The Visitor. Amanda Stevens
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the insulated pitcher on the nightstand. He came over and finished the task for me, which was probably a good thing since my hands weren’t as steady as they might have been.
He stood staring down at me until I had the strongest urge to reach up and run my fingers through the tousled strands of his hair, to brush my knuckles against the unaccustomed scruff on his lower face. But more than anything, I wanted to pull him to me for a long, comforting kiss.
I did none of those things because in that fragile moment, I was more aware than ever of the distance that had been growing between us.
The silence seemed to stretch forever, but only a few seconds passed as he waited for me to finish the water. Then he took the cup and returned it to the stand.
“How are you feeling?” His scent enveloped me as he perched on the edge of my bed.
I shrugged. “I’m okay. No broken bones or internal injuries. Just some bruising and possibly a mild concussion. I was admitted to the hospital to be on the safe side.”
Devlin leaned in but he made no move to touch me. He didn’t have to. His presence consumed me, in part because of my shattered poise, but mostly because he was Devlin.
His gaze lingered on the tender side of my face. “Is that where he hit you?” His expression never changed, but there was something behind his eyes, a hint of violence that made my heart jolt.
I lifted a hand to my cheek. “It’s from the fall. I don’t think any blows were exchanged except for when I struck him with a lamp.”
“I was told you put up a fight.” A stranger might have mistaken his monotone for indifference, but I recognized the flatness of his delivery for what it was—supreme control.
“I’m strong for my size. I think that took him by surprise.”
“You are strong,” he agreed. “And brave. Frighteningly so, I sometimes think.”
“Brave? Hardly.” I held out my hands so that he could see how badly they still shook.
“Being brave and being fearless are two different things.” He reached over and adjusted the covers around me. The gentleness of the gesture belied the darkness still simmering at the back of his eyes. “Some of the bravest people I’ve met were also smart enough to know when to be afraid.”
“Does that include you?” I asked, our gazes locking.
“I hope so.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine it...you afraid.”
“Why not? I’m human.”
“What frightens you?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, but I saw something flash in his eyes before he turned away.
As I studied his profile, the oddest vision formed in my head. Devlin was still seated on the edge of my bed, but it was as if I could see right through him into the farthest corner of the room—or into his mind—where a tall figure with a bowed head loomed in the shadows.
For a moment, I thought someone must have entered the room without my notice, but then I blinked and the illusion vanished.
“What is it?” Devlin asked, turning back to me. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m sorry. My attention drifted for a moment. I think shock may be setting in.”
The intensity of his focus stirred me in a way that only Devlin could. “Would you like for me to leave so that you can rest?”
The sensible thing would be to let him go. I was hardly fit company and I needed time to get my emotions under control. But given the vision, the headache and the voices inside my head, I didn’t think it a good idea to be alone.
“I don’t want you to go.” I reached for his hand and when his fingers curled around mine, the unexpected bite of frost startled me. Devlin was always so warm, so steady—so human. A counterpoint to the ghosts. The coldness of his skin filled me with an unreasonable fear and my first reaction was to release him. Instead, I clung to his hand. “Stay. I need to talk to you about something.”
“What is it?”
I tugged at the covers, still shaken by the chill of his touch. “I know you and Detective Prescott think the intruder was looking for money or something to hock, but I’m not so sure.”
“You think he was searching for something specific?”
“I don’t know. Possibly.”
Devlin frowned. “Tell me.”
“Macon and I found an old stereoscope in the cellar. Do you know what that is?”
“A 3-D viewer.”
“There’s a little metal tag on the bottom engraved with the name of a local shop. I took it in and was told that viewers from that era are collectible but not particularly valuable. If true, I don’t suppose it could be the reason for the break-in.”
Devlin lifted a brow. “If true? Do you have reason to doubt the validity of the assessment?”
“No, not really. But I wasn’t completely honest with Detective Prescott. I do remember what the voice said to me while I was blacked out. He said, ‘Where is it? Where is it?’”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“Because it didn’t seem real. I honestly believed it was just my imagination. But then earlier before I was brought upstairs, I thought I saw the shopkeeper in the ER. I only caught a glimpse so that may have been my imagination, as well. But it freaked me out a little.”
“What’s the name of the shop?”
“Dowling Curiosities on King Street. The man I spoke with is Owen Dowling.”
Devlin gave a brief nod. “I’ll check him out.”
“We also found a stereogram—the card that fits into the stereoscope. The image was of a man and two girls standing in front of a white two-story house. I took the card and the stereoscope to the Institute so that Dr. Shaw could have a look at them. He identified the man as Ezra Kroll.”
“As in Kroll Colony?”
“You know about that place?” I asked in astonishment. “Why have I never heard of it?
“It’s like your abandoned graveyards,” Devlin said. “Years pass, people forget. And it’s so far off the beaten track the only way to get there is by foot or horseback.”
“Then, how do you know about it?”
“When I was a kid, my grandfather owned a Thoroughbred farm not far from Isola. Some of the old-timers that worked for him would occasionally mention Kroll Colony. They were still superstitious about that place.”
“Have you ever been there?”
“A few times. It was mandatory that I spend a couple of weeks every summer on the farm to build character,” he said with a humorless smile. “The housekeeper had a boy about my age. Nathan Fortner. His grandfather had once been a cop, but after his retirement, he took a job in the stables. He used to tell grisly stories about the Colony, so naturally Nathan and I would ride over to the ruins anytime we could sneak away. We’d sometimes spend the whole afternoon poking through the buildings. Some of the roofs had caved in so the place was dangerous. I’m sure that was a big part of the attraction.”
“Go on.” I leaned forward, captivated by this glimpse into Devlin’s early years. He rarely volunteered information about his childhood.
“All I remember is an old commissary, a couple of dormitories for the single colonists and a few smaller buildings for the families. Some of the houses still had scraps of old clothing and toys strewn about and the commissary even had dishes on the table from the colonists’ last meal.”
“I’m surprised that stuff