Chapter Two

“I REALIZE GRANITE is tough, but even it can be abused.”

Emma stopped hammering the frozen hamburgers against her countertop and glared at her brother. He’d shaved his hair down to a crew cut again. God, she disliked him sometimes. That he’d inherited their father’s wavy blond locks and emerald green eyes was a crime against nature. “Don’t you have a wife and children to get home to?”

Frankie leaned his hip against the countertop. “Yes, but the kids are having a back-to-school pizza party, so I’m making a bigger deal about this body in the fireplace than I need to.”

Emma grunted. “You have no idea how lucky you are to have Doreen.”

“Oh, yes I do,” he said, with genuine affection. “And forgive me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t you be kissing my ass right now?”

Emma blew out a long sigh. “Thank you for straightening things out with Atkinson.”

“Don’t mention it. He didn’t seem all that upset to me.”

“Still, I appreciate it. So whose party is it? Marco’s, Abby’s, or Dennis’s?”

Frankie lowered his head, pulling apart hamburger buns. “All three.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “All three? Why on earth—” The doorbell interrupted her tirade.

“Saved by the bell!” Frankie ran to the entry hall.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Emma followed. “What’s the matter with you? Go home right now.”

Frankie reached the door, saving himself from a response. “Sheila, you sexy beast, you.”

Sheila Rogers blew Frankie a kiss and then walked over to Emma and held out her hand.

Sighing in resignation, Emma shook it. “I keep telling you, that’s just a myth.”

The short, plump redhead had breezed into the house next door and Emma’s life with her infectious blue eyes and quirky persona four years ago. They’d been best friends ever since.

“And I keep telling you, shaking hands with a chimney sweep is good luck,” Sheila said. “Mary Poppins, remember?”

Emma held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not one to dispute Walt Disney. What brings you by?”

“As soon as I saw your darling brother’s car, I rushed right over. How are my two favorite people, aside from my husband, kids, and a few close relatives?”

Frankie and Emma each barked out their own story at the same time.

“Frankie left Doreen to fend for herself with a houseful of kids.”

“Emma found a human skeleton in the fireplace she’s working on.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Sheila held up her hands to stop their banter. “As fascinating as your story sounds, Emma, I think Frankie has you beat.”

She stomped back to the kitchen. “It’s no big deal.”

Frankie and Sheila followed. “Yeah, it’s so not a big deal she almost broke her granite countertop explaining about it.”

Emma spun around, her fists clenched at her sides, and glared at her brother.

He winked at the short redhead. “She’s a bit pissed.”

“I can understand being upset, but why’s she so mad?” Sheila sat at the kitchenette and folded her hands on the table, looking at Frankie expectantly.

“Because of that—and I’m quoting here—‘arrogant, senseless jackass of a general contractor.’ Is that about right, Sis?”

“Bite me,” Emma muttered, and then repeated everything she’d told Frankie to Sheila.

“That is a wild story.” She rubbed her eyes and then studied her fingertips. Emma’s brow furrowed as Sheila placed an eyelash on the back of her left hand.

“I wonder if there are any superstitions about finding a skeleton in an old house.” Sheila closed her eyes, her lips moving slightly, as if in prayer. Then she whacked the palm of her left hand with the back of her right. She did it three times, checked the back of her hand, and then smiled secretively.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frankie asked, seemingly as confused as Emma.

“I’m making a wish.”

Emma was used to Sheila’s strange and superstitious behavior, but this was a bit odd, even for her. “A what?”

Sheila shrugged. “I lost an eyelash. You’re supposed to put it on the back of your left hand and make a wish. You get three chances to slap it away. If you succeed, your wish comes true. If not, you have to burn it.”

“Dare I ask why?” Frankie asked.

“Because if someone else finds it they can use it to put nasty little curses on you.”

“Do you really believe all this stuff?”

“What’s an ounce of prevention?” She turned to Emma. “Since you bragged about this row house over the phone, I’m dying to see the pictures you took.”

“Okay, but give me a few minutes. I haven’t transferred them to the computer yet.”

While Frankie watched the food, Emma led Sheila into her small office to download the pictures.

“You okay?” Sheila asked.

Emma sighed, relieved to have someone she could trust to talk to. “Yeah, it’s just been a long day.”

“I don’t know how you do it. I sure couldn’t.”

“Well, my dad had me up on rooftops by the time I was five, much to my mother’s chagrin. I think I knew more about chimneys and fireplaces than I did Barbie dolls by the time I was ten. It’s second nature now.”

“I was talking about all the physical labor, not your knowledge.” Sheila rested her hand on the back of Emma’s chair and leaned in, studying the screen as she flicked through the pictures. “That’s some house, although those narrow hallways and staircases would drive me insane.”

“But the rooms are unbelievable.” Emma studied the photos. Some of them were clear, showing off the grandeur of the space. Others were fuzzy or had streaks of light, probably from the sun. A photographer she was not.

“You’ve worked on houses older and more impressive than this. Why the fascination?”

She rubbed her forehead, wondering how much she should reveal to her neighbor. Sheila was very superstitious. The last thing Emma needed was a lecture on ghosts, folklore, and urban legends. “I don’t know. The second I walked into the house, I fell in love. It seemed to be whispering to me to fix it.”

“Sometimes old houses have personalities of their own.” Her eyes grew wide with excitement. “Maybe it’s haunted?”

“You know I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

Emma grinned, hoping her friend didn’t see. Sheila fancied herself a bit of a ghost hunter. She watched all the programs, read all the books, had even joined the local paranormal investigator group on a few cases. “I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for disembodied voices and energy spikes.”

“Hey, don’t mock me. I’ve seen ghosts before so I know—wow, who is that?”

Emma groaned. When she’d taken the picture of the kitchen fireplace after she’d found the body, somehow the reason for her “long day” had gotten in the way. “That is Ryan Atkinson, the G.C.”

“Oh my gosh, I could eat him alive.”

Emma turned to her, pleading. “Could you? Would you do that for me?”

Sheila burst out laughing. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Aside from being an asshole?”

“Hey, watch your language. You’re not on a job site.”

Emma slumped in her seat. “He annoys me.”

“You should sleep with him.”

“What? I just said I didn’t like the man.”

“With a body like that, you could learn to love him. Come on. Let me live vicariously.”

“I’m not that shallow.”

Sheila rolled her eyes. “You like him, I can tell.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Because you’re obsessing. If you didn’t like him, you wouldn’t care.”

Emma’s stubborn side woke up and flipped Sheila the finger. “No, I really don’t. Besides, I’m not ready for a relationship.”

“Look, I know Jared didn’t move out until your divorce was final, but I also know you and he haven’t been intimate since you decided to go your separate ways.”

“So?”

“So, that’s a very long time.”

Emma sat forward and stared at the screen, at the contractor’s face. “I can’t just hop into bed with the first guy who makes my blood boil.”

“Aha! So you admit he turns you on.”

“I do no such—never mind. The point is I’ve never been casual about sex. I’m not going to start now. Plus, I have a six-year-old daughter to think about.”

Sheila took a seat on the sofa next to the desk. “You can’t let Nicole run your life. The sooner she accepts Jared isn’t coming back the better. And I’m not saying sleep with a guy on the first date. I just think you’d probably like some male company.”

She stared at the computer screen. Yes, she did miss having someone to talk to, maybe hold hands with. Hell, even take in a movie.

Her eyes surveyed the strong profile and toned physique of the G.C., wondering what it would feel like to—

With a bit more force than necessary, Emma pushed herself out of her chair. “If I do get into a relationship, it will, for sure, not be with Ryan Atkinson.”

Her friend chuckled as she followed Emma out of the office.

“I know what that giggle is about, so you might as well stop it.” She paused at the doorway into the kitchen and turned. “I have no interest in him.”

With her obstinate chin in the air, she entered the room and gasped, her head swimming as she tried to blink her vision into focus.

A hazy image, as if she were looking through water, took shape. Ryan Atkinson sat at her kitchen table, making funny faces at her daughter.

But—Atkinson wasn’t here.

Neither was Nicole!

“Sis, you okay?” Frankie stood by the stove, spatula in hand, his brow furrowed in concern.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them the room was clear, the table empty.

She studied her brother’s worried face before she spoke. “Yes, I’m fine. I just had a daymare.”

***

Ryan climbed from his car, thankful that the drive from Brooklyn to Suffolk County was nothing more than the usual rush hour traffic jam. He made his way up the paving-stone pathway, drawing comfort from the chirping sparrows and crickets. They sounded happy, peaceful. The dying sun painted the sky brilliant hues of lavender and pink. He breathed in deep, hoping the scent of freshly mowed grass and roses would calm him further, as he unlocked his front door.

Ryan remembered a time when he looked forward to coming home to his mid-century colonial. No matter how tough his day, he could always count on the solitude of this house to settle his nerves. Maybe because of all the renovations, he felt as if he'd built it himself, given birth to it.

But that comfort was long gone. Now he dreaded the end of each day, dreaded the night.

After a quick dinner of tomato soup and a roast beef on rye, Ryan sat in front of the TV and sipped iced tea. He flicked through the channels, searching for a show that would hold his interest. There wasn’t much on. The Mets were off tonight, and any program worth watching he’d already seen.

After a few minutes he settled for a program on The History Channel. He switched from tea to Red Bull while he waited for the coffee to brew. A full pot tonight.

He knew what lurked on the other side of consciousness.

With the narrator detailing the shootout at the O.K. Corral for company, Ryan searched through the stack of books he’d yet to read. Sci-fi, mystery, thrillers. He longed for the escape, but reading usually made him sleepy.

Then his eyes shifted to the chess table he’d built years ago. What was once the most used piece of furniture in his home, hosting many hours of friendly competition, now sat gathering dust.

Just like his life.

The old grandfather clock in the entranceway chimed one, then two. Ryan chugged down his coffee. It burned his throat. He drank more.

The panic attacks hadn’t been this bad in years, probably because of where he’d been working. He’d thought he’d be ready for a job in that part of Brooklyn Heights by now.

Apparently not.

His eyes burned. He rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Drying off, he stared at his eyes in the mirror. Haunted, lifeless, devoid of the mischievous sparkle they once held.

He looked older than his thirty-nine years, mostly due to stress and lack of sleep. His doctor had offered sleeping pills, but he’d refused. He didn’t want to sleep.

Around three-fifteen, he could fight it no longer. His eyelids grew heavy. Sitting on his couch, his TV blaring, overhead lights shining on his face, he relaxed his grip on the coffee mug and it slipped from his hand. He finally gave in.

It started almost immediately. His body convulsed as blurred images rushed toward him, growing sharper with each passing second.

No!

Ryan fought to break away from his nightmare’s grip. Sweat soaked his body until he violently sat up, falling off the couch with horrified screams.

“Colin!”