In the Manor with the Millionaire. Cassie Miles
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had brought her here. Standing in the doorway of Beacon Manor, Madeline saw someone she had once lived with. Alma Eisen.
Eighteen years ago, Alma had been a foster parent for Madeline and her older brother, Marty. They’d stayed with her for a year—a dark and terrible year during which Alma had decided to divorce her abusive husband. Unlike the other fosters, Alma had stayed in touch with Christmas cards and birthday greetings, which Madeline had dutifully responded to.
It was Alma—now employed as Blake’s housekeeper and cook—who had told Madeline about the tutoring position. At the door to the manor, she greeted Madeline with a smile but held her at arm’s length, not wanting to get wet. “What on earth happened to you?”
“Long story.”
The years had been kind to Alma Eisen. Her hair was still blond and elaborately styled with spit curls at the cheeks. Her makeup, including blue eye shadow, almost disguised the wrinkles. Madeline figured that this petite woman had to be in her fifties. “You look terrific.”
“Thanks, hon. Wish I could say the same for you.”
Blake had followed his son—who was still counting aloud—to the top of the staircase.
Madeline called to him. “Mr. Monroe?”
He glared. “What is it?”
“I came all this way, sir. At the very least, I’d like to have an interview.”
“After I get my son to bed, I’ll deal with you.”
He turned away. Though Madeline wasn’t a betting woman, she guessed that her odds of being hired were about a thousand to one. A shiver trembled through her.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” Alma said, “before you catch your death of cold.”
“I don’t have anything to change into. My car is parked way down the road.”
“Come with me, hon. I’ll take care of you.”
Though Alma had stayed in touch, Madeline didn’t remember her as a particularly nurturing woman. Her phone call about this job had been a huge surprise, and Madeline couldn’t help wondering about Alma’s motives. What could she hope to gain from having Madeline working here?
She trailed the small woman up the grand staircase and looked back down at the graceful oval of the foyer. She couldn’t see into any of the other rooms. Doors were closed, and plastic sheeting hung across the arched entry to what must have been a drawing room. Signs of disrepair marred the grandeur of the manor, but the design showed a certain civility and elegance, like a dowager duchess who had fallen on hard times.
Alma hustled her past Duncan’s bedroom to the far end of the long, wainscoted hallway with wallpaper peeling in the corners. She opened the door farthest from the staircase and hustled Madeline inside.
The center light reflected off the crystals of a delicate little chandelier. With dark wood furnishings, somewhat worn, and a four-poster bed with a faded gray silk duvet, this bedroom was the essence of “shabby chic.”
“Guest room,” Alma said as she rummaged through the drawers of a bureau. “This is where you’ll be staying after you’re hired.”
“Hired?” She scoffed. “I doubt it. Blake Monroe can’t stand me.”
“In any case, you’re staying here tonight. It’s not safe for you to be out.” She tossed a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt toward her. “These ought to fit. They were left behind by one of Blake’s friends who spent the night.”
Madeline picked up the ratty gray sweatpants. “I really appreciate this, Alma.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” She lowered her voice. “This little town, Raven’s Cliff, comes with a curse.”
“Superstitions,” Madeline said.
“Don’t be so sure. There’s a serial killer on the loose. A couple of weeks ago, he murdered two girls on the eve of their senior prom. One of them was the sister of a local cop. Sofia Lagios.”
Sofia. Duncan had looked at Madeline and spoken that name. “What did she look like?”
“I’ve only seen photographs. But she was a bit like you. Long, curly black hair.”
Duncan must have heard people talking about the serial killer. But why would a six-year-old remember the name of a murder victim?
“Get changed,” Alma said. “I’ll tell Blake that you’re too pooped to talk tonight. In the morning, you can have a nice, professional interview.”
“Great.” She dropped her car keys on top of the bureau. “Nothing sounds better right now than a good night’s sleep.”
BLAKE LINGERED in the doorway of his son’s bedroom, gazing with all the love he possessed at Duncan’s angelic little face. So beautiful. So like his mother. Often, when Blake looked into his son’s bright blue eyes, he saw Kathleen staring back at him. On those rare occasions when Duncan laughed, he heard echoes of her own joy, and he remembered the good times. Only three years ago, cancer had taken her away from him forever.
“Time for sleep, Duncan.”
As usual, no response.
To get an answer, Blake used the rhyming repetition that his son enjoyed. “Nighty-night. Sleep tight…”
“And don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Duncan said.
Sometimes, the kid scared the hell out of him. Tonight, when he’d disappeared, Blake had feared disaster. A fall from the precipitous cliffs near the lighthouse. An attack by wild dogs or animals. Worse, a confrontation with a serial killer. Why had Duncan spoken the name of one of the victims? The boy must have known that Sofia Lagios was dead because he said she was with the angels. But how? How had he known?
Life would be a lot easier if Blake could ask a simple question and get a simple answer, but his son’s brain didn’t work that way.
Duncan stared up at the fluorescent stars Blake had attached to the ceiling in a precise geometric pattern. “I have a friend,” he said. “She sells seashells.”
“That’s great, buddy.” It had to be an imaginary friend. He hadn’t been around any other children. “What’s her name?”
“Temperance Raven. She wears a red cape.” His tiny fingers laced together, then pulled apart. He repeated the action three times. “I like French fries.”
“Where did you meet Temperance?”
“By the lighthouse. She wanted me to play with her.”
Blake didn’t like the sound of this. The lighthouse was under construction, dangerous. “Was Temperance outside? In the rain?”
Duncan turned to his side. “Seashells, seashells, seashells…”
“Goodnight, son.”
Blake left the door to his son’s bedroom ajar. Duncan wanted it that way.
Blake wanted to find out what had happened tonight, and there was one person who could tell him. He’d seen Alma escorting that very wet young woman down the hall toward the guest room. What was her name? Madeline? She might be able to give him information about Duncan’s supposed new friend. Blake tapped on her door.
“Alma?” she called out. “Come on in.”
Blake strode inside. “We need to talk.”
Wearing baggy sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt, she stood in front of the mirror above the antique dressing table. Her long black hair fell past her shoulders in a mass of damp tangles. As soon as she spotted him, she grabbed her black-framed glasses and stuck them on the end of her straight, patrician nose. “Mr. Monroe. I thought we might have our interview tomorrow.”
He’d almost forgotten that she was here to apply