0451416325 by Heather Blake Page A

sat in front of double windows encased in thick trim. To the left of it was an L-shaped computer desk with a wide printer and a professional-grade scanner slash copier. On the right of the drafting table was a large wooden chest of drawers that reminded me of an apothecary’s cabinet. There were sixteen drawers in all, measuring about ten inches across, each with a rustic handle. Some of the drawers were on the floor, contents dumped out. And others looked untouched altogether. Scattered across the floor were odd-looking triangular-shaped rulers, pens, pencils, markers, calculators, sticky notes, paper clips, and tape measures. The dribs and drabs of an architect.
    A faint scent of acrid smoke hung in the air, laced with an undertone of another odor . . . something I couldn’t quite place. I wondered where the smell was coming from as there wasn’t a fireplace in the room and there were no signs of a fire.
    Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall, a vintage threadbare rug covered most of the floor, and gray-blue paint gave a soothing feeling to the room. A comfy-looking couch anchored a sitting area where a mahogany coffee table was littered with magazines and books, including a hardcover from the library that was open facedown on the arm of the couch. I picked it up, and felt another pang for Haywood. He was never going to finish this book. Was never going to finish the house plans that were tacked to his drafting table with round stickers. Never going to slip his feet into the house shoes under the table.
    His had been a life interrupted, and suddenly I was extremely angry at the person who’d stolen the future from this man.
    Taking a deep breath, I walked over to the drafting table and noticed that the plans there weren’t for a new house.
    They were the plans for the Ezekiel house. I supposed that made sense, as he’d been the architect on the refurbishment job. I studied them for a moment, fascinated with all the architectural details from the large basement to the widow’s walk.
    “Take a look at this,” Dylan said as he crouched over a small metallic trash can in a corner of the room.
    When I leaned over it, I saw it was the source of the smoke I’d smelled. Soot covered the inside walls of the can and white ashes were mounded at the bottom.
    I glanced at Haywood, who’d hung back in the doorway. “Did you burn something in this last night before you went to the ball?”
    He shook his head. No.
    “He shook his head, which means no. He didn’t,” I translated to Dylan.
    Dylan glanced toward the doorway. “Do you know what was burned?”
    Haywood’s eyebrows dipped low and he fidgeted. No.
    “No,” I repeated to Dylan, though I kept looking at Haywood. I had the feeling he’d just lied to me. But why?
    Before I could question him, he floated into the room, making my headache flare. I winced as he pointed at a satchel under the desk. Then he floated away again and my pain eased.
    “There’s a satchel under the desk he wants us to look at,” I told Dylan. As we walked over, I happened to glance out the window and saw a hooded figure standing across the street leaning against a lamppost.
    It wasn’t another ghost.
    It was Avery Bryan, the young woman Patricia had chewed out last night at the ball and who was staying with Aunt Eulalie.
    As Dylan grabbed the satchel, I faced off with Haywood. “How do you know Avery Bryan?”
    Surprise briefly filled his eyes before he blinked it away.
    “Avery who?” Dylan asked.
    “Avery Bryan,” I said, “but I was talking to Haywood.”
    Haywood shrugged.
    I narrowed my gaze on him. “You’re saying you don’t know her?”
    Dylan looked up, realized I wasn’t talking to him, and went back to getting the satchel open. It was closed tight with a buckle and he was trying to feed the leather strap through the metal frame.
    Haywood shrugged again and fidgeted.
    Another lie.
    Pursing my lips, I kept staring.
    The more I stared, the more he became antsy