Hidden Agenda

She blinked, waiting and holding her breath to get a glimpse of the back of the house again.

The next time the sky lit, Bailey saw him. A man stood at the back door, his fists pounding against the wood. She didn’t have to hear the knocks to know they were forceful, almost angry.

He was trying to get inside, she realized.

Desperate to get inside, for that matter.

The only reason someone would want to get in here was to start trouble. Mr. Carter had said some cryptic things in his final days. He’d spoken of someone coming here and destroying people. He’d urged Bailey to protect his things.

She’d thought Mr. Carter had been delusional. But what if there was more to his words? What if in his last moments he’d finally spoken the truth? Though a pleasant and friendly man, he’d been so private, so selective in what he shared.

With the force of a bolt of electricity, Bailey realized that she had to get down from here before the man at the back door saw her.

Just as she took a step back, the man lifted his head.

Looked right at her.

Even with the distance between them, Bailey felt the anger in the man’s gaze.

A black cloak fell outside again, and the man disappeared.

The next instance, the sky filled with light again.

Just in time for her to see the stranger kick the door open.

Bailey had to hide, she realized. Now. It was only a matter of time before the intruder found her.

* * *

Ed Carter saw the figure on the widow’s walk. For a moment—and just a moment—he thought he’d seen a ghost. Not that he believed in ghosts. But the woman had looked so eerie, especially with the blanket around her shoulders and the sullen look on her face.

Then he realized an intruder was lurking in the house.

In his dad’s house.

Could she be the same person who’d killed his father? That was his best guess. Maybe she’d stuck around, using some kind of alias as she tried to stake claim to his father’s fortune. Money made people do crazy things, like declaring to be long-lost relatives. For all he knew, his father had gotten remarried—to the wrong woman. As crazy as that sounded, it was the best-case scenario.

The worst-case scenario was that his father had brought classified information here. Information that people wanted. The wrong people wanted and would do anything to get their hands on.

Ed intended to put an end to all of this. Now.

Ed knew the truth. Despite his father’s congestive heart failure, he had not died of natural causes, and Ed would prove it.

He forgot about formalities and about trying to preserve his dad’s house. All thoughts of coming home and paying respects to his dad, of both mourning and celebrating his dad’s life, disappeared.

With expert training, he kicked the door. Wood splintered from the hinges, revealing the inside of the house. His years in the CIA had taught him a few things.

More than he would have liked sometimes.

He stared at the blackness oozing from the interior. It was thick, almost as though the darkness was a material thing.

He reached for the light switch. The electricity was out. Of course.

A storm like this could literally wipe out the whole island and send it toppling into the bay. Not to mention what it could do for the power grid of the small, isolated community.

As if to confirm his theory, lightning slashed the sky behind him, followed by a loud rumble of thunder. This storm was a beast.

He’d barely made it to the island in time. The pilot he’d hired was an expert. The storm came on faster than anticipated, and they’d landed just before the squall unleashed at full force. If his pilot hadn’t been so experienced, the plane would have probably crashed in the high winds and massive downpour.

Ed had waited inside the tiny, two-room airport for a break in the weather before traveling the island roads, which were only accessible by golf cart or bike. A man at the airport had informed him that the bridge leading to his father’s estate was treacherous with the rising tide.

But after a couple of hours of waiting, Ed had decided to take his chances. Alvin, the town chauffeur, had agreed to give him a ride to the bridge in a covered golf cart and bring Ed’s luggage for him later. Meanwhile, his pilot chose to camp out at the airport so he could leave as soon as the storm passed.

Once Ed had waded through the water and reached the house, he’d discovered that his key to his dad’s place no longer worked.

In the storm, the place looked even creepier than Ed remembered. It was a Georgian-style mansion with towers on the sides and a widow’s walk stretching across the roof. A shipping captain had built the place after staking claim to a good portion of land on the island nearly a century ago.

As the eerily silent house surrounded him, Ed remembered the figure on the widow’s walk. He didn’t have any time to waste.

He shook some water off himself and reached under his coat to retrieve his handgun, turning on the penlight on top so he’d have some light. In his line of work, one could never be too careful.

Moving slowly, carefully, he stepped deeper into the house.

He scanned the kitchen. There was no sign of movement. He doubted the woman would have been able to get from the widow’s walk down here in that short amount of time.

Where had she gone? Had she hidden? Tried to escape?

He wasn’t sure. But he was going to find out.

Locating the woman in a house this massive, with so many twists and turns and back hallways, would be difficult. He’d start by going to the second level, and then he’d travel toward the staircase leading toward the widow’s walk.

He walked slowly, daring any of the wooden steps to creak and announce his presence. If he’d learned one thing through the years, it was how to be quiet and stealthy, how to be light on his feet and disappear into the shadows.

He reached the hallway and headed to the right. A long line of doors waited there, each a potential trap. He kept his gun drawn and his steps steady. He reached the first door and pushed it open.

An empty bedroom stared back at him.

He did the same at the next two doors.

At the fourth door, he paused when he saw the edge of a blanket on the floor.

He turned and spotted a woman behind the door. The woman. With a lamp above her head, poised like a baseball bat.

“I don’t think so,” she mumbled, starting to swing.

In one swift motion, he slid his gun back into the holster and grabbed her arm—just in time to stop her from crashing the ceramic base on his head. He squeezed her wrist until the lamp shattered onto the floor. The woman gasped, her eyes widening with surprise and fear. He still didn’t let go of her. No telling what she would try next.

“Are you crazy?” He kept his voice low and serious, refusing to break his gaze. If anything, he knew how to handle himself in tense situations.