Page 73 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
And what about the tales of Annabel and the mysterious Rebecca that had consumed Jonathan Marks—until his bloody death in the very sitting room beyond where she stood? It was all horrendous, but Holt could not have any ties to it. Fifteen years ago, Holt would have more than likely been away at college.He’d have no incentive to murder Jonathan! Not to mention, Holt didn’t come into possession of the lighthouse until years later. There was no motive. None. It made no sense.
Shea popped open her Coke, strode through the entryway, and opened the door to the chilly spring night. Lake Superior was insistent with its waves, but not angry. Shea wandered across the yard, barefoot, toward the embankment. She stared over the dark expanse of the lake, glowing in places where the moon reflected off its surface. The Porcupine Mountains and the forest were mounds of blue, dark against the clear night.
What was she missing? In this entire morbid story surrounding the lighthouse, what was she missing?
Annabel. A woman drowned, left to die by a husband who allegedly stood by and watched as she sank beneath the waves. An unknown lover—maybe the lighthouse keeper? But what part had he played in the thwarted love and the horrible death?
Rebecca. An unknown piece to a story that seemed unimportant, yet Shea was told not to ask about her? Yet, Rebecca was potentially intertwined with Jonathan.
Jonathan. A pacificist, a naturalist, a scientist, supposedly as unmoved by emotion as a rock, losing his mind and committing suicide rather than face Rebecca’s story.
Captain Gene. A mysterious man who had fathered Penny, but whose whereabouts were unknown, along with the supposed missing pieces that would put definition to the story of Annabel, the life of Rebecca, and the reason for Jonathan’s death.
It all hinged on Captain Gene.
But someone—a force, a person, a spirit?—didn’t want the truth exposed. They were stifling the truth and convoluting the channels until all that was left was muddied water, a story of broken hearts, and death.
So much death.
Shea blinked as her eyes focused on movement down the shoreline. Her breath caught at the sight of the wispy, whitevision of a woman, a lantern swinging by her side, her nightgown blowing against her legs. Long, white-blond hair blanketed her shoulders. Her pale skin was illuminated by the moonlight.
“Annabel,” Shea whispered.
She stepped forward as the woman moved toward the water, entering it, the waves lapping at her legs. Shea was helpless to do anything, to say anything. She stared in shock as Annabel walked deeper and deeper into the lake, until finally she turned and looked directly at Shea.
A moment passed, their gazes meeting across the expanse as though connecting across time.
Go to him. Shea heard the voice in her head.
Annabel slipped beneath the waves.
“I know you won’t believe me, but it was Annabel. I saw her.”
Shea plopped onto a chair next to Pete. He was sitting propped up on the couch, a mound of pillows supporting him. His hair was ruffled, his cheeks covered with a day’s growth of whiskers.
“Say that again?”
“I said I saw Annabel, Pete. Last night on the shore. She was carrying a lantern, then just walked into the lake and disappeared beneath the waves.”
Shea didn’t add the part when she’d heard Annabel whisperGo to him. Which made no earthly sense. She could hardly hear a whisper beside her with the crashing of the waves, let alone hear a whisper from several yards away.
Go to him. What did that mean? Go to Pete?
Pete held up a hand. “Okay. Let me ... let me focus.”
“Is it time for your pain med?” Shea offered, popping up from the chair to go retrieve it.
“Shea.” Her name on his lips brought her attention back to him. “You need to calm down.”
Shea shook her head. “I feel like I’m on the cusp of figuring it outandlosing my mind. If I could just find Captain Gene, then I think we can solve everything! And sidenote, I don’t believe in ghosts, but I’m seeing them! Do you not see the problem here?”
“Hey.” Pete spoke with firmness this time. “Calm. Down.” He emphasized each word, and it caught Shea by surprise. He never told her what to do. That was her job. She toldhimwhat to do and—
Shea snapped into awareness and heard her own fickle thoughts, the wildness in her words. She stared at Pete. “Am I losing it? Like Jonathan Marks did?”
“Hardly.” A slight smile quirked Pete’s mouth upward. “Sit down, would you? Take a deep breath.”
Shea did as her aloof and boring husband requested. Only he didn’t seem aloof this morning—or boring. No, he seemed different somehow. What had changed since their last massive blowup? Him? Or maybe her?
