CHAPTER SIX
I have a job.
In the next couple of days following my visit to the lighthouse, my emotions swing between disbelief and outright giddiness. Maybe I haven’t been shipwrecked here after all. Maybe the lighthouse is still calling to weary sailors, saving them from the relentless battle of the sea. Maybe it’s beckoning me to safety as well.
Mysterious keeper notwithstanding.
How in the world did the lighthouse come to be inhabited by such a strange man? Why did he buy Max’s collection? What’s he hiding?
Maybe nothing at all. Maybe he’s just a loner type who fiercely guards his privacy. Given that my privacy has been ripped to shreds, I can respect the urge to lock it down, not let anyone in. Ever.
In spite of the peculiar job conditions and the reticence of my new employer, and the fact that the job hasn’t started yet, I’m already breathing so much easier. I’m half-tempted to call Juliette and tell her the news (guess what, Cruella?) but I suppress the urge. She’ll say something caustic that would burn right through my pride, and I refuse to let her do that.
So Lighthouse Guy is a super-hot, eccentric loner who wants to be left alone. Given the opportunity he just gave me, I’m more than happy to comply with his demands. He could have left this damsel in distress to fend for herself, but he didn’t.
I have a job.
Not just any job either—one in which I’ll be able to take care of my uncle’s beloved collection, the one I’d thought was gone forever. The task is both emotionally priceless and perfectly aligned with my expertise. The Max Dearborne collection is of great value and deserves to be properly inventoried.
And through a stranger’s generosity and a marvelous twist of fate, I get to be the one to do it. I can both honor my uncle and satisfy the art historian in me who has always wanted to ensure the collection is cataloged and preserved to archival standards.
Putting Max’s collection in order is a step toward putting my life—and myself—back in order. I can’t wait to get started.
The Friday before my first day of work, I give the kitchen a thorough cleaning while an electrician checks out the house’s wiring and fuse box.
After scrubbing all the cabinets, I toss the sponge into the sink and take the whistling kettle off the stove. I measure a few tablespoons of loose-leaf orange pekoe tea into an elegant, hand painted ceramic teapot and add boiling water.
The tea set with matching cups and spoons had been a gift from Graham’s wife, Mary, when I received my doctorate. For me, tea has become a ritual that keeps me somewhat stable. Even when a shitstorm had spun around me, I could find a few moments of peace in brewing and drinking a perfect cup of tea.
“Okay, miss.” The electrician, a gray-haired, bespectacled man, stomps up the basement stairs. “You’re good to go with the fuse box. You might want to take a look at rewiring the place if the lights keep blinking.”
“I was planning to just blame the ghosts.” I pour the tea into a cup.
He grins, setting his toolbox down. “You staying here long?”
“Through winter, probably.”
“Then you’ll need to get your HVAC system checked out too.” He takes a pad from his pocket and starts writing up the bill. “Had your windows and locks checked?”
“I had the locks changed and deadbolts installed when I moved in, but I haven’t had the windows checked yet.”
“You got an alarm system?”
“Not yet.”
He frowns. “And you’re out here by the forest alone?”
A shiver runs down my spine, which is odd. I’ve never been afraid of forests. Quite the contrary. My hikes among the redwoods aside, the forest is where fairy tale heroines—Snow White, the Goose Girl, Donkeyskin—find safety and shelter. It’s where they defeat wicked witches, discover magical helpers, get lost and find their way again.
“I’ve heard Castille is pretty safe.”
“Oh, sure, in town, yeah.” He tears the bill off the pad and hands it to me. “But with the economy going south, there’ve been some bad seeds, you know? Over in Benton, they had some issues with low-income housing, some folks got kicked out, couldn’t afford another place, and ended up camping out in the woods.”
He gestures to the woodlands spreading out acres past my house. “Caused some trouble, police had to run them out. I mean, yeah, the trails are great and fine during the day, but use common sense, you know? Look into getting an alarm system.”
“I will,” I promise. “Thanks for the advice.”
“Give me a call, I’ll get you some names.” He picks up his toolbox and heads for the door.
After he’s gone, I click the deadbolt and look at the bill, the total of which is a lot scarier than rumors about the dark woods. Chest tightening, I take out my checkbook and credit card statement to calculate how long the money I have will last. Minus this bill.
A knock comes at the front door. I open it and greet a delivery man holding a large box and a thick manila envelope. As I sign for both, I notice the box’s return address of a company called Cynet Corporation.
The delivery man leaves with a cheerful wave. I start to close the door when I catch sight of the large mutt stalking alongside the edge of the woodlands.
Though my heart kicks into gear, I grab the bowl of kibble I’d set beside the door for exactly this occasion. I set the bowl on the porch and retreat back into the house, closing the door behind me.
The humane society had responded that no one has reported a lost dog matching his description, but that I should either call animal control or bring him in if he keeps showing up.
I have no intention of trying to catch him, but I’m also a little worried that animal control might take him to the pound. And I’m not sure why—maybe because I can relate to his guarded stance and the suspicious glint in his eyes—I don’t want him to end up at the pound.
Plus, given the electrician’s warnings about the woods, it might not be a bad thing to have a large dog prowling around the house.
A crunching noise sounds faintly through the door. I peer out the front window, pleased to see the dog has accepted my offer and is gobbling down the kibble. Maybe if he associates me with food, he’ll stop growling.
I return to the kitchen and open the delivered box. Inside, carefully packaged in foam and bubble wrap, is a sleek, very expensive-looking laptop computer.
What the…
I scrounge around for a note, and find one typed onto the packing slip.
Eve, this is your work computer. It’s preloaded with a collections management software program. Bring it with you. Knock at the workroom door.—F
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, gently lifting the computer from the box.
Since he didn’t say I couldn’t also use it at home, I review the manual and study the software. The laptop is smooth and powerful, easily the most high-end computer I’ve ever used. Between the hardware and the professional database, it’s clear that Lighthouse Guy takes this cataloging job seriously. Good. So do I.
The envelope feels like it contains a sheaf of documents. Warily, I open it and pull out the infamous contract. He was serious about this too.
I skim the clauses and turn to the signature page. He’s already signed it, a barely legible scrawl with the name Flynn Alverton typed underneath.
Alverton.
I grab my phone. Though the signal is weak, I pull up a search engine and type in his full name. Guilt pinches my nerves. I constantly hope no one will do this to me, but I’m also always resigned to the fact that of course they will.
The search, however, yields nothing for anyone of that name. Not even a different person. He’s not listed on the website for the town of Castille as the current lighthouse keeper, he doesn’t have any social media accounts, and his name isn’t on any websites. In this day and age, the lack of a digital footprint is like he doesn’t even exist.
Leave it alone, Eve.
I don’t want people prying into my life. I have no right to pry into Flynn’s. Especially considering he’s the only person who not only offered me a job, but doesn’t seem to hold my past against me.
Maybe he doesn’t know about my past. It’s not likely—it seems like everyone here knows about me—but Flynn is obviously a bit different.
Doesn’t matter either way, as long as I do the job well and prove he’s done the right thing by hiring me.
As I’m putting my phone away, a text from Graham pops up: FYI, followed by a link to a news article in a Los Angeles paper. The short article claims that a former UCLA student, anonymous due to fears of retaliation, is accusing business professor David Landry of “systematic sexual harassment.” David has, of course, denied the charges.
I put my phone in my bag, not sure how to feel about that. Karma is a bitch, for sure. Yet knowing David has been preying on his students… could I have done anything else to expose him as the manipulative, lying creep that he is?
My stomach knots. I’ve gone over this a million times. I’d argued and fought tooth and nail, and I’d ended up fired, my voice silenced. I couldn’t have done anything more.
But the limits of David’s destructive force clearly haven’t yet been reached. He’s capable of more. Of that I have no doubt. And knowing he’s out there, a monster against whom I have no weapons… that’s the most terrifying thought of all.