The Stroke of Winter(59)

“Not to mention finding out my uncle and the woman in the painting were lovers. Don’t forget that.”

Wyatt pulled her close. “It’s a lot. You must be exhausted.”

Tess leaned her head onto his arm as they walked. He was right. She was exhausted. Bone tired. Yet her mind wouldn’t shut off. “Did you have any idea it was blood?” she asked, finally.

“No,” Wyatt said. “We both thought it was paint. That’s totally reasonable. But what I’m wondering is . . .”

“Whose blood?” Tess said.

“Exactly.” Wyatt took a deep breath and let it out, the steam visible in the chilly air. “I mean, this seems like delicate territory that we’ve stumbled into. Your grandmother shut up that room. Now, knowing what we know, it seems obvious that this is the reason. Blood was shed there. She found it.”

“Agreed,” Tess said. “We can’t ask her why.”

They crunched along on the snow, the dogs straining at their leashes, until they reached Wyatt’s door.

Before he unlocked it, he turned to Tess, a grin on his face. “This isn’t exactly the way I imagined asking you to spend the night with me.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “So, you didn’t think a disembodied scream piercing the night air and the police finding a crime scene in my house would be romantic? Weird.”

Wyatt unlocked the door, and the dogs ran inside in a flurry, with Wyatt turning on lights as he went.

They stood in the entryway for a moment, just looking at each other.

“What now?” Tess said.

Wyatt shrugged. “Pizza and a movie? The Superior Café delivers.”

Tess exhaled a long breath. “That sounds absolutely perfect,” she said. “Do you mind if I put my things away and change into my sweats first?”

“No! That’s great!” Wyatt said, a little too loudly. “Uh—the guest room is the second door on the right upstairs. While you’re doing that, I’ll get the pizza ordered.”

Tess smiled at him, rather weakly, over her shoulder as she climbed the wide oak stairs. She ran her hand along the ornately carved banister as she went. The hallway was long, like hers, a deep-red Oriental runner spanning the entire length of it. She counted six doors. Squelching the desire to peek into every one, she opened the door to the guest room Wyatt had specified and found it to be just as she imagined it would be—a bed with a grand headboard and footboard, and what looked to be a hand-carved dresser with an enormous cloudy mirror on top. She wondered how old it was.

It seemed fitting the family of the town’s founder should live in one of Wharton’s most beautiful homes. What would John Wharton think of it? What would Elizabeth think of the town that had sprung up where her village had been, and mysteriously disappeared? If it had ever been there at all.

She set her bag on an old, threadbare, shabby-chic wingback chair in the corner of the room and drew out the leggings, soft sweatshirt, and slippers she had packed, laying them on the bed. She noticed the en suite bathroom door was ajar. She flipped on the light to find a claw-foot tub, fluffy towels, and an old-fashioned pedestal sink with hot and cold faucets. Next to it was a glassed-in shower, with fixtures that looked equally as old. She wondered if it was original. But could that be? Did they put showers in houses back when this was built?

Tess set her travel kit on the side of the sink and opened it up, staring into it for a moment. She had intended to do a quick touch-up—splash some water on her face, brush her teeth and hair, apply some moisturizer—but instead, on impulse, she pulled her hair back in a ponytail, peeled off her clothes, and turned on the shower.

She stood under the warm water and drank in the steam, breathing in and out, allowing the day’s stress to wash off her and into the drain. Tears came then, as they often did. Tears of stress and frustration, of fear at the unholy scene they had just witnessed, and even of anger at the knowledge that there was something in her house, something she would have to deal with. On top of everything else. Part of her wished she had never opened that door. But then again, the scratching had started before the door was opened and the room disturbed. It was almost as though her intention to open it had brought the studio’s old trauma—whatever it had been—to life.

Smelling fresh from the body wash, she toweled off and slipped into her comfy things. She ran a brush through her hair and applied moisturizer to her face. And then she walked out of the door and into the hallway, turning back to flip off the bedroom light. Then she thought better of it and left it on.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN



Back downstairs, Tess found Wyatt at his kitchen table, the dogs nowhere in sight. She noticed the oven was on, and the intoxicating smell of pizza filled the room.

“That delivery was quick,” she said.

“It doesn’t take them long. I kept it warm in the oven.” Wyatt pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the room to the cabinets, where he grabbed two plates. He held them out to Tess, along with a roll of paper towels. “You take these. I’ll take the pizza. Into the den we go. I suspect that’s where the dogs are.”

Tess followed Wyatt down the hallway to his cozy den and saw that the fire was already blazing. And sure enough, there were the three dogs, curled up together like a pack of wolves in the snow. What an impressive sight they were, tails curled around their noses. All three pricked up their ears when Tess and Wyatt walked into the room, but none stirred. Even Storm was as content as Tess had ever seen him.