Page 43 of The Pretender

“Call me Damon, and, yes, I am.”

The walk into the grand entry of the main house consisted of some of the hardest steps she’d ever taken. Familiar smells hit her. The cleaning liquid used to keep the banisters shiny. The flowers blooming in the window boxes that then carried their scent into the house.

The house was old and full of creaks and groans. When the wind swept through from one side to the other the paintings on the wall would rattle and her mother would start her annual speech about how impractical it was to have a house right on the water. Tabitha, so carefree back then, would run into the rooms, opening even more windows.

They’d had crab feasts here. They once hosted an office picnic on the grounds. Then there was that fund-raiser for literacy. The memories bombarded her as she stood there, eyes closed and reliving them all.

At some point she slid her hand into Harris’s and now they stood there as if waiting for the house to tell them something. She could hear the steady beat of music and realized Damon had the radio on in the office right off the entry. She glanced over at the desk. It was covered with papers and two laptops. A jacket hung over the back of the chair and his cell sat on the top of the pile.

“Are we going in there?” She could handle that room. Her father had used it. He’d pretend to work and she’d find him in there, smoking a cigar right through the open window so her mother wouldn’t know. Of course, she always did.

Damon shook his head. “The library.”

The words, so innocuous, ripped through her. The numbness she’d cultivated, the same lack of feeling that had helped her survive, cracked. Pain seeped through her in this insidious slow drip. If it had slammed into her, she could run outside, but that wasn’t how it worked. Not this time. It spilled through her, touching everything.

She squeezed Harris’s hand and he pulled her in closer to his side. It was an unspoken comfort. His presence, just being there, gave her someone to lean on.

She heard a scuffing sound and realized she’d literally been dragging her feet. The distance between her and Damon increased as they walked down the hall. Her speed slowed. Harris didn’t seem in a rush to get there either. He visibly swallowed and more than once she saw him blow out a long breath. It was as if her anxiety transferred to him.

Damon reached the door and did a double take when he looked how far behind him they were. “We can take as much time as you need.”

Forever. She needed that long, maybe longer, to get over the choking sensation in her throat. The way her airway closed a little more with each step she took. She put a hand to her throat, wanted to claw at the buttons on her shirt, but all she felt was skin.

Right before they reached the doorway, Harris stepped in front of her and turned around to face her. “If it’s too soon—”

“Harris.”

He ignored Damon’s warning tone and kept talking. “This is about what you need.”

Then it hit her. He was wrong about this one thing. This really wasn’t about her. It was about Tabitha. This was where she lived her last moments. This was where she lost everything. So, if there was a diary to find or notes that would lead to something substantial, maybe a breakthrough in her case, Gabby would go in. She owed her baby sister that much.

“I’m okay.” She was anything but, but saying the words helped. She repeated them in her head until it became a mantra.

Harris lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers. “You’re so much better than that.”

The pain in her stomach made her want to double over, but she fought it off. Her therapist’s words came rushing back. This was about the fear and pain, and she needed to flip that around and use it to fuel her. Overcome it and take back control.

Every joint ached. Every step tore through her muscles, but still she walked until she got there.

At first she just hovered in the doorway. Her gaze traveled over the room and landed on the empty spot over the fireplace where a Beckmann painting once rested. The matting had been ripped during Tabitha’s attack. After a court-approved repair, the masterpiece now sat in her uncle’s house, but only as a temporary holding place while the estate battle waged.

Harris and Damon stared at her while she scanned the piece of furniture and fought off the flood of family memories. Keeping her eyes up—off that floor—she looked from bookshelf to bookshelf. Her gaze hesitated on the doors at the opposite side then dipped down. She shut her eyes, half expecting to see Tabitha there, but saw only carpet. Not the familiar gray one. This one was new and blue.

She ventured in. Dropping Harris’s hand, she went to the stacks of books on the table. A mix of classics and genre fiction. Tabitha had read it all. Gabby smiled as she picked up a spy novel from the top.

“Put that down.” Damon’s shout shot across the room.

The book smacked against the floor. The next minute he was standing next to her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harris asked Damon as he put his body between hers and Damon’s.

“Don’t move for a second.” Damon looked around the room. His gaze flicked from the books to the french doors to Harris’s face. “Were you in here earlier?”

“What?”

Harris looked as confused as she felt. The desperate gnawing in her gut as she walked into the room gave way to something else.

“The books are in a different order than when I was in here last night.” Damon pointed at the bookshelf. “That photo has been moved, as has the curtain that goes in front of the doors to the patio.”

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