Some things you never forget...

Because they’ll never let you.

Minutes after Arden Mayfair returns to her hometown, lawyer Reid Sutton appears on her doorstep. He warns her of the murder of a young woman, which closely resembles that of Arden’s mother. Reid may be the man Arden left behind, but he’s taking no chances with her safety. She could have seen her mother’s killer. And the heartbreaking past between them won’t stop Reid from protecting Arden with his own life.

AMANDA STEVENS is an award-winning author of over fifty novels, including the modern gothic series The Graveyard Queen. Her books have been described as eerie and atmospheric, “a new take on the classic ghost story.” Born and raised in the rural South, she now resides in Houston, Texas, where she enjoys binge-watching, bike riding and the occasional margarita.

Also by Amanda Stevens

Criminal Behaviour

Incriminating Evidence

Pine Lake

Whispering Springs

Bishop’s Rock (ebook novella)

The Restorer

The Kingdom

The Prophet

The Visitor

The Sinner

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Killer Investigation

Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09410-8

KILLER INVESTIGATION

© 2019 Marilyn Medlock Amann

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The house on Tradd Street hadn’t changed much since Arden Mayfair had left home fourteen years ago. The beautiful grand piano still gathered dust at one end of the parlor while a long-dead ancestor remained on guard above the marble fireplace. Plantation shutters at all the long windows dimmed the late-afternoon sunlight that poured down through the live oaks, casting a pall over the once stately room. The echo of Arden’s footfalls followed her through the double doors as the oppressive weight of memories and dark tragedy settled heavily upon her shoulders.

Her gaze went to the garden and then darted away. She wouldn’t go out there just yet. If she left tomorrow, she could avoid the lush grounds altogether, but already the interior walls were closing in on her. She drew a breath and stared back at her ancestor, unfazed by the flared nostrils and pious expression. She’d never been afraid of the dead. It was the living that haunted her dreams.

She wrinkled her nose as she turned away from the portrait. The house smelled musty from time and neglect, and she would have liked nothing more than to throw open the windows to the breeze. The whole place needed a good airing, but the patio doors were kept closed for a reason.

Berdeaux Place hadn’t always been a shuttered mausoleum. The gleaming Greek Revival with its elegant arches and shady piazzas had once been her grandmother’s pride and joy, an ancestral treasure box filled with flowers and friends and delectable aromas wafting from the kitchen. When Arden thought back to her early childhood days, before the murder, she conjured up misty images of garden parties and elegant soirees. Of leisurely mornings in the playroom and long afternoons in the pool. Sometimes when it rained, her mother would devise elaborate scavenger hunts or endless games of hide-and-seek. Arden had once sequestered herself so well in the secret hidey-hole beneath the back staircase that the staff had spent hours frantically searching the house from top to bottom while she lay curled up asleep.

After a half-hearted scolding from her mother, Arden had been allowed to accompany her into the parlor for afternoon tea. The women gathered that day had chuckled affectionately at the incident as they spooned sugar cubes into their Earl Grey and nibbled on cucumber sandwiches. Basking in the limelight of their indulgence, Arden had gorged herself on shortbread cookies while stuffing her pockets with macaroons to later share with her best friend. When twilight fell, wrapping the city in shadows and sweet-scented mystery, she’d slipped out to the garden to watch the bats.

It was there in the garden that Arden had stumbled upon her mother’s body. Camille Mayfair lay on her back, eyes lifted to the sky as if waiting for the moon to rise over the treetops. Something had been placed upon her lips—a crimson magnolia petal, Arden would later learn. But in that moment of breathless terror, she’d been aware of only one thing: the excited thumping of a human heart.

As Arden grew older, she told herself the sound had been her imagination or the throb of her own pulse. Yet, when she allowed herself to travel back to that twilight, the pulsation seemed to grow and swell until the cacophony filled the whole garden.

It was the sound of a beating heart that had lured her from her mother’s prone body to the summerhouse, where a milky magnolia blossom had been left on the steps. The throbbing grew louder as Arden stood in the garden peering up into the ornate windows. Someone stared back at her. She was certain of it. She remained frozen—in fear and in fascination—until a bloodcurdling scream erupted from her throat.

As young as she was, Arden believed that bloom had been left for her to find. The killer had wanted her to know that he would one day come back for her.

Camille Mayfair had been the first known victim of Orson Lee Finch, the Twilight Killer. As the lives of other young, single mothers had been claimed that terrible summer, the offspring left behind had become known as Twilight’s Children, a moniker that was still trotted out every year on the anniversary of Finch’s arrest. New revelations about the case had recently propelled him back into the headlines, and Arden worried it was only a matter of time before some intrepid reporter came knocking on her door.

So why had she come back now? Why not wait until the publicity and curiosity had died down once again? She had business to attend to, but nothing urgent. After all, months had gone by since her grandmother’s passing. She’d certainly been in no hurry to wrap up loose ends. She’d come in for the service, left the same day, and the hell of it was, no one had cared. No one had asked her to stay. Not her estranged grandfather, not her uncle, not the friends and distant relatives she’d left behind long ago.

Her invisibility had been a painful reminder that she didn’t belong here anymore. Although Berdeaux Place was hers now, she had no intention of staying on in the city, much less in this house. Her grandmother’s attorney was more than capable of settling the estate once Arden had signed all the necessary paperwork. The house would be privately listed, but, with all the inherent rules and regulations that bound historic properties, finding the right buyer could take some time.

So why had she come back?

Maybe a question best not answered, she decided.

As she turned back to the foyer to collect her bags, she caught a movement in the garden out of the corner of her eye. She swung around, pulse thudding as she searched the terrace. Someone was coming along one of the pathways. The setting sun was at his back, and the trees cast such long shadows across the flagstones that Arden could make out little more than a silhouette.

Reason told her he was just one of the yard crew hired by the attorney to take care of the grounds. No cause for panic. But being back in this house, wallowing in all those old memories had left her unnerved. She reached for the antique katana that her grandmother had kept at the ready atop her desk. Slipping off the sheath, Arden held the blade flat against the side of her leg as she turned back to the garden.

The man walked boldly up to one of the French doors and banged on the frame. Then he cupped his face as he peered in through one of the panes. “I see you in there,” he called. “Open up!”

Arden’s grip tightened around the gilded handle. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Who am I? What the...?” He paused in his incredulity. “Cut it out, Arden. Would you just open the damn door?”

The familiarity of his voice raised goose bumps as she walked across the room to peer back out at him. Her heart tumbled in recognition. The eyes...the nose...that full, sensuous mouth... “Reid?”

His gaze dropped to the weapon in her hand. “Just who the hell were you expecting?”

She squared her shoulders, but her tone sounded more defensive than defiant. “I certainly wasn’t expecting you.”

“Are you going to let me in or should we just yell through the glass all night?”

She fumbled with the latch and then drew back the door. “What are you doing here anyway? You scared me half to death banging on the door like that.”

He nodded toward the blade. “Were you really going to run me through with that thing?”

“I hadn’t decided yet.”

“In that case...” He took the sword from her hand and brushed past her into the parlor.

“By all means, come on in,” she muttered as she followed him back into the room. She clenched her fists as if she could somehow control her racing pulse. He had startled her, was all. Gave her a bad fright leering in through the windows like a Peeping Tom. Her reaction had everything to do with the situation and nothing at all to do with the man. She was over Reid Sutton. He’d been nothing more than a memory ever since she’d left for college at eighteen, determined to put him and Charleston in her rearview mirror. They’d had a grand go of it. Given both families plenty of gray hairs and sleepless nights, and then the adventure had run its course. Arden had needed to get serious about her future and, at eighteen, Reid Sutton had been anything but serious. They’d both had a lot of growing up to do. At least Arden had been mature enough to realize she needed to break away before she made an irrevocable mistake.

She wondered if Reid had ever learned that lesson. She took in his faded jeans, flip-flops and the wavy hair that needed a trim. He was still devastatingly handsome with a smile that could melt the polar ice caps, but she knew better than to succumb to his particular allure. He was still big-time trouble from everything she’d heard, and he still had too much of the rebel in him even at the age of thirty-two. Which was, she suspected, only one of many reasons he’d recently left his family’s prestigious but stodgy law firm.

Arden watched him put away the weapon. She had to tear her gaze away from his backside, and that annoyed her to no end. “How did you get into the garden anyway? The side gate is always kept locked.” Her grandmother had made certain of that ever since the murder.

He turned with a grin, flashing dimples and white teeth. “The same way you used to sneak out. I climbed up a tree and jumped down over the wall.”

She sighed. “You couldn’t just ring the doorbell like any normal person?”

“What fun would that be?” he teased. “Besides...” He glanced around. “I wasn’t sure you’d be alone.”

“So you decided to spy on me instead?”

“Arden, Arden.” He shook his head sadly. “Since when did you become so pedestrian? You sound like an old lady. Though you certainly don’t present as one.” His gaze lingered, making Arden secretly relieved for the Pilates classes and the sleeveless white dress she’d worn to meet her grandmother’s attorney. “Just look at you. Thirty-two and all grown-up.”

“Which is more than I can say for you.” She returned his perusal, taking in the faded jeans and flip-flops.

“It’s after-hours, in case you hadn’t noticed the time.”

“Fair enough. But don’t pretend this is our first meeting since I left Charleston. I saw you just six months ago at my grandmother’s funeral.”

“Yes, but that was from a distance and you were dressed all in black. The hat and veil were sexy as hell, but I barely caught a glimpse of you.”

“You could have come by the house after the service.”

“I did.”

She lifted a brow. “When? I never saw you.”

“I didn’t come in,” he admitted. “I sat out on the veranda for a while.”

“Why?”

For a moment, he seemed uncharacteristically subdued. He tapped out a few notes on the piano as Arden waited for his response. The strains of an old love song swirled in her head, tugging loose an unwelcome nostalgia.

“Why didn’t you come in?” she pressed.

He hit a sour note. “I guess I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me after the way we ended things.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“I know. But it got pretty heated that last night. I always regretted some of the things I said before you drove off. I didn’t even mean most of it.”

“Sure you did, but your reaction was understandable. You were angry. We both were. I said some things, too.” She shrugged, but inside she was far from cavalier about their current discussion. “I guess it made leaving easier.”

“For you maybe.”

She cut him a look. “Don’t even try to put it all on me. You left, too, remember? That was the agreement. We’d both go off to separate colleges. Do our own thing for a while. Have our own friends. We needed some space. It was all for the best.”

“But you never came back.”

“That’s not true. I came back on holidays and every summer break.”

“You never came back to me,” he said quietly.

Arden stared at him for a moment and then took a quick glance around. “Are we seriously having this conversation? I feel like I’m being pranked or something.”

He didn’t bat an eye as he continued to regard her. “You’re not being pranked. We’re just being honest for once. Airing our grievances, so to speak. Best way to move on.”

Arden lifted her chin. “I don’t have any grievances, and I moved on a long time ago.”

“Everyone has grievances. Without them, there’d be no need for people like me.”

“Lawyers, you mean.” Her tone sounded more withering than she’d meant it.

He grinned, disarming her yet again. “Grievances are our lifeblood. But to get back on point... Yes, you’re right, we did agree to separate colleges. We were supposed to go off and sow our wild oats and then come back to Charleston, settle down, marry and have a few kids, number negotiable.”

She gave a quick shake of her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. “When did we ever talk about anything remotely like that?”

“I thought it was understood. In my mind, that was the way it was always supposed to end.”

“Is this the part where you tell me you’ve been pining for me all these years? That I’m the reason you never married?”

“You never married, either,” he said. “Have you been pining for me?”

“No, I have not.” She planted a hand on one hip as she stared him down. “As fascinating as I’m finding this conversation, I really don’t have time for a trip down memory lane. I have a lot of things to do and not much time to do them. So if you’d like to tell me why you’re really here...” She tapped a toe impatiently.

“I was hoping we could have dinner some night and catch up.”

The suggestion hit her like a physical blow. Dinner? With Reid Sutton? No, not a good idea, ever. The last thing she needed was more drama in her life. All she wanted these days was a little peace and quiet. A safe place where she could reflect and regroup. Her life in Atlanta hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped. Not her career, not her personal relationships, not even her friendships. There had been good times, of course, but not enough to overcome the disappointment and humiliation of failure. Not enough to ward off a dangerous discontent that had been gathering for months. None of that needed to be shared with Reid Sutton.

She wandered over to the fireplace, running a finger along the dusty mantel before turning back to him. “What do you call this discussion if it’s not catching up?”

“Airing grievances and catching up are two different things.” He followed her across the room. “The latter usually goes down better with a cocktail or two. The former sometimes requires a whole bottle.”

“The liquor has all been put away,” she said. “And as tempting as you make it sound, I’m leaving tomorrow so there’s no time for dinner.”

He turned to glance back at the foyer where she’d dropped her luggage. “That many suitcases for just one night?”

She shrugged. “I like to be prepared. Besides, I may be going somewhere else after I leave here.”

“Where?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his gaze. “Is that the best you can do? Disappointing, Arden. You used to be a much better liar.”

“I don’t have as much practice these days without you egging me on.”

His demeanor remained casual, but something dark flashed in his eyes. “As if I ever had to egg you on. About anything.”

She felt the heat of an uncharacteristic blush and turned away. “Funny. I don’t recall it that way.”

“No? I could refresh your memory with any number of specifics, but suffice to say, you were always very good at deception and subterfuge. Better than me, in fact.”

“No one was a better liar than you, Reid Sutton.”

“It’s good to excel at something, I guess. Seriously, though. How long are you really here for? The truth, this time.”

She sighed. She could string him along until they both tired of the game, but what would be the point? “I haven’t decided that, either.” She brushed off her dusty fingers. “The house needs work before I can list it and I’m not sure I trust Grandmother’s attorney to oversee even minor renovations. He’s getting on in years and wants to retire.” There. She’d owned up to Reid Sutton what she hadn’t dared to admit to herself—that she’d come back to Charleston indefinitely.

“Ambrose Foucault still handling her affairs?”

“Yes.”

“He’s no spring chicken,” Reid agreed. “First I’d heard of his retirement, though.”

“It’s not official. Please don’t go chasing after his clients.”

He smiled slyly. “Wouldn’t dream of it. What about your job? Last I heard you were the director of some fancy art gallery in Atlanta.”

“Not an art gallery, a private museum. And not the director, just a lowly archivist.”

His eyes glinted. “I bet you ran things, though.”

“I tried to, which is why I’m no longer employed there.”

“You were fired?”

“Not fired,” she said with a frown. “It was a mutual parting of the ways. And anyway, I was ready for a change. You should understand that. Didn’t you just leave your father’s law practice?”

“Yes, but I was fired. Disowned, too, in fact. I’m poor now in case you hadn’t heard.”

She was unmoved by his predicament. “By Sutton standards maybe. Seems as though I recall a fairly substantial trust fund from your grandfather. Or have you blown through that already?”

“Oh, I’ve had a good time and then some. But no worries. Provisions have been made for our old age. Nothing on this level, of course.” He glanced around the gloomy room with the gilded portraits and priceless antiques. “But we’ll have enough for a little place on the beach or a cabin in the mountains. Which do you prefer?”

Arden wasn’t amused. The idea that they would grow old together was ludicrous and yet, if she were honest, somehow poignant. “Go away, Reid. I have things to do.”

“I could help you unpack,” he offered. “At least let me carry your bags upstairs.”

“I can manage, thanks.”

“Are you sure you want to be alone in this house tonight?”

His tone altered subtly, sending a prickle of alarm down Arden’s spine. “Why? What aren’t you telling me?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she moved closer, peering into his eyes until he glanced away. “You didn’t come over here to clear the air, did you? What’s going on, Reid? For the last time, why are you really here?”

He peered past her shoulder into the garden. “You haven’t heard, then.”

“Heard what?”

His troubled gaze came back to her. “There’s been a murder.”

Chapter Two

“The victim was a young female Caucasian,” Reid added as he studied Arden’s expression.

She looked suddenly pale in the waning light from the garden, but her voice remained unnervingly calm. “A single mother?”

The question was only natural considering Orson Lee Finch’s MO. He’d preyed on young single mothers from affluent families. It was assumed his predilection had been nurtured by contempt for his own unwed mother and resentment of the people he’d worked for. Some thought his killing spree had been triggered by the rejection of his daughter’s mother. All psychobabble, as far as Reid was concerned, in a quest to understand the nightmarish urges of a serial killer.

“I don’t know anything about the victim,” he said. “But Orson Lee Finch will never see the outside of his prison walls again, so this can’t have anything to do with him. At least not directly.”

Arden’s eyes pierced the distance between them. “Why are you here, then? You didn’t just come about any old murder.”

“A magnolia blossom was found at the scene.”

Her eyes went wide before she quickly retreated back into the protection of her rigid composure.

This was the part where Reid would have once taken her in his arms, letting his strength and steady tone reassure her there was no need for panic. He wouldn’t touch her now, of course. That wouldn’t be appropriate and, anyway, he was probably overreacting. Homicides happened every day. But, irrational or not, he had a bad feeling about this one. He’d wanted Arden to hear about it from him rather than over the news.

She’d gone very still, her expression frozen so that Reid had a hard time reading her emotions. Her hazel eyes were greener than he remembered, her hair shorter than she’d worn it in her younger days, when the sun-bleached ends had brushed her waist. The tiny freckles across her nose, though. He recalled every single one of those.

If he looked closely, he could see the faintest of shadows beneath her eyes and the tug of what might have been unhappiness at the corners of her mouth. He didn’t want to look that closely. He wanted to remember Arden Mayfair as that fearless golden girl—barefoot and tanned—who had captured his heart at the ripe old age of four. He wanted to remember those glorious days of swimming and crabbing and catching raindrops on their tongues. And then as they grew older and the hormones kicked in, all those moonlit nights on the beach. The soft sighs and intimate whispers and the music spilling from his open car doors.

The Arden that stood before him now was much too composed and untouchable in her pristine white dress and power high heels. This Arden was gorgeous and sexy, but too grown-up and far too put together. And here he was still tilting at windmills.

He canted his head as he studied her. “Arden? Did you hear what I said?”

“Yes, I heard you.” Her hair shimmered about her shoulders as she tucked it behind her ears. “I’m just not sure what I’m supposed to do with the information.”

“You don’t have to do anything. I just thought it was something you’d want to know.”

“Why?”

“Why? Are you really going to make me spell it out?”

“Murder happens all the time, unfortunately, and magnolia blossoms are as common as dirt in Charleston. You said yourself this has nothing to do with Orson Lee Finch.”

“I did say that, yes.”

“This city has always had a dark side. You know that as well as I do.” She glanced toward the garden, her gaze distant and haunted. It wasn’t hard to figure out what she was thinking, what she had to be remembering. She’d only been five when she found her mother’s body. Reid was a few months older. Even then, he’d wanted to protect her, but they’d been hardly more than babies. Pampered and sheltered in their pretty little world South of Broad Street. The fairy tale had ended that night, but the magic between them had lasted until her car lights disappeared from his view on the night she left town.

No, that wasn’t exactly true. If he was honest with himself, their relationship had soured long before that night. The magic had ended when they lost their baby.

But he didn’t want to think about that. He’d long since relegated that sad time to the fringes of his memory. Best not to dredge up the fear and the blood and the look on Arden’s face when she knew it was over. Best not to remember the panicked trip to the ER or the growing distance between them in the aftermath. The despair, the loneliness. The feeling inside him when he knew it was over.

Reid had learned a long time ago not to dwell on matters he couldn’t control. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off and get on with life. Hadn’t that been his motto for as long as he could remember? If you pretended long enough and hard enough, you might actually start to believe that you were happy.

In fairness, he hadn’t been unhappy. He still knew how to have fun. He could still ferret out an adventure now and then. That was worth something, he reckoned.

With a jolt, he realized that Arden was watching him. She physically started when their gazes collided. Her hand went to her chest as if she could somehow calm her accelerated heartbeat. Or was he merely projecting?

He took a deep breath, but not so deep that she would notice. Instead, he let a note of impatience creep into his voice. “So that’s it, then? You’re just going to ignore the elephant in the room.”

She smoothed a hand down the side of her dress as if to prove her nonchalance. “What would you have me do?”

“I would expect a little emotion. Some kind of reaction. Not this...” He trailed away before he said something he’d regret.

“Not this what?” she challenged.

He struggled to measure his tone. “You don’t have to be so impassive, okay? It’s me. You can drop the mask. I just told you that a magnolia blossom was found at the crime scene. Only a handful of people in this city would understand the significance. You and I are two of them.”

“White or crimson?”

Finally, a spark. “White. A common variety. Nothing exotic or unusual as far as I’ve heard. It probably doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like the killer placed a crimson magnolia petal on the victim’s lips. Still...” He paused. “I thought you’d want to know.”

Arden’s expression remained too calm. “Who was the victim?”

“I told you, I don’t know anything about her. The name hasn’t been released to the public yet. Nor has the business about the magnolia blossom. We need to keep that to ourselves.”

“How do you know about it?”

“I have a detective friend who drops by on occasion to shoot the breeze and drink my whiskey. He sometimes has one too many and let’s something slip that he shouldn’t.”

“What does he think about the murder?” Arden asked. “Do they have any suspects yet?”

“He’s not working the case. His information is secondhand. Police department gossip. The best I can tell, Charleston PD is treating it like any other homicide for now.”

“For now.” She walked over to the French doors and leaned a shoulder against the frame. Her back was to him. He couldn’t help admiring the outline of her curves beneath the white dress or the way the high heels emphasized her toned calves. Arden had always been a looker. A real heartbreaker. No one knew that better than Reid.

She traced her reflection in the glass with her fingertip. “When did it happen?”

“The body was found early this morning in an alleyway off Logan.” Only half a block from Reid’s new place, but for some reason, he didn’t see fit to mention that detail. There were a few other things he hadn’t shared, either. He wasn’t sure why. He told himself he wanted to keep the meeting simple, but when had his feelings for Arden Mayfair ever been simple?

She dropped her hand to her side as she stared out into the gathering dusk. Already, the garden beyond the French doors looked creepy as hell. The statues of angels and cherubs that her grandmother had collected had always been a little too funereal for Reid’s tastes. The summerhouse, though. He could see the exotic dome peeking through the tree limbs. The Moroccan structure conjured images of starry nights and secret kisses. He and Arden had made that place their own despite the bad memories.

“Reid?”

He shook himself back to the present. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“The cabdriver had the radio on when I came in from the airport. There wasn’t a word of this on the news. No mention of a homicide at all. Ambrose didn’t say anything about it, either.”

“No reason he would know. As I said, the details haven’t yet been released. With all the Twilight Killer publicity recently, the police don’t want to incite panic. Keeping certain facts out of the news is smart.”

Arden turned away from the garden. “What do you think?”

“About the murder?”

“About the magnolia blossom.”

Reid hesitated. “It’s too early to speculate. The police are still gathering evidence. The best thing we can do is wait and see what they find out.”

The hazel eyes darkened. “Since when have you ever waited for anything?”

I waited fourteen years for you to come back. “I have no choice in the matter. I don’t have the connections or the clout I had when I was with Sutton & Associates. All I can do is keep my eyes and ears open. If my friend lets anything else slip, I’ll let you know.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “You’re saying all the right things, but I don’t believe you.”

“You think I’m making this up?”

“No. I think you came over here for a reason, but it wasn’t just to tell me about a murder or to suggest we wait and see what the cops uncover. You’re right. Only a handful of people would remember that a white magnolia blossom was left on the summerhouse steps the night my mother was murdered. Everyone else, including the police, focused on the crimson petal placed on her lips—the kiss of death that became the Twilight Killer’s signature. The creamy magnolia blossom was never repeated at any of the other murder scenes. Which means it was specific to my mother’s death.”

“That’s speculation, too. We’ve never known that for certain.”

“It’s what we always believed,” she insisted. “Just like we became convinced that the real killer remained free.”

“We were just dumb kids,” Reid said. “What were we—all of twelve—when we decided Orson Lee Finch must be innocent? No proof, no evidence, nothing driving our theory but boredom and imagination. We let ourselves get caught up in a mystery of our own making that summer.”

“Maybe, but we learned a lot about my mother’s case and about how far we were willing to push ourselves to uncover the truth. Don’t you remember how dedicated we were? We sat in the summerhouse for hours combing through old newspaper accounts and scribbling in notebooks. We even rode our bikes over to police headquarters and demanded to speak with one of the detectives who had worked the Twilight Killer case.”

“For all the good that did us,” Reid said dryly. “As I recall, we were not so politely shown the door.”

“That didn’t stop us though, did it?” For the first time, her eyes began to sparkle as she recalled their ardent pursuit of justice. The polished facade dropped and he glimpsed the girl she’d once been, that scrawny, suntanned dynamo who’d had the ability to wrap him around her little finger with nothing more than a smile.

“No, it didn’t stop us,” he agreed. “When did anything ever stop us?”

She let that one pass. “We decided the white magnolia blossom represented innocence, the opposite of the bloodred petal placed on my mother and the other victims’ lips. Given the Twilight Killer’s contempt for single mothers, he would have viewed all of them as tainted and unworthy, hence the crimson kiss of death.”

In spite of himself, Reid warmed to the topic. “You were the innocent offspring. The first Child of Twilight.”

She nodded. “The white blossom not only represented my virtue, but it was also meant as a warning not to follow in my mother’s sullied footsteps.”

They shared a moment and then both glanced quickly away. The memory of what they’d created and what they’d lost was as fleeting and bittersweet as the end of a long, hot summer.

“No one knew about the baby,” he said softly.

Her gaze darted back to him. “Of course, someone knew. Someone always knows. Secrets rarely stay hidden.”

“It never needed to be a secret. Not as far as I was concerned. But...” He closed his eyes briefly. “Water under the bridge. This murder has nothing to do with what happened to us. To you.”

“If you believed that, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Arden—”

“I know why you’re here, Reid. I know you. You won’t come right out and say it, but you’ve been dancing around the obvious ever since you got here. Despite what you said earlier, this does involve Orson Lee Finch. The way I see it, there can only be two explanations for why a magnolia blossom was left at that murder scene. Either Finch really is innocent or we’re dealing with someone who has been influenced by him. A copycat or a conduit. Maybe even someone with whom he’s shared his secrets.”

Reid stared at her in astonishment. “You got all that out of what I just told you? That’s quite a leap, Arden.”

“Is it? Can you honestly say the thought never crossed your mind?”

“You’re forgetting one extremely important detail. No red magnolia petal found on the body. No crimson kiss of death placed on the lips. This isn’t the work of a copycat and I seriously doubt that a dormant serial killer has suddenly been reawakened after all these years. A jury of Finch’s peers found him guilty and none of his appeals has ever gone anywhere. This has to be something else.”

Arden refused to back down. “Then I repeat, why are you here?”

He ran fingers through his hair as he tried to formulate the best answer. “Damned if I know at the moment.”

She regarded him with another frown. “Just consider the possibility that you and I were right about Orson Lee Finch’s innocence. The monster who killed all those women, including my mother, has remained free and well disguised all these years. Maybe I’m the reason he’s suddenly reawakened. Maybe the white magnolia blossom left at the crime scene was meant as another warning.”

“It’s way too early to head down that road,” Reid said. “If anything, we may be dealing with a killer who wants to throw the police off his scent.”

“So you don’t think my coming home has anything to do with this?”

“You just got in today. The murder occurred sometime last night or early this morning.”

“A coincidence, then.”

“What else could it be?”

She sighed in frustration. “I don’t understand you, Reid Sutton. You berate me when I don’t show the proper reaction to your revelation about the magnolia blossom, and now you go out of your way to try and convince me—and yourself—that it has nothing to do with me. You came all the way over here just to tell me about a coincidence.”

“I’m just trying to be sensible,” Reid said.

“You were never any good at that.”

“Maybe not, but someone needs to put on the brakes before we get too carried away.”

“Now who’s being pedestrian?” She brushed back her hair with a careless shrug. “Something’s not right about all this. Something’s not adding up. Why do I get the feeling you’re still holding out on me?”

Reid glanced away. The proximity of the crime scene to his place niggled. Another coincidence, surely, but ever since he’d heard about the murder, he hadn’t been able to shake a dark premonition. For days he’d had the feeling that his house was being watched. He’d caught sight of someone lurking in the shadows across the street. One night he’d heard the knob at the back door rattle.

The incidents had started at about the time Dave Brody had been released from prison. The ex-con had stopped by the office as soon as he’d hit town, strutting like a peacock with his smirks and leers and ominous tattoos. He blamed his incarceration on Sutton & Associates, claiming the attorneys that had represented him pro bono—in particular, Reid’s father, Boone Sutton—had suppressed a witness that could have corroborated Brody’s alibi.

Why he hadn’t gone straight to the source of his resentment, Reid didn’t know. He hadn’t even been out of law school when Brody had been sent up, had only worked peripherally on the appeals. Yet he was apparently the attorney Dave Brody had decided to target for the simple reason that Reid was now the most vulnerable. Without the money and prestige of the firm backing him, he was the easiest to get to. Knock out the son in order to get to the father. But Brody would find out the hard way that Boone Sutton didn’t cave so easily, even when family was involved.

Reid hadn’t reported the incidents because police involvement would only provoke a guy like Brody. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last time an irate client had harassed him. Best just to ignore the creep, but still the location of that murder scene bothered him.

“Look, to be honest, I don’t know what any of this means,” Reid said. “I just knew that I wanted you to hear about that magnolia blossom from me.”

He expected another argument; instead, she nodded. “Okay. Thank you. I mean it. I haven’t been gracious about any of this. You caught me off guard. That’s my only excuse.”

“I understand.”

“I’m not usually like this. It’s just...” She seemed at a loss. “You and I have a complicated history.”

“To put it mildly,” he agreed.

She drew a breath. “Fourteen years is a long time and yet here we are, back where it all started.”

He smiled. “History repeating.”

“God, I hope not.”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

“You know what I mean. Everything was so intense back then. So life and death. I don’t think I could take all that drama these days.”

“That’s why we have booze. Adulthood has its perks.”

“I don’t want to numb myself,” Arden said with a reproving glance. “But a little peace and quiet would be nice.”

“You’ll have that in spades here,” he said as his gaze traveled back into the foyer. “Are you sure I can’t help you with those bags?”

“I can manage.”

He lingered for a moment longer, letting his senses drink her up as memories flowed. Man, they’d had some good times together. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he’d missed her. Arden Mayfair wasn’t just his ex-girlfriend. She’d been his best friend, his soul mate, and a true and enthusiastic partner in crime. He hadn’t had anyone like her in his life since she’d left town. Oh, he had plenty of friends, some with benefits, some without. He never lacked for companionship, but there was no one like Arden. Maybe there never would be.

“I guess I’ll say good-night then.” He wondered if she noticed the hint of regret in his voice.

“Reid?” She crossed the room quickly and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. She was like quicksilver in his arms, airy and elusive. Before he had time to catch his breath, she’d already retreated, leaving the scent of her honeysuckle shampoo to torment his senses.

He caught her arm and drew her back to him, brushing her lips and then deepening the kiss before she could protest. “Welcome home, Arden.”

She looked stunned. “Good night, Reid.”

Chapter Three

Arden finished unpacking and then took a quick shower, dressing in linen pants and a sleeveless top before going back downstairs to decide about dinner. There was no food in the house, of course. No one had been living in Berdeaux Place since her grandmother’s passing. She would need to make a trip to the market, but for now she could walk over to East Bay and have a solitary meal at her favorite seafood place. Or she could unlock the liquor cabinet and skip dinner altogether. She was in no hurry to venture out now that twilight had fallen.

At loose ends and trying to avoid dwelling on Reid’s visit, she wandered through the hallways, trailing her fingers along dusty tabletops and peering up into the faces of forgotten ancestors. Eventually she returned to the front parlor, where her grandmother had once held court. Arden had a vision of her now, sitting ramrod straight in her favorite chair, teacup in one hand and an ornate fan in the other as she surveyed her province with quiet satisfaction. No matter the season or temperature, Evelyn Mayfair always dressed in sophisticated black. Maybe that was the reason Arden’s mother had been drawn to vivid hues, in particular the color red. Arden supposed there was irony—or was it symmetry?—in the killer’s final act of placing a crimson petal upon her lips.

Enough reminiscing.

If she wasn’t careful, she could drown in all those old memories.

Crossing over to the French doors, she took a peek out into the gardens. The subtle glow from the landscape lighting shimmered off the alabaster faces of the statues. She could hear the faint splash of the fountain and the lonely trill of a night bird high up in one of magnolia trees. Summer sounds that took her back to her early childhood days before tragedy and loss had cast a perpetual shroud over Berdeaux Place.

Checking the lock on the door, she turned away and then swung back. Another sound intruded. Rhythmic and distant.

The pound of a heartbeat was her first thought as her own pulse beat an uneasy tattoo against her throat.

No, not a heartbeat, she realized. Something far less sinister, but invasive nonetheless. A loose shutter thumping in the breeze most likely. Nothing to worry about. No reason to panic.

She took another glance into the garden as she reminded herself that her mother had been murdered more than twenty-five years ago. It was unreasonable and perhaps paranoid to think that the real killer had waited all these years to strike again. Reid was right. The magnolia blossom found at the murder scene couldn’t be anything more than a coincidence.

Arden stood there for the longest time recounting his argument as she tried to reassure herself that everything was fine. A jury of Finch’s peers had found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. He would never again be a free man. And even if another killer did prowl the streets, Arden was as safe here as she was anywhere. The property was sequestered behind brick walls and wrought-iron gates. The house had good locks and, ever since the murder, a state-of-the-art security system that had been periodically updated for as long as she could remember. She was safe.

As if to prove to herself that she had nothing to fear, she turned the dead bolt and pushed open the French doors. The evening breeze swept in, fluttering the curtains and scenting the air with the perfume of the garden—jasmine, rose and magnolia from the tree that shaded the summerhouse. She’d smelled those same fragrances the night she’d found her mother’s body.

She wouldn’t think about that now. She wouldn’t spoil her homecoming with old nightmares and lingering fears. If she played her cards right, this could be a new beginning for her. A bolder and more exciting chapter if she didn’t let the past hold her back.

Bolstering her resolve, she walked down the flagstone path toward the summerhouse. The garden had been neglected since her grandmother was no longer around to browbeat the yard crew. In six months of Charleston heat and humidity the beds and hedges had exploded. Through the untrimmed canopy of the magnolias, the summerhouse dome rose majestically, and to the left Arden could see the slanted glass roof of the greenhouse.

The rhythmic thud was coming from that direction. The greenhouse door had undoubtedly been left unsecured and was bumping in the breeze.

Before Arden lost her nerve, she changed course, veering away from the summerhouse and heading straight into the heart of the jungle. It was a warm, lovely night and the garden lights guided her along the pathway. She detected a hint of brine in the breeze. The scent took her back to all those nights when she’d shimmied down the trellis outside her bedroom window to meet Reid. Back to the innocent kisses in the summerhouse and to those not so innocent nights spent together at the beach. Then hurrying home before sunup. Lying in bed and smiling to herself as the light turned golden on her ceiling.

Despite the dark shadow that had loomed over the house since her mother’s murder, Arden had been happy at Berdeaux Place, thanks mostly to Reid. He’d given her a way out of the gloom, an escape from the despair that her grandmother had sunk more deeply into year after year. Evelyn Berdeaux Mayfair had never gotten over the death of her only daughter and sometimes Arden had wondered if her presence had been more of a curse than a blessing, a constant reminder of what she’d lost.

Her grandmother’s desolation had worn on Arden, but Reid had always been there to lift her up. He’d been her best friend, her confidant, and for a time she’d thought him the love her life. Everything had changed that last summer.

Too soon, Arden. Don’t go there.

There would be time enough later to reflect on what might have been.

But already wistfulness tugged. She paused on the flagstones and inhaled sharply, letting the perfume of the night lull her. A moth flitted past her cheek as loneliness descended. It had been a long time since she’d felt so unmoored. She blamed her longing on Reid’s unexpected visit. Seeing him again had stirred powerful memories.

Something darted through the trees and she whirled toward the movement. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t kept track of her surroundings, of the danger that had entered the garden.

She stood frozen, her senses on full alert as she tried to pinpoint the source of her unease. The thumping had stopped, and now it wasn’t so much a sound or a smell that alarmed her but a dreaded certainty that she was no longer alone.

Her heart started to pound in fear as she peered through the darkness. The reflection of the rising moon in the glass ceiling of the greenhouse cast a strange glow directly over the path where someone stood watching her.

In that moment of terror, Arden wanted nothing so much as to turn and run from the garden, to lock herself away in Berdeaux Place as her grandmother had done for decades. She could grow old in that house, withering away with each passing year, lonely and desolate yet safe from the outside world. Safe from the monster who had murdered her mother and would someday return for her.

She didn’t run, though. She braced her shoulders and clenched her fists even as she conjured an image of her own prone body on the walkway, with blood on the flagstones and a crimson magnolia petal adorning her cold lips.

“Arden?”

The voice was at once familiar and strangely unsettling, the accent unmistakably Charleston. A thrill rippled along her backbone. She had lots of videos from her childhood. Her mother had pronounced her name in that same dreamy drawl. Ah-den.

He moved out of the shadows and started down the path toward her. Arden stood her ground even as her heart continued to flail. The man was almost upon her before recognition finally clicked. “Uncle Calvin?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said in his elegant drawl.

“No, it’s okay. I just... I wasn’t expecting anyone to be out here.”

“Nor was I. You gave me quite the start, too, seeing you there in the moonlight. You look so much like your mother I thought for a moment I was seeing her ghost.”

For some reason, his observation sent another shiver down Arden’s spine.

As he continued toward her, she could pick out the familiar Mayfair features—the dimpled chin and piercing blue eyes melding seamlessly with the Berdeaux cheekbones and nose. Arden had the cheekbones and nose, but her hair wasn’t quite so golden and her complexion was far from porcelain. Her hazel eyes had come from her father, she’d long ago decided. A frivolous charmer who’d skipped town the moment he’d learned she was on the way, according to her grandmother. Still, the resemblance was undeniable.

“Ambrose told me a few days ago that you were coming, but somehow it slipped my mind,” her uncle said. “I’m so used to letting myself in through the garden gate I never even thought to stop by the house first.” He came to a halt on the path, keeping distance between them as if he were worried he might startle her away. “I hope I didn’t frighten you too badly.”

“It’s not you.” She let out a breath as she cast a glance into the shadows. “It’s this place. After all these years, the garden still unnerves me.”

“I’m not surprised.” His hair looked nearly white in the fragile light as he thrust it back from his forehead. He was tall, slender and somehow stylish even in his casual attire. In her younger years, Arden had thought her uncle quite dashing with his sophisticated demeanor and mysterious ways. She had always wanted to know him better, but his remoteness had helped foster his mystique. “Even after all these years, the ghosts linger,” he murmured.

“You feel it, too,” Arden said with a shudder.

“No matter the time of day or year.” He paused with a wan smile. “You were so young when it happened. I’m surprised you still feel it so strongly.”

“It’s not something you ever get over.”

“No, I suppose not. I was away at the time. Father and I had had a falling out so I didn’t find out until after the funeral. Maybe that’s why the impact only hit me later. I’m sorry I wasn’t around to at least offer some comfort.”

“I had Grandmother.”

“Yes. I remember hearing how she clung to you at the funeral. You were her strength.”

“And she, mine, although I don’t remember much about that day. It passed in a haze.”

“Probably for the best.” He gave her another sad smile. “So here you are. Back after all these years.”

“Yes.”

“It’s been a long time. Everyone had begun to think that we’d lost you for good.”

Arden wondered whom he included in that “everyone.” Not her grandfather, surely. Clement Mayfair had never shown anything but a cursory concern for her welfare. “I’ve returned periodically for visits. I spent almost every Christmas with Grandmother.”

“And now you’ve come home to any empty house and me looking like something the cat dragged in. I apologize for my appearance,” he said as he held up his gloved hands. “I’ve been working in the greenhouse.”

He looked nothing short of pristine. “At this hour?” Arden asked in surprise.

“Maybe you’d like to see what I’ve been up to. That is, if you don’t mind the general disrepair. The greenhouse is in rather a dismal state so mind your step.”

“What have you been working on?”

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “You’ll see.”

He turned and she fell into step behind him on the flagstone pathway, following his graceful gait through borders of silvery artemisia and pale pink dianthus. She felt safe enough in the company of her uncle. She didn’t know him well, but he’d always been kind. Still, she couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother had been murdered on an evening such as this.

The greenhouse door opened with a squeal.

“The hinges have rusted and the latch doesn’t catch like it should,” he said. “Not that there’s anything of value inside. The tools, what’s left of them, are secured in the shed around back. The lock needs to be replaced, regardless. No one needs to be traipsing about inside. Could be a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Ambrose should have had that taken care of,” Arden said. “At any rate, I’ll have someone come out as soon as possible.”

Her uncle glanced over his shoulder. “You’re here to stay then.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans yet.”

He looked as if he were on the verge of saying something else, but he shrugged. “You’ve plenty of time. There’s no need to rush any decisions.”

She stepped through the door and glanced around. The tables and racks were nearly empty except for a few chipped pots.

“Straight ahead,” he said as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them aside.

“I’d nearly forgotten about this place.” Arden glanced up in wonder through the glass panels where a few stars had begun to twinkle. “Grandmother never talked about it anymore and we didn’t come out here on any of my visits. She gave up her orchids long ago. I’m surprised she didn’t have the structure torn down.”

“It served a purpose,” Calvin said.

“You’re being very mysterious,” Arden observed.

“Just you wait.”

Arden hugged her arms around her middle. “When I was little, Grandmother used to let me come in here with her while she mixed her potions and boosters. Her orchids were the showstoppers at every exhibit, but secretly I always thought they were the strangest flowers with the spookiest names. Ghost orchid, fairy slipper, Dracula benedictii. They were too fussy for my taste. Required too much time and effort. I adored Mother’s cacti and succulents. So hardy and yet so exotic. When they bloomed, the greenhouse was like a desert oasis.”

“I can imagine.”

Arden sighed. “The three of us spent hours in here together, but Grandmother lost interest after the—after Mother was gone. She hired someone to take care of the plants for a while... Eventually everything died.”

“Not everything.” Her uncle’s blue eyes glinted in reflected moonlight. He stepped aside, leaning an arm on one of the tables as he waved her forward. “Take a look.”

Arden moved around him and then glanced back. “Is that...it can’t be Mother’s cereus? It’s nearly to the ceiling!” She trailed her gaze up the exotic cactus. “You kept it all this time?”

“Evelyn kept it,” he said, referring to his mother and Arden’s grandmother by her given name. “After you moved away, it was the only thing of Camille’s she had left. She spent most of her time out here, trimming and propagating. As you said, mixing her potions and boosters. She may have lost interest in the orchids, but she never lost her touch.”

Arden felt a twinge of guilt. She could too easily picture her grandmother bent to her work, a slight figure, wizened and withered in her solitude and grief. “I see lots of buds. How long until they open?”

“Another few nights. You’re lucky. It’s promising to be quite a show this year.”

“That’s why you’re here,” Arden said. “You’ve been coming by to take care of the cereus.”

“I couldn’t let it die. Not after Evelyn had nurtured it all those years. A Queen of the Night this size is rare in these parts and much too large to move. Besides, this is its home.”

He spoke in a reverent tone as if concerned for the plant’s sensibilities. That was nonsense, of course, nothing but Arden’s overstimulated imagination; yet she couldn’t help sneaking a glance at her uncle, marveling that she could look so much like him and know so little about him.

Arden’s grandparents had divorced when their children were still young. Calvin had remained in the grand old mansion on East Bay Street with Clement Mayfair while his older sister, Camille—Arden’s mother—had gone to live with Evelyn at Berdeaux Place. Outwardly, the divorce had been amicable; in reality, a simmering bitterness had kept the siblings apart.

Growing up, Arden could remember only a handful of visits from her uncle and she knew even less about her grandfather, a cold, taciturn man who disapproved of little girls with dirty fingernails and a sense of adventure. On the rare occasions when she’d been summoned to Mayfair House, she’d been expected to dress appropriately and mind her manners, which meant no fidgeting at the dinner table, no speaking unless spoken to.

Clement Mayfair was a tall, swarthy man who had inherited a fortune and doubled it by the time he was thirty. He was in shipping, although to this day, Arden had only a vague idea of what his enterprises entailed. His children had taken after their mother. In her heyday, Evelyn Berdeaux had been a blonde bombshell. Capricious and flirtatious, she must have driven a reclusive man like Clement mad at times. No wonder the marriage had ended so acrimoniously. Opposites might attract, but that didn’t make for an easy relationship. On the other hand, Arden and Reid had been so much alike there’d been no one to restrain their impulses.

Her uncle watched her in the moonlight. He had the strangest expression on his face. “Is something wrong?” Arden asked.

Her voice seemed to startle him out of a deep reverie. “No, of course not. I just can’t get over how much you look like your mother. Sometimes when you turn your head a certain way...” He trailed off on a note of wonder. “And it’s not just your appearance. Your mannerisms, the way you pronounce certain words. It’s really remarkable considering Camille died when you were so young.”

“That’s interesting to know.”

He seemed not to hear her. “My sister was full of sunshine and life. She considered each day a new adventure. I was in awe of her when we were children. I sense that quality in you, too, although I think you view each day as something to be conquered,” he said with a smile. “Evelyn always said you were a handful.”

Arden trailed her finger across one of the scalloped leaves of the cereus. “I suppose I did give her a few gray hairs, although I’m sure she had her moments, too. She became almost a shut-in after Mother died, but I remember a time when she loved to entertain. She kept the house filled with fascinating people who’d traveled to all sorts of glamorous places. It was a bit like living in a fairy tale.”

Her uncle remained silent, gazing down at her in the moonlight as if he were hanging on her every word.

“Did you know that she used to organize blooming socials for Mother’s cereus? The buds would never open until well past my bedtime, but I was allowed to stay up on the first night to watch the first blossom. The unfurling was magical. And that heavenly scent.” Arden closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. “I remember it so well. Not too sweet or cloying, more like a dark, lush jungle.”

“I have cuttings at my place and I still do the same,” Calvin said. “My friends and I sit out on the balcony with cameras and mint juleps. There’s something to be said for Southern traditions. You should join us this year.” His voice sounded strained and yet oddly excited.

“At Mayfair House?” Somehow Arden couldn’t imagine her prim and proper grandfather being a party to such a frivolous gathering.

“I haven’t lived at Mayfair House in years. I have a place near my studio.”

“Your studio?”

His smile turned deprecating. “I paint and sculpt. I dabble a bit in pottery. I even manage to sell a piece now and then.”

She put a hand to her forehead. “Of course. You’re an artist. I don’t know how I let that slip my mind. I’m afraid I haven’t been very good at keeping in touch.”

“None of us has. We’re a very strange family in that regard. I suppose we all like our secrets too much.”

Arden couldn’t help wondering about his secrets. He was a handsome man, still young at forty-six and ever so charming in manner and speech. Yet now that she was older, the drawl seemed a little too affected and his elegance had a hint of decadence that hadn’t aged well. Maybe she was being too critical. Looking for flaws to assuage her conscience. No one on either side of the family had been more distant or secretive than she. Her grandmother had given her a home and every advantage, and Arden had repaid that kindness with bimonthly phone calls and Christmas visits.

As unsatisfied as she’d been with her professional life in Atlanta, she was even more discontent with her personal growth. She’d been selfish and entitled for as long as she could remember. Maybe that assessment was also too critical, but Arden had reached the stage of her life, a turning point, where hard truths needed to be faced. Maybe that was the real reason she’d come back to Charleston. Not to put old ghosts to rest, but to take stock and regroup.

Her uncle picked up a pair of clippers and busied himself cleaning the blades with a tattered rag and some rubbing alcohol. “You know the story of your grandparents’ divorce,” he said. “I stayed with Father and Camille came here with Evelyn. We lived only blocks apart, yet we became strangers. She blamed Father for the estrangement, but Evelyn could be just as contentious. She had her secrets, too,” he added slyly as he tested the clippers by running his finger along the curved blades. Then he hung them on the wall and put away the alcohol.

Arden watched him work. His hands were graceful, his fingers long and tapered, but his movements were crisp and efficient. She marveled at the dichotomy. “No matter who was at fault, it was wrong to keep you and my mother apart. To force you to choose sides. She never wanted that. She used to tell me stories of how close the two of you were when you were little. I know she missed you.”

“And yet she never reached out.”

“Did you?”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “That’s a fair point. Fear of rejection is a powerful deterrent. After the divorce, I’d sneak away from my father’s house and come here every chance I got. Sometimes I would just sit in the garden and watch my mother and sister through the windows. Or I’d lie in the summerhouse and stare up at the clouds. Berdeaux Place was like a haven to me back then. A secret sanctuary. Even though Mayfair House has a multitude of sunlit piazzas with breathtaking views of the sea, it seemed a gloomy place after the divorce. It was like all the joy had been stolen and brought here to this house.”

“You must have been lonely after they left.” Arden knew loneliness, the kind of killing emptiness that was like a physical ache. She’d felt it often in this house and even more so in Atlanta. She felt it now thinking about Reid Sutton.

She brushed back her hair as she glanced up at the sky, trailing her gaze along the same twinkling stars that she and Reid had once counted together as children.

You see that falling star, Arden? You have to make a wish. It’s a rule.

I already made a wish. But if I tell you, it won’t come true.

That’s dumb. Of course, it’ll come true.

All right, then. I wish that you and I could be together forever.

That’s a stupid thing to wish for because we will be.

Promise?

Promise. Now hurry up and make another wish. Something important this time. Like a new bike or a pair of Rollerblades.

“Arden?”

She closed her eyes and drew another breath. “Yes?”

“Where did you go just now? You seemed a million miles away.”

“Just lost in thought. This place takes me back.”

“That’s not a bad thing. Memories are how we keep those we’ve lost with us always. I made my peace with Evelyn before she passed. I’m thankful for that. And I’m thankful that you’re back home where you belong. Perhaps I’m overstepping my bounds, but I can’t help wondering...” He trailed away on a note of uncertainty.

“What is it?”

“You said you haven’t made any definitive plans, but Ambrose tells me you’re thinking of selling the house.”

“When did he tell you that?” Arden asked with a frown. She didn’t like the idea of her grandmother’s attorney repeating a conversation that Arden had considered private.

“Don’t blame Ambrose. He let it slip in passing. It’s none of my business, of course, but I would hate to see you sell. This house has been in the Berdeaux family for generations.”

Was that a hint of bitterness in her uncle’s voice? He would have every right to resent her inheritance. He was Evelyn’s only living offspring. Why she hadn’t left the property to him, Arden could only guess. In the not-too-distant future, her uncle would be the soul beneficiary of Clement Mayfair’s estate, which would dwarf the worth of Berdeaux Place.

She rested her hand on one of the wooden tables. “It’s not like I want to sell. Though I can’t see myself living here. The upkeep on a place like this is financially and emotionally draining. I don’t want to be tied to a house for the rest of my life.”

“I understand. Still, it would be nice to keep it in the family. Perhaps I could have a word with Father. He’s always had an interest in historic properties and a keen eye for real estate. And I imagine the idea of Evelyn rolling over in her grave would have some appeal.”

Hardly a convincing argument, Arden thought in distaste.

“A word of warning, though. Keep everything close to the vest. Father is a master at sniffing out weakness.”

Arden detested the idea of her grandmother’s beloved Berdeaux Place being used as a final weapon against her. She’d have Ambrose Foucault put out feelers in other directions, although she was no longer certain she could trust his discretion. Maybe it was time to look for a new attorney.

She glanced at her uncle. “Please don’t say anything to anyone just yet. As I said, my plans are still up in the air.”

“Mum’s the word, then. I should get going. I’m sure you’d like to get settled.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said.

“Don’t forget about the blooming party. And do stop by the studio when you get a chance. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

“You should probably also know that the Mayor’s Ball is coming up. It’s being held at Mayfair House this year, all proceeds to go to the construction of a new arboretum. You know how political those things are. Everything revolves around optics. If Father gets wind that you’re home, he’ll expect an appearance.”

“Balls are not really my thing,” Arden said with a shrug. She could hardly imagine Clement Mayfair hosting an intimate dinner, much less a grand ball, but as her uncle said, those things were political. She doubted her grandfather had agreed to throw open his doors and his wallet without getting something very valuable in return.

“He can be relentless when he wants something,” her uncle cautioned. “It’s never a good idea to cross him.”

Arden lifted her chin. “I’m pretty stubborn, too. I guess that’s the Mayfair gene.”

Calvin’s expression froze for an instant before a smile flitted. “Yes, we are a hardheaded lot. Maybe Father will have finally met his match in you. At any rate, your presence at the ball would certainly make things more interesting.”

They stepped out of the steamy greenhouse into the cool evening air. He turned to her on the shadowy pathway. “Whether you come to the ball or not, Arden, I’m glad you’re home. It’s good to have someone in the house again.”

“It’s good to be here.” For now.

“Good night, Niece.”

“Good night, Uncle.”

He strode down the flagstones toward the gate, pausing at the entrance to pluck a magnolia petal from a branch that draped over the wall. Lifting the blossom to his nose, he tilted his head to the moon as he closed his eyes and savored the fragrance.

Then he dropped the flower to the ground and walked through the gate without a backward glance.

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