The woman smiled, and a chill ran down my spine. “You may call me Mischief,” she said as she absently waved her hand in the air. “You see, Mrs. Kelley; you have something I need.”
“And what is that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at her.
“Information.” She turned and looked towards the kitchen. “I believe it’s good manners to offer your guest a beverage, is it not?”
“I believe it’s good mannersnotto break into someone’s home.”
“Touché.” Mischief smiled. “We’ll call it even, then.”
“Not hardly,” I muttered, but my upbringing won out and I made my way to the kitchen. Pulling two cups from the cabinet, I set out to make coffee as I waited for Mischief to get to the point.
“Are you selling the house?”
I looked over my shoulder at her and asked, “What makes you think that?”
“Well, it’s very sparse in here. Furniture only.” She waved her hand at the walls. “No personal touches.”
“Actually, yes, I am. It’s time to let it go.”
“You don’t ever let go of what haunts you,” she muttered to herself as she rubbed her arm. I chose not to question her words, but I did see her in a different light suddenly.
“What information are you looking for?”
“Mrs. Kelley—”
I interrupted her. “Please, call me Caity.”
“Caity,” she repeated with a small smile. “I am looking for someone, and I believe you have the information I need to find him. In your father’s office.”
“Well, maybe if the men you hired to break into my house had been less destructive, they would have found it,” I snarked.
“Again, I apologize. It is so hard to find trustworthy thugs these days.”
Her tone was flippant, as if she were trying to make a joke, but her eyes were serious. Whoever she was looking for was important to her. Whether that was good or bad was yet to be determined.
I set the coffee cup on the table in front of her and asked, “Who are you looking for?”
“I told her to let that shit go. She’s chasing ghosts that don’t want to be found.”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing for my nephew?” I asked.
Dread grinned.
“It is.” He nodded. “But some ghosts don’t just haunt us; they consume us. And I’m afraid that if Mischief doesn’t reel it in, she’ll be consumed again. And this time, she might not make it out.”
His warning was ominous. But I understood Mischief more than she might realize. Women needed answers. Especially when we’d been hurt.
We needed to know why someone had hurt us. Why they left us. We blamed ourselves; even knowing the truth that there was nothing we could do to change our path, we still blamed ourselves instead of the person who wronged us.
It was what I had been doing for years.
My father.
Every time he called me a name, I analyzed it, wondering how I could change. How I could make him proud.
My husband.
Every time he hit, I wondered how I’d pushed him over the limit. How I could make him love me.
