The house on Tradd Street hadn’t changed much since Arden Mayfair had left home fourteen years ago. The beautiful grand piano still gathered dust at one end of the parlor while a long-dead ancestor remained on guard above the marble fireplace. Plantation shutters at all the long windows dimmed the late-afternoon sunlight that poured down through the live oaks, casting a pall over the once stately room. The echo of Arden’s footfalls followed her through the double doors as the oppressive weight of memories and dark tragedy settled heavily upon her shoulders.
Her gaze went to the garden and then darted away. She wouldn’t go out there just yet. If she left tomorrow, she could avoid the lush grounds altogether, but already the interior walls were closing in on her. She drew a breath and stared back at her ancestor, unfazed by the flared nostrils and pious expression. She’d never been afraid of the dead. It was the living that haunted her dreams.
She wrinkled her nose as she turned away from the portrait. The house smelled musty from time and neglect, and she would have liked nothing more than to throw open the windows to the breeze. The whole place needed a good airing, but the patio doors were kept closed for a reason.
Berdeaux Place hadn’t always been a shuttered mausoleum. The gleaming Greek Revival with its elegant arches and shady piazzas had once been her grandmother’s pride and joy, an ancestral treasure box filled with flowers and friends and delectable aromas wafting from the kitchen. When Arden thought back to her early childhood days, before the murder, she conjured up misty images of garden parties and elegant soirees. Of leisurely mornings in the playroom and long afternoons in the pool. Sometimes when it rained, her mother would devise elaborate scavenger hunts or endless games of hide-and-seek. Arden had once sequestered herself so well in the secret hidey-hole beneath the back staircase that the staff had spent hours frantically searching the house from top to bottom while she lay curled up asleep.
After a half-hearted scolding from her mother, Arden had been allowed to accompany her into the parlor for afternoon tea. The women gathered that day had chuckled affectionately at the incident as they spooned sugar cubes into their Earl Grey and nibbled on cucumber sandwiches. Basking in the limelight of their indulgence, Arden had gorged herself on shortbread cookies while stuffing her pockets with macaroons to later share with her best friend. When twilight fell, wrapping the city in shadows and sweet-scented mystery, she’d slipped out to the garden to watch the bats.
It was there in the garden that Arden had stumbled upon her mother’s body. Camille Mayfair lay on her back, eyes lifted to the sky as if waiting for the moon to rise over the treetops. Something had been placed upon her lips—a crimson magnolia petal, Arden would later learn. But in that moment of breathless terror, she’d been aware of only one thing: the excited thumping of a human heart.
As Arden grew older, she told herself the sound had been her imagination or the throb of her own pulse. Yet, when she allowed herself to travel back to that twilight, the pulsation seemed to grow and swell until the cacophony filled the whole garden.
It was the sound of a beating heart that had lured her from her mother’s prone body to the summerhouse, where a milky magnolia blossom had been left on the steps. The throbbing grew louder as Arden stood in the garden peering up into the ornate windows. Someone stared back at her. She was certain of it. She remained frozen—in fear and in fascination—until a bloodcurdling scream erupted from her throat.
As young as she was, Arden believed that bloom had been left for her to find. The killer had wanted her to know that he would one day come back for her.
Camille Mayfair had been the first known victim of Orson Lee Finch, the Twilight Killer. As the lives of other young, single mothers had been claimed that terrible summer, the offspring left behind had become known as Twilight’s Children, a moniker that was still trotted out every year on the anniversary of Finch’s arrest. New revelations about the case had recently propelled him back into the headlines, and Arden worried it was only a matter of time before some intrepid reporter came knocking on her door.
So why had she come back now? Why not wait until the publicity and curiosity had died down once again? She had business to attend to, but nothing urgent. After all, months had gone by since her grandmother’s passing. She’d certainly been in no hurry to wrap up loose ends. She’d come in for the service, left the same day, and the hell of it was, no one had cared. No one had asked her to stay. Not her estranged grandfather, not her uncle, not the friends and distant relatives she’d left behind long ago.
Her invisibility had been a painful reminder that she didn’t belong here anymore. Although Berdeaux Place was hers now, she had no intention of staying on in the city, much less in this house. Her grandmother’s attorney was more than capable of settling the estate once Arden had signed all the necessary paperwork. The house would be privately listed, but, with all the inherent rules and regulations that bound historic properties, finding the right buyer could take some time.
So why had she come back?
Maybe a question best not answered, she decided.
As she turned back to the foyer to collect her bags, she caught a movement in the garden out of the corner of her eye. She swung around, pulse thudding as she searched the terrace. Someone was coming along one of the pathways. The setting sun was at his back, and the trees cast such long shadows across the flagstones that Arden could make out little more than a silhouette.
Reason told her he was just one of the yard crew hired by the attorney to take care of the grounds. No cause for panic. But being back in this house, wallowing in all those old memories had left her unnerved. She reached for the antique katana that her grandmother had kept at the ready atop her desk. Slipping off the sheath, Arden held the blade flat against the side of her leg as she turned back to the garden.
The man walked boldly up to one of the French doors and banged on the frame. Then he cupped his face as he peered in through one of the panes. “I see you in there,” he called. “Open up!”
Arden’s grip tightened around the gilded handle. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Who am I? What the…?” He paused in his incredulity. “Cut it out, Arden. Would you just open the damn door?”
The familiarity of his voice raised goose bumps as she walked across the room to peer back out at him. Her heart tumbled in recognition. The eyes…the nose…that full, sensuous mouth… “Reid?”
His gaze dropped to the weapon in her hand. “Just who the hell were you expecting?”
She squared her shoulders, but her tone sounded more defensive than defiant. “I certainly wasn’t expecting you.”
“Are you going to let me in or should we just yell through the glass all night?”
She fumbled with the latch and then drew back the door. “What are you doing here anyway? You scared me half to death banging on the door like that.”
He nodded toward the blade. “Were you really going to run me through with that thing?”
“I hadn’t decided yet.”
“In that case…” He took the sword from her hand and brushed past her into the parlor.
“By all means, come on in,” she muttered as she followed him back into the room. She clenched her fists as if she could somehow control her racing pulse. He had startled her, was all. Gave her a bad fright leering in through the windows like a Peeping Tom. Her reaction had everything to do with the situation and nothing at all to do with the man. She was over Reid Sutton. He’d been nothing more than a memory ever since she’d left for college at eighteen, determined to put him and Charleston in her rearview mirror. They’d had a grand go of it. Given both families plenty of gray hairs and sleepless nights, and then the adventure had run its course. Arden had needed to get serious about her future and, at eighteen, Reid Sutton had been anything but serious. They’d both had a lot of growing up to do. At least Arden had been mature enough to realize she needed to break away before she made an irrevocable mistake.
She wondered if Reid had ever learned that lesson. She took in his faded jeans, flip-flops and the wavy hair that needed a trim. He was still devastatingly handsome with a smile that could melt the polar ice caps, but she knew better than to succumb to his particular allure. He was still big-time trouble from everything she’d heard, and he still had too much of the rebel in him even at the age of thirty-two. Which was, she suspected, only one of many reasons he’d recently left his family’s prestigious but stodgy law firm.
Arden watched him put away the weapon. She had to tear her gaze away from his backside, and that annoyed her to no end. “How did you get into the garden anyway? The side gate is always kept locked.” Her grandmother had made certain of that ever since the murder.
He turned with a grin, flashing dimples and white teeth. “The same way you used to sneak out. I climbed up a tree and jumped down over the wall.”
She sighed. “You couldn’t just ring the doorbell like any normal person?”
“What fun would that be?” he teased. “Besides…” He glanced around. “I wasn’t sure you’d be alone.”
“So you decided to spy on me instead?”
“Arden, Arden.” He shook his head sadly. “Since when did you become so pedestrian? You sound like an old lady. Though you certainly don’t present as one.” His gaze lingered, making Arden secretly relieved for the Pilates classes and the sleeveless white dress she’d worn to meet her grandmother’s attorney. “Just look at you. Thirty-two and all grown-up.”
“Which is more than I can say for you.” She returned his perusal, taking in the faded jeans and flip-flops.
“It’s after-hours, in case you hadn’t noticed the time.”
“Fair enough. But don’t pretend this is our first meeting since I left Charleston. I saw you just six months ago at my grandmother’s funeral.”
“Yes, but that was from a distance and you were dressed all in black. The hat and veil were sexy as hell, but I barely caught a glimpse of you.”
“You could have come by the house after the service.”
“I did.”
She lifted a brow. “When? I never saw you.”
“I didn’t come in,” he admitted. “I sat out on the veranda for a while.”
“Why?”
For a moment, he seemed uncharacteristically subdued. He tapped out a few notes on the piano as Arden waited for his response. The strains of an old love song swirled in her head, tugging loose an unwelcome nostalgia.
“Why didn’t you come in?” she pressed.
He hit a sour note. “I guess I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me after the way we ended things.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“I know. But it got pretty heated that last night. I always regretted some of the things I said before you drove off. I didn’t even mean most of it.”
“Sure you did, but your reaction was understandable. You were angry. We both were. I said some things, too.” She shrugged, but inside she was far from cavalier about their current discussion. “I guess it made leaving easier.”
“For you maybe.”
She cut him a look. “Don’t even try to put it all on me. You left, too, remember? That was the agreement. We’d both go off to separate colleges. Do our own thing for a while. Have our own friends. We needed some space. It was all for the best.”
“But you never came back.”
“That’s not true. I came back on holidays and every summer break.”
“You never came back to me,” he said quietly.
Arden stared at him for a moment and then took a quick glance around. “Are we seriously having this conversation? I feel like I’m being pranked or something.”
He didn’t bat an eye as he continued to regard her. “You’re not being pranked. We’re just being honest for once. Airing our grievances, so to speak. Best way to move on.”
Arden lifted her chin. “I don’t have any grievances, and I moved on a long time ago.”
“Everyone has grievances. Without them, there’d be no need for people like me.”
“Lawyers, you mean.” Her tone sounded more withering than she’d meant it.
He grinned, disarming her yet again. “Grievances are our lifeblood. But to get back on point… Yes, you’re right, we did agree to separate colleges. We were supposed to go off and sow our wild oats and then come back to Charleston, settle down, marry and have a few kids, number negotiable.”
She gave a quick shake of her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. “When did we ever talk about anything remotely like that?”
“I thought it was understood. In my mind, that was the way it was always supposed to end.”
“Is this the part where you tell me you’ve been pining for me all these years? That I’m the reason you never married?”
“You never married, either,” he said. “Have you been pining for me?”
“No, I have not.” She planted a hand on one hip as she stared him down. “As fascinating as I’m finding this conversation, I really don’t have time for a trip down memory lane. I have a lot of things to do and not much time to do them. So if you’d like to tell me why you’re really here…” She tapped a toe impatiently.
“I was hoping we could have dinner some night and catch up.”
The suggestion hit her like a physical blow. Dinner? With Reid Sutton? No, not a good idea, ever. The last thing she needed was more drama in her life. All she wanted these days was a little peace and quiet. A safe place where she could reflect and regroup. Her life in Atlanta hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped. Not her career, not her personal relationships, not even her friendships. There had been good times, of course, but not enough to overcome the disappointment and humiliation of failure. Not enough to ward off a dangerous discontent that had been gathering for months. None of that needed to be shared with Reid Sutton.
She wandered over to the fireplace, running a finger along the dusty mantel before turning back to him. “What do you call this discussion if it’s not catching up?”
“Airing grievances and catching up are two different things.” He followed her across the room. “The latter usually goes down better with a cocktail or two. The former sometimes requires a whole bottle.”
“The liquor has all been put away,” she said. “And as tempting as you make it sound, I’m leaving tomorrow so there’s no time for dinner.”
He turned to glance back at the foyer where she’d dropped her luggage. “That many suitcases for just one night?”
She shrugged. “I like to be prepared. Besides, I may be going somewhere else after I leave here.”
“Where?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “Is that the best you can do? Disappointing, Arden. You used to be a much better liar.”
“I don’t have as much practice these days without you egging me on.”
His demeanor remained casual, but something dark flashed in his eyes. “As if I ever had to egg you on. About anything.”
She felt the heat of an uncharacteristic blush and turned away. “Funny. I don’t recall it that way.”
“No? I could refresh your memory with any number of specifics, but suffice to say, you were always very good at deception and subterfuge. Better than me, in fact.”
“No one was a better liar than you, Reid Sutton.”
“It’s good to excel at something, I guess. Seriously, though. How long are you really here for? The truth, this time.”
She sighed. She could string him along until they both tired of the game, but what would be the point? “I haven’t decided that, either.” She brushed off her dusty fingers. “The house needs work before I can list it and I’m not sure I trust Grandmother’s attorney to oversee even minor renovations. He’s getting on in years and wants to retire.” There. She’d owned up to Reid Sutton what she hadn’t dared to admit to herself—that she’d come back to Charleston indefinitely.
“Ambrose Foucault still handling her affairs?”
“Yes.”
“He’s no spring chicken,” Reid agreed. “First I’d heard of his retirement, though.”
“It’s not official. Please don’t go chasing after his clients.”
He smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. What about your job? Last I heard you were the director of some fancy art gallery in Atlanta.”
“Not an art gallery, a private museum. And not the director, just a lowly archivist.”
His eyes glinted. “I bet you ran things, though.”
“I tried to, which is why I’m no longer employed there.”
“You were fired?”
“Not fired,” she said with a frown. “It was a mutual parting of the ways. And anyway, I was ready for a change. You should understand that. Didn’t you just leave your father’s law practice?”
“Yes, but I was fired. Disowned, too, in fact. I’m poor now in case you hadn’t heard.”
She was unmoved by his predicament. “By Sutton standards maybe. Seems as though I recall a fairly substantial trust fund from your grandfather. Or have you blown through that already?”
“Oh, I’ve had a good time and then some. But no worries. Provisions have been made for our old age. Nothing on this level, of course.” He glanced around the gloomy room with the gilded portraits and priceless antiques. “But we’ll have enough for a little place on the beach or a cabin in the mountains. Which do you prefer?”
Arden wasn’t amused. The idea that they would grow old together was ludicrous and yet, if she were honest, somehow poignant. “Go away, Reid. I have things to do.”
“I could help you unpack,” he offered. “At least let me carry your bags upstairs.”
“I can manage, thanks.”
“Are you sure you want to be alone in this house tonight?”
His tone altered subtly, sending a prickle of alarm down Arden’s spine. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she moved closer, peering into his eyes until he glanced away. “You didn’t come over here to clear the air, did you? What’s going on, Reid? For the last time, why are you really here?”
He peered past her shoulder into the garden. “You haven’t heard, then.”
“Heard what?
His troubled gaze came back to her. “There’s been a murder.”
