The Restorer. Amanda Stevens

to live my life. The more superficial edicts I’d long since discarded—I no longer ironed my bed linens and I didn’t always use a tablecloth when I dined alone. But going back on my word…now that was something I would do only under pain of death.

      The hair at the back of my neck prickled a warning as the air around me stirred. I knew Devlin had come up behind me again, and I turned before he could touch me.

      “The coroner’s finished,” he said. “They’ll be moving the body soon. After that, you can take off. We won’t be able to do much out here until daylight.”

      “Thanks.”

      “I’ll let you know where to send your invoice.”

      “I’m not worried about that.”

      “Why not? You earned it tonight. Just one thing, though. When word of this gets out, reporters are going to hammer the university for a statement. If your name is mentioned as a consultant, they’ll likely want to get something from you on the record. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t release any information without first clearing it with me.”

      “Of course.”

      I had no intention of talking to the press about the grisly discovery in Oak Grove Cemetery. All I wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed and put this night behind me.

      But a tidy ending was not meant to be. Everything in my world was about to change forever.

      Including my father’s rules.

      FOUR

      My house on Rutledge Avenue was pure Charleston—a narrow, two-story clapboard with upper and lower verandas and a front garden surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.

      More important to me, it was one of those places my father had long ago taught me to seek out. There were no ghosts in this house. It was a sanctuary, a safe haven, the ground beneath hallowed, but I had no idea why. In the six months I’d lived here, I hadn’t been able to dig up much of its history, only that the house had been built in 1950 after the original structure had been torn down.

      Sometime in the 1990s, the owner had installed central heating and air-conditioning and divided the house into two apartments. Both units had access to a low-ceilinged, dirt-floor basement with brick walls and crumbling mortar—the only part of the original structure that remained—and a quaint backyard garden that smelled like heaven in the late afternoon when the Queen of the Night on the east side of the house started to bloom.

      A medical student named Macon Dawes rented the upper level. I didn’t know much about Macon. Our paths rarely crossed. He worked a crazy schedule at the hospital and I often heard him coming and going at odd hours.

      As I arrived home, I hoped to see a light in one of his windows and his old Civic parked in its usual spot. We were barely on a first-name basis, but tonight of all nights, I would have welcomed his presence. I didn’t relish entering an empty house alone, even one protected from the other world. Ghosts couldn’t penetrate the walls, but there was nothing to prevent a desperate killer from breaking a window or picking a lock to gain entrance.

      But the house was dark and silent, the driveway empty. Palmetto fronds hung heavy and still over the fence as I approached the side gate, door key clutched in my hand. As I stepped through into the garden, a police cruiser pulled to the curb in front of the house and a uniformed officer got out. I didn’t allow myself to panic. In fact, I was relieved to see him.

      He came through the front gate and we met at the bottom of the porch steps.

      “Miss Gray? Amelia Gray?”

      “Yes?”

      He nodded politely and touched his brim. “Evening, ma’am.” He spoke with a thick, country drawl that left me wondering briefly about his background. He was tall, thirtyish and attractive, from what I could see in the dark, but I barely noted his appearance. I was far more interested in whatever new discovery or revelation had brought him to my doorstep.

      “Is anything wrong?” I asked, bracing myself.

      “No, ma’am. John Devlin asked me to keep an eye on your place tonight.”

      The use of Devlin’s whole name gave it a subtle formality, and I was reminded of the way the other cops had seemed so uneasy around him at the cemetery. What were they afraid of? Or perhaps more aptly…why did Devlin make me so edgy?

      The officer’s gaze swept over me with more than a passing interest. Whether his curiosity had been triggered by Devlin’s request or my own bedraggled appearance, I could only guess. He hauled out his wallet and flashed his ID. After the evening’s events, I was annoyed with myself that I hadn’t thought to ask for it straightaway.

      “I understand you had some trouble earlier,” he said.

      “Someone broke into my car and stole my briefcase.” I nodded toward my parked vehicle, even though the shattered back window wasn’t visible from where we stood.

      “Rash of that lately. Punks looking for something to hock and nobody ever sees squat.” He gave me another long look. “Reckon it could be connected to that cemetery business, though.”

      He seemed to expect an answer so I shrugged. “I hope not.”

      “Best keep your eyes peeled, just in case. I’ll do drive-bys for the rest of my watch.” He fished a card from his pocket and handed it to me. “My number’s right there on the back. You see or hear anything out of the ordinary, don’t be afraid to holler.”

      I took the card and thanked him before climbing the steps to my porch. Once inside, I flipped the dead bolt, turned on a light and glanced out the window. The officer had climbed back into his car, but he didn’t pull away from the curb. The interior light was on and I could see a cell phone pressed to his ear. I wondered if he was reporting back to Devlin, wondered why the notion of that both relieved and bothered me.

      Turning from the window, I faced my empty house.

      Light from the wall sconces welcomed me through the arched doorway into a long, narrow hallway. A large parlor furnished with thrift store antiques opened to the right. To the left, a curved staircase led up to a bolted door that separated the first-and second-story apartments.

      My office was a converted sunporch all the way at the back of the house, just off the kitchen. In the mornings, a buttery light shone through the long windows and I liked to start my day out there with a cup of tea and my laptop.

      Tonight, nothing but darkness lay beyond the windows.

      I turned my back on all those shadows as I sat down at the desk, opened my laptop and compressed the Oak Grove folder so that I could send all the images in one email to the address on the card Devlin had given to me earlier.

      There.

      I sat back and let out a breath. My part in this whole disturbing mess was over. I’d done everything I possibly could to help the police.

      But even after I pressed the send button, I still couldn’t shake a lingering unease. Unless the killer knew that Devlin was now in possession of those images, he might still consider me a threat. And he couldn’t know that I’d sent the images unless he was watching me at that very moment.

      I shot a tentative glance over my shoulder.

      No one was there, of course. No eyes peering in from the darkness. No face pressed to the glass. Just the faintest hint of condensation creeping over the panes from the air-conditioning.

      As I watched, tiny lines appeared in the rime like ghostly etchings, but there was nothing supernatural about the cracks. Nothing more sinister than a cold surface meeting the warmer outside air.

      An unpleasant smell clung to my raincoat, and I decided the odor I’d brought home from the cemetery might be facilitating my apprehension.

      Rising, I hurried into the bathroom, stripped off all my clothing and stuffed everything into a garbage bag. Then I got into the shower and scrubbed