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She'd try them all.

Rosalie's plan was simple, to try and get the drop on whoever showed up next. Lure the guy into the stall, then escape and lock him in his own prison. After which, the freed prisoner would unlock all the other cages and the girls would either take the vehicle parked outside, or run through the woods to freedom.

Simple.

Neat.

And it most likely wouldn't work.

She rubbed her cheek where the loser had slapped her. Twice. She bet, if she had a mirror and could see her face, she'd see a welt there.

“I think I know where we are,” Jade ventured after listening to all their stories and piecing the information together.

“Where?” Mary-Alice asked, and Jade's stomach turned. Of all the people she hated to be caught with, it was supercilious, self-righteous Mary-A.
She's a victim too, Your ally,
It ground Jade's guts to think so. But, fine.

“I think we're on our property.”

“ ‘Our' property?” Dana said.

“My mom's or my family's.” She remembered looking over the maps and plot plans that Mom had scattered over the table when Jade's uncles had come over. At the time, Jade had only been concerned with leaving the damned Blue Peacock or having Cody visit her, and she'd been looking for spots where she could sneak off and meet him. “If I'm right, this place is an old stable that's near a bunkhouse on the east end of the property. The house isn't that far away. It's west, along the river.”

“Isn't that all kind of, I don't know, convenient?” Mary-Alice wasn't buying it. “To be on the same land as the Blue Pigeon or whatever you call it.”

Jade didn't bother correcting her. Who cared? Rosalie was right. Whether she liked it or not, Mary-Alice was on their side.
Strength in numbers, Remember: the more of you there are, the better the odds of getting free,
“It seems like a coincidence, but maybe it's not. Maybe these guys are connected to Blue Peacock Manor.”

“How?” Mary-Alice again.

“I don't know.” She thought about her family tree, how recently it had changed. If the long-dead girl Helen could be believed, then Angelique had borne a child with her stepson, who had eventually killed her. But there was also that business with Theresa and Roger, two people who were related to Jade on her mother's side, but who weren't Stewarts. And what about herself? The girl who'd had an unnamed biological father for most of her life? “Look, I'm telling you, that I think this is my mom's place, and if we get out of here—”

“When we get out of here,” Rosalie corrected.

“When we get out of here, we need to go west to the house. It's the closest place.”

“Then that's the plan,” Rosalie said. “It's dark, and we split up, run in the direction the river flows.”

“How—how will we know?” Candice asked.

“You need to run so that your right shoulder is facing the river, then you'll be heading west, toward the house,” Jade said, and didn't add that the place was supposed to be haunted. Whether the spirits in the house were real or all in her mother's and Gracie's imagination, they still had to be a hell of a lot better to deal with than the flesh-and-blood lowlifes willing to sell them to the highest bidder.

 

Would the door really open? Hardly daring to breathe, Sarah twisted the long key.

It didn't move.

She tried again.

Nothing.

No latch clicking, no locks tumbling, just sheer, utter silence.

“Doesn't look good,” she confided to her daughter.

Gracie was deflated. “If it isn't for this, what's it for?”

Good question, Sarah thought, as she knew of no other places on the property that were old enough to require this key to open them. She'd looked through every room in the house, including the basement and attic. There were no other obvious locked rooms.

It didn't make sense. Well, really, nothing did.
Not when ghosts chase you out of your own home, for crying out loud,

“Where's the dog?”

“Around.” Gracie swiveled her head and whistled, but Xena didn't come bounding from the shadows.

“Hold this.” After handing the flashlight to her daughter, Sarah tried the key once more, putting a little more pressure on the shaft and—

Click!

The key suddenly turned in her hand as if greased. She held her breath. With a bit of a shove, the door creaked as it swung inward.

Her heart thudded with dread.
Showtime,
she thought, as the fog moved in closer, seeming to encase the tomb where Angelique Le Duc was to have been laid to rest, had her life and death gone according to plan.

But whose ever did?

She took her flashlight back and shined its skinny little beam inside and down a short flight of stone steps leading deeper into the darkened vault.

“Stay here,” she told Gracie again. “I mean, right here.” She pointed to the ground in front of the tomb. “And keep Xena with you.”

“Mom, I'll be okay. Just because you're freaked out and—”

“The dog. Right here. Right now. With you.” Sarah brooked no argument, and Gracie got the hint.

“Fine.” She whistled softly, and a few seconds later the big, blond dog appeared, springing from the darkness to sit, her whole back end wiggling. “Stay.” Xena whined, but Gracie was firm. “Lie down.” Xena didn't. The dog's response to commands was limited, but Sarah was as satisfied that Grace was safe with her mutt.

Drawing a steadying breath, she held the flashlight in a death grip and started down the stairs.

Her throat tight, the muscles in her neck so tense they ached, every horror film she'd ever watched running through her brain, she followed the flashlight's pale beam ever downward.
This is certifiable, Sarah, As crazy as anything you've ever done, Shattering mirrors, being terrorized by a miniature statue, and now exploring a tomb in the dark,

She reached the final step. The air was thin and dry, and the scent of dust and an odor she didn't want to name hit her nostrils.

Eerily quiet, the tomb was larger than she expected, seemingly separate from the rest of the world.

“Gracie?” she called over her shoulder, her voice echoing.

“Right here, Mom.”

Good.

Slowly, nerves as tight as bowstrings, she swept the weakening beam across the floor. Heart racing, ready to bolt, she tried to convince herself there was no one in the vault, no one but her and her own pounding pulse.

She was wrong.

A skeleton lay stretched upon a slab—a woman, she guessed, from its small size and the rotting nightgown and dark clumps of hair. “Oh, dear God.” The corpse had been here a while—teeth long and visible, hollow eye sockets, bony hands devoid of flesh folded over her empty chest.

Sarah felt woozy, as if she might faint.

After all these years, the mystery was solved. Sarah was certain she'd found her sister.

But Theresa wasn't alone.

“D
ear God,” Sarah said, her heart nearly stopping, her skin suddenly clammy, the sturdy walls of the shadowy vault seeming to draw in on her. Hands quivering, she shined her flashlight to a corner of the tomb, where the yellowish beam slid over the body of another person, a man, she guessed, as she backed up a step. Dressed in clothing from another era, in shirt and pants that were disintegrating, he was propped into a corner, his ghoulish face devoid of flesh, the bones white, his mouth set into what appeared to be a grotesque grin. Several teeth were missing, and above the empty eye socket was a huge gash where his skull had cracked, a deep fissure in the bone that had splintered away from the gaping hole.

This man had been murdered long ago, his skull bashed in by something hard and sharp and . . .

She swallowed, her heart pounding in her ears. Gooseflesh raised on her skin. This man had to be Maxim Stewart, the first owner of this property, the cuckolded husband of Angelique Le Duc. “Father in heaven,” Sarah whispered, thinking of Helen's account of the night that Maxim, Angelique, and George went missing. In a vision of stunning clarity, Sarah saw a bloody axe, wielded high over Angelique's head as they struggled on the widow's walk.

Was Maxim already dead, his body hidden in the vault meant for his wife? Had his own son murdered him in a jealous rage over the woman in their fatal threesome? Had George, after sealing his dead or dying father in the vault, carried his bloody weapon of death across the fields to the house, taking the very trail that Sarah herself had used again and again when she'd met Clint on the sly, and just now as she'd jogged here to enter this tomb?

On the floor, visible beneath what was left of the man, was a dark stain where, she surmised his blood had pooled as he'd bled out, his heart still pumping after he'd been locked here.

She imagined the night of terror so many years ago, and then she took another look at Theresa, if that's who she really was. How had she died? Had she died in here, resting as if she were in a coffin, her hands folded meekly over her chest?

Sarah stared at the remains of what once had been a vibrant body.

Someone knew Theresa was here.

Someone had carried her into this vault and locked the door behind her, then hid the key in the little Madonna statue.

Who? Why?

 

Outside, Gracie stood on one foot and then the other. It pissed her off that Mom wouldn't let her go into the vault. After all, it was her idea to explore the cemetery, and she could deal with ghosts better than her mother.

If anything proved it, Sarah's reaction to seeing the ghost of Angelique Le Duc in Theresa's room tonight did.

It wasn't fair, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. She noticed that Xena was going a little nuts, whining and pointing, ears and tail raised, as if she wanted to chase after a possum or raccoon or, worse, maybe a skunk. Gracie was in no mood to get sprayed, and it was kind of freaking her out, the way Xena stared into the darkness, her skin quivering anxiously, her high-pitched whimpers creeping through the night.

“Hush!” Gracie ordered. Then, “Okay. Fine. Show me.” Using the flashlight app on her phone, she lit the area around her feet and walked a little farther into the darkness, away from the tomb. She only hoped that whatever had caught the dog's attention wasn't a predator ready to leap out at them. Cougars and coyotes lived in the surrounding woods. Gracie felt a little tremor of fear but ignored it. Graveyards didn't scare her; cemeteries didn't freak her out.

But still . . . she didn't like the way Xena was going mad, shooting forward in the dark, being swallowed by the fog, her bark sharp and piercing.
Don't let every creepy ghost story you ever heard get the better of you,

Where the hell had the dog gone?

Walking carefully, she shined the light over the uneven ground, where long grass and molehills were visible.
This is ridiculous, There's nothing out here,
But she was nervous as she moved past a small headstone covered in vines, the ancient grave of a long-buried child.

Gracie's heart twisted a bit as she looked around. All these dead people. Related to her, buried beneath her feet.

Where was the dog?

She turned in the direction of the barking, but didn't see Xena in the fog and twilight. “Come on, girl,” she said, trying to ignore the weird feeling that prickled her spine as she shined her light on the ground, illuminating the uneven turf of long grass and weeds, molehills and ferns. “What is it?” she said as the dog stopped barking suddenly. “Xena—?”

A low growl sounded.

Her dog?

Or?

Unnerved, Gracie turned, searching the mist, the flashlight's beam providing weak illumination. She was still near enough to the tomb to call her mother if there was any problem and—

Another growl came just as the light caught a glimmer, a glint of something metallic. A watch? Out here? She leaned forward, and her insides turned to ice. The watch was strapped to the wrist of an unmoving hand, big fingers spread wide.

What!

Heart galloping, she ran the light up the attached arm, over a shoulder, and across a jacketed chest stained dark. “Oh, God,” she said, stumbling backward, as the beam crept up the man's neck to land full on the bluish, very dead, face of Evan Tolliver.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh God,

Terror riddled her body, and she willed her legs to move when she heard a deep, warning growl and turned to spy Xena, the fur on the back of the dog's neck raised, her head low, her eyes focused not on the dead man, but on Gracie herself. No, that wasn't quite right. Xena was looking past her, as if she saw something over Gracie's shoulder, as if—

In a heartbeat, big hands grabbed her and yanked her from her feet.

She screamed!

“Don't!” a deep male voice warned, his breath hot and foul against her ear. “Don't make a sound.” Arms as strong as steel bands surrounded her, hauling her, kicking and shrieking, away from the dead body.

“Shh!” he warned. “I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. I promise.”

Like hell!
She kicked him hard. Her heel slammed into his shin, but he only sucked in his breath through his teeth.

In her peripheral vision she saw Xena, bunching to spring.

The dog launched just as Gracie screamed again at the top of her lungs.

 

As the back of Sarah's foot hit the lowest step, a bloodcurdling shriek echoed through the tomb, reverberating in its terror.

Gracie!

Sarah ran up the uneven steps, yelling back, “Gracie!”

Thud!

The door to the vault was slammed shut.

No!

Sarah threw herself against the old wooden panels, screaming, pushing hard, trying to get out, to reach her child.

The damned door wouldn't budge.

She dropped her flashlight, tried again, shouting and shoving, pounding on the rough wood with her fists. “Gracie!” she yelled. “Grace!”

The door didn't budge.

She tried again, throwing all her weight against the door just as she heard the familiar and final sound of a lock being turned.

 

“I'm telling you, Jade's my daughter,” Clint insisted, frustrated and worried sick, feeling the seconds of his life ticking by. “Maybe she's at the house. Got rear-ended and walked home.”

“But the car's still running,” Bellisario said, eyeing him as if he were stark, raving mad at the very least, some kind of criminal at the worst. “She could have just driven.”

“Let's call Sarah.” He pulled out his phone when a terrified scream rippled over the surrounding fields.

Whipping around instinctively, he faced the direction of the sound, west toward the Stewart family's holdings; the old house was nearly a quarter mile downriver from this point.

The shriek came again. A female scream filled with terror.

“I don't know,” Bellisario said. She stared in the direction of the house, one hand on her pistol, her gaze searching the gloomy landscape. “I don't like it.”

He was already sprinting for his truck and wasn't about to wait for a response. Someone, a woman, needed help. Dread propelled him, and if the cop wasn't ready to investigate, too damned bad.

He jumped into the cab, and Tex, sensing his anxiety, moved quickly to the passenger seat. “Hey! Hold up!” the cop called after him, but he ignored her, slammed his door shut and took off with a chirp of tires. He'd already explained everything he could about Jade and her car, and the fact that he'd just learned he was her father. Now Bellisario could deal with it. In his rearview, he caught sight of the detective talking rapidly into her phone as she dashed to her car.

Rolling his window down, squinting into the coming dark, he listened for another scream but heard only the distant wail of sirens. Hand tight over the steering wheel, he prayed they were cops heading this way, responding to Bellisario's request for backup.

He took the corner into the lane for Blue Peacock Manor a little too fast, and the empty back end of his truck slid a bit. “Get down!” he ordered the dog as he eased off the throttle. Tex hopped to the floor in front of the passenger seat just as the wheels found purchase again and Clint hit the gas.

What the hell was happening?

His heart was racing, his mind spinning.

It looked like Jade was already in serious danger.

Was she the one who was screaming? Or had the shriek come from Sarah or Gracie?

“Son of a bitch,” he ground out as his truck bounced and shimmied down the lane, mist swirling in the headlight's beams, a startled deer bounding into the woods.

The sirens drew closer.

“Just get here!” he shouted, as if the damned police could hear. He was clutching the wheel in a death grip, his knuckles showing white, every muscle in his body clenched. He tried like hell to be rational, to think, but the sound of that horrified scream tumbled through his mind, while the image of Jade's abandoned car, door open, burned through his soul.

The stands of pine and fir parted as he rounded a final curve, then drove across the clearing where the old house stood. On this gloomy afternoon, with twilight fast approaching, the once-grand manor looked evil and stark, its cupola and roof shrouded in the mist.

He slammed on the brakes and slid to a stop near the front yard. No more screaming. Just silence, and that somehow was worse. Sarah's Explorer was parked in its usual spot, no other vehicle was around. Good or bad? A few dim lights glowed from the windows of the first floor. “Be home,” he whispered, throwing himself out of the cab. “Be home.”

He raced up the walk and porch steps to the front door. It hung open a bit, not quite latched, as if someone had been in a hurry to get out. “Sarah!” he yelled at the top of his lungs as he barreled into the foyer. “Jade!” He stalked through the rooms, his boots ringing on the floorboards, his fear mounting as he searched.

A fire burned in the hearth, a coffee cup was left on the dining room table with Sarah's keys. He touched the cup—still warm—then spied her purse on a nearby chair. He found a kid's backpack left on the pile of sleeping bags in the living room. “Sarah!” he yelled again, his voice thundering.

No answer.

But he didn't stop looking. Up the first flight he ran, opening doors, calling their names. “Sarah! Jade! Gracie!” Empty rooms greeted him, silent chambers devoid of furniture, of life.

For the love of God, where were they?

And where the hell was the damned dog?

Leaving closet doors open, he dialed Sarah on his cell and ran upward again, phone to his ear, boots thudding on the steps.

The phone started to ring, then stopped, suddenly going dead.

Call fail
flashed on the screen.

“Shit!”

He reached the third floor and, breathing hard, stalked through each room, still yelling their names, dread mounting. In a blur, he checked the suite where her parents had slept, the huge closet and two baths, then ended up at the corner room with the fireplace, the missing older sister's room. Its door hung open, and as he looked inside he saw evidence of some kind of a struggle. A new fear shot through his blood as he surveyed the scene. Hundreds of pieces of glass glittered on the floor, the mirror that had been mounted over the fireplace now showing only the backing, a few clinging shards looking like reflective teeth dangling over a yawning hole. Near the hearth, half of a little statue of the Virgin Mary lay, face turned upward, its serene expression at odds with the mayhem in this room.

What in God's name had happened here?

Broken glass, he told himself. No blood. And, of course, no one. Where the hell were they?

Jaw clenched, he dialed Sarah again. Waited.

Call failed
.

“Damn it all to hell!”

Where were the cops?

He backed out of the empty room and twisted open the last door on this level, the one that led to the attic. He didn't think twice, just pulled it open and ran up the narrow, dark staircase. “Jade!” he called, his voice echoing. “Sarah!”

Bats, disturbed as they roosted, flapped and squeaked. Heart in his throat, he shined the light from his cell phone over the interior of the garret. Beneath the sharp gables and rafters he saw only decades of discarded furniture and boxes, crates and baskets, dust-covered, long-forgotten treasures of another generation.

No one was here, nor, he supposed, were they on the roof overhead, but he climbed those spiraling stairs anyway and forced open the door of the glass cupola to step onto the widow's walk. He'd been here before, of course, with Sarah. She'd showed him all the nooks and crannies of the old house, excluding the basement, and they'd even made love on this rooftop, though that night, he remembered now, she'd shivered in his arms, her naked body responsive but colder than usual, her eyes never closing when he'd kissed her, as if something were troubling her, something, when he'd asked, she'd been unable or unwilling to name.