Ghost of a Promise (21 page)

But that didn
’
t matter. This was what she was supposed to find. Alone. Possibly what they
’
d been looking for. Right here in front of her.

She reached for one of the prints when two hands gripped her arms and yanked her against a solid wall. Air
whooshed
from her lungs. No, not a wall. Jackson’
s chest. He drove his fingers into her hair, down her back. The erratic beat of his heart pounded against her cheek, his breathing ragged in her ear.

“
Bloody hell. Oh, thank Christ.
”
He pulled her away and glared at her, his gaze raking down her body and up again.
“
Are you all right?
”

“
Yes. Look what I found.
”
She tried to point to the pictures, but he hauled her to him once more.

“
My heart stopped dead.
Dead
. Five minutes of my life I’
ll never get back.
”
He shifted her away again and stared down at her.
“
Why didn
’
t you answer me? I screamed for you half a million times.
”

The fog began to clear and guilt sank in. He looked like ten years had been shaved off his life.
“
I
’
m
…
I
’
m sorry. Whatever spirit was up here was trying to get my attention. It was like you were miles away. It wanted me to find these.
”

He looked down where she was pointing.
“
What is it?
”

“
Pictures, I think. They
’
re wrapped. Let
’
s open them.
”

His hands dropped to his sides as color returned to his cheeks. Relief shone in his blue depths.
“
You
’
re not hurt?
”

Because he seemed to need reassurance, and because his reaction to her possibly being hurt moved her to near tears, she patted his cheek and stepped into his arms.
“
I
’
m okay.
”
She brushed a kiss over his mouth as he looked down his nose at her.

“
You scared me.
”

“
I know. I
’
m sorry.
”
She kissed him again.

“
Really scared me. I hated the idea of leaving you up here, you know.
”

“
I know. You told me.
”
She smiled against his lips.

“
You find this amusing, do you, Ava?
”

“
Absolutely not,
”
she said in all the seriousness she could muster.

His lips quirked into a smile. The tension released from his muscled frame.

“
Wanna see what I found now?
”

He brushed his nose with hers but kept his gaze trained on her. Their breaths mingled, blended. His usually cheerful blue eyes were serious. Confused. After several elongated moments, he blinked and stepped back.

He pinched the bridge of his nose.
“
Let
’
s have a look.
”

She checked the date on the newspaper covering the first print.
“
1958. That
’
s the year they closed the attic stairs entrance and installed the trapdoor.
”

Jackson stood over her as she unwrapped. It was a black-and-white picture of the mansion, taken from the street. The gold plating on the frame said
“
1922.
” “
Why would they store this away?
”

“
Don
’
t know. It
’
s a great shot.
”
He hunkered down next to her and grabbed another print. After unwrapping it, he turned it toward her.

Their gazes locked.
“
Peter Trumble. It
’
s been here all along.
”

He rubbed his chin, smearing newspaper ink in the wake.
“
They must have put it up here for a reason, Ava. There
’
s locks on the attic door. They sealed over the door with a wall.
”

“
What are you saying?
”
But she knew. The truth settled in her stomach before he even spoke.

“
These pictures could heighten the activity. Perhaps even be the cause. Spirits can latch on to an object
—”

“
I
’
m going to clean them up and display them.
”

He sighed. Swallowed hard.
“
Okay, but, Ava
…
It might not be the good kind of spiritual activity. The deaths, the accidents, the suicides in the house
…”

They were so close. So close to getting answers. Could displaying them be the wrong thing to do? She didn
’
t want to do anything that could put the
Phantoms
team at risk. She ran her fingers over the brush strokes of Peter Trumble’
s painted likeness. One of the ghosts had led her to these pictures. To this exact spot, as if wanting her to find them. She didn
’
t get a sense of foreboding, only relief.

“
He wanted me to find these.
”

Jackson remained silent, but he knew who she was talking about. There was only one spirit it could be. He reached for another print and unwrapped it. The likeness, this time a woman, held a matching frame to Peter
’
s. The engraved plate said
“
Kathryn Trumble.
”

“
Peter
’
s wife. She died in childbirth delivering their twin sons.
”

Her heart was pounding right out of her ribcage. She
’
d never seen a likeness of Kathryn Trumble, nor Peter. Not until Jackson and his team showed up to help her. If not for them, she may never have seen them. No one had ever shown so much interest in her family history, in her house before. No one but scattered descendants, most of which wound up prematurely dead or crazy.

But the crew didn
’
t care about that.
Jackson
didn’
t. He was doing everything in his power to help keep her dream and history alive.

Tears clogged her throat, but she forced them down and unwrapped another print. Again, the frames matched. She read the name plate.

“
Abraham and George Trumble. Peter
’
s sons,
”
she whispered. Then the tears did come now as she stared at the picture.
“
This is my family. The first to be born in the States.
”
Two cherubic, smiling faces looked up at the artist. The twins
—
identical, if memory served
—
were dressed in white and about a year old.

“
Hey, you okay?
”

He swiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb and turned her face toward his. In his eyes was compassion and understanding, laced with concern. She nodded and sniffed, anything but okay.

“
Why don
’
t we take a break?
”
he suggested.

“
Not a chance.
”

Laughing, he kissed her forehead and eased back.
“
That
’
s my girl.
”

His girl
. They were just words. Two words strung together that he didn’
t intend to imply meaning behind. Yet they struck Ava right in the heart.

They opened several more prints, eight in total, all with mismatched frames and no plaques. The majority were family photos, varying in years, of members she recognized by Trumble characteristics. Mostly group shots, some looked like they dated back to the early 1900s. When they worked their way to the last picture, Jackson nodded for her to do the honors.

It was another painted likeness, like that of Peter
’
s, but of a woman instead. She had a round, sweet face, huge hazel eyes, and a wavy sweep of honey-colored hair clipped off her face. A trace of a smile creased the corners of her bow-shaped mouth. She was young, maybe eighteen, and her posture was regal in a high-back chair, her hands folded palm-up primly in her lap.

“
I don
’
t know who this is.
”

“
I do,
”
Jackson said, his voice hollow.

He grabbed her wrist and turned it over. Much like he did that day in the kitchen, he slid his finger from her inner elbow to her wrist, causing goosebumps in his path. Then he pointed to the painting and the woman
’
s arm. In a period piece dress, the sleeves were quarter-length. On the woman
’
s right arm was a thin, jagged white scar.

She gasped.
“
You asked me about a scar that day. You thought I had one.
”

Jackson’s eyes widened, but his gaze was direct.
“
It wasn
’
t you who bore the scar. It was
her
. Sarah Kerrick. You’
re looking at her.
”

Chapter Nineteen

Ava decided to display the portraits in the great entry hall on the second floor. She hadn’t known what to do with that room, but ideas started flowing for a sitting room. Maybe she could find a way to get the hutch down from the attic and showcase the china set she and Jackson found.

She wondered what he would think of the idea, then brought herself up short. Jackson was leaving. Soon. He was just a visitor passing through. He had no vested interest in what became of the place when he left. It shouldn’
t matter what he thought of her ideas and plans. Yet she
’
d grown accustomed to throwing concepts and theories at him. Enjoyed his enthusiasm and suggestions.

Wow. She needed to backpedal before her heart got crushed.

Jackson came into the kitchen where she’d been wiping down the portraits.

He pocketed his cell.
“
Sammy
’
s catching a flight back tonight.
”

“
Why?
”

Jackson eyed the portraits scattered throughout the kitchen.
“
To monitor activity. Have more eyes on the scene.
”
He looked at her with an expression she couldn
’
t decipher.
“
She
’
s excited for you.
”

She smiled. Had their circumstances been different, she could see Sammy as one of her closest friends. She
’
d fit right in Ava and Casey
’
s tight unit. They were so much alike, sharing similar interests. But that friendship wasn
’
t to be any more than her relationship with Jackson was meant to last.

She told him about her idea for the great entry hall.

He grinned.
“
Why wait? Let
’
s hang the pictures now. See if we get any activity.
”

She eyed the portraits on the table.
“
You really want to help me hang these tonight?
”

“
I do. And it
’
s a great idea to put them all together. The space will give your guests another room to gather in, too.
”

She nodded.
“
There are a few pictures in the parlor I need to take down. If I
’
m going to display the portraits, I may as well collect them all. I
’
d like to put the picture of the mansion we found in the parlor instead.
”

It took several trips, but they
’
d assembled what they needed and got to work arranging and hanging the pictures in the great hall. She decided to place the portrait of Peter Trumble above the fireplace, and the one of Sarah Kerrick directly across from it on a narrow wall by the French doors. That way at least their images could look upon each other for all eternity.

“
Never knew you had such a romantic streak, Ava.
”

Hmm. He
’
d figured her out. She shrugged, a little embarrassed. Her face heated.
“
They both got cheated. He didn
’
t get a lifetime with his one true love, and she had her life ripped away too young, never accomplishing her dreams. It
’
s sad.
”

“
Agreed.
”
He checked his phone.
“
We have time to go grab a pizza before getting Sammy from the airport.
”

She glanced around the room once more, loving the idea to display all the portraits in once place. She could envision a little bar in the corner. The mansion already had a parlor. Perhaps she
’
d turn this space into an old fashioned game room. She could buy a pool table for the center of the space and a round table for playing cards in a corner. She nodded, accepting the idea. She
’
d put the hutch and china from the attic in the dining room instead. Perfect.

“
Let me just get cleaned up a bit before we leave.
”

…

“
I
’
ve got something,
” Sammy said, her fingers flying over the laptop keyboard.

Jackson set his earphones down before him on the dining room table. The cameras the crew had kept up since leaving for holiday didn’
t have audio, so Sammy was scanning the visual feed while Jackson was listening to the digitals from the few times he and Ava turned on the recorder in the crew
’
s absence. Ava had retired to bed hours ago. He wanted to join her.

Sammy turned her monitor around and scooted her chair closer.
“
This is from Friday night, in the living room. Watch.” She hit Play.
“
Here
’
s Ava collecting boxes. There she goes leaving the room. Now she
’
s back. Right there. See that mist?
”

The fine hairs on his arms stood on end. Ava
’
s back was to the camera, seeming to stare at the Christmas tree they
’
d just decorated at the time. Ava
’
s hair fluttered, as if someone had run their hand down the red length to smooth it. From the bottom of the screen a thin, white mist rose up, partially obscuring the view of the room.

Floored, he watched Ava slowly turn her head around toward what had just touched her. Tears were in her wide eyes, her mouth trembled open.

Why hadn
’
t she told him about this experience when it happened?

“
She
’
s so scared she
’
s crying,
”
Sammy said.

He kept his gaze trained on the screen. On Ava.
“
No, she
’
s not scared. We
’
d just had a fight. That
’
s why she
’
s crying. Look.” He rolled back the feed.
“
Something smoothes her hair down, trying to comfort her. Now watch when the mist dissolves. Ava mouths a
‘
thank you.
’”

They sat in silence for a beat while Sammy transferred the clip to the Ava file they had for evidence.

Meanwhile, he couldn
’
t swallow. Could hardly draw in air.

Bugger. He
’
d made her cry.

“
This is amazing evidence.
”
Sammy’s voice was hyped.
“
You can
’
t dispute that. Did you know about this?
”

“
No. She didn
’
t tell me.
”
And now he knew why. Ava probably didn
’
t realize he
’
d turned the camera back on and if she
’
d told him about the experience then she
’
d have to explain why she was upset. She didn
’
t want him to know he
’
d made her cry.

A woman like Ava didn
’
t cry over a man unless he was already in her heart.

Bugger.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “
She
’
s getting to me.
”

“
She
’
s been getting to you from day one.
”

“
Yeah.
”
Except now he
’
d made love to her, slept beside her, and didn
’
t know if he could walk away intact. He grabbed the headphones once more and placed them over his ears. Sammy took the hint.

He watched the wave patterns on his laptop and listened to the audio feed, trying to get the sight of Ava
’
s tears out of his head. He
’
d reached the segment where she was trapped in the attic, forgetting he
’
d already switched on the recorder. At the time, he
’
d turned it on while vaulting up the stairs, then shoved it in his back pocket. Hearing his own voice screaming for her made his blood chill. He
’
d never been so afraid for another person in all his worthless life. He hadn
’
t been kidding when he
’
d told Ava his heart stopped.

He swiped a hand down his face, trying to dislodge the replay of that fear from his mind and almost missed the voice. He rewound and played it back.

Bloody hell.

“
Sammy, you
’
ve got to hear this.
”
Jackson described to Sammy what went on in the attic, setting the scene for her.
“
This was right as the trapdoor reopened.
”

Jackson
’
s voice screaming for Ava came through the speakers and then the click of the trapdoor shortly after. Silence followed for a few beats. Jackson
’
s heavy breathing filled the speakers as he climbed the ladder to get inside the attic.

I wouldn’t hurt her.

Sammy gasped. “
Oh my God. So why lock her in the attic?
”

“
Maybe he was locking me out.
”
Jackson typed in a few keys.
“
Let
’
s see if he says anything else.
”

They listened as he and Ava unwrapped the pictures she
’
d found. When they came to the portrait of Peter Trumble and Ava said,
“
It
’
s been here all along.
”
Sammy’s jaw dropped.

“
Play that back,
”
she ordered.

He did.

You found me.

Jackson sucked in a breath. His hands fisted. Elation and awe warred until he was near tears himself. “
Ava was right. The voice we heard
was
Peter Trumble.”

Suddenly, he needed air. And space. And
…
Ava.

Jackson glanced at the ceiling. It was late. She was already asleep by now. He wondered where he was supposed to sleep tonight, her room or his.
“
I
’
m going to take a walk and then turn in. We can pick this back up tomorrow.
”

Shrugging into his coat, he stepped out onto the porch where he was immediately assaulted by a bitter and brutal wind. The three inches of snow that had fallen had been cleared from the walks and streets, but icy patches remained as he made his way through the gate and down the sidewalk. The snow glinted off the streetlights and smelled fresh. Clean.

He stopped and faced the ocean from the sidewalk. In front of him and slightly to the right was the Trumble family cemetery. To the left was an open expanse of land scattered with snow-covered boulders and mature, dormant maples.

Ava had said she owned several acres of land just beyond the cemetery where she could build a house if she so chose. His memory reeled at why she wouldn
’
t go that route.

The architect in him began designing the lot. A small-scale Victorian loomed in his mind
’
s eye, the exterior a muted yellow and the front porch white. He
’
d put a widow
’
s walk in the plans, facing the ocean, so Ava could sit and read and drink her tea on calm nights. He
’
d install a wrought-iron fence out back like the one edging the cemetery to protect the kids from the danger near the cliffs.

The kids she
’
d never have because Jackson was going to make damn sure she kept the mansion. The kids he
’
d never conceive with her because he was leaving. And the house that would never be built because this illusion was all going to end in a week.

Still, the image remained in his head. The perfect house. A little boy and a little girl. The idea didn
’
t knock him back in surprise this time around. Instead, it wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

He jumped when his cell vibrated in his pocket, then sighed as the dream in his head dissolved away. He checked his cell screen. Mum, the night owl, though it was only nine p.m. in Colorado.

“
How are you?
Where
are you?”
Mum asked.

He ignored the how and focused on the where.
“
Maine. Right on the shores of the Atlantic.
”

“
I always wanted to visit there,
”
she said longingly, as if she
’
d never get the chance.

“
You should come up here sometime. There
’
s a new little bed and breakfast opening in the spring.
”

“
Maybe.
”
But she said it like an afterthought.
“
Did you renew your contract with the show?
”

“
Not yet.
”

“
Are you going to?
”

He lifted his head to the inky sky, littered with stars. The view from New York was nothing like this. Nor London, nor Denver.
“
I don
’
t know,
”
he admitted.

“
If you don
’
t, are you planning on coming back here?
”

His mum
’
s tone held no demand, only curiosity. He had a feeling it didn
’
t matter to her one way or another where he landed, just as long as he called once in awhile. She was a woman who understood his anxiety being in one place for too long. He inherited it from her.

Before he could answer, she was talking again.
“
I
’
m thinking of selling the house. I
’
m never here.
”

His mum ran from memories like he ran from commitment.