“And what else?”
“Come find out,” she whispered. “The water doesn’t lie, Killian. Get in.”
I took a step toward the bank, my hands clenched. I was ten seconds away from proving her right—that the water didn't lie and I wanted her more than I wanted to be smart about this.
A voice drifted from the porch. "Killian? Killian, where did you go?"
It was Olivia. The change in Chloe was instantaneous. The siren vanished, replaced by a raw terror that made my stomach turn. She was a rabbit hearing the hawk.
"She’s coming," Chloe whispered, her voice trembling. She scrambled for the shore, grabbed her clothes in one frantic motion, and disappeared toward the side of the house.
I met Olivia halfway, smoothing my shirt and pulling a fresh cigar from my pocket.
"There you are!" Olivia chirped. She was wearing a silk robe now. "I was starting to think you were hiding from me."
"Just getting my bearings," I said, blocking her view of the lake.
She laughed and slid a hand onto my arm, prattling on about "literary tours" and "social calendars." I heard none of it. My eyes were fixed on the attic window high above.
"You're very quiet, Killian. What are you thinking about?"
"I'm thinking about the secrets people keep in the dark," I muttered.
"How poetic," she teased. "Maybe I should write that down."
I stared at her. I recalled a poem from her dossier—haunting, raw words about salt on a balcony and a mother’s last breath. Looking at Olivia, a woman who bled Chanel No. 5 and dreamed of Europe, I knew she hadn't written them. Those were the words of a survivor. They were the words of the ghost in the attic.
"I think the humidity is catching up to me," I lied. "Could you show me to my room?"
Olivia led me up the grand staircase to a guest suite. She lingered in the doorway, but I gave her no invitation. I clicked the door shut in her face and walked straight to the window. I looked for Chloe, but I didn’t see her.
Somewhere above in the ceiling, a ghost was breathing. And I had the distinct feeling she had been waiting in that tree for me.
But why?
Chapter 5: Killian
I don't remember falling asleep.
One second I was sitting in the dark, staring at the attic window. The next—
"Killian." The whisper was silk against my ear, warm breath ghosting over my skin.
I was awake before my brain caught up. Muscle memory took over—I rolled, hand diving under the pillow, fingers finding cold steel. I had the barrel pressed against the intruder's forehead, my finger a fraction of an inch from pulling the trigger, when the world snapped into focus.
Pale moonlight. A cascade of dark hair. Wide, dark eyes that should have been terrified but weren't.
Chloe.
She didn't scream. Didn't flinch. Instead, she smiled, raised two delicate fingers, and gently pushed the gun aside, as if it were a troublesome lock of hair.
"Is this how you greet a lady?" she whispered.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I lowered the gun.
"Why are you in here?" I growled.
I sounded angry. I should have been angry. But as she crawled closer—slowly, her movements liquid in the darkness—I realized I was glad she'd come.
