Goose bumps crawled over her arms and not because this was some kind of ghost story told by the fire. The whole thing was getting to her because the danger factor was real. Cressida left the room and made her way down the stairs in search of the library, or study, where she would start first.
Braden followed her down the stairs. “I took the room across the hall from yours. But I’m not here to sleep.”
“I’m not either. I’m going to start in the library and look at photo albums and journals. I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for. I think this has something to do with the vessel Caleb was on.”
“Because of her reaction.”
“Yes. But I still don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“I have a feeling you’ll know when you see it.”
“That saying doesn’t really work,” she said.
“How about, I have a feeling you have the background and experience to weed out the noise?”
She shrugged. “Better. And where are you going to work?”
“My primary reason for staying is because you are, and I’m here to keep you safe. Wherever I work, it won’t be too far away.”
Braden would be close. Her heart suddenly pounded. “Well, I hope you’ll leave me alone in the library so I can focus.” Yeah, that didn’t sound right.
He stepped closer. Her throat tightened.
“Are you saying you can’t focus when I’m near?”
“Detective.” She glared at him, hoping he’d buy it. “You need to remain professional at all times while you’re here.” Her words made no dent in his expression. “Are we clear?”
“I think I read you pretty well.” He turned and walked away, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll work on things from my end, but I won’t be too far. Call if you need me. Scream if it’s an emergency. Don’t leave the house without me.”
Not even for a walk on the beach?
But no, she wouldn’t tease him with that, or rather tempt him. Cressida shook off the emotions tumbling around inside at her exchange with Braden Sanders—he was a distraction she didn’t need but a distraction all the same. Tough being in this position—wanting help and protection from the “nice detective” and needing to steer clear of this guy who knew she liked him.
The library called to her from down the hallway, and she entered to find a desk inside. So it was a combination library-study. Just like she’d expect—floor-to-ceiling shelves covered every wall but were interrupted by a tall window draped in heavy velvet curtains. The shelves were covered with the usual leather-bound volumes one would expect in addition to just regular old books, even some paperbacks. She moseyed over to look at the paperbacks because they seemed so out of place.
“Well, what have we here? What kind of reading do you do, Mrs. Evelyn Monroe? Looks like thrillers and mysteries.” She ran her finger over the spines of what appeared to be well-worn novels by Tom Clancy. She pulled off the shelfThe Hunt for Red October, which looked to have been read multiple times.
Well, that answered one question—what Evelyn did in her free time, living in such a spacious place all alone. After returning the book, Cressida moved to the vintage globe ona stand placed at the corner of the massive oak desk, free of clutter or papers. On the desk was an old brass lamp with a Tiffany shade.
Cressida sat in the high-backed leather chair at the desk. If she were Evelyn sitting at this desk, what would she think? What would she feel? What would she see? The window offered a great view of the front and the gate. To her left, the bookshelves filled with gold-flecked classics and at the bottom, older volumes.
Aha.
Journals and photo albums could give her the deep dive into Evelyn’s background and son that Cressida needed. Her reading material for the rest of her stay. She leaned down and pulled out the first journal—blew off unexpected dust. Then sneezed. Maybe she should have expected it, but Evelyn appeared so well put together that, no, she hadn’t expected a dusty book, even in this massive library.
This was going to be a long night.
After skimming through at least two volumes of old photographs, Cressida opened a journal with stylish cursive writing that looked like calligraphy by Cressida’s standard, which wasn’t saying much. At least she could read it. Was it a diary? If so, she felt uncomfortable reading such a personal book. Still, she’d been invited to explore everything.
The cursive, at times, made it difficult to read and slowed her down, but after a couple of pages, she was pulled into the voice and world of Evelyn Monroe.
Her eyes were burning, aching, and dry when she finally noticed Braden leaning against the doorframe.
“Oh.” She marked her place at about the halfway point and set the book on the desk. Blew out a breath. “How long have you been standing there?” Watching. Because he had the look of a man who had definitely been watching.
And it was dark outside.
Shoot.
