Gull Harbor (9 page)

“Then I’ll stay there too. On the couch,” he clarified.

Yes,
her inner voice begged silently. But it was impossible, for many reasons. “No,” she said with a sigh, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “We can’t do that. I don’t want to spook her.” Claire rolled her eyes at her inadvertent pun. “You know what I mean.”

“I hate this,” he said, tightening his grip on her hand.

She wasn’t sure what it was he hated, so she just nodded in agreement. The song ended, and Claire caught the guitar player glaring at her. She buried her face in Max’s neck, inhaling his scent, before she backed out of his arms. “I should go.”

He kept her hand clasped in his and gestured toward the bar. “I’m going to write down my cell number.” Grabbing a pen and a piece of scrap paper from a drawer, he jotted down the number. “There is a house phone there, right?”

“Yes.” She didn’t bother telling him it only worked sporadically; Maria liked to have her fun with the various appliances.

“You call me if you need me, day or night. Understand?” He reached out, tipping her chin to stare into her eyes.

The intensity of his gaze made her breath catch in her throat. She bit her lip hard to restart the respiration process. “I will,” she managed.

With a weak smile, she tucked the scrap of paper in her pocket. It was time to go. If she didn’t leave now, she might crumble and ask him to come over later. And if she did that, she was quite certain he wouldn’t be spending the night on the couch.

****

The door to the storage room slammed as Claire entered the house. “Nice to see you too,” she grumbled before she could stop herself. Pressing her lips together, she reminded herself to be nice. She had news to share with Maria; it might even make the ghost a little less hostile.

Claire climbed the creaky staircase and stood in front of the storage room. A chill seeped out from beneath the door, raising goose bumps on her flesh as she gathered her courage. She reached out for the doorknob, snatching her hand back when her skin connected with the icy metal.

She felt the scrap of paper in her pocket as she rubbed her fingers against her tight jeans. Max would come and take her away from this house if she called. But then what? There was no sense in dragging things out. Failure was not an option, and letting this spirit scare her now would just give it more power in the future.

Steeling herself, she shoved the door open with enough force to send some of the leaves skittering across the wood floor. Cold air, heavy with terror and anguish, cloaked itself around her. She shivered and crossed her arms over her chest protectively.

“I understand the boat you showed me now—the
Barracuda
,” she explained to the shadowy room. “It was the drug ship.”

Her only answer was silence. “Was it drugs, Maria?” she asked softly. “I’m not trying to judge, I just want to help you be at peace.”

The door slammed in response, and Claire whirled around, her heart hammering. She lunged for the knob, praying she would not be trapped in this creepy, frigid room. But the knob turned easily—clearly Maria did not want Claire trapped in here with her either.

She paused in the doorway. “I don’t know what to do, Maria,” she said, her voice ragged with defeat. “Just tell me what to do.”

With a sigh, she shuffled across the hall toward her own bedroom. Behind her, the door to the storage room swung on its hinges, closing not with a crash but with a quiet click that was somehow even more unsettling.

Chapter 12

The screeching tones of the smoke alarm yanked Claire awake. Her eyes snapped open, and she groaned in frustration. Maria had been trying to tell her something; now the strange word on the fringes of her mind floated away, overpowered by the monotonous noise.

She grabbed the notebook and pen by the side of her bed anyway. Not much had happened in the past few days, other than the continued attempts to sabotage her sleep. She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the pen and trying to concentrate despite the racket.

It was no use—the word was gone. With a sigh, she threw the covers back and got out of bed. “It’s hard to focus on your message when you do things like this,” she grumbled, looking around the room for something to stand on so she could reset the alarm.

The smell of smoke, sharp and bitter, suddenly filled her nostrils. Panic clutched at her heart, stopping it for one horrifying second before letting it loose to race inside her chest. The alarm hadn’t been set off to annoy her; there was a fire in the house.

Her eyes flew to the front bedroom window. It was still covered in cardboard; she could easily tear it off and crawl to the roof of the porch. The drop to the ground would hurt, but it was better than dying of smoke inhalation.

And then what? There were no houses nearby, and she had no cell phone. Would she sit in the yard and watch the Llewellyns’ house burn to the ground?

She fought back her terror. The fact that she could smell smoke did not necessarily mean the house was engulfed in flames. The air was clear in her bedroom, and she had an escape route. If the fire was small, it might be possible to grab the cordless phone from the living room table and then head out the front door to call 911.

Nodding to herself, she inched her way into the hall and peered down the staircase. The path to the front door appeared safe, and the phone was only a few feet to the left. Running down the stairs seemed a lot less risky than jumping off the roof. With her luck, she would most certainly break something in the fall.

After a moment’s hesitation, she rushed into the bathroom and soaked her towel under the bathtub faucet. Draping it over her shoulders, she hurried down the stairs, watching her steps to avoid tripping.

The living room was smoky, but she could see the phone. She opened the front door, then pulled the wet towel over her mouth and nose. Darting toward the table, she snatched the phone from its cradle and raced back toward the door.

Stumbling down the porch steps, she collapsed on the ground in relief. She gripped the phone, holding it up to her face in the darkness.
Please work,
she prayed. She pushed the talk button with a trembling hand and was rewarded with a dial tone.

A shudder ran through her as she punched in the three numbers. Shrugging off the wet towel, she waited for the operator.

“911, what is your emergency?” asked a female voice.

“A fire,” Claire answered, rattling off her street address. She assured the operator that the house was vacant and that she was uninjured.

She set the phone down and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her shins. The June nights were chilly, and she was wearing very little. Her eyes grew wide as she suddenly realized she was going to greet the firefighters in lacy underwear and a wet tank top.

A siren wailed in the distance, and she jumped up and ran around to the back of the house. Thank God, she thought as she spied a dry beach towel hanging by the outdoor shower. She wrapped it around her waist, securing the makeshift sarong with a bulky knot. Oh well, they’d probably seen worse.

She picked her way more carefully through the brambles and weeds as she made her way back to the front yard. Now that she was somewhat decent, her mind began to register the stinging pain from the scratches on her legs and feet.

A trio of trucks blazed down the street, their combined lights throwing eerie patterns into the surrounding woods. The sirens split the night open, and Claire was thankful for once that the house was so isolated. The firemen jumped into action as the EMTs hurried toward her.

A police car pulled up moments later, and she was suddenly embarrassed that the house still appeared completely normal, at least from the outside.
I did the right thing,
she reminded herself. She had no idea where the fire was or how it started, but she was pretty sure she knew who was behind it. What had Maria’s plan been? Claire hoped the ghost had merely meant to smoke her out, and not to burn her alive.

An EMT draped a blanket over her shivering shoulders. “Thanks,” she said, as they guided her back to their rig. They were cleaning the scratches on her legs when the growl of a motorcycle engine made her head snap up.

Max was at her side in an instant. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

What was he doing here? She nodded. “I’m fine. How—?”

“Don’t ask,” he said, cutting her off. “This is a small town, and I have a lot of friends. What happened, Claire?”

“A potholder caught fire,” said one of the firefighters, holding out a charred lump in his gloved hand. “It must have been too close to the gas flame. Were you doing some late-night cooking?”

She huddled in the blanket, keeping her eyes down. “I…I must have forgotten to turn off a burner,” she mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

“It happens,” said the fireman. “Potholders contain rubber and chemicals that produce a lot of smoke. So we’re working on ventilating the kitchen with our fans. The smell will linger for a while, though, so you’re going to want to spray down anything fabric in the next few days. But the good news is that no one got hurt, and there’s no structural damage to the house.”

“Oh, that is good news,” Claire said. “So I can go back in?”

“Sure, if you don’t mind the smell. Just give us about fifteen more minutes to ventilate the ground floor. And plan on buying plenty of Febreze tomorrow.”

“Can I speak to you privately?” Max said, glaring at Claire. “When you’re finished,” he added, walking away from the ambulance.

“You’re all set,” said the medic as he taped a bandage over the deepest cut. “I think you’re in trouble,” he whispered with a wink.

“Yeah,” she agreed, pulling the warm blanket from her shoulders.

“Keep it,” he said. “You can return it to the station later.” He pulled the latex gloves from his hands. “Good luck. He’s just worried about you. I would be too, if you were my girlfriend.”

She thanked him and trudged toward Max’s lone figure. Why was everyone in town referring to her as Max’s girlfriend? Was she? And more importantly, why was she worrying about something so stupid at a time like this?

“You didn’t leave a burner on,” Max said. His voice was like black ice; the deadly calm surface hid something very dangerous underneath.

“No,” she admitted. “But I could have left the potholder too close to the stovetop, and we know Maria likes to play with appliances. It’s my fault.”

“It is not your fault!” he whispered fiercely, seizing her shoulders. “And this was not Maria playing with things; it was an angry spirit trying to kill you!” He yanked her forward and crushed her against his chest.

The blanket slid to the ground as she threw her arms around his neck. “I’m okay, really,” she said softly. Her throat swelled with emotion as she returned his forceful hug.

“What are you wearing?” His eyebrows shot up as he released her and caught sight of her improvised skirt.

“Oh. Well, I ran out of the house in my underwear. It’s what I sleep in, so…” She shrugged.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “That’s more than you used to sleep in.” He picked up the blanket and settled it back around her.

“All set, folks,” the firefighter said as he approached them.

“Thanks again,” she said. “I’ll try to be more careful in the future.”

Max turned on her while the firemen packed up their equipment. “You can’t possibly be serious about going back in there,” he said, his face grim.

“I was serious. Here’s the thing: she was telling me something right before the smoke alarm went off. I have to know what it was.”

“It was probably something along the lines of ‘Get ready, I’m about to torch the place.’ Get your things, you’re coming home with me.”

She clutched the blanket protectively. “I’m sorry, but I’m not.”

The emergency lights had disappeared with the vehicles, but she could still see his thunderous expression in the moonlight. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he studied her.

“Then I’m staying with you,” he announced.

She nodded. “That sounds reasonable.” It sounded wonderful, actually. She really didn’t want to stay alone tonight, but she was certain she was on the verge of a breakthrough. “I’ll make up the couch for you.”

“No.”

An unexpected spike of desire joined the other emotions wreaking havoc on her overloaded system. Her knees threatened to buckle as she drew in a shaky breath. “No?” she asked weakly.

“No. I mean, yes—you should make it up for yourself. No one is sleeping upstairs. I’ll take the floor.”

“Oh. Okay, if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I want us both on the ground floor.” He tipped her chin up gently and stared into her eyes. “Claire, I’m not trying to pressure you, but this can’t go on much longer. I’m not going to let you risk your life for a ghost.”

****

She awoke with a painful spasm twitching in her neck and the mysterious word rolling around in her head.
“Afuera,”
she said to the empty living room. It felt strange on her tongue, foreign.

“Oh my God!” she yelled, smacking her forehead. “She speaks a foreign language!”

Max came rushing around the corner. “Are you okay?” he asked. His bare chest was streaked with black smudges, and he held a formerly white dishtowel that was now a sooty gray.

“How could I have been so stupid?” she cried, jumping off the couch. “She doesn’t understand English! That’s why she doesn’t know that I’m here to help!” She flung herself into his arms.

“Claire, you’re going to get all dirty,” he said, but his hands tightened around her waist. “So I take it you got the word?”

“Afuera,”
she said with an attempt at an accent. “It sounds Spanish.”

“Yes it does,” he agreed, releasing her. He licked his thumb and wiped a smudge off her cheek. “I’d suggest we look it up, but I’m going to assume there’s no Internet connection here.”

“You’re right. We need to get to the diner right away.” She eyed the streaks on his skin. “Were you cleaning the kitchen? You didn’t need to do that.”