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  Venimer dropped her hand as if he’d received an electric shock. He shuffled his shiny Cordovan loafers in the gravel, backing up a step or two. “No, Miss Meadows… I don’t.”

  “It’s just that I go to school at Philadelphia University, and I sort of feel like I’ve met you somewhere before.”

  Venimer’s lined face froze in a polite smile. “Really? How extraordinary. But I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with that area of the city.” He cleared his throat and abruptly turned toward Brian. “I trust that everything will be ready for the sale this Monday?”

  “I think we’re getting there,” Brian answered, nodding. He outlined the plan for the weekend. “Today we’ll gather up the items in the other buildings—the sheds and the barn—and group them into lots. Rich had Victor and Kyle working on the attic yesterday, so today Haven can help Victor organize the cellar. Tomorrow, we’ll have a couple of extra people on hand to help us go through the first floor. Kitchens typically take the most time to sort out, so it’ll be a bonus if we can get a head start on that tonight.”

  Venimer glanced up at the third floor windows. “Yes, I stopped by on Friday to see how things were going—I was pleased to observe the progress the young men had made with the attic.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Brian shuffled through the manila file folder he held. “Listen, just to be clear—are you absolutely sure Miss Crosby doesn’t want to save anything? Mementos, photo albums, that sort of thing? Most people like to set aside something for the family, like a favorite chair? Or that maple secretary desk in the living room—it’s a stunning piece—I’m sure a relative would really appreciate the chance to own it.”

  Venimer narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips in a line.

  “As I’ve already informed Mr. Horn, Miss Crosby has no living relatives,” he said sharply. “I believe she’s already taken a small selection of personal possessions with her to the nursing home. She has no further use for anything here at the farm.”

  “My apologies.” Brian said, obviously attempting to sound agreeable. “I wasn’t able to be here the last couple of days, and it seems that Rich hasn’t filled me in on all the details yet.”

  “Then allow me,” Venimer offered. “Per my client’s request, I will continue to personally supervise the removal of her household goods for the auction. I will do my best not to interfere, but it is her desire that I be present at all times this weekend. I hope you’ll understand.”

  Brian nodded. “Of course. Not a problem at all.”

  “Miss Crosby was also adamant that this auction take place as soon as possible, Mr. Meadows. Her wish is that all of the proceeds, as well as any leftover items from the sale, be donated to the Bucks County Historical Society.”

  “That’s very generous of her. I’m sure the Society will be thrilled.”

  Just then the gravel crackled loudly behind them, and Haven turned to see Rich’s Ford F250 pull up behind the Mercedes. A lanky man wearing a John Deere hat hopped out of the truck and walked over to them holding a Styrofoam cup.

  “Speaking of the devil…” Brian said.

  “Sorry we’re late.” Rich held up his coffee cup and patted the square shape bulging in the pocket of his flannel shirt. “I’m trying to quit smoking. If I don’t keep myself plied with substitutes, I turn into a bit of an ogre.”

  “Haven!” A young Latino man got out of the passenger side and walked up next to Rich. “Hey, girl, I didn’t know you were working this weekend.” Victor Ortiz flashed a wide grin at Haven from under the brim of his Yankees baseball cap. “How’s everything? School treating you good?”

  “Hey, Victor,” Haven said as Victor gave her a quick hug. “Things are good. But I’ve got midterms next week.”

  “Exams, huh? I can tell. You look a little tired there, chica.”

  Geez, does everyone have to comment on my baggy eyes today? “I was up late studying,” Haven muttered.

  “In that case, I’ll be sure to keep you real busy this afternoon,” Victor said, winking.

  Rich shook the older gentleman’s hand. “Mr. Venimer—how are you today, sir?”

  “Er…fine, just fine,” Venimer said distractedly. Haven noticed that, oddly, the attorney seemed to be eyeing Victor with an almost palpable disdain. “Shall we go inside and sit down? I’d like us to discuss a few details about Monday’s sale.”

  “Absolutely. After you, sir,” Brian said. He and Rich followed Venimer around to the front door, while Victor and Haven went to the back of the pickup to unload stacks of plastic bins.

  Checking first to make sure the other men were out of earshot, Victor shook his head slowly and blew out a long sigh.

  “What?” Haven asked.

  “Man, I was hoping he wasn’t gonna to be here today.”

  “Who, that old lawyer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Haven raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Because he’s a real pain in the ass,” Victor said, yanking a stack of bins from the back of the truck and sliding them off the tailgate.

  Haven lifted an old metal crate that held a price gun, markers and colored labels and set it down on the leaf-strewn driveway. “I did see him give you a weird look a minute ago.”

  Victor scowled. “For real?”

  “Yeah, I figured he was just being, like, racist or something.”

  “Man, that’s a whole other story…but dirty looks I can deal with.” Victor pulled out another stack of bins. “You should have seen him yesterday when me and Kyle were here.”

  “What’s been going on?”

  “First off, he comes up to the attic and totally hovers around us all day like a fly on road kill—it was like he didn’t trust us at all, man.” Victor grabbed the last stack of containers out of the truck bed and slammed the tailgate. “I was like, dude, really? Just let me do my job.”

  Haven frowned. “That’s weird.”

  Victor hefted a stack of bins and balanced them on his knee. “Then, whenever I loaded the cart to bring it downstairs, he’d stop me and search through each container before he’d let me pass, like he was making sure we didn’t take nothing. Took us twice as long to go through the attic because of him. Dude totally got on our nerves—at one point I thought Kyle was gonna shove him into the stairwell.”

  Haven looked surprised. “Wow, was he that bad?”

  Victor nodded. “After a couple of hours I almost gave him the hand truck and said, ‘Here, old man, you do it yourself.’”

  “I wonder what his deal is.” Haven picked up the metal box of marking supplies and they started walking through the leaves toward the front of the farmhouse. “Maybe he was looking for something.”

  Victor shrugged. “Whatever. I mean, it’s not like anything’s coming out of his pocket. The money’s all going to charity. You’d think the dude would just want to get this estate sale over with so he can collect his fee and go play bingo in the Poconos.”

  “Did you guys tell Rich?” Haven asked.

  “Nah. After we finished the attic, he and the old man left for the nursing home to see the owner. Besides, there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. It’s the old lady’s show, and he’s running it.”

  “True.” Haven paused near the front door. “You know what, it’s probably just a generation gap thing—old people tend to be suspicious of people they don’t know. But I agree…he’s definitely a little bizarre. When I met him just now he acted all polite, even bowed and kissed my hand. Then I asked him if he’d been to East Falls recently and he backed away like I’d insulted his mother.”

  Victor smirked as he opened the door and held it for Haven. She walked past him into the entry hall where they heard old attorney’s voice drifting down the hall from somewhere in the back of the house.

  “The dude actually kissed your hand?” Victor shut the door and nudged Haven with his elbow. “I don’t know, girl, sounds to me as if you have an admirer.”

  “Ew, Victor, the guy’s older than my grandfather,” Haven
said, keeping her voice low. “It’s weird, though…I know that I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

  Victor snorted. “Maybe you have—in your nightmares.”

  “Seriously. Did you notice his stare? It’s like, really intense. The guy kind of gives me the willies.”

  “You and me both, girl.”

  NINE

  Hall Farm, Bucks County, Pennsylvania

  Saturday, October 6th, 3:36 p.m.

  HAVEN CROUCHED in the farmhouse cellar, pitching old cans of rusty nails and screws into the trash. She hummed to the music playing through her headphones, oblivious to the furnace droning steadily in the corner next to an olive-green washing machine. In front of her, a thick dividing wall ran the length of the cellar, made of the same stacked fieldstone as the exterior of the house. Near the far end of the wall was a single low doorway leading through to the other side.

  She watched Victor come bumping down the wooden steps with a hand truck. He was forced to duck slightly as he passed under a tangle of wires and dark pipes snaking across the low-beamed ceiling—water and electricity having been added almost two centuries after the house was built, Haven guessed.

  “Is that one ready to go?” Victor asked, pointing to the tub of antique tools near Haven’s feet.

  She stood and pulled the headphones onto her neck. “Huh? Oh…yeah, it’s ready.” She closed a cabinet door and turned the wooden latch. “This was the last of the cupboards. Actually, I think we’re just about done with the cellar.”

  “Sweet. This is going a lot faster than the attic,” Victor said, scanning the emptied space.

  Haven smiled. “That’s because I told Brian about Venimer hassling you guys yesterday. Said he’d keep him occupied upstairs so he can’t come down here and bug us.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Victor scooted the bin onto the bottom of the hand truck and pointed to the low doorway at the end of the room. “Hey, do me a favor? There’s a couple storage rooms on the other side of this wall. Kyle went through them yesterday, but maybe you could double-check back there, make sure he didn’t miss anything.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Haven said.

  “Thanks, girl.” Victor maneuvered the hand truck over to the bottom of the stairs. “Rich wants us to work on the sheds next. I’ll take this up and meet you in the back yard, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Walking across the cellar, Haven ducked through the low doorway in the fieldstone wall. She found herself in a narrow corridor lit by two naked light bulbs. After stumbling slightly on the uneven floor, she came to the first of three heavy wooden doors and pushed it open. The first storeroom wasn’t much bigger than a large closet, and it was empty. The next room was somewhat bigger, but it too was clear.

  She walked to the last door and pushed down on the antique iron latch. This door was different from the others—quite a bit thicker, its surface reinforced with decorative iron bars. Haven shoved at it with both hands, but it wouldn’t budge. Then she leaned into it with her shoulder. Her suede boots scraped against the stone floor, as finally, the door cracked open on screeching hinges.

  She slipped inside and wrinkled her nose. Mildew had crept up along the bottom of the walls lending the air a sharp, musty odor, but the room was quite spacious compared to the others, about 10-by-12 feet long. Dim light filtered in through a small opening covered by a latticework of iron bars high up on the far wall.

  Though it was also empty, the space reminded Haven of a medieval dungeon she’d once seen on Wikipedia.

  “Geez, wonder what they kept locked up in here,” she murmured. Turning to leave, Haven stopped abruptly in the doorway. There it came again—that strange tugging feeling—only this time it was incredibly intense. She caught her breath. Slowly, almost without realizing what she was doing, Haven turned back and moved to the middle of the storeroom.

  Something’s in here. I can feel it. But that doesn’t make any sense because this room’s totally empty.

  Haven walked over and tentatively placed her hand on the far wall. She closed her eyes, letting the cool dampness from the plaster seep into her palm. Drawing a deep breath, she tried to clear her mind the way the hypnotist had shown her.

  “Breathe in, breathe out,” Haven whispered to herself. “Relax. You’re floating. There is only peace, light, and serenity. You’re air…”

  Okay…I’m ready…show me something…anything. She slowly opened her eyes.

  A second later, an image materialized out of the gloom beside her. Haven gasped. A dark-skinned woman with a drawn face wearing an apron and long skirts stood in front of her, wringing her hands. Her head was wrapped in a piece of brightly colored calico, like a turban.

  Frozen in a mixture of alarm and elation, Haven’s hand trembled against the wall.

  Holy crap, it worked! I just called on a spirit…and it came!

  The woman stepped closer, almost putting Haven into a panic. Can she see me? What does she want?! Then Haven noticed the woman’s sorrowful expression—she seemed to be looking down at something on the ground. Except for a thick layer of dust, the stone floor was bare, but the woman’s wrinkled brown cheeks were streaked with tears…she was crying.

  “Wh-Who are you?” Haven breathed.

  The woman didn’t look up, but was now muttering in a soft, lilting voice. “Do not be afraid. Madam...you done a good thing…let go…let go and get thee to the Lord. Eet will be all right in the end.”

  The woman was speaking English, but with what sounded like a thick Caribbean accent. That phrase…I’ve heard it before. Haven blinked in shock. It’s the same one from my dream! She felt the blood pulse in her ears. “Please, I don’t understand,” Haven whispered. “What? What will be all right?”

  Her face taut with apprehension, the thin woman reached out and grasped at something. “Yes, I am coming, Father,” she said. Suddenly, she was surrounded by a cloud of tiny gold lights—hundreds of them—that swirled and eddied around her like embers from a fire. Haven heard a rumbling sound, after which the woman faded away and was gone.

  What the hell?!

  Haven lifted her hand off the plaster, staring at it in shock.

  This latest vision had been unlike the ones she’d experienced in the past where everything was blurry and indistinct. This apparition looked exactly like the visions she’d received during the hypnotist’s show; the images were sharp and vivid. She felt as though she was actually experiencing it. And the turbaned woman’s emotions—sorrow and dread—had permeated Haven’s mind and filled her with an overwhelming anxiety.

  “Wow,” she murmured, wiping her hand on her skirt. “That was so bizarre.”

  A second later, she felt a searing pain on the side of her chest, as if a chunk of her skin had suddenly been ripped away from her ribcage. Crying out, Haven’s knees buckled and she grabbed onto the wall, breaking into a cold sweat. She felt as though she’d been stabbed…or worse. She reached up under her sweater and searched all the way up her side to her underarm, but everything seemed perfectly intact.

  Light-headed and queasy, Haven sensed she was about to lose consciousness.

  I’ve got to get out of this room…now!

  Lurching through the doorway, she staggered out of the space and careened crazily down the corridor, scarcely able to breathe. She dashed past the old washing machine and the grumbling furnace, then scrambled up the steep stairway. As Haven neared the top of the stairs, the throbbing in her side mysteriously vanished.

  Relieved but still frightened, she leaned against the wall in the entryway with her arms wrapped around her torso until her heart rate slowed. At least I’ll never have to go down there again.

  Haven felt as though she had swallowed sawdust. Her throat was dry and irritated. She looked down at her hands, which were still covered with grit from cleaning out the cupboards. I need to find a sink. I’ll feel better after I wash up and get a drink of water. Haven also made a mental note to call student health services clinic on Monday to
schedule an appointment for a checkup.

  Just in case.

  ***

  The farmhouse kitchen was a large, high-ceilinged room located near the back of the house that (judging by its totally outdated fixtures) hadn’t been renovated since the 1950s. The red and white gingham curtains on the windows were faded but clean, while the yellow Formica countertops and painted white cabinets were scuffed and worn with age. Haven walked over to the deep farmhouse sink and turned the old iron faucet handle. The ancient pipes groaned for a moment, but nothing more happened.

  She left the kitchen in search of a powder room on the first floor, but didn’t find one. The bathroom’s got to be upstairs.

  On her way to the front staircase, Haven glanced into Miss Crosby’s living room. Her attention was immediately captured by a gorgeous, bird’s-eye maple secretary desk to one side of the space. Wow, that’s probably the most beautiful desk I’ve ever seen. She gazed at it wistfully and imagined herself writing a letter at it, a cup of hot tea at her elbow, a crackling fire in the hearth, a fuzzy little dog curled up at her feet.

  Haven smiled. Despite the creepy cellar, she liked this house and could quite easily see herself living here. When she was finished with school, of course. And had maybe won the Pennsylvania Lottery—Brian said the Hall Farm property would likely list for well over a million dollars.

  She surveyed the rest of the room. It was small by modern standards, but cozy, with enough space in front of the antique fireplace for a settee and a couple of chairs. Delicate curtains made from ivory lace framed the recessed windows.

  Above the fireplace mantel on a paneled wall hung the portrait of a dark-haired man dressed in an old-fashioned, white stock collar and a black velvet coat. His luminous, sad eyes appeared to plead with her across the room. Intrigued, Haven walked over and read the inscription plate fastened to the bottom of its heavy gold frame: