Page 27 of From the Darkness

Music. Music that made her throat tighten as she recognized the song. A Rod Stewart standard.

Pressing her ear to the door, she listened intently, trying to make sure she wasn’t hearing things. But it was Rod Stewart all right, singing “Maggie May.” Helen had been into Rod Stewart the summer she’d visited, and she’d played him constantly. Bree and Troy had laughed about the ubiquitous presence of the gravel-voiced tenor. But they’d also enjoyed the songs. In fact, more than one night, out on the porch, they’d danced to the music, before switching back to slow numbers.

Now—like a ghost from the past, the song drifted toward her through the door, as though Troy were welcoming her to his room. “Maggie May” was one of Stewart’s best-known works—an edgy ballad about disillusionment and a relationship breaking up. The cut finished, and another song picked up.

“Tonight’s the Night.” She caught her breath as the new words wrapped themselves around her. This one was quite different. It wasn’t a lament; it was about a couple getting ready to make love for the first time.

She pressed her cheek against the hard wood, listening, remembering that she’d imagined herself and Troy as the two people getting comfortable with each other—their thoughts drifting toward the bedroom.

“Troy,” she said, her voice soft.

Was it her imagination, or did she hear someone speak her name from the other side of the door?

“Troy?” she called out again, this time a little louder.

She let her mind drift into a little fantasy. He’d been waiting for her to come up here. And he had played the music when he knew she was on her way.

That was nonsense, she told herself. Impossible. Yet she felt her hands shaking as she got out the manicure kit. The lock wasn’t complicated. All she had to do was insert a pick in the doorknob hole and press.

The mechanism clicked, and she turned the knob. Feeling like she was doing something illegal, she stepped quickly into the room, knowing she might be taking a terrible chance.

If Troy were in here, if he were dangerous, then she should turn around and leave. But she didn’t believe Nola’s story about his having a nervous breakdown and being locked in.

She pulled the door closed. Hesitating several more seconds, she made another decision and snapped the lock behind her.

With the room dimly lit, she could see very little at first. But she was instantly aware of Troy’s scent. Aftershave and man. At least it was the scent of the man who had come to her bed four nights ago.

She breathed deeply, then called his name as she’d done on the other side of the door.

He didn’t answer, but she knew he had been here recently, and her heart leaped. Locating a lamp on the stand near the door, she switched it on, then eagerly looked around the room. Her eyes bounced from the reupholstered vintage sofa and chair near the window to the beautifully refinished cabinet pieces.

Eagerness turned to disappointment when she saw only furniture.

The music was coming from a small stereo that sat on a marble-topped chest. Beside it a set of shelves held dozens of CD’s—everything from classical to jazz to popular groups and artists, she saw as she skimmed the titles.

On the wall above the stereo were framed pictures—and Bree’s stomach clenched as she caught sight of Troy. He was the same man she remembered from the summer in Montana. Smiling and vital, only a little older. There were several pictures of him with Dinah, one as a baby. And there was a family portrait—of Troy, Dinah, and a smiling, dark-haired woman who must have been his wife, Grace.

Another picture of Troy standing alone had been taken at the ranch, she knew, from the backdrop of mountains. Seeing him in that familiar setting made her heart squeeze.

She pivoted away from the pictures, seeing shelves that held biographies, novels, and volumes that he must have used as references in his work. Interspersed with them were various objects. A child’s stacking toy. A small box of some polished green stone. A rounded black and white rock from the beach.

Magazines were spread out on the table in front of the sofa, current editions she saw when she inspected the dates. Which didn’t prove he’d been here recently. She’d like to see one of those trays Mrs. Martindale had carried upstairs—with dirty dishes on it, indicating that he’d actually eaten a meal in this room recently. Or a stack of recently opened mail.

It looked like someone had set out the books and magazines from props. Someone who didn’t feel Troy’s presence here and wanted to make it appear as if he’d been in the room.

Crossing to the darkened bedroom, she took a quick peek inside and saw no one. The bed was made. A plaid shirt was thrown across the arm of a mission-style chair, and a pair of black leather slippers were sitting beside it.

In the bathroom, toilet articles were set out on shelves. And a razor sat on the sink.

She could imagine Troy standing there that morning, getting ready for the day. But both the sink and the tub were bone dry—as though neither had been used recently.

The mixed signals made her hands clench. It felt like he could step into the room at any moment. Yet at the same time, she wondered if he’d been here in weeks.

“If you’re here, come out,” she said, making each word clear and distinct. “And if you don’t want me riffling through your private papers, say so because Helen sent me here to get information; and it looks like snooping is my only option now.”

Maybe thatwaswhat he wanted. Maybe he wanted her to discover things that he couldn’t or wouldn’t voice to her.

When he didn’t voice an objection to her stated plan, she walked back to the desk, pulled out the swivel chair, and sat down. Opening the middle drawer, she saw what she might have expected—pencils, pens, paper clips, tape, stamps, and other business items, all neatly arranged in compartments and small boxes.

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