Never Look Back. Robert Ross
left the store and he took her to dinner across the street at Commander’s Palace—one of the best restaurants in the city, and definitely not in her budget. So he was a playboy, a flirt. So maybe he flattered lots of his pretty young female fans like this. Karen didn’t care. If she did, she wouldn’t have worn the low-cut blouse at which Philip kept surreptiously glancing.
“If you like mysteries, you should write mysteries,” he was saying to her. “That’s where your heart is. You have to write about what interests you—not about what you think will sell. That’s the road to becoming a hack writer—and you’re much too pretty and intelligent to be a hack.”
He thought her mystery novel showed promise. “I like the premise, and what you say about the main character—it sounds like there’s no other character out there like her, and that’s a key to help sell the book.”
“Really? Do you really think so?”
He just grinned and winked at her.
When the after-dinner coffee arrived, he said, “Would you mind letting me read your manuscript? I’d be glad to look it over and give you some pointers. I don’t usually do this—but I’ll make an exception in your case.”
“You’d do that for me?” She couldn’t believe her luck. She thought she was going to die on the spot.
He patted her on the leg. “It’s my duty to the reading public.”
She’d taken him back to her little apartment and dug out one of the copies. He sat down on her desk chair and read the first page, whistling as he did so. “This is really pretty good, actually,” he said, looking up at her and giving her the same smile that stared out of his author photos. He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got an early flight tomorrow. This tour is really out of control, the schedule they’ve got me set up for—but give me your phone number and e-mail address.”
She wrote them down for him and then walked him down to the street. She was surprised: she really thought he was going to make a move on her, expect something in return for all the attention he’d given her, the promises he was making. She wasn’t sure how she would’ve responded.
Oh, who was she kidding? If he’d made a move, she would’ve made a move right back.
At the door, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Ah, pretty Karen Donovan,” he said, smiling down at her. “Let’s keep this professional—at least for now.”
And six months later, I’m his wife, she thought, setting the box down in a corner and looking around the attic. Somehow, it still didn’t seem real to her.
The attic looked like no one had set foot in it for months—years, maybe. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere, and old furniture was scattered and stacked with no sense of rhyme or reason. There were several old trunks shoved into one corner covered in a layer of dust. The roof of the house came to a peak directly in the center of the big room, and the dormer windows let in a surprising amount of light. Dust motes were floating gently in the path of the sunbeams.
She put her hands on her hips. Maybe I’ll make a project out of this attic, she thought, clean it out, get rid of this junk—it might just make a nice work space. She wasn’t comfortable at the thought of sharing Philip’s office with him. She liked solitude when she worked, usually putting on headphones and listening to a CD—Stevie Nicks, preferably—to shut out all outside noise. I’d hate to be a distraction to him.
The more she thought about it, the more she liked the idea. She walked over to one of the windows that faced the bay. There were plenty of electrical outlets, and no phone jack. Perfect, she thought, a grin spreading across her face. I’ll ask Philip about it tonight when we talk again. She knelt down and felt the raw wood. Sand it down and cover it in varnish and it’ll be gorgeous.
She heard the front door slam downstairs.
Jessie, she thought. She opened the nearest window and glanced out just in time to see Jessie disappearing down the street.
Great, just great, she moaned to herself. Where is she off to? I guess we’re going to have to set up some ground rules.
She sat down on a trunk, sending up a cloud of dust. Rules. Me setting up rules. She’ll probably think I’m a wicked stepmother. She laughed out loud, remembering how easily she’d evaded her parents’ rules whenever she wanted. With a sigh, she got up and went back downstairs.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Her face was smudged with dust and there were cobwebs in her brown hair. She ran her fingers through it, but just succeeded in making the tangles worse. She groaned and walked down to the kitchen.
“Where’s Jessie off to?” she asked Mrs. Winn, seated at the kitchen table.
The older woman pushed her glasses up her nose. She was looking over a paper Jessie had written, a red pencil shoved behind her right ear. It might be August, but Jessie was behind in her studies. There were state guidelines for homeschooling, and on the latest test Jessie hadn’t scored all that well. No summer vacation for her.
“Off to the library, I suspect,” Mrs. Winn replied, getting up to stand opposite Karen. “That’s pretty much the only place she goes. Well, that and the bookstores. Her research on this”—she gestured to the smudged computer printouts—“leaves a lot to be desired.”
Mrs. Winn was a short woman, barely five feet tall in her stocking feet, and her hair was iron gray. Her brown eyes were perceptive and intelligent. Karen had liked her almost from the minute she’d arrived yesterday.
“Been up in the attic?” Mrs. Winn smiled, reaching over to pluck a cobweb out of Karen’s hair.
Karen sank into a chair at the table and nodded. “I swear, I don’t know where all this junk came from. If you’d seen my old apartment back home—”
“Ah, whenever I move, I think the same thing.” Mrs. Winn moved over to the stove. “Would you like a nice cup of tea? I was just thinking I’d like one.”
What I really need is a shot of tequila, Karen thought, but aloud said, “That’d be nice.”
Mrs. Winn put the kettle on to boil, taking down two cups and some packets of tea. Sitting back down at the table across from Karen, she gave her a sympathetic look. “Are you settling in okay?” Her voice was so kind. She reminded Karen of her freshmen English teacher from high school.
Karen shrugged. “It’s a lot to handle.”
“Change is hard for everyone.” The teakettle whistled and Mrs. Winn was up again, pouring the boiling water into the teacups. “And this house is hardly the best place.” She shivered. “So much tragedy.”
“Tragedy?” Karen stirred her tea.
“My dear, you don’t know?” Mrs. Winn hesitated. “Oh, maybe it’s not my place—”
Mrs. Winn was a godsend after Jessie’s mother died. Karen heard Philip’s voice in her head. I don’t know what we would have done without her.
“Please, Mrs. Winn.”
“Call me Alice.” Mrs. Winn sipped her tea. “You know this is the old Hatch house, don’t you?”
Karen shrugged. “Hatch house? What does that mean?”
“Oh dear. Mr. Kaye must have told you. It was why he bought the house! Because of the associations. Because of the legends. You know, with him being a horror writer and all…”
“Mrs. Winn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She seemed flabbergasted. “My dear Karen. Have you never heard of Lettie Hatch?”
An old child’s rhyme floated suddenly through Karen’s head:
Lettie Hatch took a butcher knife, and with it took her father’s life. To put an end to all her strife, she used it then on her father’s wife.
She