Page 1

Chapter

One

Nate hoped Bellwether House was haunted. Ordinary buyers scared easy, but he could get rid of a ghost faster than he could strip wallpaper.

Parked at the edge of the gravel drive, he stared through the windshield at three stories of peeling paint and sagging gutters.

The listing had called the house charming. In a way, it was.

The manor had presence, Nate couldn’t deny that. He liked the steep roofline, the tall windows, and the wraparound porch. There was even a turret half-swallowed by ivy. Restored properly, this house would look absolutely beautiful.

It would also probably eat six months of his life and then ask for more money.

Nate checked the listing price again.

If the place was haunted, negotiations would go more easily.

The gravel crunched under his boots as he crossed the drive. Weeds pushed through the stones. Someone had trimmed the worst of the overgrowth recently, but the cut branches still lay in piles near the foundation.

A woman in a bright blue coat waved from the porch.

“Nathan?”

“Nate.”

“Of course. Nate.” Her smile got brighter, but no more real. “Sandra Wilson. We spoke on the phone.”

He climbed the porch steps carefully. The second board creaked loudly. Sandra pretended not to notice.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said, offering her hand. “I have to tell you, I looked up your channel. Your restorations are gorgeous.”

“Thanks.” He shook her hand. “You said the sellers were motivated.”

“Very motivated.”

Desperate, then.

“And the inspection report?”

Her smile held.

Ah.

“As I mentioned, the property is being offered as-is.”

“Right.”

“But for someone like you, that’s not necessarily a negative. It gives you freedom. A blank canvas.”

Nate looked past her at the porch ceiling, where a brown stain spread above the front door.

A blank canvas with water intrusion.

“Sure,” he said.

Sandra turned toward the door with a little more cheer than the situation warranted. “The house was built in 1891, with additions in the twenties and again in the late sixties. It’s got original woodwork, six bedrooms, and four fireplaces.”

Sandra slid the key into the lock. It stuck. She jiggled it, but the door did not open.