Page 92 of The Ghost of Ellwood
“May I?”
“Sure.” I turned the laptop toward him.
He typed something before straightening his stance and looking down at me. I leaned closer to read what he’d typed, and my heart fluttered.
The Ghost of Ellwood.
“It’s a story about me, is it not?” Theo questioned, cocking his head in that adorable way.
“It is,” I agreed, covering his hand with mine. “There are differences, but you were the heart of the story. My muse.”
“Does this mean I get half of the royalties?”
I choked on a laugh and tugged him onto my lap, kissing his shoulder. Thanksgiving was a week away, and I hadn’t really left the manor much at all this month, unless it was to go over to Carter’s house. I’d even had my groceries delivered. My days had been divided between writing, seeing Carter, and falling deeper in love with Theo.
“Why do you always smell like lavender?” I asked, as his scent drifted to my nose. I pressed my face against his back.
He froze.
“Theo?”
Quickly, he got off my lap and headed for the door. “I’ll prepare your lunch.”
What the hell? The question had been harmless. Why had he reacted like I’d asked something deeply personal?
Weeks had passed since the night Theo read Harvey’s letters. Weeks where I didn’t ask about his disappearance at all. Questions burned in my mind, but I had decided to let Theo approach the topic when he was ready. Things had been great between us.
Why was he acting weird now?
Putting it from my mind, I emailed my publisher to say I’d finished the book. I needed to read through the manuscript before sending it to them, but I knew they’d be eager to hear from me. Shane, the cocky asshole, had been right about the book signing in October. My name had blown up again and people were eager for new release updates.
I marketed a little by posting to my social media. My personal assistant was in charge of sending out newsletters and handling the brunt of the marketing work, but I liked to be present online at least.
About an hour later, I left my office and went into the kitchen where Theo was heating soup on the stove. He had read my mind. The cold weather had made me crave something warm and hearty. I wrapped an arm around him from behind and kissed his nape.
“Almost done,” he said, relaxing against me. “Go sit.”
At the table, I grabbed the newspaper he’d been reading earlier that morning. The front page had a story about a Thanksgiving parade. Only half-interested, I flipped through the pages, skimming the articles. The obituary section was on the next page. I normally avoided them because they were too depressing, but something made me look.
One face was strangely familiar. I focused on the man, trying to place where I’d seen him before.
And then that dark cloud returned, hanging over me.
The man had been one of the workers at the signing who had set up the speakers in the ballroom—the one who’d gone pale when he looked at me.
No…not atme.
At her; the woman in the black gown.
With my breath hitching in my throat and blood pounding in my ears, I read the obituary. Frank Walker had been found unresponsive one morning, said to have died in his sleep. He was married and had a son in college. Memorial service on Tuesday morning.
“Supposedly, everyone who steps foot inside is never quite the same after,” Theo had said about the mansion.
A coincidence, I thought. Just because Frank had visited Redwood Manor didn’t mean it had anything to do with his death.
Right?
I jumped when Theo placed the bowl of soup in front of me.
