The Cursed. Heather Graham

Hagen?” she said. Her words were soft—and hopeful.

      But neither of her resident ghosts replied. They were angry—they had a right to be.

      But, despite their silence, were they here, watching her? Watching everything that was going on?

      “Guys, please, I’m really, really sorry,” she said.

      No one answered her. She decided she must be feeling off because of the bad night she’d had and all the people crawling around her yard, not to mention that she’d stumbled on a body this morning. She let out a soft sigh and tried to imagine her bank accounts in her mind’s eye, then decided on a course of action. She asked herself again whether she should call the potential guests who’d left their numbers or not. Maybe it was too soon.

      Too soon after discovering a dead man.

      Hannah drummed her fingers on the table. She was glad that Liam had come when her emergency call had gone through; he had been her friend for as long as she could remember. As for the FBI agent...

      She didn’t have anything against FBI agents. Her cousin Kelsey was an FBI agent. She wished fiercely at that moment that Kelsey was still in Key West, but she was in the D.C. area, part of a special unit. Hannah hadn’t gotten to see a lot of Kelsey since she’d moved.

      Hannah missed her.

      Missed her now more than ever.

      She pulled her phone from her pocket, suddenly overcome by the urge to speak with her cousin.

      She stopped herself before opening speed dial. She would call Kelsey soon and spill everything that had happened. Kelsey was tough but compassionate. She would put everything in perspective.

      Hannah just wasn’t going to call her now, while she was in a panic. She would wait until she was calm, when she wouldn’t sound as hysterical as Shelly had sounded that morning.

      Her best course of action right now was to try to come to grips with what had happened. She winced.

      She hadn’t even known the man.

      But she had held him in death.

      She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to be busy so she could take her mind off things.

      Hard to do, of course, when her guests had fled.

      So she would sit down, breathe, check out her bank accounts and assure herself that she could weather this storm. Yes, a man had died and that was tragic. But she hadn’t known him, and she had done what she could. She had to move forward now.

      * * *

      Liam was obviously good friends with Hannah O’Brien, Dallas thought when his friend went straight to the back door, opened it without knocking and walked right in.

      The house was old—probably one of the island’s oldest. Tongue-and-groove paneling was evident in a rear room that had been set up as a social area, with a large flat-screen television surrounded by old bookshelves that also held a stereo system. The furniture seemed to be what was locally called Victorian Keys—rattan and wicker decorated with cushions covered in period-design fabrics. The drapes back here were sheer and floated through large open windows that looked out over the patio and pool.

      “Hannah?” Liam called.

      “In the kitchen!” came the reply.

      “You should lock your door,” Liam told her.

      “I usually do,” she replied. “Honestly.”

      By then they were walking through the formal dining room. If it had been 1839, Dallas thought, the room wouldn’t have looked any different. The table was large enough to seat at least twelve and was highly polished. Intricately carved legs each ended in a dragon’s head. Lace doilies, along with a handsome silver service, covered the tabletop. Liam didn’t pause but walked on through to the kitchen. Dallas followed him.

      There was another table in the kitchen—this one smaller and far more casually set. It sat six, tops. The kitchen itself was large and in keeping with the rest of the house. The sink had reproduction faucets that resembled old pumps, the counters were butcher block, with marble tops by the stove and sink. Copper pots and pans hung from the rafters, and there was a huge fireplace with a large kettle hanging over carefully stacked wood. Dallas was pretty sure it was just for show.

      Hannah was seated at the table. She had changed into a sundress and was no longer covered in blood. Her hair was wet; she had apparently washed it. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes were wide. She was, he thought, very much a beauty, like a classical statue in her near perfection.

      She was sipping from a mug as she studied a record book in front of her.

      “I’m debating whether to call the people I had to turn away,” she told Liam drily. “My bottom line could certainly use the help.”

      “Don’t know how to help you there, I’m afraid,” Liam told her as he pulled out the chair to her right and helped himself to coffee.

      “There’s quiche and croissants if you’d like,” she said. “Obviously I’m not serving a dozen guests this morning.”

      “How sad. Your guests are gone,” Dallas snapped before he could stop himself.

      She stared at him, obviously stung by his tone. “I found that poor man. I saw his face. It was...” She shuddered. “Anyway, think whatever you want of me, but we’re still here and so is the food, so help yourself if you’re hungry.”

      He was hungry; the call from Liam had dragged him out of bed early in the morning, and he hadn’t had a break since. But he felt like an ass. No way in hell could he accept her food after he’d just been so rude to her.

      “I’m pretty sure you both know I didn’t kill that man,” she said quietly. “But the clothes I was wearing are in that paper bag if you need them for anything.”

      “The lab might want them,” Liam said.

      “Interesting,” Dallas said. “That’s a good call, but it’s interesting that you thought ahead like that.”

      She gave him a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “The techs outside asked me to bag up the clothing I was wearing in case they could find trace evidence from the killer on it.”

      Dallas kept his mouth shut and took a drink of the coffee Liam had already poured for him, but inside he was thinking, You ass all over again.

      “Hannah, by any chance did your guests tell you what direction the ‘ghost’ came from?” Liam asked her.

      She shook her head. “I wish I could tell you more, Liam, but no, they didn’t say anything. I assume you’ll want to talk to them yourself, though. I arranged for them to stay at the Westin. None of the B and Bs would have had room, even if I’d been able to reach someone at that hour of the morning.”

      “I’m assuming you have cell numbers for them so we can track them down if they’re out?” Dallas asked.

      She nodded and reached for the guest register on the table. “Of course.”

      Liam rose, pulling out a small pad and a pen. “What are their names?”

      “Stuart Bell and Shelly Nicholson saw him and thought he was a ghost,” Hannah said, and gave him their numbers. “Their friends are Pete and Judy Atkinson, and Mark Riordan and Yerby Catalano. And then there were the Hardwickes. They’re regulars, and much too elderly to be your murderer, if that’s what you’re thinking. They woke up with all the screaming and came rushing down, just like I did. They were just as confused and disoriented as I was. Everyone but the Hardwickes was on my ghost tour earlier. I start off here, and I always end at the Hard Rock—part of their ticket price gets them a drink. I left them there, came home and went to sleep. I didn’t hear them come in. I didn’t hear anything until the screaming started. Just call over to the hotel. I’m sure you’ll reach them there.”

      “Thanks,”