She glanced at him. “A closet?” There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Or,” she said, her tone serious, “the attic. We don’t go up to the attic with any of the tour groups.”

“May I see it now?”

“If you want.”

“Shall we?” Adam suggested.

Allison seemed to go back into tour-guide mode as she led the way. She pointed out the ladies’ parlor, the music room and, across the entry, the dining room and parlor. As they walked up the first flight of stairs she talked about the owners of the house and the bedrooms used by the family—and by the British invaders.

Tyler paused at Lucy Tarleton’s bedroom; from the doorway he’d noticed another painting of Beast Bradley.

It was different from the one in the study. The light of cruelty wasn’t apparent in the eyes. He’d been depicted in a more thoughtful mood, his eyes conveying wisdom and strength rather than cruelty.

“One more floor to the attic,” Allison said. “If you’ll—”

“I’m curious about this painting,” he interrupted.

“It’s Beast Bradley. I don’t really know why the painting’s in here. Bradley took over the master bedroom while he was in residence at the house.”

“This is a nice painting of him.”

“I’m sure he had friends.”

“It’s interesting that the foundation chose to keep the painting here, since he moved into the master bedroom,” Tyler commented.

“The house was owned by the family until it was turned into a nonprofit institution,” Allison said. “That’s where the painting was. The board determined to keep everything as it was, getting rid of modern additions and buying a few authentic pieces to bring it back to the Revolutionary period. But in the 1930s, when the work was being done, the painting was in Lucy’s bedroom and the board at the time decided to keep it there.”

“Adding insult to injury for poor Lucy. The original family must be rolling in their graves,” Tyler said. He tried to keep any irony from his voice.

A derisive sound escaped her. The expression might be a common one, but in her world, people did not roll in their graves.

Some old houses had stairs that were pulled down for access to the attic. Not the Tarleton-Dandridge House. At the end of the upper hallway he saw a staircase leading to the door; a sign on it read Staff Only! He assumed the door was usually locked, and he was right.

“The front door key opens the attic, as well,” Allison explained.

He used the key and pushed the door open. It led to a few more stairs. He climbed them and found himself standing on the attic level of the house. It was dark up here, but the moonlight and streetlamps offered some relief from the black shadows as his eyes grew accustomed to the change.

Someone had been there. Someone had tossed the place, rummaging through the old boxes and trunks and the modern equipment that had sat on a desk. A computer lay on the floor, along with a printer. Letters and correspondence were everywhere and, scattered among them, posters for special events and other paraphernalia.

“My God!” Allison breathed.

Tyler turned to Adam. “We need to get the crime scene techs back here. I doubt we’ll find fingerprints other than those that belong here, but you never know.”

Adam nodded and pulled out his cell phone.

Allison continued to stare at the mess. She seemed almost punch-drunk, as if the day itself had just been way too long. He empathized with her, even if she considered him an oversize caricature of a slime-seeking ghost buster.

“They’ll be here shortly,” Adam said.

“Ohhhh.” Moaning, Allison sank down to the floor, her period dress drifting in a bell around her.

* * *

It was natural that the death of Julian Mitchell drew headlines across the country.

He had died in a historic home—a “haunted” house, according to just about everyone—and whether or not people believed in ghosts, it was undeniably a house riddled with tragic history.

Allison saw the headline minutes after she woke the next morning. She still had a newspaper delivered each day. She loved flipping leisurely through real pages while she drank her coffee.

As she picked up the paper, she felt tears stinging her eyes again. Julian had often been a jerk, but he’d still been a coworker and a friend. She blinked hard and realized how exhausted she was. She’d spent most of the night with the police. She was still horrified that they saw Julian’s death as “suspicious” and knew that any suspicions of murder certainly included her. After all, she’d found him. She couldn’t believe the number of hours she’d spent at the station and then at the house when the crime scene techs had arrived again.

She glanced over at the clock—it was already eleven, and she still felt exhausted. It was a good thing the house was closed down until it had been “investigated.” She couldn’t begin to offer a tour today, and she was glad she didn’t have a crowded schedule in the coming semester, just a few lectures. She felt numb about history, even though it was the love of her life. Rich and giving and…

Taking. It had somehow taken Julian’s life. She didn’t understand how or why, but she sensed that the past had something to do with it. She’d claimed that his death had to be an accident. And yet…

Allison set the paper on the counter of her small house on Chestnut Street and walked over to the coffee machine, popping a pod in place and waiting the few seconds for it to brew.

The coffee tasted delicious. She figured she needed about a gallon of it. She’d been at the Tarleton-Dandridge until nearly 3:00 a.m., when one of the officers had driven her home.

She wished she could’ve slept the entire day, and then thought she should just be grateful she hadn’t had horrible dreams, considering how Julian had looked....

A shower seemed in order, although she’d taken one the night before. A psychiatrist would probably tell her she was trying to wash away what she’d seen but she didn’t care. It might make her feel more human. Or at least more awake.

While the water streamed over her, she thought about Julian and let her tears flow. She thought about the many times they’d been ready to smack him for his lack of responsibility or for leaving one of them in the lurch. It didn’t matter. He’d still been a friend. Worse, it was such a ridiculous way to die.

When she’d first found him, after the initial horror and disbelief, she wondered if he’d sat there to play a prank on her, maybe planning to apologize for disappearing. Maybe he’d tell her he’d gotten the gig of a lifetime because he’d taken off that afternoon.

It had never occurred to her that anyone had killed him. His death had looked like a tragic, stupid accident. And that was terrible enough, but…

Why would anyone kill Julian Mitchell, and why would that person go up to the attic and trash everything there?

And how had it happened with her and Jason in the house, not to mention the thirty or so people in their tour groups?

She’d barely dressed and her hair was still dripping when her doorbell rang. She cringed, not wanting to see anyone, but curiosity got the better of her and she walked to the door to look through the peephole.

It was the Texas ghost buster.

She watched him as she ignored the buzzer. He rang again.

He didn’t go away.

She considered it bizarre that the police had called in the FBI—and that they’d called in this unit. Allison had to admit she didn’t know that much about the FBI or the “Krewe of Hunters,” but she’d checked the internet when she first met Adam Harrison and read that they were a special unit sent in when circumstances were unusual. Unusual meant that something paranormal might be going on, or seemed to be going on, and it appalled Allison that a historic property like the Tarleton-Dandridge House could be turned into a supernatural oddity. Of course, the ghost tours in the city loved the house and the tales that went with it, but those tours were for fun. And that kind of fun was great as long as it didn’t detract from the real wonders of Philadelphia.

All the information she could find about Adam—or his Krewes—seemed to have plenty of read-between-the-lines suggestions that there was something out of the ordinary about them. From what she could gather, the Krewes were well acquainted with the paranormal and made use of strange communications in solving crimes. No way could she buy into that!

Peering out at Tyler Montague seemed to make it all the more ludicrous. He looked as if he should be in a barbarian movie; he was tall as a house and built with pure, lean muscle. How could such a man believe in ghosts?

He had waited a respectable amount of time. He rang the bell again.

With a sigh, Allison threw the door open. “What?” she demanded.

“I need your help.”

She turned and walked back through her house toward the counter that divided the kitchen from the living area. “With what? Do you need a cup of coffee? That I have. Do you want to know about the Tarleton ghosts? Can’t help you there. I’ve never seen them. Oh, and I suppose I should mention this—I don’t believe they exist. We have a shot at life, then we die. Period. I believe in God as an entity seen by different people in different ways, but I don’t think He has an open-door policy in heaven, saying, Hey, come and go as you please. But coffee? I’ve got that.”

“I could use a cup,” he said mildly, following her inside and closing the door. He walked to the counter as she placed another pod in her coffeemaker. She turned to look at him, hoping—to her surprise—that her house was clean and neat. She had the feeling that, ghost hunter or no, he was observant and perhaps judging her character through her living space.

“Things might be a bit messy,” she said, sweeping out an arm that indicated the sections of newspaper strewn on the table and her shoes and cape thrown on a chair. “Sorry. Long night.”

“Looks pretty good to me,” he commented.

“What do you like in your coffee? Oh, and what are you doing here?”