“Uh-huh,” he said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “I’m telling you—you’re dreaming if you think he’s in this for science.”
“There’s not a lot of money in academic publication, Tyler,” she said.
“Maybe he’s thinking bigger than that,” Tyler said cryptically.
But what money is there in this? she wanted to say. A movie? TV? Even if they did something more sensationalized with the book, she knew from her years in Los Angeles that the chances of getting anything going on that level were like winning the lottery, and Brendan certainly hadn’t said anything about it.
Exactly. He never said anything about it.
Aloud she said only, “That’s very interesting, Tyler; thanks for your input. If that’s the way you feel about it, why are you here?”
He looked at her as if at a slow but cherished child. “Full course credit for three weeks of this? Please. Who wouldn’t?” He thickened his drawl. “It don’t matter to me none if we see ghosts or not.” He dropped the country accent suddenly. “It’s a cakewalk for credit. Not to mention Miss White Sugar is practically panting for it. Plan A is to get myself laid.”
Tyler seemed unaware that Katrina wasn’t exactly panting for him, and for a moment Laurel envied his brash adolescent confidence. She was also profoundly relieved to hear she herself was not the object of Tyler’s intentions.
He eyed her speculatively. “No, the real question is, why are you here, Chère?”
She almost answered without thinking, Because I have nothing else. She barely stopped herself in time. “No matter what, it will be an interesting study in expectation and personality.”
“Is that what you call Miss Priss making things up?”
She fought a smile, lost, and somehow felt better. “We’re here to observe everything that happens.”
He tilted his head back against the chair, looking at her. “But you don’t really think this place is haunted. It’s all just some big mind fuck for science.”
She looked at him—the aristocratic features, the lazy indolence—and suddenly leaned forward on the table.
“Tyler, if you’re just going to play around, you should leave. It might not mean anything to you, but this is my job, and Dr. Cody’s job, and it’s pretty fucked of you to be here just for a laugh.”
He was still in his chair, gray eyes like ice, no expression at all, and then he half-smiled.
“But you’re wrong, Professor. I want to prove something’s out there, something real—just to see my father’s face. He might just drop dead on the spot.”
And for a moment his gaze was fevered; then in one of those instant, mercurial changes, he smiled at her. “That Freudian enough for you?”
So was all that a game, just now? she wondered. Do you ever tell the truth at all? Aloud she said, “Not bad. I’ll make a note of it in your file.”
“Always happy to be of service.” His eyes gleamed at her and her stomach did an uneasy little flip.
No, she told herself. There was no one in my room last night. It was a dream.
She stood to leave, and could not resist a dig. “You’re right. This place suits you.”
She moved out of the library and through the hallway into the older part of the house. The conversation had left her queasy.
She walked the upstairs hall from the front side of the house this time, marveling again at the slow and sickening rise and fall of the floorboards.
Katrina’s door on the right side of the hall was closed, but the door next to it was open into the nursery, with the sleigh beds. Laurel paused in the doorway, frowning in. Why preserve it as a nursery? she thought again. If Caroline Folger was a recluse, it’s not like they had children visiting that they would need the room for.
She shook her head and continued down the hall. As she approached the door of Brendan’s room, she felt again a sense of foreboding. How can a door be ominous? That makes no sense. Still, she hurried by it, staying as close to the opposite wall as she could.
The hall ended with the small study … or whatever this room was used for—a sitting room, a communal room?
As she looked around the room with its bookshelves and slanted ceilings, she noticed again the newspapers framed on the walls, and remembered her intention to read them. She moved to the wall. Someone in the house had collected front pages of significant events: there were front pages from December 9, 1941: WAR DECLARED!! August 7, 1945, the