The problem with Miss Devonshire’s threat was that Susan believed every word. She wouldn’t have put a premeditated “mishap” past herorMiss Grey, even before today’s interaction. From the sound of things, nobody in Bournemouth would bat an eye. Even the magistrate was blind to everything but Miss Devonshire’s porcelain-perfect beauty.
The bigger problem, of course, was that she could do nothing to change their minds. Short of proving she saw ghosts. How could that happen when evenshecouldn’t find Red, now that she was looking for him? Had she imagined him after all? Was he nothing but the product of a lonely, overactive mind?
WasEmelinea figment of her imagination, too? Susan had only seen her once, and no one else seemed to think anything suspicious afoot. Being chained beneath one’s own house was more than out of the ordinary. It was insane.
Maybe Susan wasn’t just haunted… maybe she was going mad.
If so, perhaps Miss Devonshire was right to take her revenge. Susan had seen the root of the terror in Miss Grey’s eyes: Susan had voiced the very fear Miss Grey had refused to acknowledge to herself. Red wasn’t coming home. How longhadthe woman been waiting for her brother’s return? Susan sighed. She hadn’t planted a suspicion. She’d salted an open wound.
And now there was no ghost to prove her words.
She’d tried the tavern, the apothecary, the endless trail curling its way up the cliff. No Red. No ghosts at all. With nowhere else to go, she’d ended up wandering along the beach.
When her heart rate returned to normal, she forced herself into motion. Shehadto find him. Talk to him. Demand answers. Or at least some help. Surely there was a way for Susan to “accidentally” stumble across Red’s remains. For his sister to bury him. To have peace.
Because without a body to back up her words... Susan shivered in the damp ocean air. That was the only way. Proof or not, she could never admit she saw spirits. She needed her trip back to London to end in Stanton House, not Bedlam.
She clutched her pelisse about her a little tighter. She turned from the fury of the waves, intending to regroup back in her bedchamber, when she caught sight of a telltale flicker farther down the shore.
“Red?” she called out, her voice scratchy in the briny air.
No answer. The beach was empty.
She picked her way along the rocks in the direction of whatever shadow had caught her eye. A thick wall of rock rose from the sea, as high as the cliff on which Moonseed Manor stood.
When she neared, she realized the giant mass of rock was not as solid as it appeared. A man-size crevice gaped in its side. She crept closer. The narrow opening fell inward as far as the eye could see, swallowing the sun’s meager rays in the thick soup of darkness.
“If you’re in there—” She jumped back, shaken, to hear the distorted echo of her own voice bounce among the shadows. “You can just come out if you wish to talk to me,” she whispered.
Something glimmered in the distance.
The darkness shifted.
A shape. A man. Red? No. Too tall, too slender. Not a ghost, then. Someone real. She should quit the premises posthaste before she found herself compromised after all. Except the incoming shadow belonged to—
“Mr. Bothwick?” she blurted out, simultaneously confused and relieved. “What on earth are you doing here? Don’t you know caves are dangerous? I must admit, you gave me quite a start. You—” She broke off, gulping down a lump of rock-hard fear. “Y-you aren’t moving your feet.”
She fought a swoon. Mr. Bothwick wasdead?How? When? Why?
“You can see me?” he said in wonder. Something in his voice was... off.
“Not well,” she admitted, unnerved. She reminded herself that he couldn’t hurt her, that if he touched her he’d simply disappear harmlessly. “You’re doing a fair bit of sputtering, like the flame of a candle. And the shadows aren’t helping much.”
“How did you know my name?”
She paused. Had he completely forgotten her, in death? She’d spent all morning in a pitiable frenzy because of his kisses, and the moment his heart stopped beating, the horrid man had put her out of his mind forever. Oh—God—dead.Her head swam. Suddenly too dizzy to keep herself upright, she slumped against the opening lip of the crevice.
“I’m Susan,” she heard herself say through a thick mist. “Miss Stanton, rather, since we never did first-name ourselves. Don’t you remember me at all?”
His voice was droll. And closer. “Trust me, I’d remember a face like yours.”
Then she sawhis.And he wasn’t Mr. Bothwick.
Susan backed up, slipped on a slick rock, landed on her bruised arse.
The almost-Mr.-Bothwick didn’t laugh. Didn’t float closer. He cocked his shimmering head to one side and watched, silent.
The truth hit her.
