Chapter 2 - One Night Under the Same Roof
Megan from Shoreline Stays took a breath.
It was the kind of breath customer-service people took before telling someone their luggage was in another country or the hotel they had booked had ceased to exist.
“Ms. Bennett, the South Haven property you actually reserved experienced significant storm damage this afternoon.”
Clare stared at the phone.
“What kind of storm damage?”
“Part of a tree came through the roof.”
Alexander stopped looking amused.
Megan rushed on. “No one was injured. The property was empty at the time. However, the local inspector has declared it temporarily uninhabitable.”
Clare laughed again.
That same sharp, dangerous laugh.
“Of course he did.”
“We can provide a full refund.”
“I don't need a refund. I need somewhere to sleep.”
“We're working on that.”
“Work faster.”
Alexander leaned one hip against the counter.
Under any other circumstances, Clare might have noticed that he was unfairly attractive.
Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A face that looked better serious than most men looked smiling.
At the moment, she mostly noticed that he had a house.
A dry one.
Megan typed for several seconds.
“There is a hotel in Augusta—”
“That's two hours away.”
“Under normal conditions, yes.”
Alexander looked toward the windows.
Rain struck the glass harder than it had five minutes earlier.
“No,” he said.
Clare glanced at him.
Megan asked, “I'm sorry?”
“The coastal road floods just past Harrington Bridge. If she's unfamiliar with the area, she shouldn't be driving inland tonight.”
Clare folded her arms.
“I'm standing right here.”
“I know.”
“I can drive in rain.”
“This isn't Boston rain.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the road occasionally tries to become part of the Atlantic.”
A low roll of thunder shook the windows.
Megan cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hayes is correct. Route 17 has just been placed under a flash-flood advisory.”
Clare closed her eyes.
Seven days.
She had wanted seven quiet days.
Apparently the universe had interpreted that request as an insult.
Megan promised to call again when she found an alternative.
The call ended.
For several seconds there was only rain.
Alexander walked toward the sink.
“You can stay tonight.”
Clare looked at him.
He filled a glass with water.
Not his mother's glass.
A normal one.
“What?”
“You can stay tonight.”
“You don't have to do that.”
“No.”
He drank.
“But I'm assuming your other option is sleeping in your car.”
“I've done worse.”
“So have I. Doesn't make it intelligent.”
There was no softness in his voice.
That made accepting easier.
Clare hated pity.
Practicality she could survive.
“One night,” she said.
“One.”
“Then tomorrow Shoreline finds me somewhere else.”
“Preferably in the correct town.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
Alexander took her suitcase upstairs.
Clare followed him through a hallway lined with framed photographs.
The house was different from how it had looked in the listing.
The listing had made it seem luxurious.
In person, it felt lived in.
Not cluttered.
Remembered.
There were scratches on the staircase railing, old pencil lines marking children's heights inside a doorframe, photographs of people standing on docks holding fish and birthday cakes and one badly constructed snowman.
Clare slowed beside a photograph of a woman in her late fifties laughing into the wind.
She had Alexander's eyes.
“Your mother?”
He stopped halfway down the hall.
“Yes.”
Clare glanced toward the kitchen below.
“The glass?”
“My father gave her a set on their twenty-fifth anniversary. She broke all but two over the years.”
“And I immediately grabbed one.”
“You have excellent instincts.”
She looked at him.
He was joking.
Barely.
It transformed his face.
“I'm sorry.”
This time she meant more than the glass.
Alexander's expression settled.
“It was a glass, Clare.”
It was the first time he had said her name.
She hated noticing.
He opened a bedroom at the end of the hall.
Clean white sheets.
Blue quilt.
Windows overlooking black water.
“The bathroom's across the hall. Towels are inside the cabinet.”
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me until the roof is still here tomorrow.”
He left.
Clare stood alone listening to the storm.
Her phone buzzed.
RYAN.
She nearly threw it through the window.
Instead she stared at the message.
Can we please talk?
Another appeared.
Your mom said you went to Maine. I hope you're okay.
Clare's stomach tightened.
She had specifically asked her mother not to tell him anything.
She deleted both without responding.
Then another message appeared.
Seven years don't disappear because you're angry.
Clare typed before she could stop herself.
Neither does finding you naked with another woman.
She stared at the sentence.
Then deleted it.
Replying meant participating.
She was done participating.
She switched the phone to silent.
Downstairs, something crashed.
Clare hurried into the hall.
“Alexander?”
No answer.
She followed the stairs down.
He was standing in the kitchen holding an old metal box.
The contents of a drawer lay across the floor.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That sounded remarkably like something.”
“The drawer jammed.”
He had removed a small notebook, several keys and an ancient Shoreline Stays folder.
Clare frowned.
“You kept their paperwork for eleven years?”
“My mother kept everything.”
His thumb moved over the faded logo.
“I didn't know this was still here.”
Clare crouched to help gather the papers.
Alexander crouched too.
Their hands reached for the same envelope.
They stopped.
It was ridiculous.
Hands touched people every day.
But neither moved for half a second.
Then Alexander withdrew his.
Clare picked up the envelope.
“Sorry.”
“You apologize a lot.”
“I broke into your house.”
“Technically, a corporation broke you into my house.”
“That sounds like the beginning of a lawsuit.”
“You a lawyer?”
“No. Corporate risk management.”
He looked at her differently.
“That sounds cheerful.”
“I spend my life getting phone calls after everyone ignored all the warnings.”
“Explains why you needed a vacation.”
She looked down.
“Yes.”
The humor left his face.
Before he could ask anything else, her phone rang.
Megan.
Clare put it on speaker.
“Please tell me you found a room.”
“I haven't yet. But I found something else.”
Alexander straightened.
“What?”
Megan's voice became cautious.
“Our technology department reviewed the archived North Haven property profile.”
“And?”
“It wasn't simply left active.”
Alexander went still.
“Explain.”
“Someone manually accessed the account three nights ago.”
Clare looked at him.
“Using what credentials?”
Megan hesitated.
“The original administrator credentials.”
“My mother's?”
“Yes.”
Alexander's jaw hardened.
“My mother has been dead for three years.”
“I understand.”
“No. I'm fairly sure you don't.”
Megan continued quickly.
“The account password was changed. The door code was updated. The listing photographs were republished briefly and then hidden again.”
Clare felt something cold move through her.
“So me ending up here wasn't a database error?”
“We're still investigating how your reservation became linked to the North Haven access field.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“No,” Megan admitted quietly. “At this point, we cannot say it was purely accidental.”
Alexander pulled out a kitchen chair.
“Where were the payout instructions directed?”
Silence.
He clearly understood something Clare didn't.
“Megan?”
“To a newly added bank account.”
“Name?”
“We're not permitted to disclose—”
“Someone used my dead mother's account to provide strangers access to my home.”
Another silence.
Then Megan said, “The beneficiary name is G. Hayes.”
Alexander's face changed.
Clare saw recognition immediately.
“Who is G. Hayes?”
Alexander didn't answer.
Thunder cracked overhead.
The lights went out.
Clare flinched.
The kitchen dropped into complete darkness.
“Alexander?”
“Stay there.”
“That's usually what people say right before somebody gets murdered in a movie.”
“This house has a generator.”
“Great.”
“It should have turned on.”
That was worse.
Much worse.
Clare heard him moving.
A drawer opened.
A flashlight clicked on.
Its beam crossed his face.
He was no longer irritated.
He was alert.
“Who's G. Hayes?” Clare asked again.
“My cousin.”
“Does he have access to the house?”
“Not for eleven years.”
“Does he know the old Shoreline account?”
“He used to.”
Rain pounded the roof.
Alexander moved toward the rear hallway.
Then he stopped.
“What?”
Clare whispered.
He raised one finger.
Listen.
At first, Clare heard only weather.
Then came another sound.
Metal scraping against metal.
From outside.
Alexander immediately switched off the flashlight.
Darkness swallowed them.
The scrape came again.
Closer.
Near the basement door.
Clare's heart slammed against her ribs.
“Maybe it's the storm.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the generator's outside that wall.”
A dull clang sounded.
Someone was touching it.
Alexander stepped toward the back door.
Clare grabbed his arm.
“Don't.”
He looked at her hand.
She released him.
“Call the police,” he said.
She reached for her phone.
Before she could unlock it, glass shattered somewhere inside the house.
Not outside.
Inside.
Clare froze.
Alexander turned toward the dark hallway.
A floorboard creaked.
May you like
And from the room where Alexander had kept his mother's papers came the unmistakable sound of a drawer being pulled open.
Someone else was already in the house.
