The Eternal Ones (24 page)

 

Haven recognized cheap gossip when she saw it, but the cruel speculation still stung. She tore through the rest of the scrapbook, past more chatty columns and a few serious police reports from the
New York Herald Tribune
. While it had taken months for New York’s gossips to grow tired of the sordid story, the official investigation into Strickland’s death appeared to have stopped with Ethan Evans’s demise. But Haven found the most interesting piece of information glued to the very last page of the scrapbook.
Donated to the New York Historical Society by Frances Whitman. 1995
, read a small, typewritten strip of paper. This was a possibility that she had never considered: Constance might still have family in New York.

Haven suddenly felt a presence and peered up from the scrapbook to find a drab little woman watching her from the entrance. She offered Haven a quick, humorless nod before heading for a seat at the far end of the long reading room table, her shapeless gray skirt swishing about her calves. Moments later, a man in khaki Dockers strolled past the table and continued toward one of the chairs facing the room’s fireplace. Once settled, he tucked his nose into a book that had no title on its spine.

Haven had hoped for some company, but the other visitors only added to the eerie atmosphere of the room, so she focused her attention to the other materials that had been packed in the box. A yellowing pamphlet written by August Strickland outlined the mission of the Ouroboros Society. The organization, he wrote, “welcomes individuals of both sexes and all races or religions who commit to using their God-given talents for the betterment of the world.” Then Haven spent several minutes scrutinizing an official photo from the early days of the club. Strickland stood in the center of the picture, surrounded by a dozen smiling followers. He was not a tall man, but his bushy white hair added inches to his height. His fond gaze was focused on the younger man by his side. Ethan Evans grinned at the camera, his expression completely carefree.

Haven laid the photo beside one of the newspaper clippings in the scrapbook. Which was the real Ethan Evans—the carefree young man or the scowling suspect? Even her visions of Ethan offered few clues. Constance had yet to reveal her whole story. And unless Haven could find some way to see more of the past, she might never uncover the truth about Ethan.

 

AS HAVEN LEFT the Historical Society, she saw the gate to Gramercy Park swing open, and she bolted to catch it before it could close. The middle-aged woman who had emerged shot Haven a nasty look, which did nothing to stop the girl from entering. After taking a stroll around the empty enclosure, Haven found a wooden bench opposite the Ouroboros Society and sat down to watch the front of the mansion. She’d hoped the sight would summon a vision, but at first nothing came to her. All she knew was that the experience at the Historical Society had left her feeling chilled and lonely. Had Constance been murdered by the man she loved? Was that what she wanted Haven to discover?

The man’s voice was close, only a few feet away. Haven jumped from the bench, expecting to find that someone was sneaking up behind her. But the park was deserted, and the light was fading fast.

 

 

HAVEN FELT GRASS beneath her fingers. Somewhere above her, a man spoke.

“What do you think happened to her?”

“I don’t know,” replied another voice.

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“I don’t know.”

Haven opened her eyes. Two men were squatting by her side. The first, dressed in a navy suit, was the man she’d seen in the store on Elizabeth Street. The other was the khaki-clad man from the reading room.

“Who are you?” Haven demanded as she stood up and brushed the leaves from her clothing. The last orange rays of daylight glowed like a fire burning somewhere in the west, and chandeliers blazed in the mansions surrounding the park. Only the shuttered windows of the Ouroboros Society remained dark.

“We were passing by the park, and we saw you faint. Are you sick? Can we help get you home?”

“Do you live here?” Haven asked.

The man in Dockers shot his companion a quick look. “No,” he admitted.

“Thanks for your help, but I’m fine now. I’ve really got to go,” Haven said. Her legs were stiff, but she limped as quickly as possible toward the park’s exit. Something was wrong. How had the two men gotten into the locked park when only residents of the square were given a key?

“Wait!” One of the men caught up with her. “Where are you staying?”

“Brooklyn,” Haven lied as she opened the park’s gate and rushed to grab an idling cab. As the taxi sped off, Haven peeked out the rear window and saw the two men standing on the sidewalk, watching her disappear down Twentieth Street.

 

WHEN THE CAB came to a halt at the Washington Mews, Haven checked the lane for paparazzi before sprinting to the little white cottage and banging on its red door. Heavy footsteps stomped across the living room floor.

Staring down at her from the doorstep, Iain seemed taller, his body more powerful than she had remembered. His eyes were bloodshot, and their irises were a startling green. He was both beautiful and terrifying—exactly like the pictures of Ethan Evans in the scrapbook.

“Where have you been?” Iain demanded. “I’ve had everyone out looking for you.”

“You first,” Haven snipped. As she brushed past, she was surprised to find herself fighting the urge to throw her arms around him. He seemed so worried. It was hard to believe it might all be an act.

“Where did
you
go today?” she asked, attempting to turn the tables.

“I’m not the one who’s sick.”

“For your information,” Haven said, “I’ve been taking a walk.”

He followed her across the living room. “I thought I told you to stay here this afternoon.”

“And be babysat by your overgrown goon? I had things to do.” She couldn’t trust herself to look at him. She couldn’t let her anger fade.

“Did you go to the Ouroboros Society?”

Haven paused. “Yes, I did,” she admitted. “But I didn’t stay very long. The person I wanted to see wasn’t there.”

“Are you going to go back?”

Haven shrugged. “I doubt it. The place gave me the creeps. It wasn’t anything like I remembered it.”

“I
told
you.”

“Yes, but some things I have to find out for myself. I didn’t come to New York to be treated like a five-year-old. I don’t want to feel like I’m being watched all the time. I can leave, you know.”

The threat hit home, and the anger seemed to drain from Iain’s body. He reached out for Haven’s hand. “I’m just worried. You passed out in Rome, and you haven’t even seen a doctor yet.”

“Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” Haven said, jerking her hand away.

“There are terrible people here,” Iain said softly. “You have to be careful. Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart from—”

“There are terrible people everywhere, Iain. And I’m finally learning how to recognize them.”

Haven felt the cell phone in her pocket vibrate. She pulled it out and flipped it open. A text message had just arrived from Beau.

“What is it?” Iain asked.

“What is it?” lain asked.

 

“Nothing,” Haven said, quickly erasing the message.

The house was filled with the scent of flowers. Every available surface held a vase of beautiful blooms. Never before had Haven seen so many flowers outside of a garden center or a graveyard. She’d asked Iain to sleep on the couch downstairs, but he hadn’t been able to keep his distance. In the morning she had discovered an envelope with her name on it leaning against a lamp on her bedside table. A key fell out onto the sheets when she opened it.

I’m sorry,
the card read.
I don’t ever want to lock you away. This is the key to the front door. Come and go as you like. But please avoid being photographed. I will see you this evening. Love, Iain.

Haven grabbed a pale pink rose from one of the vases and tossed it out the open window. Satisfied by the gesture, she rooted through her things for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Beneath a layer of underwear at the bottom of the suitcase she’d yet to unpack lay the print Iain had bought for her in Rome. Haven felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy as she stared at the blissful couple lying hidden in the grass. It wasn’t the young woman in the illustration she envied—it was the naive girl that Haven had been back in Italy.

She laid the print facedown next to Iain’s note and got dressed. After checking to see if the house was empty, she made coffee and carried a cup up to the roof. Settling down in one of the wooden lounge chairs, she phoned Beau.

“’Lo,” Ben Decker answered.

She felt better just hearing his familiar voice. “Hey Mr. Decker, it’s Haven. How are you?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Beau ready to move out of town yet?”

Ben laughed. “I just made him paint the house, and now I reckon it’s about time to reshingle the roof. They say it’s gonna be ninety degrees today. Just the right sort of weather for working with hot tar.”

“You’re a cruel, cruel man, Mr. Decker.”

“I’m glad I still have it in me,” Ben confessed. “By the way, I saw your mama in town yesterday. Sounds like you got her in quite a tizzy.”

“Oh God.” Haven groaned. “I completely forgot to call her back. Imogene’s probably put a price on my head by now.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Ben said with a chuckle. “Well, I don’t suppose you called to talk to me. Let me wake up Prince Charming for you.”

“Haven! It’s seven o’clock in the morning,” Beau protested when he picked up the phone.

“Sorry,” Haven said. “I must have a hellish case of jet lag. I didn’t even notice the time.”

“So, d’you go see the reincarnation people yesterday?” Beau asked through a yawn.

“I did. But the woman I wanted to talk to was out of the office.”

“Then you have to go back,” Beau insisted.

“I don’t know if I should. The place was a little creepy. And I’m not sure if I need to now. I met an interesting guy while I was waiting at the OS, and he suggested I visit the Historical Society next door. They had a box filled with stuff on the Society, and I found a scrapbook with a bunch of old articles about Ethan Evans.”

“And?”

Haven took a deep breath. “Let’s just say the stories weren’t all that flattering. A lot of people seemed to think that Ethan was a pretty bad guy. They say he murdered Dr. Strickland for his fortune. There were even rumors that he set the fire that killed Constance.”

“That’s crazy! Why would he kill
Constance
?”

“So he’d inherit all her money and live happily ever after with the other woman he’d been bonking—a girl Constance knew named Rebecca Underwood. The girl I saw with Ethan the day I trashed Tidmore’s office.”

Haven heard Beau spring out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a slap.

“Whoa—do you really believe Ethan did all that?” He was wide awake now.

“I don’t know
what
to believe. Some of the articles in that scrapbook made the
National Enquirer
look like the
New York Times
. But it would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Think about it, Beau. Maybe that’s why I had to come here. If I find proof that Ethan was a killer, I could end up solving three murders at once.”