Ian moved suddenly, sharply. “Anna, wait—”
A flash of light, accompanied by a startlingly loud noise, came from the direction of the shadowed man directly behind Tagert. Ian jerked, staggered, then crumpled to the ground.
He didn’t move again.
Momentarily paralyzed with horror, Anna hardly registered Tagert’s furious oath.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he demanded of the other man. “Have you—”
Staring down at Ian, Anna paid no attention to
the words. Finally finding the impetus to move, she threw herself onto the ground next to her brother’s motionless form. “Ian? Oh, God, no!”
Kneeling beside him, she touched his face with trembling fingers. And knew the truth.
“Ian,” she whispered, doubling over in agony. “Oh, Ian. No.”
She turned then, to find out who had done this inconceivably brutal thing. Two faces were visible in the lantern light now. Tagert and another man, Buck Felcher, a local troublemaker known for his criminal tendencies. She still couldn’t make out the features of the third man, the one who’d fired the shot that had killed her brother.
“Stanley,” she said, her voice a shaken whisper. “Buck. Why? Why?”
She heard the second shot even as the impact caught her in the chest and threw her backward, away from Ian’s body. Two angry shouts erupted simultaneously, followed by a third shot and a distant thud.
Oblivious to the pain and the chaos surrounding her, aware only of the new layers of darkness wrapping themselves around her, Anna strained to reach out, feeling as though she were moving through a pool of molasses. Her fingers brushed her twin’s wrist. She let her hand fall on top of his.
“Ian,” she whispered, her voice no more than a tremulous sigh. “Ian...”
Then darkness swallowed her.
1
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight
—William Wordsworth
January 3, 1996
DEAN GATES, new owner of the soon-to-be-restored Cameron Inn, didn’t believe in ghosts. So it was all the more annoying when he saw one less than an hour after moving into his new home.
He stood in the center of the mildew-scented, dimly lit attic of the inn, the only part he’d yet to fully explore. He’d just made a quick survey of the stacks of old junk and boxes that had been stashed up here for who knew how long. He added them to his long mental list of things to take care of as he began his renovations.
Preoccupied with that list, he ran a hand through his brown hair and made a slow circle in the center of the room, scanning the rafters for signs of weakness or water damage, half his attention focused on his growing hunger. He hadn’t eaten anything since a light breakfast some eight hours earlier.
The ghost was standing in one corner of the attic, watching him with a distinctly curious expression.
Dean blinked. He was absolutely certain that corner had been empty only moments ago. Now it was occupied by a slender woman in a long white dress that made him think of flappers and rumble seats. Her hair was dark, chin-length, crimped into stylized waves around her beautiful face. She had large dark eyes, flawless fair skin, a slightly dimpled chin and a rosy mouth that looked tailor-made for kissing. She was, without doubt, the most stunning woman Dean had ever seen.
He couldn’t quite believe he was seeing her now.
He reached up to rub his eyes, thinking perhaps it was a trick of the shadows, a manifestation of his weariness after a long drive, maybe even a hallucination brought on by hunger. When he opened his eyes again, she was still there, looking at him with a slight frown creasing her forehead.
Deciding she was a trespasser who’d somehow slipped into the attic without him hearing her, he opened his mouth to ask who she was... and then closed it abruptly when he realized he could see the walls of the room through her dress. Through her.
“Oh, man,” he said, his voice sounding husky in the silence of the attic. “I need something to eat.”
He turned on one heel and headed for the stairwell. “Aunt Mae?” he called out as he took the stairs two at a time. “Hey, Aunt Mae? Let’s go have some lunch, okay?”