There had been nothing awkward about the night. Memory, of course, could alter and be selective, but he could still see the way she had looked that night, the brilliance in her eyes, the silky shimmer of her hair in the pale light and shadows. Clothing had melted away, and there had never been such a rush as just feeling her flesh against his. He hadn’t wanted to leave after that night, but she had told him, “We’ve been best friends for years—you have always been a part of my life. You have a semester left, and I have faith and trust. A little thing like distance can’t tear us apart.”

Distance hadn’t ripped them apart. Death had done so.

For him, it had been the odd beginning of another part of his life. For her, it had been the end. At a time when he should have been able to comfort her the most, he had become anathema.

But now, he was back at Donegal.

And a man had been murdered.

He stood up and got dressed again; he wasn’t going to sleep.

Jake left his room, pausing to listen at Ashley’s door, but all was silent. He flushed, glad that she didn’t suddenly swing the door open and see him standing there.

Downstairs in the darkened dining room, he heard voices. Looking out, he saw that the police were still there—at least, the patrol cars.

A drone of voices from the study alerted him to the fact that Jackson was still in with Mack Colby, and maybe Cliff. He didn’t know.

He frowned; the commotion from outside had grown louder. Curious, he walked out the roadside door and looked down the avenue of oaks.

The police were blocking the entrance to the plantation, but he could see that several news crews were out on the road. Crunching down the drive, he reached the officers. Drew Montague was standing in front of his police car, arms crossed over his chest, a look of pure annoyance on his face.

Montague saw him. “I don’t know how the word got out so fast. They’re like flies on a corpse. If you’ll excuse the expression.”

“Has anyone spoken to them?”

He shook his head. “I told them that it was a crime scene, and that they couldn’t come on the property. That’s all. Luckily, it is private property, so it makes it easier to keep them away.”

Jake leaned on the police car next to Drew Montague, trying to listen. There were three reporters with their camera crews situated so as to pick up the plantation house in the background of their shots. He recognized the local network-affiliate anchorwoman, Marty Dean—he’d actually gone to high school with her—but the other two reporters were men he’d never noticed on the news before.

Perhaps they thought this story would be picked up by a national network. He was sure that the information that a man had been murdered on the property was out—they were living in the era of cell phones, texts and instant communication, and Donegal Plantation housed many guests.

He could hear Marty clearly.

“Donegal Plantation, historically a place of tragedy and loss, and filled with strange and eerie happenings throughout the years. Have the ghosts of Donegal arisen? Unconfirmed reports state that the body of a man in a Confederate uniform was found in the family cemetery on the estate. But other deaths have occurred at Donegal as well. Some are documented, and some are rumor, such as the hanging of a house slave after the murder of the master’s wife during the first half of the 1800s. The Civil War–era master of the estate, Marshall Donegal, a brilliant tactician who might have served the Confederacy well, died within that cemetery. Perhaps he is still waging war against his enemies!”

That was too much.

Jake pushed away from the car and approached Marty. She saw him; her eyes widened, she smiled with pleasure.

“I see a Donegal guest now,” she said into the microphone, nodding at her cameraman.

Jake felt the camera come his way. It didn’t disturb him or stop him.

“Jake Mallory, one of our local heroes, seems to have been staying at Donegal Plantation. Mr. Mallory, can you tell us what has happened here? Some speculate that the ghosts are murdering people!”

“The police will give the media everything when they have something to say, Miss Dean. I’d just like to point out that Donegal Plantation is far more than a place of tragedy and loss. I think it’s rather foolish for anyone to imply that ghosts might be running around murdering people. A man is dead, and first and foremost, his death is a sad occasion. I’m sure that everyone involved with responsible media will see to it that our sorrow over his death is respected and that an historic residence and business which has offered education and entertainment to visitors for decades should not be maligned in any way. Thank you, Miss Dean—I know that you will report responsibly.”

He turned and walked away.

“Jake—wait!” Marty called after him.

He ignored her. The other two newsmen had seen him, and he walked quickly by Drew Montague. Montague grinned, liking what he had said. As Marty chased Jake, Montague stopped her.

“Crime scene, ma’am. I’m still not cleared to let you in.”

“But you just—”

“Mr. Mallory is an invited guest at the plantation, ma’am.”

With a smile, Jake kept walking. He didn’t turn back.

There was just no way out of it.

Ashley felt the scream escaping through her lips, though it was more like a gasp or choke than a scream.

The ghost swore beneath his breath and faded into nothing, and she was left staring at an empty room, wondering if she could wake herself up. But she wasn’t sleeping. She was wide-awake—and seeing things.

She leapt up and ran around, turning on every light in the room. It wasn’t all that necessary—it was going to be light outside soon. But she didn’t want the shadows that were created when the sun first began to rise; she wanted light, brilliant light, and a lot of it.

But she froze when she heard a light tap at her door and then a voice.

“Ashley?”

It was Jake. And she suddenly felt that dreaming about him had caused her to have dreams or nightmares about a body in the graveyard—before it had been there—and Confederate soldiers who somehow got into her room and faded away as swiftly as she could blink. She was overtired, she knew.

She was losing all grip on reality.

She walked to her door and threw it open, staring at him. “Yes?”

“I was just making sure you were all right,” he said.

As at all times, he was so damned easy and confident. And he couldn’t have heard her—the scream she emitted hadn’t even been a squeak when finally uttered.

How the hell did he just know things?

“I’m fine, just fine.” Was Jake’s presence here making her think that she had seen a ghost?

He believed they existed, even if he hadn’t said as much. And his special team seemed to have some kind of insight that others didn’t have—surely that was why they were so special.

She was glad to have him here; she would have willed him here, if she could have done so.

But now she was frightened again.

“I know you think you…see things, know things, that others don’t. But please don’t suggest that the ghost of Charles Osgood is telling you things to tell me, all right? If you’re an investigator, investigate. Real things. Blood. Fingerprints.”

He stared back at her easily, with absolutely no show of emotion.

“I heard you walking around the room. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I’m fairly new in my actual position, but Jackson has been with the federal government for years. He’s excellent at following blood or DNA trails and fingerprints. Good night, again, Ashley. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

He headed down the hall. She watched him, her stomach knotting, her heart sinking. Well, she had to be looking like a schizophrenic now, welcoming one minute and greeting him like a shrew the next.

Because, once again, she was afraid. She was afraid that she could see things that others didn’t sometimes, and that was truly terrifying.

This time, she couldn’t shut herself away; she had to be reasonable, and she even had to learn to accept what Jake said. And what she saw.

A man had been murdered.

She needed sleep. Ashley decided to leave the lights on. It was nearly six now, she saw by the bedside clock. Daylight would come quickly, but until then, she would be glad of the lights.

And the television! A television would distract her. But when she turned on the television, she saw Jake. They were repeating a newscast.

She started to change the channel, but she paused, listening to him, his strong and authoritative manner—and the way he pegged the pretty anchorwoman. She had to smile.

She changed the channel. It seemed that half a dozen channels bought footage from Marty Dean’s newscast. There was Jake, once again.

She hit the remote.

And again.

He couldn’t possibly be on Nick at Nite! She hit the changer until she came across Dora the Explorer, and at last, satisfied, and hoping that maybe she’d even learn some Spanish through her subconscious mind, she eased her head down on her pillow.

And slept soundly and without dreams intervening.

Jake took time to speak with Jackson and Angela, choosing the study for the privacy it offered. He briefed them on the events that had occurred before their arrival, and Jackson told him about the last of the interviews.

“It’s absolutely amazing that no one saw anything,” Jackson said.

Jake shook his head. “No, not really. I mean, obviously, I wasn’t here for this reenactment, but I’ve been here before when they’ve gone on. There’s so much confusion. There’s black powder in the air everywhere. When the fighting is over, everyone is paying attention to the riverside porch where Ashley and her grandfather are speaking, finishing up the event. It’s a patriotic moment—everyone sings ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”

“Did you know Charles Osgood?” Jackson asked him.

“I met him a few times years ago. He was part of the outfit, but his stepfather was alive back then, and so Charles wasn’t asked to take part in the battle. There are only six Confederate roles to be played, and there is a strict pecking order to who gets to do what when.”