Till Death(2)

Those three words had been cycling over and over from the moment I’d made the decision to return home. I almost couldn’t believe I was actually sitting here, that I’d done what I’d said I’d never do.

As a child, I’d been convinced the inn had been haunted. How could it not be? The Georgian-style mansion and the adjacent carriage house were older than dirt, used as a part of the Underground Railroad and rumored to have been occupied by injured and dying soldiers after the bloody Battle of Antietam.

Floorboards creaked throughout the night. Cold spots lingered in rooms. The old dimly lit servants’ staircase had creeped me out like nothing else. Shadows always seemed to slink along the wallpapered walls. If ghosts were real, then this inn, the Scarlet Wench, should be full of them. And as a twenty-nine-year-old fully grown woman, I was still convinced it was haunted.

Haunted by a different kind of ghost now.

What roamed those narrow halls on the upper levels, tiptoed across polished floors, and hid in the darkened stairwells was the old Sasha Keeton from ten years ago, before . . . before the Groom came to the town where nothing ever happened, and destroyed everything.

I’d sworn that I would never come back to this town, but like Grandma Libby used to say all the time, never say never.

Sighing, I pushed away from the wall and looked down the hall.

Maybe I wouldn’t have flipped out so strongly if I hadn’t heard the news on the radio just as I was leaving the interstate—news of a woman missing from Frederick. I caught the tail end of her name—Banks. She was a nurse at Memorial Hospital. Her husband had last seen her the morning she’d left for work.

My breath caught as a cold shiver skated over my skin. Frederick was not far from Berkeley County. Usually a forty-five-minute drive on days when the traffic wasn’t bad. The tips of my fingers felt icy as I opened and closed them.

One missing person was horrible and sad, incredibly tragic no matter the circumstances. Multiple missing people was terrifying, major news, and a pattern—

Cursing under my breath, I cut those thoughts off. The missing woman had nothing to do with me. Obviously. God knows I fully understood how traumatic a missing person could be, and I really hoped that the woman was found safe, but it had nothing to do with me.

Or with what happened ten years ago.

The brisk early-January winds rolled across the roof, startling me. My heart thundered against my ribcage. I was as skittish as a mouse in a room full of starved cats. This was—

My cellphone rang, jarring me out of my thoughts. Bending over, I reached inside the oversized hobo bag and dug around until my fingers curled around the slim surface. I pulled it out, lips twitching when I saw the caller.

“Sasha,” Mom said the moment I hit answer. Her laugh made my smile spread. “Where in the world are you? I saw your car out front, but you’re nowhere to be found.”

I winced a little. “I’m upstairs. I got out of the car and started to walk in, but I . . .” I didn’t want to say the words, admit how unnerved I was.

“Do you need me to come upstairs?” she asked immediately, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

“No. I’m fine now.”

There was a pause. “Sasha, honey, I . . .” Mom faded off, and I could only wonder what she was about to say. “I’m glad you’re finally home.”

Home.

Most twenty-nine-year-olds would feel like a failure if they returned home, but for me, it was the opposite. Coming home was an accomplishment, a feat not easily completed. Opening my eyes, I swallowed another sigh. “I’m coming down.”

“I was guessing you would.” She laughed again, but it sounded shaky. “I’m in the kitchen.”

“Okay.” I clenched the phone tighter. “I’ll be there in a few.”

“All right, honey.” Mom hung up, and I slowly placed my phone back in the bag.

For a moment, I stood stock-still, rooted to the floor, and then I nodded curtly. It was time.

It was finally time.



I was floored.

The inside looked nothing like I remembered. I stepped through the foyer, blown away by the change that had taken place in the last ten years.

Purse dangling from my fingertips, I slowly made it through the main floor. The vases full of artificial orchids were new and the dated chairs by guest check-in were gone. The two great rooms had been opened up to create one large space. Soothing gray paint replaced the flowery wallpaper. The old traditional chairs with the velvet upholstery had been changed to teal-and-white thick-cushioned wingback chairs strategically placed around the end tables for easy conversation. The brick fireplace had been stripped back and painted white.

Another surprise waited when I entered the dining area of the inn. Gone was the cold, formal table that forced every guest to eat together if they dined at the inn. I’d always hated that, because hello, awkward. Five large round tables covered in white linen were staged throughout the large room. The fireplace in here was painted to match the one in the sitting room. Flames rippled behind the glass. A station to serve drinks had been moved into the room and sat catty-corner to the fireplace.

The Scarlet Wench had finally come into the twenty-first century.

Had Mom mentioned this at some point? We’d talked on the phone a lot and Mom had visited in Atlanta multiple times in the last ten years. She had to have brought this up. She probably had, but I tended to zone out anything related to this town, and I must’ve zoned out way too much.