“In what way?” Every hair on her body raised.
“The family will inherit everything without you.” The way he talked so… so normal was as disconcerting as the rope he held. “I have a fitting end planned.”
“W-what end is that?” She backed farther away.
“Django told Sarah Christine how his ancestor was hung from that very tree. How he’d sat up against the trunk, clutching his chest, most likely suffering from cardiac arrest.”
“How would he know that?” she whispered. “It was a hundred years ago.”
“He probably wouldn’t. But Django was a direct descendent of the man. That makes you an intricate piece to the puzzle of the curse. And I have no intention of letting the curse be broken. Alistar deserves what his family wrought upon his head.” Step for step, he followed her.
“But he’s your friend…”
“Ah, but as you said, I am not a good friend.”
“I-I…” Peyton turned and ran. On a damp ground. In low-heeled pumps.
Two steps. She managed two steps before the noose caught her by the neck and jerked. The night closed in.
And she welcomed it.
“This is ridiculous,” Alistar said.
“Everything you’ve told me, at least regarding this damned diary and the earls it covers, is that they each have some innate talent. Winslow’s was music, Forrest’s was poetry, yours is art. What of your father? Did he have something?”
“Certainly. His was actually mathematics.”
“Math is a talent?”
“Have you ever heard of functional analysis where operational algebra is used on topological vector space with the multiplication given by the composition of mappings?”
Tarron held his head and groaned.
Alistar shot him a smirking grin. “The visions I’ve seen appear to be in the past.” They stopped, both contemplating that. “Dear God,” he breathed. Then he ran for his studio…
“You painted this? In thedark?” Tarron’s shock hit the ceiling.
Alistar studied the blazing campfire, the only burst of color in the night of the scene. It outlined the back of a person, standing off to the left side. His back took up a good portion of the canvas, yet the only detail on his person was his arm bent at the elbow, a rope in the shape of a noose hanging from his right arm. The light from the fire illuminated other details. The age of the bark on the old elm, the girl lying on the ground, eyes closed, expression softened by death, the slit across her throat—
A cold knot, thick and barbaric, pulsed through Alistar. The girl’s dark curls were almost indiscernible except for the section matted with blood. “Bugger,” he breathed, backing away. “Pelz. I need my pistol. And call the bobbies. Tell them to meet me at the old elm.”
“I’m coming with you, Griston.”
Alistar wasted no time arguing with Tarron Coombs. He might need his help.God, don’t let me be—Alistar crouched before Peyton’s form in the painting—too late.
Fifteen
C
old, damp earth soaked through the thin fabric of Peyton’s knit dress. Night had completely fallen. The air was cold at her back. She willed back her shudders and concentrated on what was in front of her. It was toasty warm. She lay there in the dark doing her best to assess the situation.
“I can see your eyes moving beneath the lids.”
She opened her eyes and blinked against a roaring campfire. She’d never camped per se, but there was a certain déjà vu about the situation. “What’s going on, Carson?”
He tossed another stick onto the fire. “Weren’t you listening?” The kindling sparked and crackled. He squinted, his gaze intent on the dancing flames. “Money.”
“I think it’s more than that. Who killed my parents? They weren’t at sea, were they? They were in their own home.”
