Dream Lake (Friday Harbor #3)(20)

“She’s here,” the ghost said, as they heard the crunch of tires on the graveled driveway.

“Great,” Alex said dourly. The prospect of talking to Zoë, interacting in even the most mundane way, was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He reached up to the back of his neck to rub the tense muscles.

The ghost had been right when he’d called Alex a coward. But Alex wasn’t worried for his own sake.

The failed marriage with Darcy had confirmed some of the worst things he had ever suspected about himself. It had taught him that intimacy not only gave you the weapons but the will to hurt the people you were closest to. And most of all it had convinced him that he was fated to end up like both his parents. He would inevitably destroy everything and everyone he cared about.

The worst of the damage had become apparent after he and Darcy had separated. They’d continued to have sex on the occasions when she came to the island. “For old time’s sake,” Darcy had said at one point, but there had been nothing of reminiscence or regret in their savage encounters. Only anger. Retaliation. They’d f**ked each other out of mutual resentment, and the worst part was that it had been far better than any experience they’d shared out of affection. He was still haunted by the memories of what they’d done, how they had turned each other into the worst possible versions of themselves.

There was no return to innocence after that.

And there was no place in his life for anyone like Zoë Hoffman. The only act of kindness he could offer was to keep his distance from her.

Before going to the front entrance, Alex said sotto voce, “Stay out of my way and don’t distract me while I’m talking to her. People tend not to hire schizophrenic contractors.”

“I’ll shut up,” the ghost promised.

Doubtful. But they both knew that if the ghost pissed Alex off, he would refuse to go through the attic and sift through the heaps of long-forgotten junk that might yield a clue about his former life. And the ghost desperately wanted to find out who he was. Although Alex would never have admitted it, he’d become just as curious. It was impossible not to wonder why the ghost had been condemned to such merciless isolation. Maybe the ghost was paying for his past sins—maybe he’d been some kind of criminal or lowlife. But that didn’t explain why Alex had ended up towing him around.

Alex cast a suspicious glance at him, but the ghost didn’t appear to notice. He was staring at the house, and Zoë’s approaching figure, mesmerized by distant shadows.

To Zoë’s consternation, a pickup truck was already parked beneath the carport. Was Alex there already? It was still five minutes before they were supposed to meet.

Her heartbeat quickened to a sharp staccato. She parked beside the truck and consulted the visor mirror, and checked to make certain the buttons of her flower-print shirt were fastened. The top two had been left undone to her collarbone. After a moment’s thought, she fastened those as well. Emerging from the VW, she approached the truck and realized it was empty. Had Alex found a way inside the house?

She crossed the gravel in her pink leather flats and went to the front door and found it was still locked. Delving into her bag, she found the keys from the property management company. The first one didn’t work. As she extracted the second key and jiggled it into the lock, she became aware of someone approaching from the side. It was Alex, who had been walking around the exterior of the house. He had an athletic, loose-limbed way of moving, his body nearly rawboned in a black short-sleeved shirt and jeans. He came to stand beside her, a large and brooding presence.

“Hi,” she said with forced cheer.

Alex gave her a brief nod, the sunlight sliding across the layers of his dark hair. He was almost inhumanly beautiful, with those angular cheekbones and strongly marked brows, and eyes of frozen fire. Something restless lurked beneath his controlled façade, as if he hadn’t had enough food, or enough sleep, or enough something. That mysterious and unexpressed need practically glowed through his skin.

No doubt his divorce had taken a physical toll—he could have used a few good meals. Zoë couldn’t help thinking of what she would make for him, given the opportunity. Maybe butternut squash soup, graced with hints of tart green apple and smoky bacon, served with yeast rolls brushed with butter and a sprinkle of sea salt.

She turned the key harder in the resisting lock, her mind still occupied with the imaginary dinner. Maybe she would cook something heavier and more filling … meat loaf made with pork, veal, and crumbs from rustic French bread. Mashed potatoes swirled with caramelized scallions … and a side of green and yellow wax beans sautéed slowly in olive oil and garlic until they were melting-tender—

Zoë’s musings were interrupted as the door key snapped in two. To her dismay, she realized that part of the metal had broken off in the lock. “Oh.” She flushed and darted a mortified glance at Alex.

His face was inscrutable. “That happens with old keys. They tend to get brittle.”

“Maybe we could try to enter through a window.”

He glanced at the key ring in her hand. “Is there another house key?”

“I think so. But you’d have to get the broken one out of the lock first …”

Without a word, Alex went to his truck, reached inside, and pulled out a vintage red metal toolbox. He brought it to the front porch, and rummaged through a clatter of tools.