She glanced down at the cover again, and one more thing clicked—an obvious thing, something she could not believe she hadn’t noticed yet.
Daniel Ramson. Douglas Ramsey. Abel R. Douglas.
The questions in her mind multiplied, each spawning several more: WasWidow’s Walkreally a work of fiction? Could Hank’s story be true? Could the book be an account of an old family secret, clothed in the guise of a novel? What had happened to Douglas Ramsey overseas in the war? And who had been close enough to the family to know the truth, but sensitive enough to only reveal it in this hidden, sideways manner?
WhowasAbel R. Douglas?
Willow turned back to her computer, searching again for books by their mysterious author on every site she could find. He had written a dozen in total, including the six she had seen on Annabel’s desk and the beat-up paperback on Willow’s nightstand—Weather the Storm, the last book he was known to have written. Willow was able to track down copies of almost every title at online marketplaces and retailers—except one. There was not a single copy ofWidow’s Walkavailable anywhere.
She picked up her phone and texted Catherine.Hey, I’m looking for another copy of the Widow’s Walk book Sue gave me, but none of the online sellers seem to have it. Any ideas where I could look next?
Catherine’s response:Actually, the day you brought in that book, I tried to do the same thing. No one has it. Called my librarian friends. The few that own copies have had them borrowed on interlibrary loan within the past year and they weren’t returned.
Willow:Weird.
Catherine:And statistically improbable. Even more when you factor this in: I found a bookseller in Portland who says he had a couple of copies, but someone reached out online and bought them both. Why would this obscure book suddenly be in demand?
Willow had an idea why.Can you come over?she asked.
I’m not on the island, Catherine texted back.I’m visiting Maine county seats to try to find proof one way or the other about Hank.
Smart, Willow thought. Catherine was skipping novels and complex plots and going straight to the source of the data.When are you coming back?she texted Catherine.
Catherine responded,Not till evening. And I think someone’s following me; I’ve been from Little North to Ellsworth and Belfast and Machias and even to Augusta, and I keep seeing the same blue Camry.
Willow refrained from textingLots of people drive Camrysback to Catherine; given what was at stake, she couldn’t make light of the librarian’s concerns.
Catherine texted again:Let’s meet at the Raven. I’d feel better having this conversation in a public place.
You found something?Willow texted back excitedly.
Catherine texted back a winking emoji. Then,Maybe about 7?
Sounds good. Hey—are you going to be okay?If the Camry person who might or might not be following Catherine intended her harm, there was a lot of highway between Augusta and the Raven.
I’m taking steps. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be safe. Gotta go!
Willow put down her phone and glared at her computer. Her online searches had long since passed fruitless and arrived at frustrating. She snapped the lid shut with more force than necessary and looked out the loft window across the lupine field to the hulk of the old mansion.
It occurred to her that almost every useful or important piece of knowledge she’d gained since arriving on the island had come from exactly the same place.
Willow jumped up, grabbed her phone, and put on her shoes,leaving the book on the nightstand. “Finn, let’s go!” she called out. Finn’s look indicated his lack of interest in traditional dog commands, but he got up and followed her, anyway—out of the cabin, across the field, and to the mansion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
But Cameron House was closed, locked front and back. Willow stood outside the kitchen door and cursed with frustration. Perhaps Geralt’s death had affected the house’s ability to decide whom to admit and whom to hold outside—or maybe it simply didn’t want to let her in today. Last night’s intruder had probably used some more prosaic means, like a lockpick or stolen key, to get in, but Willow wasn’t willing to go that far. Not yet, anyway.
As Willow and Finn circled to the back of the house, the dog stopped abruptly and gave a low growl, looking pointedly toward the long footpath leading into the woods. Willow caught the flash of a blond ponytail as it disappeared into the thick stand of pines.
She looked down at Finn, who looked back. Willow was confident she had nothing to fear from the ghosts who made their home here; she wasn’t sure the person who had started down the path to the allegedly haunted graveyard could say the same. With a satisfied little smile, she nodded to the dog, and they both took off across the field.
The Cameron family graveyard was bigger than Willow hadexpected. A couple dozen mossy gravestones filled the clearing; some were in neat rows, while others were more haphazardly placed. Wild roses dotted the yard with their sharp thorns and flower buds beginning to form, waiting for the sun to reach down to them on bright summer days. But not today; the clouds covered the sky and wind whipped through the trees; swirling branches and creaking wood sounded thunderously loud in this otherwise silent place.
The unexpected visitor stood looking down at a headstone about a third of the way into the graveyard, her back to Willow. When Willow opened the heavy gate with a mournful creak, the trespasser whirled around. Willow found herself face-to-face with Naomi Talbot.
“Jesus Christ,” Naomi said, her face sagging in relief as she recognized Willow. “You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry,” Willow said automatically as she stepped into the graveyard and approached Naomi. “Finn and I were out for a walk, and he suddenly wanted to head out here. Probably smelled you or something.” Some part of her wondered when she had gotten so good at lying without a second thought. She looked around, realizing the dog was no longer at her side. “Finn?” she asked, puzzled.
