To the Grave

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  To Pamela Ahearn and Jennifer Weis

  Thanks to Mollie Traver and Keith Biggs

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Also by Carlene Thompson

  Praise for Carlene Thompson

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  Renée Eastman stared through the window at the October night. The moon shone sharp and harshly metallic against an empty black sky. She loved nights filled with bright lights, people, and revelry. Quiet nights spent alone made her uneasy.

  She refused to give in to her anxiety and close the curtains. Instead, Renée shut her eyes. The area was so quiet she caught the sound of Aurora Falls. Hearing water rushing to plummet almost a hundred and fifty feet into the Orenda River thrilled her as much as it had when she’d arrived in this city named for the waterfall. Renée smiled wryly. How ironic, she thought. She was not a nature lover, but the natural wonder of the falls was the only thing she liked about the place she’d come to as a bride.

  Thinking of her marriage sent Renée’s spirits into a dive. Marrying James Eastman—handsome, intelligent, accomplished, a true gentleman—had been the biggest mistake of her life, Renée silently mourned. What had she been thinking?

  She had been thinking of getting away from home, she reminded herself. She had been thinking of escaping her family, spiteful ex-boyfriends, jealous girlfriends, the trouble she always attracted, and, most of all, bad memories.

  Marriage to James hadn’t turned out as she’d expected, though, and neither had life in Aurora Falls, the city where James had grown up, the city where he had returned after law school at Tulane University in New Orleans to share his father’s firm, the city where so many citizens respected and admired him. She, Renée Moreau Eastman, had been born and lived in the thrill and animation of New Orleans. Its excitement had burned itself into her soul. Here, in this lovely but quiet city of only about forty-five thousand people, she had always been an outsider.

  No, worse than an outsider. She became an outcast, because before long people decided she was unworthy of James. She hadn’t been hurt, but she hadn’t been surprised, either. Renée had decided that James was no different from most people she’d known—people who acted honorable and earnest but in reality were full of suppressed hungers, anger, hatred, and violence. She, on the other hand, suppressed nothing, denied herself nothing, and therefore wanted for nothing. She’d shown her true colors to the world; James had not.

  So she had left two years ago and never looked back. Everyone—especially James—must have thought she had just disappeared off the face of the earth.

  But now she was back in this town where it all started. And she wasn’t sure it had been the best idea to return.

  Renée shivered. The high winds of a storm earlier in the evening had torn down power lines, cutting off electric in this area. She’d found only two plastic flashlights, one flawed by a cracked lens. She’d been lucky to find a few candles. Candles set a sensual mood, Renée thought, but they were lousy at providing ordinary illumination. Maybe the quivering light they cast on the walls caused her edginess tonight. The rooms looked surreal and crawled with shadows. She couldn’t see down the dark hall or into the oversized kitchen and she didn’t like the unknown.

  To make matters worse, Renée heard the repeated whip-or-eeeo call of a whip-poor-will. Hadn’t the damned things migrated south by now? The night her beloved grandfather had been taking his last breaths, she’d first heard a whip-poor-will calling. When a heartbroken five-year-old Renée had kissed Grandpapa for the last time and been dismissed from his room, her spiteful nanny forced her outside to hear a whip-poor-will singing loudly near the house. She’d told Renée the whip-poor-will always knew when Death came to claim someone and the bird called to signal the departing soul—in this case, Grandpapa’s. Renée had rolled her dark eyes and given the woman a little-girl scoff, but secretly she’d been terrified. Even now, the haunting song gave her the creeps. Tonight she couldn’t bear to hear the bird’s call.

  Renée had found a boom box with charged batteries and her CD by Queen. She loved music and clicked to a favorite song, “Who Wants to Live Forever.” For a minute, she was able to lose herself in the voice of Freddy Mercury.

  But the music did nothing for the chill she felt, even though she wore a cashmere sweater. The temperature had dropped below fifty degrees and the furnace wasn’t working. She’d always been overly sensitive to cold. What a night this was turning out to be, she fumed inwardly. She decided she needed a drink. Badly.

  Renée snatched up one of the flashlights and went into the large kitchen, cautiously stepping around scattered boxes loaded with household junk. She’d set a bottle of single-malt Scotch on a countertop and didn’t need much light to find the liquor and the glass next to it, pour a shot, and down it. She poured another shot, forced herself to take just a sip, then gave up the pretense and emptied the glass. Renée decided to postpone sipping until her third shot.

  She carried her drink back to the living room and sat on the couch. The Scotch had warmed her body, but she was frustrated at becoming too dependent on alcohol. She didn’t like to be dependent on anything. Oh well, she was not an alcoholic, Renée thought reassuringly. She could cut back when she didn’t need so much liquor to soothe her nerves.

  What most concerned her was that her nerves didn’t used to need so much soothing.

  Renée took two more sips of Scotch as she sat in the silent near darkness, her anger growing. She looked at her watch. Ten ten. Their appointment had been for nine. She stood so abruptly she swayed, stalked to the window, and shone her flashlight through the slightly parted curtains.

  She took another sip of her drink and peered into the night. She had no nearby neighbors, but usually she could see bulbs burning by distant front doors. No lights shone tonight, though. The absence of all electric lighting jarred her. Renée felt alone in the world and her apprehension heightened. From childhood, she’d hated solitude. She craved the company of at least one lively, admiring person. Now the craving had turned into a need.

  Renée started the CD again and returned to the couch. A fat candle placed in a glass holder sat on the end table beside her, sending up a weak flame. After a minute, she sighed gustily. Music couldn’t calm her. She couldn’t take much more of this, but she wouldn’t make a call to find out what was going on. Calling might not be wise. Besides, she was tired, she was cold, and she was getting drunk.

  With abrupt anger, Renée decided to leave. In her car, she had three pieces of luggage filled with everything she needed. She longed to stay
at the beautiful Larke Inn overlooking the waterfall, but the Larke Inn dining room was a focal point for Aurora Falls society and she didn’t want people to spot her tonight. For days, she hadn’t wanted people to see her, but she knew she’d been careless, which wasn’t good. She wouldn’t make things worse by checking into the inn, but she wanted to go somewhere nice, somewhere welcoming, somewhere she could cuddle up in a cozy, comfortable bed and stop this foolish waiting. Dammit, Renée Moreau Eastman didn’t wait for anyone.

  No matter how many times she told herself she was simply indignant, though, Renée knew that beneath her resentment lay raw fear. Something about this evening felt wrong—very wrong. Maybe it was just the Scotch, for once making her paranoid instead of mellow, but she wasn’t able to shake the feeling. In fact, the whole day had felt wrong and so had the previous day. She’d never let herself give in to fear or dread or dark fancies, believing them to be the hallmarks of cowards, but now she wondered if they might possibly be warnings—warnings perhaps she had foolishly ignored.

  Renée shuddered. The involuntary reaction of her own body stunned her, making her feel as if she were losing control. Badly rattled, she fumbled for the flashlight she’d left lying on the couch, and when she couldn’t find it she snatched up the fat candle and headed for the bedroom. Her stiletto heels tapped smartly on the hardwood floors. She entered the room, placed the candle on a small bedside table, grabbed her light coat thrown across the bed, and froze.

  One of the sliding glass doors leading to an overgrown patio stood open a couple of inches, allowing a chill breeze to creep through the room. Just over an hour ago, the door had been closed. Or had it? She’d been repelled by the dank, unwelcoming atmosphere of the empty house. The opening was so small, could she not have noticed it?

  No. The mind fog created by the Scotch lifted as abruptly as it had descended. She remembered clearly that the temperature had already dropped considerably by nine o’clock when she’d been in this room. Why would she open a sizable window in an already-cold room? She wouldn’t.

  The window had been unlocked and somebody had opened it within the last hour—somebody who now waited in this house with her.

  The certainty turned Renée’s heart to ice, froze it into skipping a beat. For a moment, she couldn’t move. Then she fought the sudden desire to run. Some primal instinct told her that whoever had sneaked in wanted her to panic, to fall apart, to lose the essential brashness that was Renée Moreau. She wouldn’t give anyone that pleasure, though. She would not crumble, no matter how much she’d begun to tremble inside.

  Besides, she was prepared. She was always prepared.

  Renée hadn’t eaten since morning and she’d sent too much Scotch down to an empty stomach. She felt nauseated from alcohol and fear. Still, she must act calm, she told herself. If she didn’t want someone to know her insides quivered, she must maintain the appearance of bravado. She slipped on her coat without rushing. When she picked up her large handbag, though, Renée’s confidence shattered. The bag was too light.

  Someone had removed her .22-caliber revolver.

  The candle flame flickered before it died. Renée turned toward the doorway and stood still in the room lit only by moonlight filtering through the lightweight curtains.

  “Something missing from your purse?”

  Renée recognized the voice although she’d never heard it so toneless. She was proud that she sounded merely irritated when she asked, “What the hell are you doing?”

  “I wanted to surprise you. And you are surprised. Drunk but surprised.”

  Renée’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness and she saw moonlight glinting off the stainless-steel barrel of the upraised gun. “I think you’re drunk. What idiotic behavior.” She paused. “I was just leaving.”

  “For the night?”

  “I’m leaving Aurora Falls forever. I’ve realized there’s nothing here for me.”

  “You made up your mind so quickly?”

  “I came on a whim, but for some time I’ve had my doubts. Now I know this isn’t what I want. I never want to see this town or anyone in it ever again.”

  A beat of silence passed. Finally, the almost unrecognizable voice chuckled. “Beautiful Renée—still lying.”

  “I’m not lying. I’m absolutely serious. Sincere.”

  “You never were sincere and you aren’t sincere now. You don’t know the meaning of sincerity. Or faithfulness. Or simple human decency.”

  The voice sounded as unemotional and final as a judge delivering a death sentence. In the other room, Freddy Mercury wailed, “Who wants to live forever?” Renée did. Although she had a feeling of doom, she wouldn’t stop trying to survive this horror. She decided to try another tack. She didn’t have to force the quiver in her voice. “I’ve changed.”

  “Then why aren’t you already gone?”

  “I just wanted to explain myself. And I wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Here. You wanted to explain yourself here, in this little cottage, when you just said you never wanted to see anyone in this town again.” Soft, mirthless laughter. “You can’t stop lying even with a gun pointed at you.”

  “I mean it. I know now that coming here was a mistake and I’ll never come back to this place or to Aurora Falls.”

  “We both know that’s not true. You never stop pursuing what you want.”

  Renée hated the desperation that made her voice shake. “Well, maybe I’ve changed my mind about what I want.”

  “No … you … haven’t.”

  Now Renée’s heart beat so hard she thought it might crack a rib. “Are you threatening to murder me?” Silence. A gaze burning into hers, an eerily inhuman smile, a gun pointed at her face. Inspiration struck her. “He knows where I am.”

  “Of course he does. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I don’t realize things aren’t always as they seem?”

  “If you’re so smart, you know this won’t be the end.” Renée’s voice turned shrill. “It will only be the beginning, the beginning of a life of anxiety, of suspicion, of knowing you can’t keep a secret forever—”

  Renée did not have time to hear the sound of a .22-caliber gun firing with a sharp ping, or to feel the bullet pierce her right eye. Renée’s head snapped back, then forward. She remained standing for a few seconds, blood beginning to stream down her cheek, over her lips, her chin, and onto her cashmere sweater. Finally, she fell forward, her face smashing against a rough hooked rug.

  Her attacker watched until Renée went still with a last twitch of her manicured fingers. A booted foot slid beneath Renée’s shoulder and gave it a hard flip, rolling her body on its back.

  Renée wasn’t beautiful anymore.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Catherine Gray positioned herself on the front lawn, held up her camera, and called for her sister to hurry. As soon as Marissa walked out the front door, Catherine yelled, “Smile!” and snapped her picture.

  “Catherine, you are driving me nuts with that camera!” Marissa spluttered. “Besides, you took me by surprise!”

  Catherine looked at the LCD display of her last shot. “Not great, Marissa—you’re pop-eyed and your mouth is open. I’ll take another one.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Now this time don’t look like you’ve just seen aliens landing. Smile and one, two, three…” Click. Catherine checked the display and nodded. “Great!”

  Marissa shook her head. “Did James know he was creating a monster when he decided to buy that expensive camera for your birthday?”

  Catherine grinned sheepishly. “Probably not. And the camera wasn’t his inspiration—I’d dropped hints for weeks.”

  Marissa joined her sister and glanced at the picture. “Wonderful. Hair in a very sloppy ponytail, no makeup, and the denim jacket I sewed butterflies all over when I was sixteen. I look pathetic.”

  “You look great—not a day over twenty-five.”

  “I’m twenty-six,” Marissa said dryly.

  “
And you look twenty-five. You’re aging gracefully.”

  “You are, too, for a woman who’s almost thirty.”

  “Not for another ten months, and my thirties don’t scare me at all,” Catherine said lightly. “After all, Mom was as beautiful at thirty-five as she was at twenty-five. I’ve seen her photographs. In fact, looking through family albums is what made me want to become a good photographer. I want to leave a record of our lives, just like Mom and Dad left for us. And we’ll want a whole separate album for baby pictures.”

  Marissa raised an eyebrow. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  “No, but someday I will, and someday you’ll have something to tell me, and then I’ll take hundreds of pictures of our children.”

  Marissa laughed. “Pictures that will mortify them when they’re teenagers and we drag out the albums and show the photos to their dates.”

  “I won’t. I’ll make a point of never embarrassing my children.”

  “Catherine, all parents embarrass their teenagers sometimes.”

  “I’ll prove you wrong.” Catherine gazed up at the crystalline blue sky, smiled, and headed for her white sedan. “It’s an absolutely beautiful day. Come on before we lose the whole afternoon.”

  “Uh, how about taking my car?” Marissa watched her sister’s smile fade. “I know you aren’t crazy about convertibles, but like you said, this is a beautiful day. We won’t have many more until winter.” Catherine’s gaze grew stubborn. Marissa walked behind her and started pushing her gently and relentlessly like a tugboat nudging a steamship into port. “This is the kind of day God made for rides in candy apple red Mustang convertibles! It’ll be fun.”

  Catherine sighed. “Okay, but don’t drive like a bat out of hell like usual.”

  “I won’t,” Marissa said solemnly. “I don’t want to wreck my car and destroy your wonderful camera. I’ll drive just like you do.”

  Marissa put on her large sunglasses and started out at a snail’s pace, looking vigilant as she hunched over the steering wheel she clutched with both hands, not reaching for a CD, and braking with exaggeration at every stop sign.