been secretly thrilled. Not by his father’s death, of course. He still wasn’t certain how he felt that he’d never met him, and now he never would. But inheriting an estate in Wales—he’d seen dollar signs and the chance to finally dig his way out of the hole his brother had landed him in.
That, of course, was before he’d seen the crumbling stone house that looked like something from a horror movie. Before he’d learned of the murders, the bodies and the cloud of bad luck that hovered over the entire village.
Before he’d spotted glowing red eyes watching him from the shadows.
A chill washed over him, but he did his best to ignore it.
“My life is back in Seattle,” Declan said. He had his family, his business, and he wouldn’t have stayed at Stonecliff if someone paid him to.
Warlow nodded. “I understand, but I think your father hoped you’d feel a sense of duty and accept your legacy to this land, to the village.”
From what he’d seen of the boarded-up shops and restaurants, there wasn’t much of the village left. Another strike against the house when he tried to sell it.
A faint smothering wrapped around him. Warlow meant well, but all his talk of duty and legacy left Declan ready to bolt.
“I’m sorry. I can’t stay.”
“Of course.” A wide smile lifted the man’s mouth, but never reached his chilly blue eyes. “I’ll leave you to make your call.”
Once the butler had gone, Declan sank into the large leather chair behind the desk and let out a sigh. He shouldn’t feel guilty about not wanting Stonecliff. He really hadn’t needed to come here at all. He could have had the lawyer arrange the sale, but he’d been curious about this house that had sent his mother running and also about his father, despite his every effort not to be. A part of him couldn’t shake the sensation that he was somehow betraying his mother’s memory by coming here.
What did it matter? In less than a week he would be home.
Declan lifted the phone and returned Stella’s call, agreeing to see her the following day. When he hung up, he leaned back in the chair and glanced at the dark screen of his father’s computer. He toyed again with packing the ancient beast away and setting up his own laptop in its place. Declan had tried to keep up with his PI firm’s clients over the past weeks while he was here. He specialized in background checks and tracking down missing people. He had a knack for finding people who didn’t want to be found—maybe a result of spending his formative years trying to stay hidden. Working at the large, ornately carved desk would certainly be more comfortable than the small writing table in his room, but the idea made his chest tighten.
Setting up a workspace felt like commitment, like accepting his place here the way Warlow wanted him to. No thanks. He could go on checking his email and making calls from his room for the days he had left.
Declan stood, left the study and meandered into the kitchen. He’d fix himself something to eat, head up to his room and check those emails—doing his best to avoid thinking about unloading this house and Carly Evans.
As much as he hated to admit it, the woman had flitted at the peripheral of his mind’s eye since he left her in the café. He might not particularly like her, and he certainly didn’t think much of her work, but he hated to think something had happened to her.
Why would it? Sure, people had vanished from Cragera Bay, and apparently wound up dead in the bog on his property, but that couldn’t happen now. All three suspects were dead. The first, before police could take him into custody, and according to rumor, by his sister Eleri’s hand—though the rumors regarding that particular sister were extensive. The other man had apparently succumbed in hospital to injuries he’d suffered—also rumored to have been caused by Eleri. His sister must be a veritable Amazon. The only one of the three to have seen the inside of a jail cell—and the only woman—had taken her own life a few weeks after her arrest.
So, twisted ankle or not, Carly Evans had no reason not to be safe and sound in her hotel room.
Yet all his rationalizations couldn’t ease the cold knots squeezing his insides.
He could call her, set his mind at ease. And say what? Just checking in? He wanted to discourage her, convince her she didn’t have a hope at getting to The Devil’s Eye. Calling her to see she got back to her hotel okay wouldn’t exactly drive home that particular message.
In the kitchen, the housekeeper was pulling on her coat, finished for the day. Iola Voyle stopped moving with only one arm through the sleeve when she spotted him. “I wrapped your dinner and left it in the refrigerator for you since you weren’t here when I served.”
The faint recrimination in her voice made his mouth twitch. The woman did not like to have her schedules interfered with. When he’d first arrived, he’d instructed the woman not to cook for him. It was ridiculous for her to prepare an entire meal just for him, when he could cook for himself just as easily. But she’d pursed her thin lips the way she did whenever something displeased her, informing him that she also cooked for Hugh Warlow, so Declan had relented. But he still wasn’t comfortable with the situation.
He pulled open the fridge door. “Thank you. Have a good night.”
She nodded, her gaze shifting uneasily about the room. “Has there been any interest in the estate?”
Maybe she’d heard that Stella had called, or like Warlow assumed he’d gone to the village to meet with her earlier. He closed the fridge and turned to the women. Her narrow face was pale and combined with her dull, brown hair tied in a severe knot at the base of her skull made her sharp, thin features more prominent somehow. She’d pulled her coat all the way on and held the lapels closed with white-knuckled fists.
Of course, she’d be anxious. Her job was on the line.
“Nothing yet,” he told her, shooting her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “If there is, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
The anxiety tightening her features didn’t ease. She glanced at the door. “You shouldn’t stay too long. Even if the estate doesn’t sell right away, you should go home.”
That was the plan. Still, Mrs. Voyle’s words caught him by surprise. He’d been easy to get along with, making few demands on the woman. Why would she be so eager to see him leave?
He forced a rueful grin. “Am I that hard to work for?”
“It’s not that,” she said, lowering her voice to barely above a whisper and stepping toward him. “There’s something wrong with this place, and the sooner you’re away from it the better.”
The soft urgency of her words combined with Carly Evans’s questions sent a chill scuttling down his spine. It was all bullshit, of course.
How had Carly known about the red eyes?
“More than one thing’s wrong with this place,” Declan said, playing dumb. “But nothing a good contractor can’t fix.”
Mrs. Voyle stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Good night, Mr. Meyers.”
“Declan,” he called after her, as she hurried out the back door in the utility room.
He sighed and turned back to the fridge. His appetite had shriveled and Mrs. Voyle’s plate wasn’t very appealing.
A dry scraping filled the quiet. Declan frowned, straightened and let the fridge door swing closed. What was that?
The sound came again, frantic scratching like an animal inside the walls. Mice, perfect. Now he’d have to set traps and put out poison. He followed the sound toward the utility room. Whatever was in those walls had to be bigger than a mouse. Rats? He shuddered. God, he hoped not. He’d have to hire someone to fumigate the place—
He stopped inside the utility room. The scratching continued loud, relentless and not inside the walls, but outside the door.
His