Chapter 21

Athena shuffled along the dark hallway and into the living room. Faint traces of light filtered around the edges of the curtains covering the two large picture windows. Had the storm passed? Would they be able to leave in the morning?

A part of her wished that after Russ had shown her to a spare room and helped her make up the bed, he’d stayed with her. But like a gentleman, or an Eagle Scout, he’d said good night and left to sleep in Angus’s old room.

She’d crawled into the comfortable bed and slipped under the covers. Alone. A thousand thoughts, mainly about Russ, whirled through her mind. From the moment she saw him in Beaton Park, he’d caught her attention. He was one fine-looking hunk of a man. Over six feet of lean, sculpted muscle, dark, curly hair, mesmerizing hazel eyes, and when he smiled… She blew out a breath.

She crossed to the window and swept the heavy drapes aside. The cold light from a full moon shone through scattered clouds. The wind still raged, but its force had weakened. Broken branches littered the manicured lawn, and puddles glimmered in low-lying dips on the shell path. A shadow detached from the gloom under the trees, and a figure—a person? a large animal?—darted across the lawn, disappearing behind the thick trunk of a cedar tree.

A frisson of unease trickled along her spine. She pressed closer to the window, her breath fogging the glass.

The trees swayed, their branches waving in the wind, and dark shadows shifted within the thick undergrowth.

What had she seen? A deer? The island used to have lots of deer. Her mother was in a constant battle to keep the ravenous beasts away from her vegetable garden. She stared at the dark patches under the towering trees. All was still, but the unsettling sensation someone—or something—was out there in the dark watching, set her on edge.

She shivered and snapped the curtains closed. She was imagining boogeymen where none existed. No wonder, with all that had happened these past stressful days. She was exhausted and emotionally drained. A drink would help. The second the craving sneaked into her brain, she couldn’t stop thinking about alcohol. Had Angus been a drinker? Maybe there was a bottle stored somewhere in the cottage. Only one way to find out.

The house loomed around her, cold and silent, and she shivered, wishing she’d worn the heavy sweatpants instead of just the voluminous cotton T-shirt. The cottage gave her the creeps. She didn’t like being alone in the dark at the best of times, but she’d walk through the very gates of Hell and face Cerberus, the three-headed dog who kept in the damned, if it meant she could have a drink. Just one sip of rye, rum, vodka…anything. Lord knew, she wasn’t fussy.

Where would a man like Angus keep his liquor? Not in the living room. She’d have noticed last night. The kitchen? Or would he have a room dedicated to storing his fancy liquor collection? Some wealthy people did that. Her mouth watered at the thought.

The hallway was dark, but she didn’t turn on the lights. A floorboard creaked beneath her bare feet, and she froze. The last thing she needed was to wake up Russ. She didn’t want him to witness her desperation. Or maybe being with Russ was just what she needed. His sexy presence would switch her single-minded drive for a drink to something else—like kissing him.

Except for her rapid breathing, the cottage was silent and still. Placing one careful foot in front of the other, she shuffled down the dark hall. There. Just ahead. A closed door. Another bathroom? A study? Studies often had liquor cabinets. Her hand shook as she turned the knob.

The door opened on silent hinges onto a dark room. Feeling along the smooth wall, she found a light switch. Blinding light filled the room, revealing a gleaming teak desk and a large leather chair. Seascapes lined the white walls. A teak credenza, the type of cabinet where people kept their liquor bottles, was against the far wall, a neat stack of highball and wine glasses set on the top.

Yes!

She crouched before the cabinet and swung open the door. A large cardboard box filled the dark space. She tugged it out and set the heavy box on the floor. Lifting the lid, she peered inside. Instead of a row of gleaming liquor bottles, the box was filled with stacks of photographs.

Disappointed, she hefted the box to lift it back into the cabinet but stopped and set the box down with a thump. She picked up a photograph, her breath whooshed out as if she’d been punched, and she fell back on her butt. The picture slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor, landing faceup.

The photograph was black and white, three inches by five inches. A young girl, her hair bound in tight braids, sat on a weathered log in the candid photo. A collection of seashells lay on the sand in front of the girl. A look of happiness shone on her heart-shaped, freckled face.

The room swirled and tilted, and Athena closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the face in the photo hadn’t changed. She was the girl in the photograph.

A bone-numbing chill settled over her, and she lifted out another photograph. And another, and another until the floor was littered with pictures. The photos, taken over a number of years as the child aged from a young toddler to a girl on the edge of adolescence, had a single subject—her. No one else was in the photos. Just her. She swallowed, but her throat had gone to sand.

The pictures looked as if they’d been taken from a distance, as if the photographer had used a telephoto lens. Her open expression and relaxed posture made clear she was unaware her picture was being taken. Another shiver rippled through her, and she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms.

Who had taken the photographs? Her parents had owned an old camera, and over the years they’d taken her picture at Christmas, birthdays, and picnics. She had an old photo album filled with photos of her and her family. But neither her mother nor her father had taken the pictures she’d found in this little room. She was certain of that.

Someone had spied on her, clicking pictures, as she played, unaware she was being watched. She shuddered, but no matter where she looked, she couldn’t escape her own face. A cry slipped from between her lips and filled the room like the wail of a wounded dog.

“Athena? What the hell’s going on?” Russ stood in the doorway. Deep lines furrowed his brow. He crossed the room in a single stride and crouched before her. “I heard you cry out.”

A tear dripped off her chin and landed on the blue cotton of her shirt. She swiped the back of her hand over her face.

“Athena, answer me. Why are you crying?”

“I…I didn’t mean to wake you. I…I…” She looked over his broad shoulder, and the nightmare reality of the photos struck her again. Fresh tears welled in her eyes. “Look…” She gestured at the piles of photos tossed across the floor. “The photographs…”

He picked up a picture, and then a second photo. After an eternity, he met her gaze. “What is all this?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Is this you?” He gestured at a color photograph of a red-haired toddler playing in the surf.

She nodded.

He pointed at another picture. “You?”

Again, she nodded.

“All these pictures are of you?” A small pulse beat in his jaw. “Did your parents take them?”

“I…I don’t think so.” She stood and on shaky legs wobbled across the room and picked up an eight-by-ten photo and held it up. “My parents vanished when I was twelve.” She jabbed the picture. “I remember this shirt. My aunt gave it to me for my thirteenth birthday.”

The lines in his rugged face hardened. “Why are the photos in Angus’s cottage? Why would he have them? I thought you said you hardly knew him.”

Was that suspicion darkening his hazel eyes? “I…I didn’t know him. I hardly ever saw him, and when he came around, I hid.” She wrapped her arms tight over her chest. Memories of how uncomfortable Angus Crawford had made her feel chilled her. She hadn’t encountered him often, and only in the company of one or both of her parents, but when she did, his cold, penetrating gaze studied her as if he were examining every detail. Even as a young child, his unwanted attention filled her with unease. “He scared me. He never smiled, and he always seemed angry.”

“If that’s the case, why would he have all these photos?”

Her head pounded. “He took them. He must have.” She shuddered and wrapped her arms across her chest. “This was his cottage. He stored the pictures in the box in his den. Who else would have done it?”

Russ shoved a dark curl off his forehead. “I didn’t even know he owned a camera. I haven’t found one in the house.” He prowled around the small room, stooping to pick up a photo, studying it, and then tossing it back on the floor. “You’re the only subject in all these pictures.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, the rasp of whiskers loud in the small room. “It’s almost as if he stalked you.”

Pressing the pads of her fingers to her temples, she rubbed, hoping to ease the shooting pain. “Look…look at this.” She pointed at an eight-by-ten-inch color photograph. Her nine-year-old self grinned up at her from the floor. She held a red plastic pail in one hand and a small toy shovel in the other. A sandcastle was in the background. “How did Angus get this picture? I was afraid of him. I’d never have been so relaxed if he was around. He must have hidden in the forest and used a telephoto lens.”

She indicated another photo. “And this one.” The picture showed her as a young girl of fourteen or fifteen, all gangly legs and arms, sitting on a large rock. Her head was bent over a book, her red hair hanging over her face as she read. A field of brilliant yellow mustard plants was visible in the background. “This photo was taken when Aunt Clara and I lived in Regina. I’m sure of it.”

She stumbled over to the box and, with a shaking hand, plucked out another picture. In the photo she grinned a gap-toothed grin and carried a doll in her thin arms. A chill rippled through her. “I remember that doll.” She licked her lips. “Mom and Dad gave her to me for my seventh birthday.” She blinked back tears. “I named her Patsy. I packed her everywhere.” Her heart skipped a beat and flopped with a thud in her chest. “Why did Angus take these pictures? Why did he follow me? What did he want?”

Russ paced around the room, stopping every few seconds to inspect a photograph before moving on to another. “He wanted the photos for himself. Why else would he store them in that box and keep them in this room? This was his study. When he brought me to the island when I was a kid, I wasn’t allowed in here, and he spent a lot of time in this room. He wanted these pictures somewhere he could look at them any time; somewhere no one else would see them.”

His words sent a spike of unease straight to her gut. All those times she’d thought she was alone, and Angus Crawford had been lurking nearby, spying on her, and taking his invasive photos.

Russ enfolded her in his arms and held her close. “This must be disturbing, but I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of these pictures.”

She burrowed into his embrace and gave in to the fear she’d been fighting to hold at bay. Her tears flowed, dampening his smooth, warm skin. Time stood still as she remained locked in his arms and breathed in his tangy male musk.

He cupped the back of her head with his palm, and his golden gaze fixed on her. “I can only imagine how you’re feeling.” He wiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “These photos are wrong in every way imaginable, but they were important to Angus.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll find out why he took them. I don’t know how, but somehow I will.” Determination blazed from his eyes.

Relief she wasn’t in this nightmare alone washed over her. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Not yet, not until I figure this out.”

“You will.”

His gaze narrowed. “You’re that certain?”

“I am.” She nodded. “You’ll find the answers to these photographs, and you’ll find out what happened to my parents.” She didn’t know him well, but she knew one thing—he was a man of his word.

And he’d promised.