Free Endless Night by Maureen A. Miller Page A

incident outside. There was nothing Jake could have found appealing in this shell of a woman. She was a ghost—a person who had ceased to exist. Even her image in the mirror seemed to fade as if she had become sheer.
    Margaret Simmons. Now there was a woman who was full of life. When she was not at work, she was full of vitality, the one who wanted to catch a homerun at Fenway. The one jogging through the Commons and secreting a smile if she happened to get a passing whistle. At work she was fastidious to a fault, a pit bull with ambition to find the truth even if the truth did not suit their client’s needs.
    Margaret Simmons no longer existed and only this specter stood in her place.
    Ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to feel though. And right now Megan could feel. She could feel the muscular strength of Jake’s body beneath her, a power that could have so easily reared and possessed her.
    Her head snapped away from the reflection and caught sight of the roman numerals on the mantel clock. Nearly two hours had passed, yet she hadn’t heard the cellar door open. In the past year, never once had she oiled any hinges in this house. They were warning bells to anyone who dared to get beyond her moat. But it had been two hours. Why didn’t she hear the screech of the cellar door?
    Thick wool socks muted her footfalls as she rounded the banister and stood before the unmarked door in the foyer. She flicked a glance at the antique cabinet, knowing the gun was nestled in one of its drawers. “Baby GLOCK” is what the dealer told her it was called. She didn’t care. He took cash and didn’t ask questions.
    It was her first foray into a subversive life.
    Megan’s anxious glance returned to the door. Just the thought of Jake standing down there naked had her trembling anew, but anxiety prompted her to yank the panel open.
    “Jake?”
    Nothing.
    “Jake? Are you okay?” Are you decent?
    First there was a muffled sound, like the slothful budge of a prehistoric animal, and then the deep timbre of Jake’s voice. “Megan, could you come down here?”
    “What’s wrong?” Cautious, she grabbed the splintered rail. “Don’t tell me the dryer is acting up again.”
    At the foot of the stairs, the last of which was loose, she stepped down and noticed that the dial on the dryer had completed its cycle.
    “Jake?” She executed a three-sixty, wary of the shadows that lurked beyond the throw rug. Harriet brought over the huge textile, as well as the oriental runner in the upstairs hallway, on a visit that was a barely concealed examination of the new tenant of Wakefield House.
    “Over here.” His voice was subdued.
    Megan followed that low rumble and found a new source of light, the flashlight she had lodged on one of the shelves. There were many of these hidden resources planted around Wakefield House, weapons and tools that might come in handy at an opportune moment.
    To her relief, Jake was fully clothed, but his clean jeans gained a new layer of dust as he sat on the floor with one leg stretched out, the other crooked to support the book in his hands.
    “Did you find something?”
    Jake looked up and Megan’s breath hitched in her throat. His eyes had a paralytic effect on her. Here in the gloomy shadows of the cellar, their versatile hue took on a shade similar to the gritty earth that lurked at the corners of the rock foundation.
    She swallowed down the effect. “What—what did you find?”
    “Have you ever seen pictures of Gabrielle when she was young?”
    “No.” Megan scanned the layer of shelves with musty bindings stacked in disorganized piles. “I haven’t had a chance to go through anything down here. Actually, I felt it would be intrusive of me.”
    Jake cocked an eyebrow. “That’s your polite way of saying that I’m nosing around in something I shouldn’t be?”
    Curious enough to tempt the fates and step closer, she broached the path of the flashlight. “No. Well—yes. Well, no, if they’re