of study, actually,” she said lightly, and reached for the pot. “People tend to believe what they want to believe.” Like that figure in the garden, she thought to herself. There was nothing there—I’m just hyped to see things.
He wouldn’t let it go. “I just wanted you to know I’m not going to fuck around while we’re here. Whatever happens, it’s for real.”
“I appreciate that, Tyler,” she said, and didn’t believe him for a minute.
She took her coffee and pretended she was going back to her room to write up some notes; actually, she didn’t want to be alone with him any more than she had to be.
As she walked down the endless hall, no one else was stirring and Laurel was appalled to experience a brief, irrational stab of jealousy, a sudden paranoia that Katrina had already found Brendan’s bedroom in the night.
Delusional, she chided herself.
She glanced toward a small window under the eaves, overlooking the garden.
And speaking of delusions, what about that—person—in the garden? What was that all about?
She stood at the window, looking down, then turned and headed for the stairs.
She stepped out the back door onto the back brick—patio? Veranda? Veranda. Where the stones fell, she thought, remembering the photos. But the brick surface was bare, now. Laurel crossed to the railing to look out over the jungle of gardens. At ground level it was impossible to pick out the labyrinth shape she’d seen from the balcony—it simply looked like a random maze of paths. The grounds seemed completely deserted, the only movement the rise and fall of the breeze.
Did I see anyone? Could there have been someone back here, someone real?
She swept her eyes over the gardens, looking for any hint of a black-clad figure. Not a sign of it, but her skin still prickled.
There was no one, she told herself firmly. But instead of stepping onto the stairs descending into the garden, she walked along the brick path beside the house. Circling the house to the front. With its long-deserted horse pastures and wide open spaces, it looked much more bleak than the back gardens, and the wind swept through the trees, unbarricaded by hedgerows. She shivered and pulled her sweater closer around her.
The unnervingly tall pines were all around her, with that slight and constant rush of wind, and the sense of isolation was almost overwhelming. No wonder I couldn’t remember where or who I was. I’m about as far out in the middle of nowhere as it gets.
And how must it have been for Caroline Folger, then, living in this huge place with just a brother who was not in his right mind? A spinster sister saddled for life with a brother who was not quite there …
She stopped short as the thought hit her.
Like Aunt Margaret and Uncle Morgan.
All those years in that house together …
“Trauma repeats inevitably …”
She didn’t know why the parallel felt so disturbing, but it did. She pulled her sweater up around her neck and walked faster.
By the time she rounded the servants’ quarters to the back garden, Laurel was breathing hard, and had warmed up considerably. No wonder there was no such thing as a gym in those days, she thought. You get enough exercise just moving around a house this size.
There was movement above her and she looked up. Katrina stood on the brick veranda outside the great room and dining room, leaning on the rail and looking out over the gardens.
Laurel moved up a short flight of stairs and stopped a few paces away from the blond girl. “Good morning.”
Katrina barely looked at her.
Laurel forced herself to take a calming breath. Don’t let this girl get to you. She looked out over the gardens from this new angle, marveling at the massive wall of elegantly drooped trees lining a long and weed-choked reflecting pond. The trees weren’t willow—no willow ever grew so tall. She was mystified.
“What are those trees?” Laurel murmured, mostly to herself.
“Weeping cherry,” Katrina answered automatically. Laurel turned to her, surprised; the girl never spoke to her unless absolutely necessary.
“They’re beautiful,” Laurel said tentatively. “So big. They must be ancient.”
“In the spring they’re pink,” the girl said dreamily. “So lovely …”
Encouraged, Laurel spoke again. “I’ve never seen garden trees grow anywhere near this tall in California. It doesn’t even seem possible.”
The girl’s face abruptly closed, and she was looking at Laurel with her usual hostility. “That’s one thing you don’t have in California, then.” She stalked off, back through the French doors