A Valentine Wish (Gates-Cameron 1)

“We—I think we’re here because of those wicked lies that were told about us. None of the things that woman said about us is true. Ian wasn’t a bootlegger and he is certainly no murderer. We didn’t die in a shoot-out with Stanley Tagert. Tagert lied.”

“Even if what you say is true, what do you want me to do about it?”

She continued to hold his gaze with her own. “Prove it.”

He snorted. “Yeah. Right.”

“I’m serious. You must do this for us. You’re the only one who can. The only one we—I can talk to. The only one to hear our side of the story. You have to help us prove our innocence.”

“I wouldn’t know how to begin. And, besides,” he added lamely, still trying to deal with his shaken beliefs, “I’m very busy now. I have my own life to live.”

Anger kindled in her lovely eyes. “At least you have a life,” she snapped. “We ... oh, damnation.”

One moment he was holding her arm. The next moment ... he wasn’t.

She was a few feet away from him now. As he watched, she grew fainter. Translucent. She seemed to shimmer in the shadows, as though illuminated by a faint glow from within her. Her voice sounded far away. “Dean. You must help us. You’re the only one who can.”

“Wait,” he said, instinctively moving toward her. “I—”

But she was gone. “Hell,” Dean muttered, closing his eyes and rubbing them wearily. His heart was pounding, his skin damp and his mind a whirl of doubt and wonder.

Maybe his ex-wife was right.

Maybe he was losing his mind.

THE OFFICES of the Destiny Daily were somewhat less than luxurious. In fact, Dean decided, looking around, they were downright shabby.

The building itself looked at least fifty years old, and Dean wouldn’t have been surprised to hear that it had been that long since the lobby had been painted. Whatever color the walls had once been, they were now a grubby grayish-brown. So were the windows.

A battered reception desk sat in the center of the room, with a row of metal filing cabinets leaning drunkenly behind it. A computer monitor and telephone were on the desk, almost buried beneath messy stacks of papers. The telephone was ringing and had been since Dean had entered. No one rushed to answer it.

A chipped fake-wood credenza held a fax machine, computer printer, several overflowing wire baskets and stacks of photographs and newspapers. Other than the clutter, Dean saw no evidence of human habitation, though he heard noises coming from somewhere at the back.

He’d just decided to go looking for someone, when Mark Winter strolled through a doorway. His sandy eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw Dean. “Oh. Hi, Dean. What can I do for you?”

Dean motioned toward the still patiently ringing phone. “Er, shouldn’t someone answer that?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Hang on a minute.” Mark scooped up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Destiny Daily.”

The call didn’t take long. Dean didn’t bother to eavesdrop. He used the time to try to decide how best to explain his purpose in being here. It wasn’t easy, considering he didn’t exactly know, himself, why he’d decided to look into the deaths of the Cameron twins. To satisfy his own curiosity, if for no other reason.

Mark looked at Dean closely when he concluded the call. “Everything going okay out at the inn, Dean? Excuse me for saying so, but you look like hell.”

Dean cleared his throat and shoved a hand through his hair, wishing the deceptively lazy-mannered journalist wasn’t quite so perceptive.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he said with a casual shrug. “Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“The ghosts keeping you awake rattling chains or something?”

Dean managed a smile. “Something like that. And speaking of the ghosts ...”

Mark looked startled. “You haven’t really seen them, have you? I was only joking.”

“Actually, I’m interested in doing some research on them,” Dean explained, neatly avoiding the question. “My sister has convinced me that I should know the full history of the inn, just in case any of my guests inquire. I thought you could lead me in the right direction to start my research. Old newspapers, perhaps?”

Mark looked indecisive for a moment, as though there was something he wanted to say, but wasn’t sure he should. “I have a few things that might be helpful to you,” he said finally.

“What?”