First, the tenderness.

The sensation that she wasn’t alone, that the past hadn’t been lost to tragedy, that what should have been forever hadn’t been ripped away from her. The sweetness of lying down on a soft mattress after a long day, of being held, the comfort of another human being, loved and cherished, at her side. Then…

Flesh against flesh. The feathery brush of his lips on hers, the weight of him on top of her. Light, teasing kisses that quickly filled with passion. Blankets tossed and discarded. The slide of cotton against her body as the nightgown was tossed aside. The whisper of his breath against her skin, moving from the valley between her breasts, over her abdomen and down to her thighs.

I knew you would come, she said.

And his very simple answer.

I love you so much…

In her dreams she stroked his flesh, was seduced and aroused by the fire of his lips and tongue moving intimately and along the length of her. She looked into his eyes, blue like the sky. She saw his smile, the single dimple in his cheek. Caressed his jaw, hard and squared, almost as if it had been formed by the determination and sense of justice with which he had lived his life, rather than the lottery of genetics. She reached out and, with both hands, she cupped his face and drew his mouth to hers again. She initiated the ferocity of the kiss, so rapt herself that she needed to return each stroke and caress, needed to seduce as she was seduced, needed to tease and arouse.

She stroked the muscles of his shoulders and then, with the whisper-light touch of her fingertips, caressed the length of his chest to the quickening muscles of his belly. In a fever she followed that touch with taunting kisses, pushing him back, straddling him, looking down at him until, smiling, she bent, her hair wickedly teasing his flesh as she played and stroked, lower and lower. At last his hoarse cry sounded, and she herself writhed and twisted and arced, desperate and hungry, almost wild, savagely in need of him, body and soul. Sensation coursed through her, and despite the volatile thunder and erotic friction of their lovemaking, beneath it flowed a subtle tenderness, a swell of emotion that elevated what was so simply human and physical and made of it something so much more.

She found herself beneath him, her breath frenzied, her heart in an uproar, and she lost the sense of being in her own body as he moved within her. All the while, his kisses fell on her breasts, her shoulders and then her lips. At last, locked to him by the joining of their flesh, she was rocked by the explosion of climax. Her limbs locked around him as she reveled in the cocoon of his embrace. Wonder filled her as she drifted back to earth, trembling in the aftermath of passion, her hot skin cooling, bathed in a fine sheen of sweat. He was damp at her side, their hair slick and tangled together on the pillow, and she marveled at how incredible it was to be so loved, so happy.

In dreams.

Because she knew she was dreaming, but she would not let the dream go. She entwined her fingers with his as she lay spooned against him, his hand resting on her belly. She felt the muscles of his chest where she rested her head.

This closeness was so familiar; they lay together just as they had so often when he’d come home late and slipped into bed. First had come lovemaking, then a few lazy words about the day, or their plans for the future.

I’m afraid for you, he whispered now.

Afraid for me? Matt, you were a reporter. You know what it feels like to see something wrong and feel obligated to set it right, and you know I have to discover the truth about what happened here.

He listened, considered her words, carefully formed his own answer before whispering it into the lush silk of the hair against her ear.

Yes, I know that, but I can’t help it—I’m afraid for you. He was silent for a minute, almost as if it were painful to continue. I can’t be with you. Trust Joe.

She started to tell him that she was constantly surrounded by people—including cops—so how could she be in danger, but then she stopped as she remembered the dig. As the day had passed, she’d convinced herself that the roof had caved in on her, but was that true? She had been focused on the niche in the wall where the record book had been, but she’d been sure she’d heard…something. Sensed…something. But she was certain no one else had entered after her, and she was sure no one had already been there when she came in. So…

I felt it this morning, a sense of fear for you, but there was nothing I could do. But Joe was here, and it was all right. Don’t trust anyone else, do you hear me? Only Joe.

All right, she said slowly. But why?

“The basement.”

Leslie woke with a start, certain someone had spoken the words aloud. She bolted up to a sitting position, the covers clutched to her chest. Her hair was a tangled, damp mess. Sometime in the night she had torn off her nightgown, and the sheets were hopelessly rumpled.

She groaned, feeling almost as if she had a hangover. She touched the top of her head, but the lump was almost gone.

“The basement?” she said aloud.

If she’d expected a reply, she didn’t get one.

She rose and showered, then dressed in a T-shirt and khakis with a half-dozen pockets, three on each leg, and hurried downstairs. She was still early enough to have the place to herself. She put the coffee on, then went through to the servants’ pantry.

She pulled back the braided rug and found the trapdoor leading to the basement beneath. She’d been in the basement before, of course, long before the night of the gala. They’d hoped to find all kinds of treasures down there, especially because the simple cellar had changed very little since the house’s early days, but in the end it wasn’t a treasure trove as some basements and attics could be. Over the years, the owners of the house had cleaned out their own belongings, along with anything that had come before.

Now the hole in the floor gaped wide and dark, like the entrance to an abyss.

She left the trapdoor open and went back to the kitchen. The coffee was ready, so she poured herself a cup and sipped while rifling through the drawers, certain she would find a flashlight in one of them. Then she paused.

The spectral woman was back at the hearth, stirring her spectral pot. Finally she paused, turned and looked straight at Leslie.

“He wants you to help me,” she said, a note of such poignant gratitude in her voice that empathy swept through Leslie with so much force that she nearly dropped her coffee cup.

“I would love to help you. Who are you?”

“Elizabeth Martin. Please. I never left my child.”

Leslie stared back at her, noting that she could see right through the woman’s spectral body.

“They’re…all gone now, you know.”

The woman looked agitated. “They have to know the truth. I never left my baby.”

“Elizabeth Martin,” Leslie said. “I’ll do my very best.”

The woman smiled. “The basement,” she said.

Leslie did drop the cup then. It shattered on the floor just as Elizabeth Martin faded from view.

“She’s gone crazy, but am I going to stop her? Not in this lifetime,” Melissa said.

Joe stared at her blankly. She’d thrown open the door when he’d rung the bell, and those were the first words out of her mouth at the sight of him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Leslie. She’s down in the basement with a pickax!”

“Did you ask her why?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

“She says that there’s a body in the wall.”

Joe frowned and hurried inside, along the hallway and straight to the back. When he entered the servants’ pantry, he immediately shivered and realized he’d entered the dead room, then wondered where that thought had come from.

The braided rug that usually covered the floor had been pulled away, and the trapdoor to the basement was open. He could see light from a work lantern rising up the stairs going down to the basement, strong wooden steps added recently to cover the dangerous brick stairway that had been there originally.

He hurried down.

The vertical line of fireplaces throughout the house was in evidence here, as well. A brick fireplace and hearth were set into one wall, and Leslie was standing to the left. She had apparently finished with the pickax and was digging away at the brick with her hands. She scared him a little. Her beautiful face was intent, her movements almost frantic.

“Leslie?”

“Joe. Hey. Come help me.”

“Leslie, what are you doing?”

“I…uh…found some old records. I think there’s a body back here. Well, a skeleton, anyway. Come on.”

He went to her side. One of the bricks was stuck. He had a Swiss Army knife in his pocket, so he pulled it out and chipped at the mortar to free the brick. She stepped back and took a deep breath.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Leslie, this property is owned by the Historical Society.”

“If anyone is angry, I’ll pay for repairs,” she said. “Please, Joe?”

The brick fell away in his hand. He stepped back, stunned. Even in the weak light and through the grime and dust of the ages, he could see bone.

Shit!

He almost swore aloud.

Leslie didn’t look surprised in any way.

“Well, there…all right. We can stop now. They’re still shoring up the crypt at the site, I imagine. Laymon will be there, but Brad can come over and help me. Except,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ll have to get into the crypt…no, St. Paul’s has been there since 1766, and the crypt we just discovered wouldn’t have been completed then. Hmm. I need to find more records. Maybe the library…Hey.” She stared at him with a sudden smile. “Did you check your basement wall yet?”

“Am I going to find bones, too?” he asked.

“I told you, you’ll find music.”

“And I guess I will,” he murmured.

“I’d better start looking for those records,” she said, suddenly decisive. She walked over to him and gave him a fierce hug and big kiss on the cheek. “Drop me off at the main library. I’m going to start there.”