Tate is hurt and we need help."

Pressing a hand over my mouth, I glanced at Tate's pale face. "Is he... Is Tate..."

Douglas jerked his head toward the open. "Go downstairs and find someone... anyone. Make sure they know we need two ambulances and that the other hurt person is up here. And maybe grab a security guard to go after those other two boys. They're the only other witnesses to what happened up here. Hurry, now!"

His tone threw me into action, and I picked up my skirts and ran, my chest burning from the strain as I fought to breathe. I wanted to cry and sob and collapse on the ground in a heap. If Tate died, I didn't know what I would do. I didn't think I could bear it. And his parents... Max and Emma. None of us would ever be the same.

"No," I whispered to myself. "He can't die."

I tripped on the stairs but remained on my feet, throwing myself down the last few steps and stumbling into the lobby. I blinked rapidly, struck dumb by what I found waiting for me. Lying on the ground was one of the two boys who had held me back while Lincoln beat Tate. On top of him was Ezra, who appeared to have tackled him to the ground, and now kept him pinned with his hands behind his back.

Through the open lobby doors, I could see a crowd of people gathered around what I assumed must be Lincoln. I avoided looking too closely, afraid of what I would find if I did.

"Ezra," I cried, stumbling forward.

"Security guard only had one set of cuffs," he huffed between deep breaths. Sweat coated his brow, and while his legs seemed all but useless, his upper body strained with strength, keeping his captive in place. "I'm supposed to hold this idiot down until the cops can get here. Where's Tate? What's going on? I came outside for some air and heard people talking about screams coming from the balcony. Next thing I know, that kid comes flying down from up there, and this idiot and his friend appear, running like they had something to hide."

"Tate's upstairs," I explained quickly. "They beat him up pretty bad, and he... he..."

Ezra's eyes widened when I choked back a sob. "How bad is it?"

I felt my throat constricting as I blinked back tears, shaking my head. "I... I don't know. Douglas sent me to... I don't know, Ezra."

He nodded, his mouth a grim line. "Go find Faith. Make sure she gets an ambulance here for Tate."

Apparently, word traveled fast, because by the time I made it outside to where Faith stood with Dad, Max, and Emma, she was hanging up her phone. Turning to me, she burst into tears.

"Oh, Bellamy, there you are," she cried, reaching to grab my shoulders. "Are you hurt, honey? Are you okay?"

I nodded as she stepped aside to let Dad get at me. He looked me over, and then crushed me against him. In the distance, the sound of sirens called out through the night, coming closer with each passing second.

"Dad, Ezra needs help in there," I said. "Now."

Nodding, he followed my gaze inside to where Ezra kept a boy twice his size pinned to the ground. Jogging inside, he quickly took over, hauling the boy to his feet and keeping him in a tight hold by his collar. Ezra's date appeared from the ballroom, her face a mask of worry as she knelt to help him back into his chair. I watched as he let her help him stand, and then lowered himself back into the chair.

From there, everything else happened in a blur. What seemed like the entire police force showed up, tailed by two ambulances, all with sirens blaring and lights flashing. The security guard turned his cuffed prisoner over to the cops before gesturing toward Lincoln's crumpled form. The paramedics from the first ambulance went to him, while the second set followed Faith upstairs to where Douglas and Tate remained.

Dad shoved his prisoner toward another cop, who quickly took him into custody. "The paramedics went up for Tate?" he asked.

I nodded. "Do you think they'll let us ride with him to the hospital?"

Ezra rolled up beside us in his chair, his expression grim. "They'll likely only allow one person in there with him. Besides, the police are going to want to talk to him about what happened up there."

Bile rose up in my throat, and my gut began to churn as I watched the paramedics lift Lincoln's stretcher and begin wheeling it toward the waiting van. From this distance, I couldn't tell if he'd survived or not, but, for the moment, I didn't much care. My mind couldn't grasp anything beyond the fact that Tate could be dying upstairs, and I wasn't with him. It seemed to be taking forever for them to come, and, for a long while, we simply stood there—Dad, Ezra, the kids, and me. The ambulance containing Lincoln sped off into the night, and still Tate hadn't been brought down from the balcony. I could tell from the way Dad and Ezra were looking at me that they wanted to ask me what had happened, but seemed to be refraining due to the presence of the kids.

"Are you okay?" I asked Ezra after a long silence. "You didn't hurt yourself taking that kid down, did you?"

Ezra shrugged, gesturing toward the scuffed knees of his pants. "I'll survive, but this was my favorite suit."

My stare dropped to his legs, and he followed my gaze.

"It's okay to ask me what you're thinking, Bellamy."

Inclining my head, I glanced down at his legs. "You aren't... I mean, you're not..."

"Paralyzed?" he offered, shaking his head. "No, I'm not. I can stand and walk, though not very far. I have a disorder called Limb-Girdle Muscular Dystrophy. Long story short, it affects the shoulders and hips, and the limbs attached to them. My type of LGMD affects my lower half mostly. The chair keeps me from being weak and tired all the time, and from frequent falls."

"I guess all that time in the gym put you in fighting shape, huh?" I joked, trying not to panic that it was taking so long for them to come down with Tate.

Ezra's date appeared at his side, placing one hand on his shoulder. "Damn right it does. Are you okay?"

Glancing up at her, he placed a hand over hers and smiled. "Fine, honey. This is Bellamy and Nate. Guys, this is Janine."

"Hi," I said, taking her offered hand.

"Nice to meet you," she replied. "Though, I'm not fond of the circumstances."

_Tell me about it, Janine._

Just then, a flurry of activity near the doors caught my attention. The paramedics pushed Tate's stretcher, forgoing the stairs in favor of the wheelchair ramp sloping down toward the ground. Douglas and Faith followed, holding tight to each other's hands as they ran toward the ambulance Tate was being lifted into. Picking up Emma, Dad took Max's hand and followed Ezra and me as we moved quickly to meet them near the van.

"Is he all right?" I said just as Tate's stretcher had been settled inside. I stood on my tiptoes to try to see inside, but couldn't make out much, with two paramedics working swiftly to hook him up to an IV and other machinery.

"He had a seizure," Douglas said, keeping an arm tight around his wife. "We had to wait for it to pass before we could bring him down. He needs to get to the hospital immediately."

"Only one of you can ride with him," said the driver, rounding the side of the ambulance. "Choose quickly, we need to go now."

Plucking Emma from Dad's arms, Douglas turned to his wife. "You go. I'll take these two home. Keep me posted."

Nodding, Faith climbed in behind Tate, sitting near his stretcher and reaching out to grab his hand. Her tear-streaked face was the last thing I saw before the doors closed and the ambulance sped off.

"Bellamy," my dad urged, giving my shoulders a little shake. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I whispered. "We have to get to the hospital. I need to make sure he's okay."

"Okay, but first, the police are asking to talk to you," he said, gesturing toward the uniformed officer who stood nearby, waiting to take my statement. "The sooner you do that, the sooner we can go check on Tate. Okay?"

I nodded in agreement and tried to keep my composure, but the tears came anyway. The sobs swelling in my chest spilled out.

"Oh, munchkin," he crooned, pulling me closer. "It's going to be okay."

But he couldn't know for sure, and neither could I. After all that had happened, I'd thought we were in the clear. We were happy—dancing and smiling, laughing. Living. And now, Tate might die, and Lincoln, too. Even though he might deserve it after trying to hurt Tate, I didn't know how I could live with what I'd done. Part of me felt guilt, yet another part would do it again if it meant saving Tate's life.

I couldn't understand it. Nothing made sense anymore. I couldn't think about anything beyond that ambulance speeding away and carrying with it the love of my life.

# Chapter Twenty-Four

Dad and I arrived at the hospital a few hours later to find that Tate had been taken to surgery. We'd remained at the event hall for about an hour after the ambulance left, answering questions for the police. Once I'd managed to get my emotions under control, I was able to relate my version of the story with a steady calmness that surprised me. Douglas added what he'd seen when he arrived on the balcony. The police assured us that they would follow up once they'd gotten more information from Tate, the other two boys who'd been up there, and Lincoln, if he survived.

I'd wanted to go straight to the hospital from there, but Dad had insisted I go home to shower and change.

Douglas met us in the waiting room, informing us that Ezra had volunteered to stay with the kids so he could be with Faith during the procedure. Tate had been in surgery an hour already by the time we got there.

"Tate never regained consciousness," he told us solemnly, his eyes bloodshot and watery, voice shaky. "During their exams, they performed a CAT scan and found swelling in his brain caused by the head trauma. They're performing a craniotomy—to cut away a flap of his skull to allow the brain room to swell. He'll have to stay like that for a few months if he makes it out alive, then once the swelling goes down, they'll replace the piece of his skull."

I clapped a hand over my mouth and choked back a sob. If Tate's father could keep it together, so could I.

"The seizure," I whispered, my voice still hoarse from screaming. "Did that affect anything? Make it worse?"

Douglas shook his head. "Not that they could tell. It's typical with his disorder, and the blow to the head might have triggered it. So far, the swelling is the main concern, and they seem confident they can save him. It'll just be a long road to recovery after. Since his skin is so thin on the side of his face affected by the disease, Lincoln split him good. He needed several staples to close the gash."

"How long is the procedure?" Dad asked, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. It wasn't until he did it that I realized I was trembling.

"They told me about three to five hours," Douglas replied. "We'll call you when it's over if you like."

"I'm staying," I declared. "If that's okay with you."

With a nod, he gave me a sympathetic smile. "Of course it's okay. Here, come with me to the surgical waiting room. Faith is there. We'll wait together."

Dad kept a hold on my shoulders as we walked, and I was grateful for the physical reminder of his presence. Faith greeted me with a tight hug when we arrived.

"I'm glad you were there with him," she whispered to me, her voice quavering as she choked back a sob. "I wouldn't have wanted him to go through that alone."

"I'd never leave him if I could help it," I told her.

It was the truth. The guilt I felt over possibly having ended Lincoln's life was nothing compared to what I'd endure for Tate. I only hoped he would live so that I could make sure he knew that. I needed to tell him, and he needed to hear it from me.

"Any news on the other boy?" Dad asked as we took our seats.

Douglas sighed. "Not yet. I heard a nurse mention someone else in surgery. I didn't catch a name, but it could be him. I'll ask around and see what we can find out."

The hours crept by slowly as we waited for the surgeon to come back with news. A few inquiries about Lincoln led us nowhere, since legally no one could give us information on a patient if we weren't in his family. Faith handed out cups of coffee, and I drank mine without tasting it. The television in the waiting room was tuned to the news, which included frequent updates on the impending Canton Haines case. I couldn't escape the irony of this moment, watching the news about something that had put us in danger, while Tate lay on a surgical table, injured from something completely unrelated. All this time, it turned out that an old friend of his would pose more danger to him than a crooked mayor, corrupt sheriff, and murderous criminal.

Once Tate had made it through this and recovered, I was looking forward to a long stretch of our lives in which, literally, nothing happened. After such an unpredictable summer, nothing would be welcomed.

Finally, the surgeon returned right around five am. At the sight of him, Douglas and Faith stood, clasping hands and clutching each other tight while they waited to hear the news. I stood, too, remaining in my place behind them and holding my breath while I waited to hear what the doctor said.

"Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin," the doctor began. "Tate's procedure is finished, and he's now in recovery."

Douglas issued a loud sigh of relief, while Faith collapsed against him, sobbing hysterically.

"Oh, thank God," she managed between cries, clutching the front of her husband's shirt.

I closed my eyes, allowing myself to feel relief now. Tears wet my face when I opened them again.

"He'll remain sedated and on the ventilator for about twenty-four hours while we monitor the swelling," the doctor continued. "But his vitals are good, and everything else is clear. Your son should make a full recovery."

Cradling Faith in one arm, Douglas extended his free hand to the doctor. The two shook. "Thank you. When can we see him?"

"As soon as we get him out of recovery and into the critical care unit," the doctor replied. "It should take about an hour for us to run all the post-op tests. We ask that visitors only come in one to two at a time, and not for very long. Once he's clear of the critical care unit, we can discuss preparing him to go home, and eventually returning to replace the skull flap."

Turning to me, Faith smiled. "Do you want to see him?"

I nodded, taking a step toward them. "Yes, but I don't want to get in the way of you seeing him."

Douglas shook his head. "We won't stay long, so you can have some time with him. It's what he would want, I think."

"Yes," Faith agreed. "He certainly would."

I smiled, trying to dry my tears, but they just kept coming. Finding my seat again, I laid my head against my dad's shoulder and rested there, relief stealing all the tension from my shoulders. Within seconds, I had fallen asleep.

Faith awakened me some time later, gently shaking my shoulder. "Bellamy, honey, wake up. You can go see him now."

Blinking my bleary eyes, I sat up to find that Dad had also fallen asleep, his head rested against the wall.

"Don't worry," Faith assured me. "I'll sit with Nate until you get back."

Standing, I rubbed my eyes and stretched, realizing the sun had started to shine through the windows. It was only six-thirty, but I felt as if I'd been asleep for hours. Suddenly, I was wide awake, my entire body humming with the rush of blood pumping to my extremities.

"Come with me," said a nurse, who had followed Faith from wherever Tate was being kept.

I obeyed, trailing her down a twisting maze of hallways until we reached a wing labeled 'Critical Care'. She guided me to room 347 and opened the door, standing aside to let me in.

"You can have a few minutes, and then I'll have to come escort you back," she said.

"Okay," I replied. "Thanks."

As she walked away, I had a sudden thought. "Excuse me, ma'am," I called after her.

The nurse paused and turned back to me. "Yes?"

"Is there a patient named Lincoln Burns here? He got hurt at the ball, too, and... I was wondering if he survived."

Wrinkling her brow, the nurse took a look around as if ensuring no one else was there. She edged toward me and lowered her voice. "I'm not legally allowed to tell you any details," she whispered. "But I know what he did to your friend. All I'll say is, he lived... but he's going to be living with his injuries for the rest of his life."

I experienced mixed feelings at that news. Relief that Lincoln hadn't died as a result of my pushing him over the edge of that balcony. A mixture of sadness and relief that he might be hurt permanently—sadness because I wouldn't wish disability on anyone, relief because it meant he couldn't hurt anyone else ever again. Maybe, like Tate, he would learn a little humility as a result of the karma he'd been served.

"Thank you," I managed once I'd fully digested what she'd said.

With a nod and smile, the nurse left, closing the door once I'd crossed the threshold. I paused at the foot of the hospital bed, gazing down at Tate and feeling helpless at the sight of him surrounded by so many machines with tubes connected to him. The respirator lay between his lips, held in place by a piece of medical tape. It made his chest rise and fall in a steady rhythm, while the cannula in his nose provided necessary oxygen. An I.V. connected to a machine controlled his medications, while a heart monitor blipped steadily nearby. A pristine white bandage covered his head, a match for the hospital gown draping his body. I wondered if they'd had to shave his entire head for the craniotomy.

Coming around the side of his bed, I took the chair close to his bedside and reached for his hand—the one without the I.V. stuck in it.

"Hey," I whispered. "You had us all scared there for a moment."

I paused, wondering if he could hear me. I'd once watched a documentary about surgery that claimed patients could actually hear everything going on around them while sedated or under anesthesia. Some coma patients even thrived when people played music in their rooms or read and talked to them.

Laying my head on the bed beside his, I laid a hand against his chest. "I know you have to sleep now so you can heal," I told him. "But I hope you wake up soon, so I can tell you to your face that I love you."

Smiling, I gazed at his lowered eyelids, a tear running down my cheek. "When I met you, you were a rude, surly, arrogant brute," I said with a laugh. "But I got to know the real you. The sweet, compassionate, thoughtful person you always were. When this is all over, you're never going to get rid of me. Because I love you. I don't know how I know that for sure, because I've never been in love. I just know that when we're together, I'm so happy, and when we're apart, all I can think about is being with you again. Even when you're making me angry, I can't stop feeling this way about you. It makes me want to punch you in the face and kiss you at the same time. If that isn't love, I don't know what is... except, I think it is love. I feel it in my heart."

The heart monitor blipped on steadily, and Tate's eyes remained closed. Had he heard me? I couldn't be sure, but when he woke up, I'd be sure to tell him again. Standing, I leaned over his bed and placed a soft kiss on his lips. Going back to the chair, I simply sat, my head resting on the pillow beside his. I almost drifted off to sleep again, but the nurse returned, letting me know it was time to go.

I left the room feeling hopeful, and also as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Tate was going to live. He might have a long recovery to endure, but he would be all right.

Once I arrived home, the worry had fled, and I found myself exhausted again. Falling into bed, I drifted off to sleep in an instant.

* * *

_Three days later..._

Glancing down at the newspaper clutched in my hand, I briefly read the headline on the front page.

_Former Young County sheriff pleads guilty, turns on accomplice, former mayor, Canton Haines._

The story about how Sheriff Bailey had turned on Canton in exchange for his plea deal, giving even more insight into his crimes, seemed so far removed from me, despite the fact that I'd been involved in the whole thing.

The headline of a smaller headline just below that story read: _Three Wellhollow Springs High students will face no jail time for Founders Day Brawl._

That story, I skipped over completely. Having the inside track on the details of that particular case, I didn't need to read it. Lincoln's friends had turned on him, ratting him out for instigating the fight with Tate and attempting to bash his head in with a cinder block. That, combined with mine and Douglas' testimony, sealed the deal. Lincoln faced aggravated assault charges, but because the Baldwins weren't pressing charges, he was going to get off with probation and a hefty fine. Faith and Douglas had agreed that pressing charges would accomplish nothing. Lincoln might never walk again, and they thought that punishment enough for what he'd done.

With all that behind us, my entire world revolved around being with Tate whenever my schedule allowed. Douglas had returned to work, while Faith remained on leave so she could spend as much time with Tate as possible. She and I took turns—one of us remaining with Max and Emma, while the other sat at the hospital with Tate.

He no longer relied on a ventilator, and while he'd taken over breathing on his own just fine, had yet to awaken after surgery. They'd transferred him from Critical Care to the ICU, which meant we were allowed to visit him for longer stretches of time. I'd made it a point to be at the hospital as often as I could, not wanting him to be alone when he woke up in the hospital.

The doctors assured us that it was normal for patients to sleep for so long after brain surgery. That he was breathing on his own was a good sign, and they expected him to come to soon.

Putting the paper aside, I sighed, wracked with boredom. Electronic devices weren't allowed in the ICU, and I'd already finished the book I brought. The paper was full of the latest town scandals, which I, of course, had already had my fill of. Dad had been dodging reporters the past few days, but they'd bombarded the bookstore, asking questions about both his arrest at the hands of Sheriff Bailey, and the incident with Tate, Lincoln, and me at the ball. He'd urged me to stay away from the store for a few days until everything died down, assuring me he could handle the overbearing journalists on his own.

"Ouch."

I started at the sound of another voice in the room, turning to find Tate peering at me from beneath lowered eyelids.

"Hey," I whispered, standing to approach the bed. "You're awake."

He smiled weakly and reached for my hand as I came closer. "I am. What a sight to wake up to. My beautiful Bell."

Leaning down, I pressed a kiss to his forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit by a truck," he muttered. "And thirsty."

"I'll call a nurse for some water. They should know you're up."

"Wait," he insisted, gripping my hand tighter before I could pull away.

Turning back to him, I sank onto the bed beside him, careful not to sit on any of his wires or tubes. "Yeah?"

"How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Three days," I replied. "You needed surgery, and now you're in the ICU. The nurse can explain everything to you, but you're going to be just fine."

He tried to smile, but the muscles in his face only responded on one side. The doctor had warned us it might be that way until the swelling went down completely and the skull flap had been replaced.

"While I was out, I had this amazing dream," he murmured. "The most beautiful girl in the world told me she loved me. She promised me that when I woke up, she would tell me to my face."

I stared at him in silence, dumbfounded that he remembered in such vivid detail. "You heard that?"

He nodded slowly, and then winced as if the motion had hurt. "Every. Word."

"I meant it," I told him, reaching out to cradle his face. "I love you, Tate."

He smiled again, this time with a bit more control. "Sounds even better when I'm awake. I love you, too, Bell."

"You do?" I rasped, becoming teary-eyed for what had to be the hundredth time in the past few weeks. I'd never been more emotionally wrecked in my life.

"So much that all I could think about while Lincoln was beating the crap out of me was that I might die without ever having told you," he replied. "You better be prepared for me to tell you every day from now on. I love you... not just because you love me, but because you saw me when no one else did. You found the real me and pulled him to the surface. I couldn't be who I am now without you."

I couldn't choke back the sob bubbling in my throat, but it came out as more of a laugh. Aside from being emotionally wrecked, I was also deliriously happy. Maybe I'd suspected that Tate felt the same way about me, but nothing compared to hearing him say it out loud.

"I'm going to hold you to that," I teased, leaning down to kiss him again.

This time, he brought his hand up to my head to hold me against him. Even though his hold was weak, I obeyed the silent command and stayed against him, bracing my hands on his chest and kissing him thoroughly.

"Well, I see someone's already working on your physical therapy."

I jerked away from Tate, my face going hot as the nurse approached the bed, having walked in on us kissing.

"I was going to come for you," I told her, standing and shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "Someone else had other ideas."

Clicking her tongue in reprimand, she came toward the bed. "You're looking good, Mr. Baldwin. How do you feel?"

"Over the moon," he said with another grin. "That girl was stupid enough to fall in love with me. How lucky am I?"

The nurse turned back to me and smiled. "Probably luckier than you deserve."

"Exactly," he replied.

"Aside from feeling over the moon," she teased, "any pain?"

"A little," he admitted. "When can I go home?"

She laughed, pulling his chart from a slot in the side of the bed and making a few notes. "Slow down, cowboy. Let's start with a little exam, okay?" She turned to me, pen poised over the paper. "Sweetheart, would you mind waiting in the hall?"

I nodded. "Sure thing. Tate, I'll call your parents to let them know you're awake."

"Okay, but don't kick her out for too long," Tate insisted. "I have to keep her close, or she might wise up and leave me."

Laughing, I paused in the doorway and turned back. "Be good," I admonished, even while I found myself unable to stop smiling.

"He's a mess," the nurse said with a chuckle.

"He's terrible," I agreed. "I don't know what I'm going to do with him."

"I believe you referred to me as a 'brute'," Tate reminded me. "Well, tough luck, lady. You're never getting rid of me. I'm _your_ brute now."

"Yes," I replied. "You certainly are."

# Epilogue

1 year later...

* * *

"Knock, knock."

Turning away from the poster I'd been hanging above my bed, I turned toward the voice coming from my open doorway. Finding Tate standing there, I grinned and jumped down from where I'd been standing on the mattress. He met me in the middle of the room, lifting me up to kiss me, his hold tight on my waist. Running my fingers through his hair, I sank into the kiss, groaning at the heat it caused in my veins.

We'd barely seen each other all summer, and I'd missed him. Apparently, he'd missed me, too. I had to force him to put me back on my feet, even after we'd finished kissing.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," I said. "I'm already halfway done unpacking."

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "The line at the bookstore was crazy long. But I hooked you up."

Striding toward my desk, he dropped a large paper shopping bag on its surface—it was emblazoned with the Georgia State University logo.

"All the books from your list, and your multicolored gel pens," he declared. "Your change is in the bag. Am I the best boyfriend in the world, or what?"

"You're all right," I teased. "You'll be even better if you can help me finish getting organized by tonight. With classes starting tomorrow, I want to be completely settled in so I don't have to worry about anything."

Cracking his knuckles, he strode toward one of the boxes resting near the door. "You got it. Afterward, remind me that I need to take you to a place near campus that has some of the best coffee in the city."

We fell into a steady rhythm, opening boxes and putting things where they belonged, with the sound of music spilling from the portable speakers connected to my cell phone on the desk.

I'd arrived in Atlanta for my first year at Georgia State University the day before, dropped off by my teary-eyed dad.

"Your mother would be so proud," he'd told me as we hugged good-bye. "I know I am."

"Do you really think so?" I'd asked. "I always wanted to go to Spellman like her, but... well, this choice felt right."

"Your mother would have wanted you to do what was best for you," he insisted. "That's what matters."

I'd chosen Georgia State for a few reasons, only one of which had been Tate. After leaving the hospital, he'd spent two months at home waiting for the procedure to replace his skull flap. He'd experienced a lot of dizziness and a few other odd symptoms, but he stayed strong through it all, delighting in spending as much time with his siblings as he could. The procedure to replace the removed part of his skull had gone flawlessly, and he'd emerged from recovery as good as new.

By then, I had returned to Wellhollow Springs High for my senior year. We didn't get to spend as much time together as we had during the summer, but Tate kept busy filling out college applications. He had confessed to me that going to college was something he'd regretted not doing during the time he'd let his disorder rule his life. So, I'd been thrilled when he informed me that he intended to start school as soon as possible.

That would have to wait, though, because not long after his recovery from surgery, a series of visits to his primary care doctor revealed a miracle. Tate's Parry-Romberg Syndrome had gone into remission. The doctors noted a complete halt in the degeneration of tissue in his face, something that had them baffled after so many years of his case progressively worsening. No one else understood what had happened, but the two of us knew. Isabella had broken the curse, allowing Tate to become whole again. Once his remission was confirmed, he became a candidate for reconstructive surgery once again.

He had undergone three procedures to implant donor fat grafts, as well as a series of injections to fill in the concave parts of his face. After each procedure, he'd improved—the migraines and seizures becoming less frequent, and his appearance returning back to normal.

Well, he wasn't _exactly_ like he'd been before, but only a person who knew him well could see the subtle differences. He still carried a scar across his forehead from the fight with Lincoln, and his right eyelid drooped slightly more than the other—becoming more prominent when he was tired.

There was one more change that might be considered a flaw—yet it had become my favorite part of him. When he smiled, his lips never curved like they should. The smile remained a bit crooked, as it had been when he'd been sick—the boyish tilt reminding me of his playful nature. Every time he smiled, I remembered just why I loved him, and everything he'd been through that had made him who he was now.

Aside from those beautiful imperfections, he looked like any other guy walking down the street—chiseled features, full lips, and straight nose. While I knew he would have made the step to go to college whether he'd gotten his face reconstructed or not, I realized that not being stared at everywhere he went must be a relief.

He'd gone off to Georgia State during the summer semester, wanting to get a jump on his first year, but also needing to take things slow. The relaxed pace of summer campus life had offered him an easy adjustment, and it allowed him to make frequent trips back to Wellhollow Springs to visit. Now, we were together again, and I was excited about the next four years stretching ahead of us.

"All done," Tate declared, closing one of my now-full dresser drawers. "Now, let's go get that coffee."

"Ugh," I groaned, stretching to relieve my store muscles. "It's too late for coffee, and I'm tired. I want dinner and bed, in that order."

Wrapping his arms around me, Tate pulled me close. "Sounds good to me. Maybe I could tuck you in."

Glancing at the empty bed on the other side of the room, I raised my eyebrows. "I have a roommate, you know."

"I don't see anyone here," he murmured, bending his knees to come more level with me and capturing my lips in a kiss.

"Hmmm," I mumbled. "You're right about that."

My stomach rumbled loudly, reminding me that I hadn't eaten since breakfast.

"Still," I said, after tearing my lips from his. "If you don't feed me, I'm going to get hangry."

He frowned. "Hangry?"

"When you're so hungry it makes you angry," I clarified. "You don't want to see me hangry."

Laughing, he draped an arm around my shoulders and led me toward the door. "Baby, I doubt a little hangry will make me stop loving you like I do. So bring it on—mood swings, hunger, freaking out over midterms. I'm ready."

Leaning into him, I locked the door behind us, and we set off for dinner.

* * *

I came awake with a start, sitting upright in my bed with a gasp. I couldn't say what had awakened me, exactly, but a nervous energy coursed through my veins. Squeezed against the wall in my narrow bed, I glanced down at Tate, who lay sleeping soundly on his side next to me. My roommate had gone to a party and informed me she wouldn't be back until morning, so Tate had spent the night with me. Despite the fact that I had been sleeping soundly, I was suddenly wide awake, unable to pinpoint what exactly it was that had me feeling on edge. I'd experienced this sensation before, but I couldn't place it.

Glancing over at my desk, I frowned, realizing my alarm clock wasn't lit up—which was odd, because I'd plugged it in myself, setting both the time and the alarm to wake me up for class every morning. The only light in the room came from the moon shining through a solitary window.

Realizing the blanket had fallen down to my waist, I jerked it up to cover my chest, shivering from the cold.

Odd, the room had been a bit warm when we'd fallen asleep, the Georgia humidity outside making it hard to keep cool, even indoors. Glancing over at Tate, I noticed goose bumps rising up along the arm resting on top of the covers. In his sleep, he shivered, burrowing closer to me.

It was then that it hit me. I knew exactly what this feeling was, and what had caused it in the past.

Placing a hand on Tate's shoulder, I gave him a gentle shake. "Tate, wake up."

Stirring, he draped an arm across me. "Hmmm, go back to sleep, Bell."

"No, wake up," I urged, giving him another shake.

Groaning, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. His hair stood on end adorably, his eyelids drooping over unfocused eyes.

"What's wrong?" he yawned. "Can't sleep?"

"Something's not right," I replied. "I have this feeling... it reminds me a lot of what I felt just before encountering Camila and Isabella at Baldwin House."

Blinking, he widened his eyes, now as awake as I was. "What? Really?" He shivered again, and then frowned. "You're right. I feel it now, too."

He rose from the bed first, and I followed him, reaching for a sweatshirt I'd draped over the back of my desk chair. Slipping it on over my pajamas, I glanced around the room.

"What's going on?" I whispered. "This can't be happening again... We broke your curse when we got justice for Isabella."

Tate shrugged. "Maybe we're just being paranoid. You can't sleep, and someone turned the air down too low in the dorm. It's fine."

I shook my head, but didn't reply. Part of me wanted to agree with him, yet some innate thing told me that I was right to trust my instincts. Something was definitely wrong here.

Seeing a sliver of light beneath my door, I walked toward it, and then bent when I found something on the floor there. Bending down, I gripped it and held it up to the light of the moon. Gasping, I extended my hand toward Tate, my eyes wide with disbelief.

"Tate, look."

He approached and bent down, his mouth falling open at the sight of what I held in my hand. "Are those... snowflakes?"

I nodded, pointing to the light beneath the door and the white powder trailing out into the hall. "There's more of it."

Standing, Tate gave me a hand up. For a long moment, we simply stood there staring at each other in the dark, as if trying to come to terms with what was happening. I wondered if this might just be a dream, yet I'd never felt more wide awake in my life.

"Well," Tate said. "We can't avoid this forever. Shall we?"

Taking his hand, I reached for the doorknob. "Let's do it."

Opening the door slowly, I winced when it creaked loudly. Yet, no one seemed to hear, the entire hall of the dorm remaining still and quiet.

It was dark, making it hard to see once we'd stepped out in the hall, yet a light at the end of the hall illuminated our path, guiding us down the hallway to where a trail of icy snow led. I shivered again, the bottoms of my bare feet frozen stiff. Exhaling, I noticed my breath coming out on the air like white steam.

Tate's hand tightened around mine when we reached the end of the hall where it intersected with two others. Standing in the middle of the intersection was a man.

The same muted, white glow illuminated his body, while the whites of his eyes had been blocked out by black. His soulless stare bored into mine, and then Tate's, as he turned his head with a resounding pop and snap.

A tremor rocked me, but I stood my ground, knowing that running was futile. He would only chase us, and who knew where that might lead.

Glancing over at Tate, I found him looking back at me with the same determination I felt inside. His eyes seemed to speak to me, conveying the same thought I was having.

_Here we go again._

Releasing his hand, I stepped forward, deciding that there was nothing to be afraid of any longer. Forcing a smile, I made eye contact with the ghost.

"Hi, I'm Bellamy," I said. "We're here to help you."

The intrigue and romance from **BELLAMY AND THE BRUTE** continue in this fast-paced novella that catches up with unlikely soul mates Bellamy and Tate as they embark on their new life together.

Ever since breaking the curse of Baldwin House, Bellamy McGuire and Tate Baldwin have found happiness in a normal life together. Attending college, choosing career paths, making new friends... life away from Wellhollow Springs has been new and exciting. But some things can never truly be left behind—a lesson Bellamy and Tate will learn when they join their classmates on a spring break trip.

There's been a rise in drownings at the popular Lake Blackshear resort, and Bellamy is wary of venturing near the water. But an accident near the lake will uncover a deadly secret—one that could end Bellamy's life if she and Tate cannot get to the bottom of it.

**Get your copy today!**

### Praise for Bellamy & the Brute

> _Bellamy and the Brute is no Disney fairy tale! Alicia Michaels has woven in murder, mystery, and ghosts in her haunting twist on Beauty and the Beast._ – Amazon Reviewer

> _Bellamy and the Brute puts a great new spin on an old fairy tale! I was unable to put the book down once I started reading, as I was pulled into a world of mystery and intrigue that kept me turning the pages!_ – Amazon Reviewer

### Alicia Michaels – Author Accolades

  * 2014 Yerby Award for Fiction Finalist
  * 2015 In'Dtale Magazine Rone Award Finalist
  * 2017 Once Upon A Book Award Winner (Best Cliffhanger Ending)

Thank you for reading Bellamy and the Brute; I hope you enjoyed my book!

Want to be the first to know when I release new books? Here are some ways to stay updated:

  * Sign up for my email list so you can find out about new releases.
  * Like my Facebook page.
  * Visit my website: www.fantasybyalicia.com

If you loved Bellamy and the Brute, please tell your friends about my book and consider leaving a review. Reviews are like potato chips; you can't ever have enough of them. Thanks for reading my book!" ~Alicia Michaels

# Also by Alicia Michaels

**The Bionics Novels**

The Bionics

The Resistance

The Revolution

Bellamy and the Brute

Bellamy and the Haunting (Novella)

# Acknowledgments

While fairytale retellings are sort of my 'thing', the tale of Beauty and the Beast wasn't one I'd intended to tackle. So, for inspiring me to come up with a fresh take on an old tale, Rebecca Gober of Clean Teen Publishing deserves all the credit. Thank you for inspiring me to write a story I hadn't even realized was in me. To Lynn Shaw, Carly Fall, and Melanie Newton, thank you for your valuable feedback as beta readers—your helped make this story better, and it certainly wouldn't be what it is without you. Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank my readers for being so invested in the stories and characters that live inside my head. Thank goodness, I found people to share them with... the voices were starting to drive me crazy.

# About the Author

Ever since she first read books like _Chronicles of Narnia_ or _Goosebumps_ , Alicia has been a lover of mind-bending fiction. Wherever imagination takes her, she is more than happy to call that place her home. With seven Fantasy and Science Fiction titles under her belt, Alicia strives to write multicultural characters and stories that touch the heart.

The mother of three and wife to a soldier, she loves chocolate, coffee, and of course good books. When not writing, you can usually find her with her nose in a book, shopping for shoes and fabulous jewelry, or spending time with her loving family.

Sign up for Alicia's monthly newsletter for sneak peeks at upcoming works, insider news, and a special monthly giveaway for subscribers only.

Alicia can be found on the web at any of the following links:

www.fantasybyalicia.com

  Facebook

  Twitter

  Instagram

  Goodreads

  Pinterest

  BookBub
Follow our newsletter for up-to-date information! Need a great resource to find amazing new reads, exciting giveaways, and author insider news? Subscribe to our newsletter for all of the above + a free gift!

Ready for your next adventure? Read The Viking's Chosen by Quinn Loftis.

Get your copy today!
