Chapter Nine

The television set beckoned in the corner like a siren on the high seas. Ginger didn't want to turn it on and yet she knew that she would, eventually. She couldn't help herself. Despite her resolve to stay professional, even impartial, she was secretly dying to know what was on that DVD.

Of course, the idea of turning on that TV while she was alone in the spooky old house was beyond ludicrous, even if she had promised Chris that she would get started on the next DVD while he and Adam paid a visit to the county title company.

Her footsteps echoed in the cavernous space that used to be the formal living room. "It's just a house," she muttered, hating like hell that she needed to be reminded of the fact.

She stood before the coffee table Adam had found and subsequently commandeered from the ruined basement. According to the schedule, Chris was to continue to review all audio recordings—a logical choice considering he was the only one who knew what to listen for. Most of the recordings up for review in the Scotts' case had been more or less cut and dried—a scrape, a knocking … screaming. Her scalp tingled as she recalled, in vivid detail, the initial recording that had been played in Atlanta for Chris's former staff.

Thankfully, nothing quite so graphic had been heard in the musty halls of the Scott residence. Still, Chris would be more adept at picking out the unusual from the more common background static on their tapes. It wasn't a job she had particularly coveted anyway. The recordings ran an average of six hours a day, three to four while the housed was occupied and a minimum of two hours while it was empty.

They made it a point to go out to dinner, take a walk, or sit in the overgrown backyard for those two-to-three-hour periods in order to capture what Chris referred to as a clean recording: as free from background noises and disturbances as possible. The tapes also ran continuously at night while the three of them slept.

They still rotated sleeping locations and for that Ginger was profoundly grateful. Although she hadn't mentioned anything unusual to Chris or Adam, she hated to sleep in both the small bedroom underneath the stairs and the smaller of the two upstairs rooms. She didn't mind the large upstairs bedroom. It faced the street, and the view wasn't too bad.

Often times she would sit up and watch the neighborhood comings and goings, not that there was much to see. The small middle-class neighborhood was, for the most part, quiet and peaceful. Occasionally, the couple in the small yellow frame house across the street would get into an argument and take it to the front yard like an episode of Cops. First would come the muted yelling. Then the man with the baseball cap would usually slam the front door and stalk across the driveway to stand in the middle of the yard.

She would watch in silence until the skinny woman with the frazzled hair and flip flops would walk out the front door to stand on the covered concrete porch in a defensive stance, hands on her slim hips. It didn't take long after that for the major fireworks to start. Ginger would slink down a little lower, face pressed to the thin glass of the window pane, her breath occasionally fogging the glass and obscuring her vision, as the pair verbally duked it out in the middle of their front lawn.

After the first few nights, she had started sleeping with the window open just a crack and from this she had been able to discern that the couple had four children, they were not married but had been together for eight years, and the man in the baseball cap was the father of the three youngest children. Also, the woman considered him a no-account, lazy son of a bitch who she wished would rot in hell—end quote.

Sometimes they took it inside, and sometimes a neighbor would call the police and things would get really interesting. Most of the time, though, Darlene and Ron took their dispute back to the privacy of their own home before it escalated to that point. Ginger knew that it was wrong of her to eavesdrop, but there wasn't much else to do in the evenings and after all, they were out in the yard, practically in the street.

Besides, she rationalized, it wasn't as if they were aware of her spying, and she didn't gossip about it to Chris or Adam. She considered herself the proverbial fly on the wall: no harm, no foul.

"The tapes," she reminded herself, moving closer to the end table and bending to pick up the thin stack of jewel-tone DVD cases. She knew she should go in order and review the fifth Home Movie from Hell, as she liked to call them—though that made them sound more interesting than they were.

The previous four videos were actually boring to the nth degree: a stationary video camera on a tripod capturing the occasional thump and bump in the hallway. The second DVD Adam had studied and marked for Chris's final review had contained some more of those things Chris had called orbs, moving up and down the stairs and into the room under the stairs.

She fingered the case of number five and shuffled it to the back of the pile, the air around her seeming to charge with energy as she ran her fingertips along the DVD that had been behind it—the New Year's Eve ghost hunt.

Oh, how she was tempted, like rubbernecking at an accident scene—it was hard not to look. Then again, she had promised to have the fifth tape reviewed and noted by the time Chris and Adam returned. It was really the least she could do, considering they were out braving what had turned out to be one of the hottest days of the year to run around town doing the leg-work of researching the history of the Walnut Street residence.

Icy tendrils slid their way down her back and she shivered, almost wishing it had been her instead of Adam who had volunteered to accompany her brother on the excursion. Standing there in the silent living room, holding on to a stack of haunting footage, she became acutely aware that she was all alone in the big house.

"It's just a house." She exhaled. "And a job is a job." With a tinge of regret, she carefully set the stack of brightly colored cases (including the ghost-hunt footage) back onto the coffee table and popped in DVD number five.

Seating herself squarely on the padded gray folding chair, and jumping like a startled kitten when the legs of the chair scraped against the bare wood floor as she leaned forward, she took a deep breath and pressed play on the streamlined remote control.

Static filled the screen and, to her surprise, the camcorder was actually moving this time, held by a man she had not previously seen either in person or on the other tapes and pictures. A woman—Ginger had to squint to identify her as Elizabeth Scott—filled the screen and exchanged the camera she was holding for the camcorder.

The man with the short hair and compact build walked off scene, toward the kitchen, and the flash of a camera could be seen a moment later, its click-click-swoosh noise filling the empty living room as it boomed through the speakers of the television.

"Harley, do you think we should turn the lights on?" Elizabeth's voice came through loud and clear on the video.

"No, it's better to keep it dark. The camera has a flash and it's on night vision mode."

"What about the video camera? It's so dark in here." She sounded very young and very scared.

"Ditto on that, Liz. It's night vision. You can set it on the tripod and come in here by me if you want."

"Okay." Elizabeth seemed to jump at the offer. Her hand shook as she placed the camcorder on the tripod. Then she walked in front of the camera's line of vision—the dining room and the stairs up to the landing—to get to the kitchen. Ginger could sympathize. No way would she be caught dead in a dark, empty house… Oh, wait.

"Harley," Ginger mused, refocusing her attention on the screen in front of her. The neighbor in the tan house next door. She had yet to see him in person. He seemed normal enough, though, if you could believe thirty seconds of grainy camera footage—wait. What was that?

Ginger did a double take and gripped the remote control until her fingers hurt. The breath whooshed from her lungs as she struggled to draw air in a room that all of a sudden felt like it was closing in on her. She hit stop. Then rewind… There. She thumbed the pause button and grappled with a pile of papers beneath the coffee table, coming up with a thick pad of lined paper and a black ink BIC.

"One minute twenty-five seconds," she recited, pressing play again and watching in fascinated horror as Elizabeth said "okay" again and marched past the cameras into the kitchen.

All was silent and still but for the whirring of the camera in the other room, and then it happened—the camcorder moved, a subtle rocking at first, before it tilted sharply to the right, then the left. The sound of something scraping against the piece of equipment could be heard about a second before the camcorder zoomed in on the stairs, zoomed out again, and finally went still.

"Holy. Shit," Ginger whispered, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention in the quiet room. The tripod had been set nearly flush against the dining room windows, the night vision scope casting an eerie glow in the room. If Elizabeth had somehow managed to walk back into the room to play with the camcorder, her shadow should have been visible. It wasn't. If someone had walked in from the other direction, by the front door or living room they, too, should have cast a shadow. There wasn't one.

* * *

She was sitting on the front porch when they returned to the house three hours later.

"Ginger?" Adam's eyes narrowed as he took in her still form.

"What are you doing on the porch?"

"Sitting," she replied, clamping her lips together so her teeth wouldn't chatter.

"Okay…" Chris said, drawing the word out and kneeling in front of his shell-shocked sibling. "Did something happen?"

"Ah. No. Not really. I was just g-getting some air."

"It's a hundred and two degrees out," Chris gently pointed out.

"I was cold." Her chin came up a notch and she glared at him, silently daring him to contradict her.

"Right… You were cold. Okay, then. Well, you look all warmed up now, so maybe you could come into the house with us?"

"Sure." She forced a shrug, a feigned nonchalance, and picked herself up off the sweltering concrete to follow the two men into the house. She glanced briefly at Adam when she walked past him as he held the door open for her. His eyes bore into hers, questions warring with concern.

"Staff meeting in ten, and then we'll pile into the SUV and go out for dinner. TGIF," Chris called out from the kitchen.

"Sounds good," Ginger called out in return, heading for the stairs and taking them two at a time. Adam bounded up the stairs a pace behind her, grabbing her by the elbow and jerking her to a stop at the top landing.

"Whoa. Hold it. What happened while we were gone?"

"Nothing happened. Let go of my arm." She met his gaze with a level stare of her own. "Now."

"No."

"Adam, I'm warning you—"

"I am not letting you go until you tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing is wrong." Apart from everything.

"Really? So you always sit on hot porches in shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt on days where there's a heat advisory."

"Maybe I do."

"Bullshit. Try another one. You look like you've seen a ghost. Tell me what's wrong. Was someone here while we were gone?"

Ginger's eyes flickered at the word ghost, tension filling her slender frame at the foul word.

"Oh my God, that's it, isn't it? You saw something while we were at the title company." Adam's voice lowered conspiratorially as he pulled Ginger down to sit on the top step with him. "What happened? Tell me."

"I watched tape number five and documented … things."

"Yeah?" He began to absently rub the back of her neck with one hand. "What things?"

"Oh Lord, Adam, I don't know. There must be some logical explanation for it, but the camera was moving and no one was holding it, and—this sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

"A little." He smiled. "It's okay. What happened after that?"

"I grabbed a notebook and a pen and noted the time, and then I," ran outside like a coward, "decided to get some fresh air."

"Are you okay now?"

"I was okay before. But … thank you," she whispered, leaning toward him. His hand was still cupped around the nape of her neck, his free arm draped across his jean-clad thighs. The denim scraped against her own bare thigh when he turned to face her. She couldn't take her eyes off him, this man that she had spent so much time hating with such passion.

The last thing she had expected to find after four long years was Adam Nash at her side, blue eyes narrowed with equal measures of concern and determination, trying to protect her. It was an alien sensation and Ginger wasn't sure how she felt about any of it, only that she felt … something. Something had shifted in the last few minutes. She grabbed the banister above her head and pulled herself to her feet, swaying a little at the top of the stairs before she found her equilibrium.

"Gin, you sure you're okay now?"

"I'm fine, thank you. Only a little disoriented from all this heat. Tell Chris I'll be downstairs in a minute." With that, she left him standing on the stairwell looking after her. Her heart thrummed in her chest as she pressed her back against the closed bedroom door.

She wasn't quite certain yet, but she was pretty sure Adam had just, very quietly and efficiently, smashed all to hell the final barrier she had erected between them.

* * *

Chris was fascinated, even thrilled, by the footage on DVD number five. Ginger smiled at the memory as she lay in her bed later that night and tried not to think about the fact that Adam was sleeping less than thirty feet away from her.

For the most part, she had successfully avoided thinking about him—and what was happening between them—over the course of her evening. That had been no easy feat, she considered, remembering how his gaze had constantly strayed to her during their staff meeting and again during dinner at the cozy family restaurant Chris had chosen. But in the quiet darkness of the cool bedroom with the deep ocean-blue walls, her thoughts invariably strayed to him, going over every little detail of the afternoon and evening. Her throat tightened every time she replayed their encounter on the stairs. Maybe, just maybe…

A scuffling sound outside caught her attention. She crouched down to kneel at the head of the bed and peer out the window. A man in a baseball cap stood in the middle of the yard across the street, and he looked seriously pissed.

"Looks like Darlene and Ron are at it again," she murmured, leaning forward to open the window, wincing when it made an audible squeak that was magnified in the otherwise silent house. As it happened, "at it again" turned out to be the understatement of the century. Apparently, Darlene thought Ron had been out running around on her tonight, and she very loudly accused him of having a girlfriend. Ron, who by the sound of it had more than a few beers in his system, vehemently denied the accusations Darlene flung at him and defended himself by crudely pointing out that if he had a girlfriend, he wouldn't have been able to get an erection that night.

"Oh, my Lord…" Ginger whispered, leaning down to press her ear against the partially open window. At that moment, Darlene yelled something about Ron having erectile dysfunction and took the opportunity to inform him that if a vibrator could take out the trash, she would have dumped his sorry butt a long time ago.

Ginger dissolved into peals of laughter, falling backward across the bed when both Ron and Darlene looked up from their argument, briefly, before starting in on each other once again.

"Ginger!" Adam poked his head in the door a second later. "What are you doing in here?"

"Oh!" She gasped, shocked at the sudden intrusion. "Sorry, I—sorry," she stammered between giggles.

Adam took in the half-open window and the yelling outside and placed his hands on his hips, sizing up the situation immediately. "Ginger, are you spying on those people?"

"Yes." She grinned. "Those two are better than a sitcom," she said, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes and sitting up in the bed.

"You shouldn't be invading someone's privacy like this," he lectured, shoving the window back into place and locking it. "It's not right and—" He paused. "Did she just hit him with a garden gnome?"

"What? Move over, let me see. Oh, wow, go Darlene."

"Go Darlene? What about that poor man over there getting beaten to death with a lawn ornament?"

"Hey, we women have to stick together. Besides, Ron will be fine. Any minute now, someone will call the police."

"Ron? The police? How long have you been spying on these people?"

"How many days have we been here?"

"Ginger."

"What?" she demanded, indignant.

"Nothing." Adam smiled at her in the dark, shaking his head before making himself comfortable next to her in bed.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Sorry I woke you."

"I don't believe it. Ginger Malhaven—apologizing to me, and without a snarky comment tacked on at the end. Excuse me, but I need to go write this on my calendar."

"You keep a calendar?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. You're not the type."

"Oh yeah? What type is that?" he whispered, turning to her in the dark, one arm propped under his head.

"Impulsive. Crazy. Strong…" She took a deep breath, feeling as if she were perched on the edge of a steep drop off. "Sweet."

"You think I'm sweet?" he murmured, reaching out to trail one finger along her jaw.

"Maybe."

"I'm sweet on you."

"Ugh!" Ginger gagged, playing at pushing him away. "Any more tacky pickup lines like that, and I'm kicking you out of my bedroom."

"Hah, not so fast."

"Hmmm…"

* * *

Much, much later, Ginger turned to him in the dark and finally asked him the one thing she had never felt brave enough to put into words.

"What happened to us?"

"Just now? Well," he started to explain.

"Yeah, I think I've pretty well got that. I meant … before."

"Before you went to Billings?"

"Yes."

"Hell, it's been so long," he hedged, obviously uncomfortable with the subject.

"Bullshit. You suddenly stop calling, you stand me up. You practically ran when I told you I loved you. Then when I finally corner you the next day, I get some generic form of the it's not you, it's me speech," she helpfully reminded, finding it immensely satisfying when she saw him wince in the dark.

"I was a real ass, wasn't I?"

"Pretty much," she agreed, knowing he was remembering the nasty fight that had followed his kiss-off speech, just as she was. "But why?"

He was silent for a long time, staring up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched. Then, "I was a stupid, scared teenager, Gin. I loved you so much. I've never felt like that about anyone, before or since. You and me, we were stuck on each other since we were kids and…"

"And?" she prompted. "What happened? Why did you turn your back on me?"

"I just … couldn't do it. Not then. I couldn't even buy you a ring."

"I didn't care about stuff like that."

"But I did. I cared about it a lot. Do you remember the day we went to the creek?"

"Which time?"

"The last time."

She searched her memory but came up blank. "No. Why? What about it?"

"When we got back to Chateau Deveraux, I found a pregnancy test in your bathroom. It was negative. I panicked, and everything just hit me at once." He shook his head. "And God help me, Ginger, but I wasn't ready. Why didn't you say anything to me? That you thought I had gotten you pregnant?"

"Because it wasn't my pregnancy test," she told him, thoroughly surprised, attempting to sort through the enormity of what he had just said.

"If it wasn't yours…"

She frowned, idly twisting the fringe on the end of her blanket, thinking. "Wait, I remember now," she said, the light finally dawning. "It was Gran's."

"Why would Gran be taking a pregnancy test? Isn't she a little old for that? Is that even possible?"

Ginger snorted. "It wasn't possible twenty years ago."

"Then why…"

"Who knows?" She shook her head. "Because she's Gran and she can, I suppose."

They lapsed into silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts, feeling the years that had been between them continue to melt into the night.

"I thought—" He exhaled. "I don't know what I thought. But I don't want to do this without you anymore. The past four years have been hell. Every good memory I have involves you. You know everything about me, and I remember everything about you." He reached to trap a section of her hair between his fingers. "Remember when you were four, and your hair used to be so curly?"

She closed her eyes at the memory, leaning closer to him and laughing softly. "And I hated it."

"So you talked Chris into cutting your hair off, and it grew out straight after that."

"I thought Gran was going to kill him for that!"

"You used to hold my hand, even back then. Whenever you were scared, you'd hold my hand. Yet every Halloween you'd drag me to all those haunted houses and scary movies."

"And you always let me drag you around everywhere with me. Remember when you threatened to beat up Charlie Roth for me in the third grade? After I made you that friendship bracelet, and he made fun of you?" She chuckled, covering her eyes with one arm. "You wore that thing every day anyway."

"Hey, I saw him the other day. He said to tell you hi."

"Charlie?"

Adam nodded, then lapsed into silence for several minutes before he gathered her close and said, "Gin?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"I forgive you." She spoke the words against his neck.

"I'm not running scared anymore," he whispered back, sealing the promise with a kiss before they fell asleep, hand in hand.