Dammit.

How could he have known that the old bastard had installed an alarm at the worthless shop?

He leaned against a nearby building, resting his forehead against the harsh brick. That had been close—too close. If she or Nath had seen him…it’d be all over.

He looked around to be certain no one had followed—but no one had. He’d slammed Nath into the wall hard enough to stop him in his tracks, and that had given him the chance to get away.

He had to find that journal and those bank statements. Desperation crawled up his spine, and he ruthlessly shoved it back.

Not for the first time, he raised his face to the heavens and cursed the old man…then gave a harsh laugh when he realized if there was a place to go after this life, he had gone down instead of up.

Bastard. Nevio must have known what he was doing, leaving that diary to chance. He must have known how it would make him crazy, wanting to get his hands on that money and fearing those secrets would be made known. The old bastard had hated him anyway—and leaving him a nice chunk of something in his will was just a slap in the face when he knew that the important things—the journal, the statements—were nowhere to be found. He’d know how crazy it would make him.

But, dammit…if they were anywhere, the papers had to be hidden in that antiques store.

Then he finally understood.

That was why the old bastard hadn’t left the shop to a family member.

* * *

It was crazy, but he couldn’t get Fiona out of his mind. Maybe it was the way she’d said, “You’re an incredible kisser,” and then laid one of her own mind-boggling kisses on him…and then breezed out the door without a glance.

Gideon pulled his gaze from the window back to his laptop. Somehow, work didn’t seem so necessary any longer. He had other things on his mind…at least, one other thing.

He gave himself a sharp, mental shake. Thoughts like that—distractions and obsessions—and diversion from good, hard work were what had ruined his father. Chasing pipe dreams and setting aside practical pursuits had screwed him up—diverted him into drugs and deals and a lifetime in jail.

It had ruined his mother’s life as well.

God, he missed her.

Gideon firmed his lips and sternly returned to his work, poising his fingers on the smooth, concave keys of the laptop.

Men like his father were poison for any woman, and he knew he had the same tendencies his old man had. Good thing he’d basically been raised by his grandfather—the old slave-driver. The old man, who’d actually begun to soften since meeting Iva, had never had time for unimportant things—like self-expression or daydreams. That was just as well. Gideon’s father had allowed self-expression to rule his life and daydreams to ruin it.

Gideon was a good attorney—an excellent one—he reminded himself again, and he was not about to allow himself to be swayed from what was really important.

Stability. Predictability. Nose-to-grindstone. Professionalism. Integrity.

Besides, allowing a woman to dictate to him who he could or couldn’t see was not going to happen in this lifetime. He didn’t need that from Fiona Murphy, or anyone. It was her loss, after all.

* * *

A week after the open house, Fiona and Carl were just closing up the shop. It was late Monday evening, and it had been a slow day—but an appreciated reprieve from a surprisingly brisk weekend.

“I’m glad we had a bit of a break today,” Fiona commented, leaning against the heavy walnut secretary that held the three lamps. Since Carl had come on board, she’d become ambivalent about that piece of furniture, and the weird lamp as well. Once he told her that the desk was pretty worthless—except for the fact that it was made of walnut—she lost her sense of awe toward it. They’d moved it out from the small alcove where it had been nestled under the staircase, and now it sat off to one side in the main part of the shop.

There had been no more unexplained lights, no more cool breezes. Everything seemed completely normal.

Carl nodded in response to her comment. “Yes, it was nice to spend time pricing some of that inventory in the back and upstairs. Listen, Fiona, do you mind if I take off now? My headache is raging, and all I want to do is lie down and take some aspirin. I don’t mean to leave you in the lurch or anything, but do you mind if I go?”

“No, not at all,” Fiona said breezily, although a wave of panic washed over her. She quashed it firmly. What was wrong with her?

She couldn’t avoid being alone in her own shop forever, for pity’s sake.

“Go on home and take care of yourself,” she said breezily, in case anyone—or anything—was around to hear.

He looked at her strangely. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”

“No, no.” Her cheeks heated. “Please, go on home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Carl left, Fiona realized that she had, in fact, been alone in her shop since he’d started working for her. Not for long, and not at night as she was now, but she had been alone. That made her feel better, and after Carl left, she turned on Janis Joplin and sang about Bobby McGee as she cleaned up for the night.

Fiona was sweeping along the back of the hall when she looked down in the place where that large walnut secretary had been sitting and noticed something yellow on the floor. When the broom didn’t pick it up, she crouched to see what it was.

Suddenly, a breeze—icy cold, sudden and cutting—zinged across her cheek and over the nape of her neck. The air moved so sharply it buffeted her hair.

Fiona swallowed hard, freezing in an awkward crouch. Her heart thudded nauseatingly as her stomach twisted, turning into a big, tight knot.

Then she smelled something, and a cold sweat broke out over her torso. Roses. Strong and sweet—it was definitely roses.

She breathed slowly, waiting.

Nothing happened. The scent of roses faded slightly, but the air was still cool, still stirred up.

Silence.

After a long moment when nothing more happened, she started to pull to her feet and noticed the yellow object again. Now she was close enough to see that it was a feather—dusty, old and mangled, but a feather nevertheless. It looked as though it was stuck under the wall. Fiona tried to pull it free, but it wouldn’t come.

“What’s the deal?” she asked, inexplicably frustrated. “It’s just a feath—”

A sudden moaning breeze whistled through the shop, and one of the crystal chandeliers began to vibrate. The tinkling, rocking of the ice-like obelisks was at first gentle…then became more insistent, almost as though someone was violently shaking its suspension chain.

Fiona looked up, her stomach wringing inside her. The fringe on one of the lamps ruffled with the gasp of air, and she closed her eyes, cold seeping through her numb body as the chandelier jumped and clinked with more urgency.

What is it?

Maybe it’s not just a feather…

Her hands icy and her skin clammy, Fiona looked at the feather again and saw there was a narrow space between the wall and the floor. Somehow, through the panic that trundled through her, it registered in her frozen mind that the wall was more uneven than the rest of the shop, and it looked different. She stared at the wall, wondering….

“Is there something behind there?” She spoke aloud to be certain she was heard. “Are you trying to tell me there’s something behind here?”

The wind roared louder, like a small cyclone circling above her and she stifled a small moan, covering her head as glass clinked and shades rattled. The entire room seemed to vibrate with rage and fear, and she was just about to try and make a run for it—to escape—when the wind stopped.

The chandelier quieted.

All was still.

“So,” she said softly, hugging her knees close to her chest and trying to keep her voice steady. “Just to be clear…no need to get loud again, all right? Just…if you’re trying to tell me there’s something behind the wall, could you just—”

The Lamp blinked on.

Her words caught in her throat, and Fiona swallowed hard, tensing. But the Lamp went off again, and the room—the entire shop—was silent and still.

Except for the remnant of roses on the air.

Even the temperature had changed, warming slightly.

“All right, then. Message received.” Fiona looked around, and when all remained silent, she rapped firmly on the wall.

It sounded hollow. She thought.

She sat back on her haunches and looked up—not yet brave enough to try and stand. Her heart rate had slowed, but her stomach still felt as though it was on a roller coaster. Her gaze followed the line of the wall, and she realized for the first time that the partition could have been added to enclose the area under the staircase…that same staircase that felt so cold and forbidding on her first day in the shop. It couldn’t be some sort of closet, for there was no door—nor was there any other way to access the area in the shop.

“What was he trying to hide?” She tried that idea aloud to see if there would be any response from whatever it was that made the cool breeze come.

Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona caught a movement behind her, and, stifling a shriek, she twisted around.

Gretchen landed softly on the floor next to her and looked at her with golden-brown eyes that were very knowing. She meowed, then rubbed her head along Fiona’s arm.

Swallowing the heart that had leapt into her throat at the cat’s sudden appearance, Fiona stared down at the introverted feline.

This was the first time the creature had made an overture toward her—usually, Gretchen stayed far out of everyone’s way. Her favorite perch was on the top of the stair railing that led to the small, dusty loft above. There she sat most days, her ink-black tail dangling, its end flicking as though disgruntled with the world.

“You like that idea, do you?” Fiona asked, reaching slowly to scratch Gretchen’s soft head. She felt more relaxed now—the cat was not reacting as though there was any sort of supernatural presence.

But she couldn’t deny that there was something going on in this shop.

She gingerly pulled to her feet, ready to duck if something rushed toward her again, and walked, half-stooped, down the hall to the back room of the shop. Perhaps there was some tool she could use to get through the wall.

But in the back, Fiona only found a broom and a toolbox with hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches much too small to be of any use.

She spoke to the room at large, just to let whatever it was know she would follow through on this odd situation.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar or something and get Carl to help me pry that plywood away,” she said, hastily reaching for her keys and purse as she sidled toward the back door, just in case the entity was of an impatient nature. “And I’ll see what it is old Valente had to hide.”

* * *

Fiona had no help from Carl the next day—for he’d called, explaining that he had the unexpected chance to meet with an historian from Williamsburg who was visiting the Henry Ford Museum across the state about a topic in his dissertation. Her head began to swim when he went on to describe the details—something to do with the way the floorboards in Colonial homes were laid compared to those in England—and Fiona cut him off and told him not to worry about it.

But much as she wanted to, she wouldn’t wait for his return. Despite her nervousness, she was dying to know what was behind that wall…and aside from that, she felt as if she’d made a promise to whoever or whatever was in the shop.

Fiona locked the front door of the store so that any arriving customer wouldn’t surprise her, then she hurried back to the little alcove under the stairs.

Hefting the crowbar, she glanced around to see Gretchen watching her avidly from a step halfway down the stairs. Her amber eyes seemed to glow with anticipation, rather than appearing sleepy or miffed as they usually did.

“Well, I hope I’m not about to make a fool out of myself over nothing,” Fiona murmured, shoving one end of the crowbar under the bottom of the wall.

She heaved and immediately felt the flimsy wood give. She heaved again and it cracked, splintering along near the floor. She found the seam between two thin pieces of plywood and shoved the crowbar between them. They came apart easily, splitting along under the thick paint job that hid the woodwork.

By the time she pulled a good chunk of plywood away, a dark hole yawned behind it and Fiona felt vindicated. There was some kind of room or storage area behind there, under the stairs, and obviously it contained something with a yellow feather.

Perhaps it was some old clothing—hats or costumes—and she might be able to sell it to a vintage clothing store. Or—she wrinkled her nose against the dust as much as from the thought—the feather could be attached to some victim of a taxidermist.

A rattling at the front door drew her attention from her task, and Fiona whirled to look toward the front. Sighing, she pushed a spiral of hair out of her face, tucking it back into the loose twist at the back of her head, and let the crowbar fall onto the floor. Dusting her hands over the jeans she’d chosen to wear today, she hurried to greet the customer at the locked door.

By the time she got to the front, though, no one was there, and she tsked in annoyance at the unnecessary interruption—and the potential loss of a customer.

She started back toward her project, pausing at the desk to grab a flashlight, and felt her stomach tingling. She couldn’t help but remember those Nancy Drew books she’d read growing up.

The titian-haired sleuth peered into the cavernous darkness, her flashlight beam glancing off the walls. The secret had to be there—the last clue to the Mystery of the Antique Light! Nancy’s pulse quickened when the flashlight illuminated a metal chest in the far corner….

Fiona smirked to herself as she thrust first the flashlight into the hole, followed by her head.

Then she screamed.