But there it was. The lamp was on, sending a small circle of light that followed the angles of the heavy walnut desk—no, Carl had called it a secretary—and the darkly-paneled wall behind it that rose up to the second floor.
The stillness of the shop ate into her bones, but this time, there was no chilly draft to raise the hair on her neck. She saw neither hide nor hair of Gretchen—which wasn’t unusual—but she did notice the shade wasn’t askew from being batted by a feline paw.
Trying to remain calm, she spoke aloud. “There’sgotto be some kind of remote control or battery on this thing.” She pushed the heavy chair out of the way so that she could step closer to the desk. “It’s the only explanation.”
She dug around behind the desk, thinking perhaps someone had plugged in the cord during the last week of cleaning and reorganizing, and that somehow a short in the wire had maybe caused it to turn on…but as she looked down, following the cord to the side of the secretary, Fiona could see that it wasn’t plugged in.
Yet the light was still on.
“A battery pack. Somewhere—maybe it’s in the base.”
She tugged on the pull cord that turned the light off and on—orshouldhave turned it off or on.
But the light didn’t change.
She pulled a few more times, a little desperately…
But nothing happened.
The bulb burned, steadily, mockingly.
Her hands grew slick as she picked up the lamp—hesitantly, to be sure—but there was no sign of a battery pack anywhere inside the base, or behind it, or under it.
There wasnothingthat could be construed as a remote control receiver either.
The Lamp was just…on.
“What is going on?” she whispered as she realized her hands were prickling and going numb. She was having a difficult time breathing.
Then suddenly, a blast, a full-fledgedgust,of chill wind blasted over her, rifling the top of her hair.
Fiona felt as though she’d been plunged into freezing water—for a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t react.
Then she stumbled back from the alcove, panting as she moved toward the front of the shop. The smell of roses and cold staleness rushed through her, and the chill in the air froze her numb fingers.
Nearly sobbing deep in her throat, without looking back, without even hesitating, she opened the door.
The tinkling of the bells above barely registered as she rushed through the front entrance—and slammed into something solid.
Six
Fiona plowedinto Gideon with such force that the breath was knocked out of him.
His hands slid up from her elbows to grasp her upper arms, steadying her as she lost her balance. She looked up, her face pinched and white, her eyes startled and disoriented as she tried to brush past him.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” he demanded.
Her frantic expression relaxed a little, and she seemed to focus on him. When she just stared, obvious bewilderment making her speechless, he set her aside and strode into the shop.
It was dim inside, but it smelled so much better than before. The only illumination came from the lights in the front windows—the glass which, he noted, had had a good cleaning. A faint aroma of lemon polish and some other pleasing essence—cinnamon?—filled his nostrils. It was immediately clear that inventory had been moved and displays reorganized. A lot of work had been accomplished in the last week.
He nearly tripped over the heavy leather bag that lay on its side just inside the doorway. The hair on the back of his neck lifted and tension settled over him, his muscles taut and ready as he looked around, waiting. Listening.
When nothing seemed out of place—other than that eerie sensation—he walked toward the back of the shop.
Could she have been attacked? Was there someone lying in wait?
Whatever it was, it had terrified her.
