would be a half-brother to both Beth and Tracy, and maybe, at last, the two of them could be friends.
As for the story of the ghost that Peggy was so certain Beth believed in, Carolyn dismissed it from her mind.
Her daughter, she knew, was far too sensible ever to believe in something like a ghost.
Abigail Sturgess stood in the mausoleum, gazing down through the fading afternoon sun at the foreboding silhouette of the mill. Earlier, when she’d first come up to the mausoleum, the newly sandblasted bricks had glowed red in the sunlight, and for a moment it had looked to Abigail as if the building were on fire. But it was, she knew, only an illusion.
Abigail Sturgess didn’t believe in illusions.
Still, somewhere inside the mill there was something that her husband had believed in, and that now she, too, was beginning to believe in.
Coming to a reluctant decision, she turned and began making her laborious way down the steps to the forest path. Abigail moved steadily along until she emerged onto the lawn in front of the house, but instead of going into the house, she crossed to the garage, and entered it through a side door. Turning on the lights, she reached into her purse and found the keys to the old Rolls-Royce that her husband had steadfastly refused to sell, though he hadn’t driven it in years. Instead, he had kept it in the garage, insisting that it be taken out on a monthly basis, to be driven a few miles, gone over by a mechanic, then returned to the garage, where it would be available on the day when he finally decided to take it out himself. That day had never come. When he died, he hadn’t been behind the wheel of the car for nearly a decade. But it was in perfect condition, ready for Abigail now.
She got stiffly behind the wheel, found the slot for the key, and twisted the starter.
Immediately, the engine purred into nearly silent life. Abigail reached up and pressed the button attached to the sun visor, and the garage door opened behind her. Putting the car in gear, she backed carefully out into the driveway, changed gears, and rolled sedately around the lawn and out the gates.
A few seconds later, she had left the estate, and was starting down the hill into Westover.
She parked the car on Prospect Street, across from the mill, and sat for a long time, wondering whether or not she was doing the right thing.
On the day nearly forty-five years before, when they had buried Conrad Junior, Abigail had accompanied her husband to the mill. There, she had watched as he placed the padlock on the door, then turned to her and made her swear never to set foot inside the building again. To humor him she had agreed. And though she had helped Phillip plan the reconstruction, she had not toured the building with him. Now, as she steeled herself to her task, the oath came back to her and she felt herself shiver slightly.
But it was ridiculous. She was going into the mill this time not to violate Conrad’s wishes, but to implement them.
She left the car, and crossed Prospect Street, unaware that the men who were finishing up their day’s work on the scaffolding covering the mill’s facade were staring at her.
She made her way down the path along the northern wall of the mill, ignoring the stream of workmen coming the other way, making them step off the path to make way for her. Finally she stepped through the open door that broke the wall halfway to the end.
She paused. The worklights glittered with a surprising intensity that cut away the gloom she had expected. Almost immediately, she heard a voice behind her. She turned to see Alan Rogers emerging from the construction shack. “Mrs. Sturgess,” he was saying. “Can I do something for you?”
Abigail’s lips tightened slightly, and she regarded him with open contempt. “I have decided that we shall stop work,” she said without preamble. “You may dismiss your crew, Mr. Rogers. I have changed my mind.”
Alan stopped abruptly, and stared at the old woman. What the hell was she talking about? “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sturgess,” he said aloud. “Did you say you’d changed your mind?”
“I did,” Abigail replied.
“About what?” Alan asked, deciding to buy some time while he decided how to handle her.
“Don’t pretend to be more of a fool than you are, Mr. Rogers,” Abigail said