He laughed. If his reaction hadn't been so annoying it might have sounded sexy. Sophie wasn't in the mood to find anything sexy.

"If that's the way you want to play it," he said amiably enough. "I just have one question."

"And that is?" she said icily.

"If you were saving it for so long, why'd you give it to me?"

She slammed the phone down.

The day went from hideously awful to even worse. Marty was lying in wait for her when she dragged herself downstairs, probably wondering why John Smith was calling her, wondering why she'd slept in. Sophie ignored her, heading straight for coffee, only to come face-to-face with Doc in her kitchen, peering at her from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, his kindly eyes worried.

Grace was the worst of all, of course. "He's a very handsome young man, our neighbor," she said artlessly as she poured more and more sugar into her coffee. Grace always drank her coffee black, without sugar. Doc finally realized what she was doing and he took the sugar bowl away from her, putting it out of reach and patting her hand.

"He's not that young," Sophie said with just a trace of a snarl. Marty had made the coffee, and it was too weak, on a morning when she needed the strongest coffee known to man.

"Just right for you, darling," Grace said with a dreamy smile. "He'd look after you, keep you safe."

"Why would Sophie need anyone to keep her safe?" Doc asked. "She strikes me as someone who can look after herself."

"I certainly can," Sophie said, but the two of them didn't seem interested in her opinion.

"She needs a man, and our Mr. Smith is a perfect candidate. Sexy, ruthless, just a little bit dangerous," Grace said. "He's got a good heart, and he'd be very loyal. He wouldn't let anyone hurt you."

"And you can tell that on the basis of two meetings?" Sophie said.

"No one's going to hurt Sophie, Grace," Doc said patiently.

Grace took a sip of her coffee, then pushed it away. "What did you do with the coffee?" she demanded. "It tastes like poison."

"You put too much sugar in it, Grace," Doc said. "Have mine."

She cast him a suspicious glance. "You didn't poison it?"

Doc patted her hand. "No, Grace. I promise you, I didn't poison it."

"All right then," she said, taking a sip. "Much better, but it's too weak. Sophie, where were you last night?"

The question jarred Sophie out of her abstraction. Doc and Grace were so busy arguing that she'd hoped she'd have a chance to sneak out before she got their attention again. Obviously that was a vain hope.

"In bed, Grace," she said, rising from the table in an attempt to forestall any more conversation.

"I imagine so. The question is, whose bed?" Grace tried to look arch, but the effect was ruined by her flyaway hair and her broken reading glasses.

Sophie had just enough time to notice Doc's stricken expression and Marty's avid interest before she rose from the table. "No bed but my own, Ma," she said firmly. In fact, it was the truth. She'd had sex on the floor, on a scratchy rug, and she had carpet burns on her butt to prove it.

"Too bad," Grace murmured. "But I haven't given up hope. Why don't you go see what Mr. Smith is doing today? Maybe you could seduce him."

"That's enough, Grace," Doc said gently. "You leave Sophie alone now."

But he didn't follow his own advice. Sophie escaped onto the porch with a mug of weak coffee, desperate for a few moments of peace to try to regain her usual calm, when Doc followed her out.

"Your mother's getting worse," he said, and Sophie almost felt relief. At least he wasn't going to question her about her sex life. Now that, inexplicably, she seemed to have one.

"Yes," Sophie said, rocking back on the padded glider. "You told me she'd deteriorate. I didn't think it would be this fast."

"Paranoia and hostility are key aspects of this stage of Alzheimer's. She's going to start accusing people of stealing things from her. Of trying to kill her. It'll be a difficult time, and you'll need patience. I'll do all I can to help."

She wanted to cry. "You're so good to us, Doc," she murmured. "I don't know what we'd do without you."

Doc sat down beside her on the glider. For all his seeming fragility he was a heavy man, but the glider was built to take it. "I just want to do what I can. Rima will help, too. She doesn't leave the house much nowadays, but she loves it when Grace comes to visit. Maybe we could make it a regular thing. Bring her in for a few hours every day. Rima would enjoy the company and you wouldn't have to worry about Grace getting into trouble."

"I couldn't ask that..."

"You're not. I told you, Rima would love it." He paused, as if trying to figure out how to broach a difficult subject, and Sophie braced herself for more questions about John Smith. Part of her wanted to tell Doc what happened, take advantage of his age and wisdom and calm good sense.

Maybe if he'd been a woman. The thought of telling Doc she'd had wanton sex on the floor of the old Whitten cottage with a man she barely knew, and then seeing the disappointment in his face, was unbearable.

But Doc didn't want to talk about sex or John Smith. "Grace says someone's been going through her room," he said. "Stealing her clothes, stealing her books, stealing all sorts of things. I'm sure it's just a fantasy on her part, but I thought I should warn you to be extra careful about her stuff. Even if you ask to borrow it she may not remember. If you take her clothes to be laundered she'll probably feel threatened. The best bet is to make sure she sees what you're doing and understands it. And if you find anything that worries you, don't hesitate to come to me. I'm here to help you, Sophie. You know that."

"I do know that, Doc," she said. "Thank you."

She should tell him about the knife. The stained, rusty hunting knife she'd found in Grace's drawers, but she stopped at the last minute. She didn't want anyone jumping to the conclusion that Grace was dangerous. Her mother must have found the knife somewhere and taken it, part of her magpie tendencies. Sophie was always finding strange things in Grace's room-tiny rocks and dried flowers and chewing gum and odd bits of jewelry. The knife was just a piece of that fascination with garbage.

"Promise me you'll tell me if you find something that worries you," he said.

"I promise," Sophie said. The knife didn't worry her. Grace was harmless, and the knife meant nothing.

He rose, and the glider slid back violently. "What about your neighbor? Has he been any bother? I can go talk to him if you want. You don't need your life complicated by sex at this point."

Her eyes flew open in shock. "Doc!" she protested.

Doc chuckled. "Yes, I know, you think I'm an old fart, but I understand human nature, and the desire for sex is very normal and natural. I just don't want to see you getting into any trouble. You like him, don't you?"

"Like him?" Sophie protested. "I can't stand him! He's a sneaky, treacherous human being who lies about everything, including who he is."

"And who is he?" Doc asked, curious.

"Some kind of reporter or writer, I think. Something to do with the old murders. I don't know what his name is, but it sure the hell isn't John Smith."

"Fascinating," Doc murmured.

"So trust me, I'm not going anywhere near him if I can help it."

"That's good," he said. "Because Marty said you came from his place just after dawn this morning, and you looked like you had a rough night."

"Marty must have been dreaming," Sophie said flatly. Funny, she never lied. But she was lying now, and quite easily.

Doc smiled down at her, but there was no disguising the worry in his eyes. "I hope so," he said. "But call me, any time of the day or night, if you need me."

What did he expect, Sophie wondered irritably after he left. That Grace would climb onto the rooftop like Mr. Rochester's crazy wife in Jane Eyre? She could take care of Grace, she could take care of Marty, and she could take care of herself.

It was the element of surprise, she decided. If she'd had any inkling that John Smith was interested in sleeping with her she would have kept her distance. Of course, there was no denying he'd kissed her yesterday afternoon, which should have given her a hint, one that she had studiously ignored. And she'd had no choice but to go there last night, when she thought Grace was missing. She couldn't let her mother wander around in the night.

So instead Sophie had ended up on the floor beneath a stranger, and she couldn't stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about him. How could her life have changed so much in one night?

It was silly to think she was somehow different. People made too much of a fuss over sex-it was a perfectly natural bodily function, and just because she'd avoided it for longer than most didn't mean it was any big deal. And it wasn't as if she were frigid. God, no. Maybe even the opposite. She shouldn't have enjoyed herself. Women weren't supposed to have orgasms the first time, were they? Especially women with underdeveloped sex drives who didn't know or trust their partner.

Well, maybe she didn't have an underdeveloped sex drive, maybe she'd just been too busy to notice. Or too picky. Or maybe, just maybe, John Smith was really good at sex.

She didn't want to think that. It would be a major problem to have started out with an expert and then have to settle for someone less competent. It would be just her luck to have him spoil her for any worthwhile man who might come her way.

There was always the remote possibility that she'd inherited the curse of the Wilsons, Grace's family. According to Grace, Wilson women loved only once, and then it lasted forever. It was no good trying to find someone else, someone more acceptable. Once they fell in love they were doomed.

Which was hogwash. Sophie was a practical woman. She simply needed to find someone more suitable. Someone who was equally talented at sex.

If she was going to keep having sex, and eventually get married and have children, then she was going to have to find someone from the area. Doc would know of any eligible bachelors around. She couldn't very well ask him if they were any good in bed, of course, but maybe she'd be able to pick up on that before she tried them out. After all, there was no denying John Smith was a very sexy man. The way he moved, the way he touched things, the way he looked at you out of his dark eyes, the shape of his mouth...

"Shit." Oh, God, now she was going to be using his favorite curse word all the time. She was always getting after Marty for her language-there was no way she could get away with it herself. And every time she said the word she could see him, feel him, buried deep inside her tightly clenching body, his heart pounding against hers, his breath rasping, his hips moving, her body damp, wet, clinging, shaking...

She practically tumbled off the glider in her haste to get away from her own lascivious thoughts. What the hell kind of mess had she gotten herself into this time?

14.

Griffin laughed when Sophie slammed down the phone on him. His work here was done-she was so pissed off she wouldn't indulge in a weeping fit. She'd be so focused on her anger she wouldn't make the mistake of thinking she was in love with him. God knows, that was the last thing he wanted. He'd had women make that mistake in the past, and it only led to disillusionment and bad feelings. At least his former fiancee had been too hardheaded and practical to suffer from those kinds of delusions.

But Sophie wasn't hardheaded and practical, she was as soft and yielding as her luscious body, and she'd be just sentimental enough to read more into a good fuck than there was. And he didn't want that happening.

The Kings were already hard at work, tearing up the floorboards around the chimney where the dampness had set in. They'd started their morning with a group prayer, and the mutters about sinful ways seemed clearly directed at their employer. Griffin ignored them. He had a certain fondness for sin, particularly the sin he'd committed last night. The Kings could pray over his soul all they wanted-as long as they didn't interfere in his life.

Mrs. King was scrubbing the same areas she'd scrubbed yesterday, probably with the vain hope that she could get them even cleaner, keeping her head bowed and her lips moving in silent prayer. She jumped every time he walked into the kitchen to get more coffee, and after a while he took pity on her and decided to take his supposedly satanic self off for a while. He needed a nap, and he wasn't going to get any peace in his own place.

He wasn't going to get it up at the inn, either, even though the thought was appealing. At the moment there was nothing he'd like better than to wrap himself around Sophie's lush frame and fall asleep, but she'd be more likely to stab him. Sophie's second lesson in the art of lovemaking would have to wait.

He got in his car and headed out, aimlessly. It was an overcast day, still warmish, with the threat of a storm in the air. He could remember those storms well-the pristine blue of the Vermont sky darkening with rage, the wind whipping through the trees, the hail that would destroy crops and even break windows. It usually took days to build up to a storm like that, but he'd long ago lost touch with nature and the weather, and for all he knew a hurricane might be approaching. And he didn't give a damn, unless it got in the way of what he was trying to do.

His time was running out. He'd rented the Whitten cottage for six months, but he had no intention of staying more than a couple of weeks, three at the most. Time was passing, and he wasn't any closer to the truth than he had been before, with the possibility of other, earlier murders clouding the issue.

He didn't feel like a killer. He never had, but that proved just about nothing. The fact of the matter was, he didn't remember a thing about that night, not until he woke up with Lorelei's blood staining his body. For all he knew he could have been the one who killed her. Or he might have been passed out, unable to help her as she struggled for her life.

She'd fought her killer. He remembered that much from the trial. He'd brought the transcripts with him to remind him of what had happened. Twenty years ago DNA testing was in its infancy, and no one had bothered to see whether or not the skin and blood under Lorelei's fingernails matched his. Particularly when he had scratches down his back, anyway. Lorelei was fond of leaving her mark on her lovers, and it gave her a perverse thrill to see her scratches down his back.

The blood and skin beneath her fingernails were more than the remnants of faintly sadistic passion. Her nails, always her pride and joy, were broken from the struggle. Surely he would have had more marks on his body if he'd done that in some kind of drug-hazed frenzy. But the important question was why? Lorelei had annoyed the hell out of him. She'd teased him and taunted him and cheated on him, and he'd been a horny kid, full of pride and testosterone. But he'd already made up his mind to leave. Why would he kill her?

Instinct and common sense weren't enough to put his mind at ease, though. Not when he couldn't remember, not when he'd been convicted of the crime. It didn't matter that the conviction had been overturned on a legal technicality-there was still enough doubt left in the back of his mind and he couldn't move on until he knew the answer.

What if it was the wrong answer? What if, when he got back into the deserted section of the inn, he remembered something he didn't want to remember? He'd been back in Colby for four days and all he'd accomplished so far was a quick midnight reconnoiter of the old grounds, looking for a way to break in. The windows were boarded up tight, and pulling off the planks would have made a hell of a racket. He was going to have to get in through the old kitchen door, which made things a little dicey since the queen of that particular kitchen hated his guts.

Hell, he had too many excuses. Maybe he didn't want to remember. Maybe he wasn't ready to live with the truth.

What if the truth about that night came back and he didn't like it? What if he suddenly remembered killing Lorelei, and maybe even the others? How would he live with that knowledge?

He'd survive. There'd be no noble gesture of turning himself in and confessing. He'd done five years already, and he hadn't been in his right mind if he'd actually been the killer.

There were too many loose ends. What about the other women, if indeed there were any? He needed to find out more about the girl in the old McLaren graveyard, with the fresh yellow flowers. He needed to check the other graveyards, see if there were other young women with unusual yellow flowers on their graves. If he couldn't show his face at the inn right now he could at least do something to find the answers.

It wasn't the first time he'd visited Lorelei's grave. When he'd gotten out of prison he'd driven over here. He'd never been sure why-maybe he still couldn't really believe she was dead. It was raining that day, and he'd stood at her grave and wept. The last time he ever had. He couldn't remember if there were any flowers-the harsh words etched in granite wiped out everything else.

It was going to rain today. The clouds were scudding across the sky, ominous, depressing, and the first few drops were splashing down on the windscreen of his Jaguar when he pulled up to the tiny, picturesque graveyard by the edge of the lake.

Most of the year-round residents were buried in the village cemetery. This graveyard had mainly been populated by summer people for the last seventy years, but Lorelei's family had been burying their kin there since the early 1800s, and Lorelei had been buried there, as well.

He saw the yellow flowers first, a splash of color against the lichen-stained granite stone. He walked slowly, ignoring the rain, stopping in front of her grave to look down. Not that he was any expert on flowers, but he didn't recognize them among his spotty knowledge of various perennials. The one thing he knew was that they were identical to the ones at the McLaren graveyard, and they were fresh.

Lorelei's family was long gone. Her mother had died when she was young, and her father died of cancer a few years ago. She had no siblings, no one left to mourn her. So who would have brought fresh flowers to her grave, and why?

He looked out over the rows of gravestones toward the lake, blinking in the ever-increasing rain. At least half the graves had flowers, ranging from wild roses to freshly cut flowers to gaudy, artificial memorial sprays. He walked down the center row of the small cemetery, ignoring the rain, until he found what he was looking for. One small stone with the same yellow flowers.

Marsha Daniels, age sixteen, born in 1957, died in 1973. No other information, just the telltale spray of flowers.

He scribbled the information on a scrap of paper, watching the ink run in the driving rain. And then he headed back to his car.

He'd felt uncharacteristically cheerful when he'd started out that morning. Sex tended to have that effect on him, even ill-advised sex, and he'd been celibate since he broke up with Annelise. Besides, he found Sophie oddly, irrationally appealing, with her frills and her cooking and her fierce determination to protect her family. By now his good mood had faded completely-graveyards had a habit of doing that to you, he thought. And he suspected he was going to have a hard time getting to Sophie for a while. She had to sulk, and fume, and be embarrassed first. Then she'd start to remember just how good it had felt, and her defenses would start to drop. Or he'd put a little effort into tearing them down.

For purely recreational reasons, he reminded himself. And because he damned well wanted to.

Of course, if she decided to trust him he would be able to gain easy access to the house. That was all he needed, just a few short hours to make his way through the ruins of the old wing and see if he could remember what had happened there so long ago. If it didn't work, he'd get the hell out of Colby, give up on trying to remember what he obviously wasn't supposed to remember. He'd let go of it, as he should have long ago.

The rain had let up by the time he drove through the tiny picturesque town of Colby. Audley's General Store was booming, as always, with cars cramming the street in front of it and the parking lot by the town green. People were crossing the street to get to the public beach, the country-club crowd in their tennis whites were mingling with the locals in their bathing suits. None of the summer people had to use the public beach-they all had cottages on the lake and their own private swimming area. It was only at Audley's that the two classes ever mixed.

He didn't stop. The old general store still unnerved him-he was happier using the supermarket in the next town over, where there was little chance he'd run into someone he'd known twenty years ago. Someone who'd testified against him.

The village cemetery was just past the center of town, on the way to the nursing home and the old dump, which he'd always found somehow fitting. This was a more sprawling affair, with no safe white picket fence to guard the departed. No view of the lake, either, but he imagined the residents didn't particularly care. This was where the locals were planted, where Valette King's and Alice Calderwood's remains were buried. He didn't know exactly where on the terraced levels of rolling green grass. He figured he'd start by looking for the yellow flowers.

The village graveyard went in more for plastic crosses than fresh flowers. He found Valette's grave immediately. The yellow flowers sat next to a weather-beaten teddy bear. A slug was crawling across its matted tummy.

Unlike the others, Valette's stone had an epitaph, courtesy, no doubt, of her rigid father. Lost to Satan, it read beneath her name. The stone itself was small, cheesy-looking. He wondered who left the teddy bear. Probably her slow-witted brother, who might not be as dim as everyone thought he was. Hell, he would have been fifteen when the girls died. Close to full grown, probably, and not too aware of right and wrong. Maybe he'd taken his father's religion to heart and decided to punish the ungodly.

There were a hell of a lot more ungodly people in Colby than three teenage girls who liked to have fun. And Perley King had the innocence of a child in his eyes. As convenient as it would be, there was no way Griffin could make him into an easy scapegoat.

The hilly grass was slippery beneath his feet, and he moved through the graveyard carefully, keeping his eye out for the telltale splash of yellow. He had no doubt whatsoever that when he found those flowers he'd find Alice Calderwood's grave. It might mean nothing-Zebulon King might have a fixation for girls who had died young, and he might be the one to bring the flowers. Or maybe he was driven by guilt.