Page 27 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
She needed to relax. Gather her thoughts. Maybe write anopening chapter in her book. She didn’t have much information on Annabel yet, aside from what she already knew. But then therewasthe Jonathan Marks angle she could capitalize on. She could also safely investigate the basics of that in the security of the lighthouse with the help of the internet.
Returning to the first floor, Shea glanced out the window. Dusk was settling in, and soon it would be dark. With the lighthouse dormant, there were no streetlamps to illuminate the yard, and the lake would become a black, moving shadow, beckoning lost souls with its rhythmic call.
She checked the lock on the window, then did a quick sweep of the place to make sure all the ground-floor windows were battened down against intruders. That she was unnerved from today wasn’t something Shea would even try to deny herself. Padding to the sitting area, she curled up on the couch with her laptop and prayed the satellite Wi-Fi would be reliable enough.
Jonathan Marks.
Murder or suicide? Shea hesitated as she glanced at the spot on the floor the documentary had indicated to be the place Jonathan’s body had been discovered. An involuntary shiver passed through her. The lighthouse looked friendly in the daytime, but after today—and now that night was setting in—Shea had to admit she was starting to become afraid of two ghosts—Annabel’sandJonathan Marks’s.
First things first. She needed to make a spreadsheet of facts she knew about Annabel—which weren’t many up to this point. Then she would do the same with Jonathan Marks. Her editor would love the parallel angle of dead woman near the lighthouse from 1852 and dead man in the lighthouse from 2010. Two deaths would make for a creative approach to the historical setting of the place. The Porcupine Mountains area provided the perfect level of seclusion, and with Lake Superior’s incessant power and mystique, her approach to this tale would be like a book version of a chilling documentary exposé. Only, if she wasgoing to go with that angle, she needed the material that would expose something other than what was already known by those who cared to research it themselves. She needed to uncover the local secrets, the lore that was never spoken of. She needed to know what secrets Jonathan Marks hid before he died, for everyone had them. And she needed to—
Someone pounded on the door.
Shea shrieked and almost flipped her laptop onto the floor as she jumped.
“Good grief!” She didn’t even bother to temper the volume of her voice, and she hoped whoever was outside banging would hear her. Shea set her laptop on the coffee table and smoothed back the wayward spiral curls that had escaped her scrunchie. She hurried to the tiny entryway. “I’m coming. For the love of Pete!”
“Yeah?”
“Huh?” Shea frowned, then grimaced at the familiar voice on the other side of the door.
No.
He hadn’t.
She jerked open the door, every emotion from the day releasing with the sigh she expelled and the tears that burned her eyes. Tears of frustration, need, hope, and preparation for the inevitable disappointment.
Pete stood there in his customary grease-stained jeans, his ratty old T-shirt, and an unbuttoned green flannel shirt. He hadn’t shaved—at least it didn’t look like he had—since Shea had left their place three days ago.
“What are you doing here?” She stared at Pete, unsure what her response should be. This was exactly why she’d left to come to the lighthouse. Six hours away wasn’t enough to deter him? He didn’t like to travel. But now here he was. His motivation washer? Or the car. It had to be something to do with the car. Sometimes Shea wondered if it would be easier to dislike aninterloping female rather than the soulless vehicles that competed with her for Pete’s faithful attention.
“I got a text from the insurance company saying they’re processing your claim.” Pete rubbed his chin. “Broken windshield, huh?”
“It’s okay,” Shea mumbled. She didn’t like that while she wanted to be away from him, there was also a sense of relief at the familiarity of his presence. Pete. Average Pete. But for a second, Shea caught a whiff of his deodorant—spices she could identify—and while he had nothing on Holt in the alpha-male hottie looks department, he was ...familiar. There was comfort in the familiar, but there was danger too. It meant settling for mediocrity. This was what Shea had come here to get away from. “You didn’t have to come,” she finished.
“I was already on the way. I got to thinking about the battery, and it probably needs replacing. I should have done that before you left, but I figured it was still fine for a bit longer.”
“The car is running okay. I don’t need a new battery. I need a new windshield, and you can’t help with that.” Shea should feel guilty she hadn’t asked him to come in, but she didn’t. Asking Pete to come in would be dangerous to her emotional well-being.
“Right. I debated.” Pete shifted his weight onto his other steel-toed boot. “But then when the text came through, I called the insurance company to follow up and found out someone had vandalized the car.”
She grimaced. She should have thought to call Pete, so he wouldn’t do what he’d just done. Touch one of his cars and the man would take whatever anxiety meds were necessary to have the guts to fly to Siberia or wherever to rescue the thing.
He was waiting for her to respond. Shea sucked in an irritated breath. “Yes. Someone threw a brick through the windshield. The cops found it under the passenger-side seat. But according to one lady, I’ve upset a ghost.”
Pete’s expression didn’t change. It was, for all sakes andpurposes, expressionless. “A ghost. Okay. Anyway, I figure I’d stay the night at least. That way I can go to the shop tomorrow and see what the plan is for replacing the windshield.”
Shea should have bit her tongue, but she didn’t. “You can go home, Pete. They don’t need you hovering over them at the repair shop, plus where are you planning to stay?”
“Here.” With that, Pete lifted his backpack he’d been holding by the canvas loop at its top. “I know there’s more than one room here. I’m not looking to snuggle up for the night.”
“You never are,” Shea muttered, then stepped aside to let him inside, knowing it was fruitless to suggest Pete get a room in Ontonagon or at his own lakeshore cabin. He’d just inform her that it would be “poor stewardship” of their finances.
Pete entered the lighthouse and looked around, poking his head into the rooms, a logical scowl on his face. “You’re paying to stay here?”
“Yes.” Shea crossed her arms as she stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the living area.
He glanced at her. “It’s small. And that’s a wood cookstove.” Pete pointed at it and then shot her a doubtful smile. “You know how to work a wood cookstove?”
