Page 36 of The Love Destroyers

Seamus gives me a look that screamslittle rich girl.

I grit my teeth and lift my chin. It would be impossible to look down at him, so this will have to do. I know he’s trying to get arise out of me because he enjoys it, but the noise from the wall and the knowledge that Jeffrey and Ellie will be in Asheville on Friday have made me on edge. “I’ve decided to make it bigger. We’re going to take down the wall and make it into one room.”

He approaches the wall and runs his hand over it, pausing as he passes a framed family photo of Mother, Father, Anthony, and me. He gives me a sidelong smile. “You had braids.”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

“I had a mullet when I was seven. I’m not in a position to cast stones.”

I smile…until the rustling sound from earlier ripples through the room. Theghostsound.

I’m almost relieved when Seamus frowns, because at least this suggests it’s not happening inside my head. That was an unpleasant possibility I’ve been carrying around for the last couple of days.

“It’s always made sounds,” I say with a sigh. “Old house. But it seems like it’s gotten worse over the last several days. It used to freak Anthony out when we were kids.”

And me. But I’m not about to admit to that.

Seamus glances at me. “Uh, it’s not doing that because it’s an old house.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He taps the wall. Nothing. He moves his hand down and taps again.Rustling.

My mouth drops open.

“There’s something in there,” he says, setting down his toolbox. He glances up at me as he opens it and rummages through the contents. “You’ve noticed that sound before?”

“A couple of times. I thought…” I pause, swallowing, then start again. “Is it alive?” My voice is surprisingly firm. Then again, I’d actually entertained the possibility that it might be a ghost. It’s good news if it’s a family of mice.

“You’re sure you want me to take the wall down?” Seamus asks, meeting my gaze and holding it. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

I hear the scratching sound again.

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you want to leave?” There’s a questioning expression in his eye—maybe a weighing look, as if he’s taking my measure.

I straighten my spine and joke, “If there’s someone living in the walls of my mother’s house, they should do me the courtesy of shaking my hand.”

Seamus shakes his head slightly, his expression amused. “Rats can probably be taught to shake hands, but I won’t be the one offering up lessons.”

I swallow, trying not to show him I’m nervous. “My mother wouldn’t let any rats take up residence here. They wouldn’tdare. They’d better be mice for everyone’s good.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Seamus asks as he pulls off his jacket, his amused gaze on me. Is he waiting to see if I mace him for showing a bit of skin? Because he has on a dark T-shirt under the jacket, as if it’s the balmy middle of summer rather than a cold snap in February. He’s lanky but broad-shouldered, and his arms are tattooed and lined with muscle.

“Do you have a drop cloth?” he asks.

I nod, because I’m not completely unprepared, and retrieve it from the other side of the room. He sets it out, his arms flexing with the movements, and then retrieves a sledgehammer from the box. His arms continue to dance, the tattoos writhing, as he lifts it up, and dammit, I didn’t want to agree with Reba about anything, but it would beawfully niceto see this man do it without his shirt on.

I clear my throat and watch as he brings the hammer down against the wall. It makes a satisfying thud and eats a hole intothe plaster—but that sound is followed by a mewling noise that makes me jolt.

Seamus’s gaze meets mine through the cloud of plaster dust.

He hits the wall again, this time cracking the wood that hides beneath the plaster. The noise repeats, this time undeniable and louder.

“A kitten?” I call out, incredulous. He turns toward me, his eyes wide, and nods.

What happens next unfolds so quickly, I can barely process it—my mother comes racing through the open doorway like an avenging angel and throws something at Seamus with the accuracy of an Olympian hungry for a trophy.

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