Return To Stony Ridge

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Prologue

Late April

Rain lashed the car. It was all he could do to hold it steady as the storm swirled around them. He could barely see the narrow, twisting road despite the frequent tongues of lightning in the night sky. Next to him, his wife slumped still and silent, her head flopping against the side window. In the backseat, the baby cried. The woman beside the baby stirred and moaned softly.

Finally, his straining headlights picked up the gleam of metal on the side of the road. Pulling up beside the parked vehicle, he stopped. In seconds, he was drenched as he transferred the crying child from the small car to the larger SUV.

Returning to the car, he hauled his sister-in-law’s half-conscious form from the backseat and placed her behind the steering column of the small car. Despite her bruised face, she managed to open one eye and look at him accusingly.

“You should have minded your own business,” he told her. He swung, enjoying the power as his fist smashed into her face once more and he felt her cheekbone shatter. Her head pitched forward, hitting the steering wheel. Even though there was no one around to hear, he was glad she missed the horn. He positioned her body carefully, placing her foot on the gas pedal and using her heavy purse to hold it there. Lowering both side windows, he moved her unresisting hands to the wheel and glanced toward his wife. She hadn’t moved, though he had jostled her getting her sister into position. Her head now slumped forward, away from the window. It was possible she was already dead. He didn’t bother to check.

The roadway slanted steeply toward the narrow bridge over Leary Creek. Water lapped at the road, inching its way up the black surface in his direction. The top of the guardrail was the only visible indication of where the bridge stood. The creek was a swollen, raging river after two days of continuous heavy rain, and the angry water continued to rise with impossible speed, cascading across the bridge with a terrible roar.

Aiming the car, he put it in gear and quickly leaped back out of the way. The car lurched forward, gathering speed as it rolled toward the rising water.

Lightning and thunder crashed overhead. He watched the car plunge into the water where it was caught in the fierce current. The small vehicle instantly began drifting in the direction of the water’s flow—over the bridge. Impatiently, he waited as it hung on the guardrail until a wave of debris-filled water washed against it with stunning force. The car was lifted and sent tumbling along with the swiftly flowing current until the open windows invited the waves inside. The car sank from view a moment later.

He tossed the roiling water a jaunty salute. “Goodbye, wife.”

Then he hurried back to his son and the dry warmth of the waiting SUV.

Chapter One

Mid-September

The darkness beyond the rain-streaked window was as tempting as it was scary. Ten-year-old Ian Sutter peered through the pane of glass at the blurry line of trees that formed a forbidding barrier stopping the expansive lawn in its tracks. The tree’s ghostly limbs swayed ominously as a gust of wind sped by.

Ian shivered. Had he really seen something move in their stark depths? He surveyed the dark bedroom. He wanted to climb back into bed and curl up beneath the covers, but he couldn’t do that. He was late. It was past time to start his patrol. His mother slept soundly in the big bed across from him. It wouldn’t do to wake her.

He felt the familiar coil of helplessness when he thought about his mom. Ian hated that he was only ten. He wanted to be older, bigger, stronger. Strong enough to keep anyone from ever hurting her again.

Ian slid out of bed. He patrolled the scary old house every night to be sure no one had found a way inside after the adults had gone to bed. His mother believed they were safe behind the gates and locked doors of Heartskeep, but Ian didn’t believe it for a minute. They’d never be safe if he found out where they were.

Patrolling was important. Flashlight in hand, Ian slipped out the door and started down the narrow back staircase. Mrs. Norwhich, the cook, always left a night-light on in the huge kitchen, but tonight there was no light. The room was a vast black shadow despite the bank of windows along the rear wall.

Ian shivered. He wasn’t afraid of the dark. He was cold, that was all. His flashlight beam swept the empty room, allowing shadows to dance about the walls. He clicked the beam off to conserve his batteries and crossed to check that the alarm system was softly glowing red. It was. And the door was bolted, as it should have been. By touch he could also tell that each window was locked.

About to turn away, he froze. Something had moved outside. Heart pounding, he waited, his eyes straining to see across the grass to the opening where the maze led toward the fountain. At first, nothing happened, but he knew he hadn’t imagined the motion. An indistinct figure suddenly appeared in the maze opening. It stood as still as death, barely visible as it gazed up at the house. Ian drew back hastily. The figure vanished. He was almost certain it had been the blond ghost.

He waited for several long minutes, but nothing else moved.

A man or a ghost?

Ian panted as excitement warred with fear. He wanted it to be the ghost. He was far less afraid of ghosts. Unless…would the ghost be angry he’d been spying? Would it come for him if it was?

The ghost wouldn’t hurt him. Ghosts couldn’t hurt people.

Could they?

For a moment, he wondered if he should tell someone what he’d seen. Not his mother. He’d just upset her, and she wouldn’t believe him, anyhow. She hadn’t before when he’d tried to tell her about the man who’d disappeared in the corner of the dining room. She’d told him she didn’t believe in ghosts. Then she’d hugged him with her good arm and started to cry. He didn’t like to make his mother cry. It made him feel all sick inside.

Mrs. Walsh would listen. She always listened. But even she would think he’d been dreaming. Ian continued to stare out toward the maze. Leaves kicked about by the slight breeze rustled across the grass. Nothing else moved.

He fingered his flashlight nervously. He was pretty sure ghosts couldn’t hurt people. Better to finish his rounds and go back upstairs. There was nothing anyone could do about a ghost. But he’d hurry just in case it came inside again.

A SOFT CLOUD OF MIST drifted above the eerie trees and began to settle like a fine white shroud, blurring the dark ribbon of road stretching before her. Her headlights cut such a dim swath through the darkness they were all but useless. White-knuckled, Teri Johnson gripped the steering wheel as the trees swayed overhead. She forced tired eyes to stare through the windshield, pretty sure she was lost again.

Her instinctive dislike of the mysterious R.J. Monroe escalated another notch. If not for his interference she could have rescued Valerie and Corey this morning. She’d been so close!

Teri blinked wearily. Her need for sleep was growing critical. The few winks she’d snatched on the front seat of her car while waiting for the fog to dissipate this morning hadn’t been nearly enough. Every time she thought about how close she’d come to being caught inside the old farmhouse, adrenaline jazzed her all over again.

She’d been driving for eight to ten hours now, thanks to that blasted detour, and if she didn’t find the turnoff leading to Monroe’s place in another few minutes she was going to…

What? Turn around and go back? Not an option.

Pull over and have a good cry? Certainly appealing, but a waste of time.

Where was the blasted turnoff? The man at the gas station hadn’t implied it was this far out. But what had he said? She couldn’t remember and the mist was turning to rain, making visibility a joke.

She heard the raspy sound of her breathing in the quiet of the car as her tension increased. She could no longer see the asphalt well enough to spot any standing water before she drove into it. She had to turn back.

Then she spotted a road to her left unmarked by lights. Only a dim reflection off the street sign told her she’d found her turn. In her relief and haste, she didn’t see the water until it was splashing against the car wheels, bringing her heart into her throat.

Teri drew a ragged breath of relief as she cleared the water. Her hands were slick and they trembled. What had she been thinking? She should have waited for morning. She was too tired for a confrontation tonight.

“Heck of a time to come to that decision.”

And she was talking to herself again. Great.

This was a bad idea. She really should turn around, find a motel for the night and come back first thing in the morning. But up ahead was a badly listing mailbox. Without it, Teri would have driven past without spotting the narrow driveway.

She braked. There was no name on the mailbox, but this had to be the place. The attendant had said the house was well off the main road, but this entrance couldn’t have been better hidden if it had been planned that way.

Maybe it had been.

Or maybe she was in the wrong place completely. Would a building contractor have a gravel driveway this deeply rutted and in such serious need of repair? Towering trees waved and bent overhead. The wind was doing its best to shake the leaves from their branches. Beginning to yellow for the season, they flattened across her windshield, clinging to the glass and defying the wipers that threatened to rip them aside.

And as the small coupe jounced and splashed its way over the deep ruts, her misgivings turned to certainty. Driving up to a stranger’s front door at this hour of the night was a stupid thing to do. Teri knew nothing about R.J. Monroe except that he’d come between her and her goal. Maybe she should think through her approach instead of simply barging up there and challenging the man. What if he wasn’t alone?

What if he was?

Spotting a small break in the trees lining the right side of the driveway, Teri slipped the car into the grassy clearing and switched off the headlights. The house, ablaze with lights, loomed ahead. She stared at the lovely old structure, hungry for repairs to the sagging front porch and the chipped, damaged gingerbread finish. The clapboards badly needed paint, while the weedy, overgrown front yard cried out for pruning and decent landscaping.

If Monroe was a general contractor, would his place really look like this? Talk about bad advertising. But maybe he’d just bought the house and was planning to restore it. There was a stately grandeur about the structure that had appeal despite its condition.