In The Dead Of Night

“Nicky?” she said.

“People don’t usually call me that now.” His grin transformed hardened features into a hint of the boy she’d once known. A rough-and-tumble kid with black hair and eyes the color of the Pacific. Her memory stirred like a beast that had been hibernating for two decades. She’d been seven years old. Twelve-year-old Nicky Tyson had talked her into playing hide and seek, but when she’d closed her eyes, instead of running and hiding, he’d stolen a kiss. Her first kiss from a boy. It had been innocent, but made a huge impact on Sara.

Funny that she would remember something so silly at a moment like this. But then she’d blocked a lot of things that happened that last summer.

The man standing before her was nothing like the ornery kid who’d pestered—and secretly charmed—her. There was nothing remotely innocent about him. His eyes were still the color of the sea, but now it was a stormy sea, all crashing surf and churning waves and water the color of slate. Beneath the brim of the Cape Darkwood PD cap, his black hair was military-short. He might have looked clean-cut if not for the day’s growth of beard and the hard gleam in his eyes.

“Surprised?” he asked.

Realizing his hand was still extended and she had yet to take it, Sara reached out. “I don’t know what to say.”

His hand encompassed hers completely. His grip was firm. She got the impression of calluses and strength tempered with a gentleness that belied the obvious strength.

“Hello would suffice,” he said.

An awkward silence descended. Intellectually, Sara knew what her father had done wasn’t her fault; she’d been a little girl at the time. But it was disconcerting to think that this man’s father had been her mother’s illicit lover. That her father had murdered Nicholas Tyson in a jealous rage then turned the gun on himself. That was the story the newspapers had reported, anyway.

Sara was no longer sure she believed it.

She studied Nick Tyson and thought about the call she’d received two days ago. The electronically disguised voice that told her Richard Douglas hadn’t murdered anyone on that terrible June night. Had there been a fourth person involved as the caller intimated? A person filled with hatred and a secret that was now up to her to expose—or disprove?

The memory of the voice spread gooseflesh over her arms. She studied Nick’s face. Familiar now, but somehow every bit as threatening. His was the face of a cop. Hard, knowing eyes filled with suspicion, cool distance and an intensity that thoroughly unnerved. She couldn’t help but wonder if, as a policeman himself, he’d ever doubted the scenario the police had pieced together.

“Ah, you’re in luck.”

The words jerked her from her reverie. She let go of his hand. He must have seen the uncertainty on her face because he motioned toward the drawer she’d opened. “Another candle,” he said.

“Oh. Right.”

His eyes shone black in the semidarkness. She could feel them on her, probing, wondering. Wondering what? Why she was back? Or was he wondering if a capacity for violence was inherited?

“I should probably check the fuse box while I’m here,” he said.

“We wouldn’t want those ghosts getting any ideas.”

He gave her a half smile. “Everyone knows they do their best work in the dark.”

The tension drained from her body when he started toward the utility room and, beyond, the garage where the fuse box was located. Using the dim light slanting in through the window, she began searching for another plate or saucer to use as a candleholder.

“Fuses look fine.”

She jolted at the closeness of his voice and nearly dropped the saucer she’d found. He was standing right behind her, so close she could smell the piney-woods scent of his aftershave. For the first time she realized just how tall he was. At least six-three or maybe six-four. He towered over her five-foot-three-inch frame. Uncle Nicholas had been tall….

Nick stared at her intently. “You’re not still afraid of storms, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said a little too quickly.

One side of his mouth curved. “Looks like you’ll have to ride this one out in the dark.”

“Thanks for coming by. And for checking the fuses.” She wanted to say more, but what? Thank you for not hating me. I’m sorry my father ruined your childhood. Oh, and by the way, he didn’t do it….

The words flitted through her mind, but she didn’t voice them. Even though she was no longer convinced her father had done anything wrong that night, she needed to figure out who to trust—and find proof of her suspicions—before going to the police.

“Just doing my job.” His gaze flicked to the saucer in her hand. Usurping it from her, he set the candle on it and dug out a match. “This should help keep the ghosts away.”

“If you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not for a second. Don’t tell me you do.”

“I guess it depends on the ghost.” He set the saucer on the counter. “Hopefully the utility crews will get the transformer up and working in the next couple of hours.”

“Does the electricity go out often up here?”

“They don’t call this stretch of beach the Lost Coast for nothing.” He stood there a moment, studying her. “How long will you be in town?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered. “A few days. Maybe a week.”

“Any particular reason you’re back?”

Sara wished it were lighter so she could gauge his expression. Was it an idle question? Or was he uneasy that someone was sniffing around a mystery that, in the minds of a few, had never been solved? Somewhere in the back of her mind, the caller’s voice echoed eerily. Don’t trust anyone….

“Family business,” she said vaguely.

“I see.” But his expression told her he didn’t. “How’s your sister?”

“Sonia’s doing great. She and her husband live in Los Angeles now. She thinks I’m a nut for staying here.”

“It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

She smiled, but it felt brittle on her face. “I think she was more concerned about how the citizens of Cape Darkwood would react.”

As if realizing to whom she was referring, Nick sobered and shoved his hands into his pockets. “There might be a few people in this town who can’t differentiate between what your father did twenty years ago and you.”

“What are you saying?”

“Some people have short memories and small minds. If you run into any hostility, give me a call.”

“I hope I don’t.” But Sara knew she probably would. Emotions had run high and hot in Cape Darkwood after her father had allegedly shot and killed his pretty young wife and her lover, then himself, leaving two little girls without parents, a little boy without a father.

She looked at Nick. “It seems like if anyone in this town has a right to be angry with the Douglas family, it’s you.”

“I wasn’t the only one hurt that night.”

The statement made Sara think of Nick’s mother. Laurel Tyson had been widowed at the age of thirty and left with a mountain of bills and a young boy to raise. Sara had been too distraught to remember much about her parents’ funeral, but she would never forget the look of hatred in Laurel Tyson’s eyes.

“How’s your mother, Nick?”

“She’s doing fine. Owns an antique shop and a couple of bed-and-breakfasts in town.” His expression darkened. “But then, you knew about the B&Bs, didn’t you?”

Sara nodded.

“Then you’ve already realized it might be a good idea for you to steer clear of her.”

His meaning was not lost on Sara. She’d often wondered if Laurel Tyson had recovered from the grief and scandal surrounding her husband’s murder.

“Thanks for the warning.”

He studied her a moment longer, then touched the brim of his cap. “Welcome back, Sara.”

At that he started for the door, leaving in his wake the smell of pine and rain and the undeniable feeling that she would see him again.

THE MEMORY of her sultry perfume still danced in his head when Nick climbed into his cruiser. Sara Douglas was a far cry from the freckle-faced little girl he’d played hide and seek with some twenty years ago. She’d grown into a gypsy-eyed beauty with a throaty laugh and a body any Hollywood actress would give her right hand to possess.

As a man, he’d enjoyed seeing her, talking to her. Touching her, an annoying little voice chimed in. But as a cop, he knew her return to Cape Darkwood spelled trouble. He couldn’t help but wonder why she’d really come back. He didn’t buy the family-business bit. Why would she fly all the way from San Diego to Cape Darkwood and spend a week in a dilapidated mansion when most business matters could be handled via phone? The mansion was barely habitable. Especially taking into consideration what had happened there twenty years ago.

But Nick knew why she hadn’t stayed at one of the bed-and-breakfasts in town. His mother owned both of them. Sara must have done her homework and realized it would have been an uncomfortable situation to say the least.

Thoughts of his mother elicited a sigh. He’d lied to her when he’d said his mother was doing okay. Laurel Tyson had never recovered from the events of that summer night twenty years ago. Nick had never been sure if her bitterness stemmed from the fact that her husband had been having an affair or that he’d been gunned down for it. Whatever the case, her happiness had ended that night right along with Nick’s childhood. Neither of them needed the past dredged up.

As he started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, he decided Sara Douglas bore watching. He was the chief of police, after all. It was his job to keep an eye on people.

He didn’t want to admit that his interest went a tad beyond professional concern. Twenty years ago he’d had a crush on her the size of California. In a kid-sister kind of way. He knew it was crazy, but the old attraction was still there, as clear and sharp as the dawn sky after a storm. Only now, there wasn’t anything kid-sister about it. Nick wasn’t happy about it. He had a sixth sense when it came to trouble. Sara Douglas had trouble written all over that shapely body of hers in big, bold letters.

As he pulled onto Wind River Road and started for town, he decided it would be best for everyone involved if she let the ghosts of the past rest in peace. The citizens of Cape Darkwood—including him—would rest a hell of a lot easier when she went back to San Diego where she belonged.

Chapter Three

She saw blood, stark and red against pale flesh. The metallic smell surrounded her, sickened her. Horror punched through layers of shock. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.

“Mommy,” she whimpered. “Wake up. I’m scared. Wake up!”

Sara shook her, but her mother didn’t stir. Feeling something warm and sticky between her fingers, Sara looked down at her hands.

Blood.

Her child’s mind rebelled against what she saw. Against what she knew in her heart. Against the terror of knowing her mommy wasn’t ever going to open her eyes again.

Ten feet away her daddy lay on the floor, his head surrounded by a slick of red. Next to him, Uncle Nicholas lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were open, but when she called out to him he didn’tanswer. Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why wouldn’t he wake up and tell her everything was going to be okay? That they were just playing? Making a movie?

Thunder cracked like a thousand gunshots. Sara screamed and crawled to her mother’s side, curled against her. “Mommy,” she choked out the name and began to cry. “Please wake up. I’m so scared.”

Outside the French doors lightning flashed, turning night to day. Beyond, a man in a long, black coat stood in the driving rain, staring at her. He held something dark in his hand. A gun, she realized. It had a shiny white grip, like the ones cowboys used in movies. But he was no Lone Ranger; he was a bad man.

Her heart beat out of control when he raised the gun and pointed it at her. For an interminable moment, the storm went silent. All she could hear was the freight-train hammer of her pulse. Somewhere deep inside she knew he was going to hurt her, the same way he’d hurt her mommy and daddy. She didn’t want to go to sleep and never wake up. Closing her eyes, Sara buried her face in her mother’s shirt.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows.

When she opened her eyes and raised her head, the bad man was gone.

And she began to scream.

Sara sat bolt upright, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. The old fear thrashed inside her like the reemergence of a long-dormant illness.

Blowing out a shaky breath, she lay back in the pillows and willed her heart to slow. It had been a long time since she’d had the nightmare. After the deaths of her parents, it had taken more than six years of therapy before she could sleep through the night. But as she’d entered her teens, Sara had finally begun to heal. Slowly but surely, her mind had shoved the horrors of that night into a small, dark corner where they had remained.

Until now.

This particular dream had been incredibly vivid, conjuring all of her senses and a barrage of emotions. In the past, the nightmare had evolved around her finding the bodies of her parents and Nicholas Tyson. She’d never dreamed of the man with the gun.

Twenty years ago, a detective by the name of Henry James had investigated the case. He gave her a cherry lollipop every time he questioned her. As days spun into weeks and Sara began to understand what happened, she’d realized Detective James believed she’d witnessed the murders.

It had been a heavy burden for an eight-year-old. Sara spent years trying to remember. She’d even undergone hypnosis. But the memory—if there was one—refused to emerge. She never understood how she could forget something so vitally important, especially if the real murderer got away scot-free.

Eventually, the police pieced together the events of that night, ruled the crimes a murder-suicide and the case was closed. Now, Sara was left to wonder if they’d been wrong.

Was the man in the long black coat a figment of her imagination? Perhaps it was her mind’s way of redeeming her father? Or was he part of a blocked memory resurfacing?

Troubled by the notion of a killer getting away with the murders of three good people, Sara slipped into her robe, crossed to the French doors and flung them open. Beyond, the Pacific churned in a kaleidoscope of blue and green capped with white. The beach sang to her with the crashing notes of a well-remembered and much-loved ballad. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head and savoring the scent of last night’s rain.

She craved coffee as she descended the staircase and was glad she’d had the foresight to tuck a few single servings into her bag. After brewing coffee, she carried a steaming mug to the redwood deck.

The Adirondack furniture that had belonged to her parents had long since been sold. But the view was the same and so stunning that for a moment she could do nothing but stare. Whitecaps rode a violent sea of midnight blue. Leaning against the rail, she looked out over the rocky cliff at the battered rocks below. Mesmerized, she watched the fog bank retreat into the sea like the spirits of long-lost sailors.

She wasn’t sure why the scene reminded her of Nick Tyson. Something about his eyes and the ocean. Sara wasn’t given to noticing inconsequential details about men. But even in last night’s darkness, she’d discerned the reckless male beauty lurking beneath a mild facade that would be dangerous to an unwary woman. Sara was glad she didn’t fall into that category.

The ringing of the phone in the kitchen drew her from her reverie. Surprised, taking her mug with her, she went through the French doors. Expecting her sister, she picked up on the third ring. “Checking up on me?”

“You came.”

Shock rippled through her at the familiar, electronically-altered voice. “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Who are you?” She posed the question, but knew he wouldn’t answer.

“All that matters is finding the truth.”

“What truth?”

“About what really happened that night.”

“The police investigated and closed the case.”

“The police don’t know everything.”

Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you know.”

He was silent for so long she feared he’d hung up. “Find the manuscript, Sara. It will explain everything.”

“What manuscript?” It was the first time she’d heard of a manuscript. “What are you talking about?”

“Find it.”

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Why are you calling me? Why now?”

“You’re the only one left.” Another silence. “You saw him, after all.”

Her heart pounded harder, like a frightened animal trapped in her chest. “I—I didn’t see anyone.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare—and the man with the gun.

“Be careful,” the voice whispered. “Trust no one.”

“Please, tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re calling, dredging all of this up now.”

The line went dead.

Uneasiness climbed over her, like a scatter of ants over her body. Frustrated and uneasy, Sara cradled the phone. “Crackpot,” she whispered.

But she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t have taken a week off and flown from San Diego to Cape Darkwood on the word of some prankster. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the police had made a mistake. But how did the caller play into all of this? Was there some type of manuscript that would prove her father had been falsely accused? How was she supposed to find it?

She’d come back to this house, this town, to uncover the truth. She owed it to herself. To her sister. To her parents. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew where she had to start. She knew the key to unlocking the truth might very well lie in the nightmares of the past.

THE CORNER NOOK was exactly the kind of shop Sara would have frequented had she been on an antique-buying excursion. She’d inherited her love of old things from her mother. Even as a child, she’d enjoyed browsing the stores and wondering about the history of the trinkets they brought home.

Sandwiched between a coffee shop and the Red Door Bed-and-Breakfast, the Corner Nook was as inviting as a tropical beach on a hot day. But Sara felt no anticipation as she parked the rental car curbside. Dread curdled in her gut as she started down the cobblestone walk.

The bell on the door jingled merrily when she entered, the aromas of vanilla and citrus pleasing her nose. Having recently furnished her first home, Sara had spent hours perusing antique shops. But she’d never seen such an eclectic collection in one place. To her right an entire wall was dedicated to Hollywood nostalgia. A nice collection of celebrity cookbooks jammed the top shelf. Beyond, a dress once worn by Marilyn Monroe flowed elegantly over an ancient wooden mannequin. Sara was so caught up in admiring the wares, she didn’t hear the proprietor approach.

“Are you looking for something special?”

She spun at the sound of the rich voice and found herself facing a tall, elegantly dressed woman. She caught a glimpse of silver hair and midnight-blue eyes before recognition slammed home.

LaurelTyson pressed a slender, ring-clad hand to her chest and stepped back, her face going white. “Alex.”

The name came out as little more than a puff of breath, but Sara heard it. Her mother’s name was Alexandra, but everyone had called her Alex. “Mrs. Tyson, it’s Sara Douglas.”

The woman blinked as if waking from a nightmare. Something dark and unnerving flashed in her eyes. “What earthly reason could you possibly have for coming into my shop?”

“If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Sara hesitated, surprised by the degree of the woman’s hostility. But she hadn’t traveled six hundred miles to give up at the first sign of resistance. “I want to talk to you about what happened….”

Laurel’s eyes went flat. “I have nothing to say to you about that night.”

“I know this is difficult. It’s been hard for me, too. But if you’d just hear me out.”

“Difficult is not the right word, Sara. Your family has hurt mine enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”

There weren’t any other customers in the shop. Sara didn’t want to upset her, but she desperately needed information. Laurel had been her mother’s best friend. She might know something that could help her sort through the mystery. If only she could get her to listen.

“I may have new information about what really happened,” Sara said.

“What really happened?” The woman choked out a sound that was part laugh, part grunt. “I already know what happened.”

“I think the police may have made a mistake.”

“How dare you.” Laurel’s lips peeled back in an ugly parody of a smile. “You have some nerve walking into my place of business and making wild insinuations.”

“All I want is to find the truth,” Sara said honestly.

“The truth, darling, is that your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.”

Sara recoiled at the viciousness of the words. A knot curled in her chest. Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off, found another source of information. But Laurel Tyson was Sara’s strongest link to her parents and what might have taken place that night. “I know you were hurt, but if you’d just give me a minute—”

“I’ve given you enough.” Laurel turned away. “Get out.”

Sara reached out to touch the other woman’s arm. Laurel spun with the speed of a striking cobra. She shoved Sara’s hand away with so much force that Sara’s fingers brushed a porcelain figurine and sent it crashing to the floor. The delicate china shattered into a hundred pieces.

“See what you’ve done?”

“Mrs. Tyson, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sara looked down at the broken statuette, truly sorry, and wondered how the situation had spiraled out of control so quickly. “Please, let me pay for—”

“You’ll never be able to pay enough.” Angrily, Laurel gestured toward the door, her hand shaking. “Now, get out or I’ll call the police.”

Vaguely, Sara heard the bell on the door jingle as another customer entered the shop. In a last-ditch effort to get the woman to listen, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father didn’t kill anyone that night.”

The woman’s hand shot out so quickly Sara didn’t have time to brace. Laurel’s palm struck Sara’s cheek hard enough to snap her head back. The sound was like the crack of a bullwhip in the silence of the shop.

Sara reeled backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t caught her from behind. “Easy,” came a familiar male voice. “I’ve got you.”

Nick Tyson steadied her, then quickly thrust himself between the two women. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his angry gaze flicking from Sara to his mother.

Laurel thrust a finger at Sara. “She’s not welcome here. I want her to leave. Now.”

Nick’s gaze went to Sara. He tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. His eyes narrowed to slits, and she got the sinking sensation that he was going to take his mother’s side. He surprised her by asking, “Do you want to press charges?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Laurel breathed.

“Try me,” Nick shot back, but he never took his eyes from Sara.

“No.” Shaken and embarrassed, Sara started for the door.

The older woman’s gaze swept over her as she brushed past. An emotion Sara could only describe as hatred gleamed in her eyes. “You’re just like her,” Laurel said icily. “You look like her. You sound like her. You lie just like her.”

“That’s enough,” Nick snapped.

Sara told herself the words didn’t hurt. But deep inside, they cut as proficiently as any knife.

By the time she reached the door she was dangerously close to tears. There was no way in hell she’d let Laurel Tyson see her cry.