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go—where? To the caretaker’s cottage back in the trees? She couldn’t sleep in here.
    But she owed it to Steward House and to herself to bear witness to the damage. Before she gave up, before she gave in and took Wolverton’s money, she needed to see for herself the crime committed in her absence—and the true cost of her neglect.
    Delia stepped into the west library, which the fire hadn’t reached. It looked the same, except the books were ruined. Smoke and water had soaked into the leather and paper.
    In the room beyond sat her mother’s grand piano, one of the few heirloom pieces Mom hadn’t allowed Father to sell. It was covered with dusty snapshots of a young couple and a laughing toddler who only superficially resembled the woman Delia had become. The red toile wallpaper was dark with water stains, the figures fuzzy shadows in the faint moonlight. But Delia knew the pattern well and doodled the nymphs and shepherds in idle moments. She’d never seen the paper on anyone else’s walls, but for once her degree in interior design might come in handy. Surely she knew someone who knew someone who could reproduce the paper?
    Delia opened the piano lid, recoiling from the stench of smoke in the wires. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. She pressed on low C, but it made no sound, so she tapped it again. She heard only a muffled thud. Settling on the bench, she laid her forehead against the wood and ran her fingers along the bubbles in the finish. Rosewood was virtually extinct, and finding pieces the size of the piano would require an international search. She couldn’t begin to estimate the cost.
    Sighing herself upright, Delia returned to the entry and mounted the stairs. Her fingers dragged a trail of greasy soot up the banister to the second floor. Her room was between the bathroom on the east side and the back guest room above the kitchen, where the fire had begun.
    Moonlight poured in through the gaping hole that had been her bedroom window. Much of the wood floor was gone, exposing huge virgin timber beams charred black. But the fire had been short and the beams might not have burned through. She gripped the crumbling molding on either side of the doorway, which was still wet from the firefighters’ hoses, and pushed her foot down experimentally on the beam. Although gaps in the flooring exposed the dining space below, her twin bed still teetered in its place along the back wall. Yellow mattress foam streaked with black bled out of the scorched rags of fabric that had once covered the mattress.
    Delia inched her right foot forward along the beam and bore down. No movement. She debated lifting her left foot, but behind her a floorboard creaked. Her foot slipped, her sneaker hanging over a gap in the floor. Her fingernails clawed the molding and an iron bar clamped around her belly. The blood pounded in her ears, even as she was enveloped in the scent of pine and spice. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the strength of his body, Grant’s body—the same body that had sheltered her once before, so long ago.
    “Mr. Wolverton.” She gulped. “You scared me to death.”
    He laughed, his breath tickling her hair, her ear. “You’re not so good for my nerves either, Miss Forrest. It’s dangerous in here.”
    Oh, was he ever right.
    Her fantasy-made-flesh held her in his arms as she’d dreamed he would do when she was a girl. Young Delia would have twisted to him and pressed up against his solid chest, would have slid her hands up his neck so she might feel whether the dark curls there were thick and wiry or silky smooth. In the midst of her smoky, half-starved reverie, however, Delia had a chilling thought.
    “How long have you been following me?”
    “I haven’t. I’ve been waiting here.”
    “For how long?”
    “Since you left. Gave me more time to assess the damage to the house.”
    He hadn’t followed her. He hadn’t seen her talking to the graveyard statues.
    He might be lying. He was fully