In the Manor with the Millionaire. Cassie Miles
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she had on autistic kids, she knew that corporal punishment often led to tantrums. Arguments were futile.
The key, she decided, was to gain his trust. Maybe she could impart a few bits of knowledge along the way.
At the front door, she stepped ahead of him, blocking his way and creating the illusion that she was in control. “We’re going to take a walk. Across the yard to the forest. And we’ll gather pinecones. Six pinecones.”
“Ten,” he said.
“Ten is good.”
Outside, he started counting his steps. “One, two, three…”
“Uno, dos, tres. Those are Spanish numbers.”
He repeated the words back to her. She took him up to ten in Spanish, then started over. At least he was learning something.
Halfway across the grassy stretch leading to the forested area, Blake jogged up beside them.
“It’s such a beautiful day,” she said. “We decided to do our lesson outdoors.”
“Couldn’t stand the mess in the family room?”
“I might be a bit of a neat freak,” she admitted. “Anyway, we’re learning numbers in Spanish.”
He fell into step beside her, and she surreptitiously peeked up at him. Definitely taller than she, he moved with a casual, athletic grace.
Near the woods, Duncan scampered ahead of them.
“It’s good for him to be outside,” Blake said. “Gives him a chance to work on his coordination.”
“His fine motor skills are okay. He didn’t seem to be having any problem with the computer.”
“It’s the big stuff that gives him problems. Running, skipping, playing catch.”
Duncan had entered the trees but was still clearly visible. She glanced over her shoulder at the house. In daylight, the two-story, beige-brick building with four tall chimneys looked elegant and imposing. “What are your plans for the Manor?”
He was taken aback by her question. “How much do you know about historic restoration?”
“Very little. But I looked up some of your other architectural projects on the Web. Many seemed more modern than traditional.”
“That’s one reason why this project appealed to me. I plan to restore the American Federalist style while totally updating with new wiring, plumbing and insulation. I want to go green—make it ecological.”
“Solar panels?”
“Too clumsy,” he said. “The challenge in this project,” he said, “is to maintain the original exterior design and restore the decorative flourishes of the interior. At the same time, I’m planning modern upgrades. Maybe a sauna and gym in the basement.”
As he talked about architecture, she caught a glimpse of a different Blake Monroe—a man who was passionate about his work. Still intense, but focused. And eager to have an adult conversation.
She liked this side of his personality. Liked him a lot.
“SHE SELLS SEASHELLS…” Duncan repeated the rhyme again and again. “Temperance, where are you?”
“Here I am.”
She stood with her back against a tree. He could see her, but his daddy and Madeline couldn’t. And that was good. He didn’t want to share his new friend.
He held out the shell. “You gave me this to warn me about the bad man.”
She bent down and picked up a pinecone. Her shiny golden hair fell across her face. “There is something dangerous in the Manor.”
“What?”
“Perhaps the basement. I cannot enter the Manor.”
“You don’t have to be scared, Temperance. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
She placed a pinecone into his gloved hand. “You need ten of these. For your teacher.”
He was happy to have a friend who didn’t tease about his gloves. “I’m very brave. Madeline said so.”
“Duncan, you must not forget the danger.”
“Danger,” he repeated.
Chapter Four
Half an hour before the scheduled time for lunch, Madeline was pleased with their progress. She and Duncan had arranged the ten pinecones for an afternoon art project. And they’d read an entire book about trains.
Her initial assessment of his skills matched the reports from his previous tutor. Exceptional mathematic ability. Reading and writing skills were poor.
Duncan jumped to his feet. “I want to explore.”
“So do I,” she said. “We could get your father to give us a tour. He knows a lot about the Manor.”
“No,” he shouted. “No.”
His loud, strident voice had an edge to it. She hadn’t figured out how to deal with disagreements, but it couldn’t be good to continually back down to his demands. She replied with a statement, not a question. “We’ll explore one room.”
“Basement,” he said.
Not what she was hoping for. She should have been more specific, should have told him that they would explore his father’s studio, which would give her a chance to spend a bit more time with Blake. Unfortunately, she hadn’t specified a room, and she needed to be unambiguous with Duncan. “The basement it is.”
The door leading to the basement was off the kitchen where Alma should have been preparing lunch. She was nowhere in sight.
Madeline turned on the light, revealing a wooden staircase that descended straight down. “I’ll go first,” she said. “You need to hold tight to the railing.”
Duncan followed behind her, counting each step aloud.
A series of bare bulbs lit the huge space that was divided with heavy support pillars and walls. The ceiling was only eight feet high. Like most unfinished basements, it was used for storage. There were stacks of old boxes, discarded furniture and tools. A series of notched shelves suggested that the basement had at one time been a wine cellar.
A damp, musty smell coiled around them, and she shuddered, thinking of rats and spiders. As far as she could tell, there were no windows.
“I’ve seen enough,” she said.
Duncan reached out and touched a concrete wall with his gloved hand. “Danger,” he said.
The word startled her.
He zigzagged from the walls to the stairs and back. In spite of her rising trepidation, Madeline noticed a geometric pattern in his movements. If she could have traced his steps, the pattern would form a perfect isosceles triangle. Under his breath, Duncan repeated, “Danger.”
She took the warning to heart; his father said that he sensed things. And Alma had mentioned a curse on the town. “Danger means we should leave. Right now.”
He ran away from her and disappeared behind a concrete wall.
She started after him. “Duncan, listen to me.”
“Danger,” came a louder shout.
The door at the top of the stairs slammed with a heavy thud. Fear shot through her. She spun around, staring toward the stairs. Though she saw no one, her sense of being stalked became palpable. That door hadn’t blown shut by accident.
The lights blinked out. Darkness consumed her. Not the faintest glimmer penetrated this windowless tomb. Trapped. She thought of Teddy Fisher. Of the serial killer who liked women with long black hair.
Terror