Troubled by the notion of a killer getting away with the murders of three good people, Sara slipped into her robe, crossed to the French doors and flung them open. Beyond, the Pacific churned in a kaleidoscope of blue and green capped with white. The beach sang to her with the crashing notes of a well-remembered and much-loved ballad. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head and savoring the scent of last night’s rain.
She craved coffee as she descended the staircase and was glad she’d had the foresight to tuck a few single servings into her bag. After brewing coffee, she carried a steaming mug to the redwood deck.
The Adirondack furniture that had belonged to her parents had long since been sold. But the view was the same and so stunning that for a moment she could do nothing but stare. Whitecaps rode a violent sea of midnight blue. Leaning against the rail, she looked out over the rocky cliff at the battered rocks below. Mesmerized, she watched the fog bank retreat into the sea like the spirits of long-lost sailors.
She wasn’t sure why the scene reminded her of Nick Tyson. Something about his eyes and the ocean. Sara wasn’t given to noticing inconsequential details about men. But even in last night’s darkness, she’d discerned the reckless male beauty lurking beneath a mild facade that would be dangerous to an unwary woman. Sara was glad she didn’t fall into that category.
The ringing of the phone in the kitchen drew her from her reverie. Surprised, taking her mug with her, she went through the French doors. Expecting her sister, she picked up on the third ring. “Checking up on me?”
“You came.”
Shock rippled through her at the familiar, electronically-altered voice. “How did you get this number?”
“I have resources, but that doesn’t matter.”
“Who are you?” She posed the question, but knew he wouldn’t answer.
“All that matters is finding the truth.”
“What truth?”
“About what really happened that night.”
“The police investigated and closed the case.”
“The police don’t know everything.”
Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you know.”
He was silent for so long she feared he’d hung up. “Find the manuscript, Sara. It will explain everything.”
“What manuscript?” It was the first time she’d heard of a manuscript. “What are you talking about?”
“Find it.”
“Who are you?” she whispered. “Why are you calling me? Why now?”
“You’re the only one left.” Another silence. “You saw him, after all.”
Her heart pounded harder, like a frightened animal trapped in her chest. “I—I didn’t see anyone.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare—and the man with the gun.
“Be careful,” the voice whispered. “Trust no one.”
“Please, tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re calling, dredging all of this up now.”
The line went dead.
Uneasiness climbed over her, like a scatter of ants over her body. Frustrated and uneasy, Sara cradled the phone. “Crackpot,” she whispered.
But she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t have taken a week off and flown from San Diego to Cape Darkwood on the word of some prankster. Somewhere deep inside, she knew the police had made a mistake. But how did the caller play into all of this? Was there some type of manuscript that would prove her father had been falsely accused? How was she supposed to find it?
She’d come back to this house, this town, to uncover the truth. She owed it to herself. To her sister. To her parents. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew where she had to start. She knew the key to unlocking the truth might very well lie in the nightmares of the past.
THE CORNER NOOK was exactly the kind of shop Sara would have frequented had she been on an antique-buying excursion. She’d inherited her love of old things from her mother. Even as a child, she’d enjoyed browsing the stores and wondering about the history of the trinkets they brought home.
Sandwiched between a coffee shop and the Red Door Bed-and-Breakfast, the Corner Nook was as inviting as a tropical beach on a hot day. But Sara felt no anticipation as she parked the rental car curbside. Dread curdled in her gut as she started down the cobblestone walk.
The bell on the door jingled merrily when she entered, the aromas of vanilla and citrus pleasing her nose. Having recently furnished her first home, Sara had spent hours perusing antique shops. But she’d never seen such an eclectic collection in one place. To her right an entire wall was dedicated to Hollywood nostalgia. A nice collection of celebrity cookbooks jammed the top shelf. Beyond, a dress once worn by Marilyn Monroe flowed elegantly over an ancient wooden mannequin. Sara was so caught up in admiring the wares, she didn’t hear the proprietor approach.
“Are you looking for something special?”
She spun at the sound of the rich voice and found herself facing a tall, elegantly dressed woman. She caught a glimpse of silver hair and midnight-blue eyes before recognition slammed home.
LaurelTyson pressed a slender, ring-clad hand to her chest and stepped back, her face going white. “Alex.”
The name came out as little more than a puff of breath, but Sara heard it. Her mother’s name was Alexandra, but everyone had called her Alex. “Mrs. Tyson, it’s Sara Douglas.”
The woman blinked as if waking from a nightmare. Something dark and unnerving flashed in her eyes. “What earthly reason could you possibly have for coming into my shop?”
“If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Sara hesitated, surprised by the degree of the woman’s hostility. But she hadn’t traveled six hundred miles to give up at the first sign of resistance. “I want to talk to you about what happened….”
Laurel’s eyes went flat. “I have nothing to say to you about that night.”
“I know this is difficult. It’s been hard for me, too. But if you’d just hear me out.”
“Difficult is not the right word, Sara. Your family has hurt mine enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”
There weren’t any other customers in the shop. Sara didn’t want to upset her, but she desperately needed information. Laurel had been her mother’s best friend. She might know something that could help her sort through the mystery. If only she could get her to listen.
“I may have new information about what really happened,” Sara said.
“What really happened?” The woman choked out a sound that was part laugh, part grunt. “I already know what happened.”
“I think the police may have made a mistake.”
“How dare you.” Laurel’s lips peeled back in an ugly parody of a smile. “You have some nerve walking into my place of business and making wild insinuations.”
“All I want is to find the truth,” Sara said honestly.
“The truth, darling, is that your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.”
Sara recoiled at the viciousness of the words. A knot curled in her chest. Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off, found another source of information. But Laurel Tyson was Sara’s strongest link to her parents and what might have taken place that night.