Chapter Twenty-Two

The ride to the house was short, but long. There was no chatter in the car; each occupant was lost in his own thoughts. As the house came into view, Angel Rose spoke up from the passenger seat.

"Marty, I think you should stay outside; at least at first."

"I have been in this house many times, and nothing has happened," he remarked. "Your ghost never so much as ruffled a curtain in my presence."

Ang turned in the front seat to face him. "Marty, I can’t explain it," she answered. "Maybe she didn’t know that you were there. She for sure didn’t see you; she couldn’t have. You would have known it if she saw you."

"All I’m saying is that there’s really no reason I can’t come in with you."

"But—" Ang started, but Richie interrupted.

"You’re right, Marty," he said, pulling up to the house and putting the gearshift into park. "Maybe if she sees you and Angel Rose together, once Ang tells her who you are, it will trigger a different vision. Maybe not. Either way, I want you to be very, very careful what you say or do. I will not be a happy man if you do something that makes Kirstin hurt Angel Rose."

They gathered on the front porch, and Richie put his hand on the knob.

"Ready?" he asked. Everyone nodded. "Then let’s go."

The first thing they noticed was that the house was a good fifteen degrees cooler than the outside temperature. Ang shivered and rubbed her arms briskly. "God it’s so cold in here," she murmured. "Kirstin is agitated."

Richie grabbed Ang’s hand and held on tightly. "Are you sure, absolutely sure, that you want to do this?"

Ang nodded. "It’s not ‘want’, Richie, it’s ‘need’."

The three of them ascended the stairs, noticing that it got cooler the higher they rose. By the time they hit the second floor, gooseflesh had risen on Ang’s arms. Richie wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tried to transfer some of his body heat to her. They approached a closed door. The door to Kirstin’s room. Richie squeezed Ang’s shoulder reassuringly and unwound his arm from her. He reached out to touch the knob and drew his hand back as a zing of electricity seemed to pass through him.

"What the hell?" Richie exclaimed, shaking his hand. He looked at his fingers, and saw his fingertips were blackened. "Jesus," he said.

Ang grabbed his hand and examined his fingertips. "This is not a good idea," she said softly, kissing the marks.

"The hell it isn’t," Richie said, pulling his hand back from hers. He wrapped his hand in the bottom of his t-shirt and poised it over the doorknob. With a muttered curse, he quickly turned the knob and flung the door open, ignoring the searing pain in his hand. He stood there agape, not quite believing what he was seeing. The room was in total disarray. Furniture was overturned and papers strewn around the room. The curtains were flapping in the window, and the rocking chair, Kirstin’s chair, was shattered into a thousand pieces.

"Oh my sweet Lord," Marty said, entering the room behind Richie. He looked around at the destruction. "Where is Kirstin?" he said, turning to Ang. "Is she here?"

Ang hadn’t yet entered the room. She was staring, slack-jawed, at the damage done. Her eyes scanned the room until they stopped on a shadow in the corner. "Oh no," she said, stepping into the room. She walked slowly toward that corner.

"What does she see?" Marty asked Richie. "Is that where Kirstin is?"

Richie shook his head. "I don’t know; all I see is shadow." He followed Ang across the room, and stopped just behind her. Ang reached blindly behind her, and Richie grabbed onto her hand. The instant their hands connected, Richie saw what Ang saw. He saw a huddled, scared woman, bloody and battered, cowering in fear. He watched as Kirstin looked up with a petrified expression on her face.

"Help me," she said. "Please."

"What’s happening?" Marty asked, coming to stand behind Richie and Ang. Kirstin looked at him and screamed.

"Jeremiah!" Kirstin shrieked, and Ang recoiled. It was the same tone, the same fright as what she experienced in her vision. Angel Rose blanched when she saw Kirstin reaching for Marty. "Help me, Jeremiah!" Kirstin cried. Richie and Ang looked at each other, then turned around to look at Marty.

Marty looked confused. He saw the looks of fright on Richie’s and Ang’s faces, but couldn’t see what they were so afraid of. "What are you two looking at?" he asked, turning to look behind him.

"You," Ang said. "Kirstin is reaching for you. Asking for your help."

"What should I do?" Marty asked, on the edge of unease.

"Give me your hand," Ang answered, holding out her other hand to the startled realtor.

Marty was hesitant, but grabbed on to the proffered hand, and gasped when Ang’s fingers closed around his. He now saw what Richie and Ang saw. "Good Lord, what happened to that poor creature?"

"Jeremiah?" A weak voice called. "Please help me."

Marty cringed for a moment when Kirstin reached for him, the tendrils of cold wafting from her. Very slowly, reached his free hand toward Kirstin’s. When they clasped, Marty shouted at the surprisingly strong grasp this ethereal creature had.

Richie felt the shock of the connection all the way through his body, and wondered how the hell Ang survived the jolt.

Angel Rose then saw clearly what she had missed in the first visions.

The Past

Crying and spitting blood, Kirstin begged the man attacking her for her life. "Please," she said. "Please, let me go back to my children. I will give you anything you want, just let me go home to my children."

"Shut up," he said, hitting her again, blackening her eye. He pressed his hand hard over her nose and mouth, and she couldn’t breathe. "Shut up or your precious children will be next." Kirstin grabbed his wrist and pushed his hand further into her mouth so she could bite him. He howled in pain, and reared up, shaking his hand. Blood droplets sprayed as he shook. Kirstin tried to lever the man off of her, but he was too strong. He grabbed her wrists and brought her arms down to her sides, pinning them with his knees.

His hands closed around her neck like a vice, choking off her airway. She started to get dizzy, and random images of her children and her husband floated through her head. She smiled at one memory, and the man got angry. "What are you smiling at, bitch?" he demanded, and loosened his grip long enough to smack her hard across the face. Kirstin snapped back to the present, and struggled anew when she felt his hands close around her throat once again. She was able to gouge his hand with her fingernails, but she was too weak to push him away.

As she struggled for breath, Kirstin tried to pull the mask away from the man’s face. She had to know who had done this to her. Maybe then she would know why. She caught the edge of the mask’s chin with a fingernail, and it slipped enough so she could make out her attacker. As her world started to turn black, she started to weep. She wept for her husband, her children, and herself.

Suddenly, she saw a glimpse of something, someone, over her attacker’s shoulder. A familiar face. She struggled against the pull if unconsciousness and tried to focus on another pair of green eyes. Kind eyes. "Jeremiah," she gasped in surprise. "Please, help me."

Her attacker turned toward Jeremiah. "Leave now, little brother."

"Isaiah, what are you doing?" Jeremiah was confused. Why was his brother hurting his friend? He stood, transfixed, while Isaiah’s hands closed tighter around Kirstin’s throat. He saw her eyes start to roll back as she croaked his name again.

His brother glared at him. "Now, Jeremiah."

"Jeremiah, please," Kirstin said once more, then she was still.

Isaiah shot a triumphant look at his brother before turning back to Kirstin’s body. "If you’re gonna stay, you may as well help me dig, boy," he said, clawing into the dirt. He heard a noise behind him and turned to see a tree branch speeding toward his face. "What the—" was all he got out before impact.

The Present

Ang jerked and twitched in Richie’s and Marty’s grasps. Papers and scraps of wood and fabric tossed around the room on their own. A horrible, high-pitched wind poured through the open window, even though the trees outside did not move an inch.

"What is happening here?" Marty asked, clearly scared. He couldn’t seem to pull his hand away from Kirstin’s, which terrified him even more. He watched as Ang’s color got low. He watched in horror as bruises and cuts appeared on Ang’s face. He struggled to pull his hand from Kirstin’s, but the icy cold grip was unrelenting. "Sweet Mother of God, what is happening to her?"

Richie swallowed hard. "She’s reliving Kirstin’s last moments."

"How can she stand it?"

Richie couldn’t answer, for he wondered the very same thing. He tried to slide his hand from hers, fully intending to pull Ang into his arms and flee the house, but he couldn’t get his hand free. Her grip was stronger than that of ten men, and she felt as unyielding as if she were carved into a mountain. Her strength, rigidity and immobility frightened him. Then, just as suddenly as the assault on the room began, it ended. Ang became limp and her hand slipped from Marty’s as she slumped against Richie. The shadow in the corner seemed to retreat. Richie hurriedly scooped Ang into his arms and left the room. He ran down the stairs and outside. Marty followed, slamming the front door shut behind him.

As soon as the warmth of the sun hit Ang’s face, she started to stir. Surprised, for last time this happened, she had to be brought far away from the house, Richie dropped to the ground, cradling Ang in his lap. Marty was half a step behind, panting as if he had run a marathon.

"What the blue-spotted hell just happened in there?" Marty dropped next to Richie and Ang.

"It wasn’t Jeremiah," Ang said softly, her eyes starting to flutter open. "Isaiah killed Kirstin, not Jeremiah. She called out to him for help, but it was too late." Tears sprang to her eyes as Marty swore. "Richie, we have to go back in there."

Richie shook his head. "No. No way. You’re bruised and cut again, Angel."

Ang struggled to sit up in Richie’s lap. "We have to. She showed us what we needed to see. We can ask her the right questions and get her to tell us how to help her." Richie was still shaking his head, and tightened his arms around her. "I know we can; please," she begged.

Marty put his hand on Ang’s shoulder. "Angel Rose," he said, "you can’t be serious."

"We have to help her," Ang said simply, the tears flowing from her eyes.

Richie sighed and stood, still cradling Ang in his arms. Slowly, he started back for the house. As he approached, the front door opened. The threesome stopped dead in their tracks. Ang saw Kirstin descend the once-grand staircase to the lawn. "Do you see that?" she asked in a low voice. "Put me down."

Richie complied and nodded his head. "I see her. Marty?"

"Yes. My God, I can see her too. Where is she going?"

They watched as she circled the house and disappeared.

Richie and Ang looked at each other. "The lake," they said in unison, then started to follow.

Marty watched after them for a moment, stunned beyond belief, and then followed as well.

When they reached the lake, they scanned the shore for Kirstin. "Where did she go?" Richie asked.

"Do you see her?" added Marty.

Ang just shook her head. "I don’t see her," she answered. She was pulled to the large boulder that sat by the lake, getting warmed by the sun. When she reached it, she would have sworn she heard the rock whispering. She rested her hand against it, shuddered. "Here," she said. "Kirstin was sitting here. She was feeding the water birds, and something startled her. It sent her back to the house in a hurry."

Marty frowned. "But the local lore says she disappeared on the way to a neighbor’s from her house. She wouldn’t have had to come this way," he said. "She wouldn’t have run into trouble out here."

Ang slapped her hands at her sides, sighing loudly in frustration. "Dammit, something happened here." She put both hands on the rock. After a moment, she rested her forehead against it and closed her eyes. Several minutes later, she pushed back, disgust in her face. "Something definitely happened here, but it wasn’t Kirstin’s death. We have to go back to the house. See if we can find her there."

"In my dream," Richie said, "she was on some sort of wooded path." The three of them turned their heads toward the thick tangle of rhododendrons. "Maybe that’s where she went."

"Then why would she lead us back here?" Ang asked, exasperated.

"I don’t know; you’re the expert," Richie retorted.

Marty spoke up, speaking softly and calmly. "There may have a path through there once. Several, in fact. There are acres of rhodies in those fields. Some of it’s been thinned, of course, as the developments and farms went in all around here," he said, "but I suppose it’s conceivable she entered the thicket from the house, and..."

"And that’s where she met with trouble and disappeared," Ang said.

Richie shook his head. "Conceivable, but it’s not probable. I read all those news articles; neighbors walked those paths for hours, days, looking for some sign of her." He held up a hand when it looked as if Angel Rose would interrupt. "But, we have to try," he said. "That’s where she reached out for my help. She’s got to be there somewhere."

"But –" Marty started.

"But nothing," Ang said. "Let’s go."

Chapter Twenty-One

The Past

Jeremiah Halstead had a tough childhood. He was a surprise pregnancy, and his mother died giving birth to him. His father hated him on sight for that, though it wasn’t anything Jeremiah had control over, and his upbringing was left largely to his older brothers. His brothers were a rough group, and were equally pissed at this child for taking their mother away from them.

The five Halstead boys were always getting in trouble for something or other, and more often than not, it was Jeremiah who took the brunt of the punishment. Since he was the youngest, he didn’t know any better than to listen to his brothers, and more than once he took the switch for something one of the older boys did.

Out of necessity, Jeremiah worked hard to be faster and stronger than his brothers. The beatings he withstood would have broken a weaker child, but Jeremiah was tough. He had to be. Any sign of weakness was pounced on by his bothers, and the beatings would only get worse if he cried.

All the hard physical labor meant he’d grown up bigger than his peers. To the young children who were his neighbors and fellow pupils in school, he looked older than he was, so they made fun of him for being "stupid". He got into many fights over this, and each time he did, his father or oldest brother would beat him more for fighting at school.

Jeremiah never knew a tender touch or a mother’s hug, so had no idea that there was gentleness or love in the world.

Until he met Kirstin St. Claire.

Kirstin joined his school when they were both fourteen. She was warned to stay away from "that creepy Jeremiah" by the other girls in the class, but she was brought up to be kind and considerate to everyone, so she chose instead to give him the benefit of the doubt. She saw how the other pupils treated him as a blight; in fact they called him "Jeremiah the Pariah" though few of them knew what the word meant. That only made her redouble her efforts to befriend the loner.

One afternoon, when the class had broken for lunch, Kirstin noticed the boy sitting by himself under the sprawling oak that dominated the area in front of the school. She watched as he furtively unwrapped a cold meat sandwich from a greasy wrapper, and took a bite, smiling a little in satisfaction. Then she watched as an older boy, clearly one of his brothers, strode up to him and took the sandwich from him. Jeremiah leapt to his feet in anger, but his brother pushed him down into the dirt.

Outraged, Kirstin ignored her friends and stalked over to the two boys, who were squaring off for a fight.

"Stop that this instant," she demanded, fury clouding her soft gray eyes.

"Who’s gonna make me?" the belligerent boy, whom she recognize as Isaiah, Jeremiah’s brother, asked her, raising his chin in defiance.

"I will," Kirstin said, stepping to stand between them.

Isaiah laughed. "You, a girl, cannot stop me from doing what I want, when I want." To prove his point, he kicked dirt at his brother, who was sitting in awe of this young girl who wasn’t afraid of Isaiah.

"I said stop that." Kirstin’s voice was getting louder, and some of the other pupils started to wander over to see what would happen. One student went inside to fetch their teacher.

Isaiah looked at his younger brother. "You gonna let this little whore do your talking for you?"

That shook Jeremiah from his reverie. He stood, fire in his gaze. "You don’t call her that filthy name."

His brother’s dirty laughing had Jeremiah pulling back his arm and letting a punch fly that sent his older brother staggering backwards, his arms wind milling to no avail; he fell in the dust, and Jeremiah smirked.

"You’ll get it later," Isaiah said, standing and brushing the dust from his pants. "Just wait until you come home." With that last threat, he turned his back and walked away.

"I’m sorry he called you that awful name," Jeremiah said.

"That’s alright," Kirstin said bravely, though tears clouded her eyes. "I notice he took your lunch; do you want to share mine? My mother always makes more than I can possibly eat by myself."

Jeremiah nodded shyly and the two sat under the tree and shared Kirstin’s cold chicken sandwich and chatting softly with each other.

Jeremiah was in love.

The Present

Richie had stayed with Ang, holding her deep into the night. They made love tenderly close to dawn, and woke to the blaring alarm clock when the sun was climbing high into the sky.

"Good morning," Richie said, kissing the side of Ang’s head.

"Mmmm, morning," Ang answered, and planted a kiss over Richie’s heart. "What time is it?"

"A little after eight-thirty."

"We should get going then, if we’re going to meet your realtor." She stood and looked at Richie; the sheets barely covering him. "Are you sure about this?"

Richie shook his head. "I’m not absolutely sure, but pretty sure." He slid out from under the covers, and stretched; his nakedness making Ang want to crawl back into bed with him. Instead, they showered and dressed, and stopped off at the Thompson Estate for Richie to change clothes. He set a record for fastest quick-change ever, relieved that Kirstin didn’t make an appearance, and the pair made it to the Historical Society a little before ten.

They had been standing over the counter, looking at the drawings they had spread over its expanse, when the door opened and Marty walked in. Ang turned white and gripped the counter for support. "Jeremiah," she whispered.

"Marty!" Richie said, striding toward the man with his hand extended. "Thank you for agreeing to meet us here this morning."

"Of course, of course," Marty answered. He saw Ang’s face, and frowned. "Are you alright, miss?"

"F-f-fine," Ang said, though she was far from fine. When she saw Marty’s face, she knew, beyond a doubt, that this man was descended from the man Kirstin called ‘Jeremiah’.

"So," Marty said, redirecting his attention to Richie. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Richie flipped through some of the drawings on the counter and selected two. One of Kirstin, and one of the man who was chasing her. He showed them to Marty, whose eyes went wide as he scanned the pictures.

"What is this?" He tilted his head. "Why does this man look familiar?"

"’This’," Richie said, "is what I wanted to talk to you about. My house is haunted."

Marty started to chuckle, but stopped when he saw the look on Richie’s face. "Aw, damn," he said, resignedly.

"So you knew," Richie said, surprised.

"I knew there were rumors," Marty said, "but I didn’t know for sure." He dropped the drawings and held up his hands. "Nothing I had heard mentioned anything violent or malevolent; I just thought it was talk."

"I suspect you thought more than that," Richie said, "but that doesn’t matter right now. What does matter is that man you thought you recognized. Looked in a mirror lately?"

Marty blanched and picked up the sketch of the green-eyed man. "The chin is the same and the eyes....do you really think this looks like me? Where did this come from?"

"I drew it," Ang said. "After Kirstin Maddox showed him to me."

"Who?" Marty asked.

"My ghost," Richie said.

Over the course of the next couple of hours, Richie showed Marty the research he and Angel Rose had been doing, and told him about his experiences in the house. Marty didn’t so much as flinch when Richie told him about the scratches on his arm, and the rocking chair that moved on its own. He didn’t snicker or shake his head when Ang told him about making contact, and seeing through Kirstin’s eyes, what her last moments were like. He did go pale when Richie told him about the vision Angel Rose had had about being chased by a monster called Jeremiah.

"Angel Rose? Summerlin?" When Ang nodded, Marty just said, "huh. Are you sure you heard the name right?" he continued, looking from the drawing to Angel and nervously to Richie, who was hovering just behind Ang’s shoulder.

Ang answered, "Mr. Halstead, there are very few words that sound remotely like ‘Jeremiah’. In fact, I can’t think of a single one."

"Please, call me ‘Marty’," Marty answered distractedly. "And of course you’re right. It’s just – " He trailed off as he stared at the drawings and processed everything he’d been told.

Richie pointed at the drawing of the green-eyed man. "And you did admit he resembles you."

Marty nodded his head. "I do recall having an ancestor named Jeremiah," Marty said slowly, "but I never heard anything about him hurting anyone."

"Anyone but Kirstin, you mean," Ang interrupted.

Marty shot her an annoyed look. "No, that’s not what I meant at all. He was the gentle one. Now, if it were one of Jeremiah’s brothers – that I would believe. Isaiah especially was a real bastard." He looked at Ang. "Tell me exactly what Kirstin showed you."

Ang was surprised. "You don’t doubt that Kirstin spoke to me?"

Marty shook his head. "I knew your mother," he said. "She had the gift. She had thought that her birth mother, your maternal grandmother, did as well." He smiled an easy smile. "Besides, child, I’m from the south. Southerners have a predisposition to believing in the supernatural."

Ang smiled back, happy not to be ridiculed.

Richie was incredulous. "How do you know so much about Angel’s family?"

Marty chuckled. "Son, it’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody else’s business. Story goes that Joy was only 16 when her daughter was born. Her parents were mortified when their only daughter turned up pregnant one day. She was shipped off to a maiden grand-aunt, Beatrice, I think her name was, in Seattle until after the baby was born. A private adoption was made, though unbeknownst to her parents, Joy arranged to keep contact with the adoptive family. When Joy’s parents, Hope and Connor died, she made contact with Angel Rose’s ‘natural’ grandmother, I think her name was Aideen..."

Richie held up a hand. "Marty, I need a scorecard to keep up. Why don’t we just leave it at everyone knows everyone else’s business, and be done with it." He shook his head. Coming from the East Coast, this was totally foreign concept to him. Where he came from, privacy was valued, and outside of immediate family, events like teenaged pregnancy wouldn’t be so freely talked about.

"All right," Marty said with a smile. "Miz Summerlin?"

Ang smiled and leaned into Richie for support while she launched into her story. She told Marty about the contact she made with Kirstin in her third-floor room. A room that looked like it hadn’t been touched in the nearly 200 years since it was furnished. Ang told Marty about both she and Richie having a conversation with Kirstin, asking yes or no questions that she answered with her chair, and Marty just nodded. She next told him about the vivid vision she had: about a happy, carefree Kirstin being grabbed by a hand in the bushes. She told Marty about Kirstin fighting off her masked attacker and fleeing from him.

She continued on, telling Marty about Kirstin trying to run for the lake, and being pushed from behind. Richie noticed Ang rubbing at her hands as if to take rub the sting of the fall away. She gripped Richie’s hand when she told Marty about the man hitting Kirstin, splitting her lip and blackening her eye. Richie interrupted to tell Marty about how matching marks marred Ang’s face while she was in the throes of the vision. When she told Marty about the choking, tears sprang to her eyes as she remembered the terror she had felt at reliving Kirstin’s memories.

"She reached out and snagged part of the mask," Ang said. "That’s when I saw the green eye, and heard her say ‘Jeremiah’. It had to be him."

Marty leaned back in his chair as Ang finished her story. He thought for long moments until Ang thought the silence would drive her mad. "Well?" she demanded.

Marty stood. "I want to show you something," he said. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. From a protective sleeve, he took a small photo. "Do you have a magnifying glass?"

Ang nodded and retrieved it from her desk. Marty handed her the picture. "Look at the picture," he said. "Look very closely at all the men in the photograph; tell me what you see."

She scrutinized the photo for several minutes, then turned the glass over to Richie. He looked, studying the men’s faces. When he was done, he and Ang shared a look.

Angel Rose blew out a breath. "It’s kinda hard to tell, but the men all appear to have green eyes," she said.

Marty nodded. "The young men in the picture are me, my younger brother, and three cousins on my father’s side. The older men are my father and two of his brothers. Green eyes run in the men in my family. All the color photos and family oil portraits show the Halstead boys having green eyes. It very well may have been Isaiah that Kirstin saw, but she thought it was Jeremiah."

Ang looked shocked, and shook her head vehemently. "No, I don’t believe it. Why would Kirstin use her dying breath to say Jeremiah’s name if he wasn’t the one who killed her?"

"Are you sure it was her dying breath?" Marty asked. He held up a hand when it looked as if Angel Rose was going to protest. "From your own words, you lost consciousness, and therefore contact with Kirstin before the very end."

Richie started to speak, but Ang put a stalling hand on his forearm.

"No, I’m not sure, but it sure felt like she was dying." Ang was getting irritated.

"I’m not trying to minimize what you saw or felt, or claim innocence on my family’s behalf. If someone in my family tree did in fact kill someone in yours, I’m truly sorry; but before we update the family Bible with that, I want to be certain." Marty was quiet for a long moment. "Do you think she would talk to me?" he asked.

Ang just shook her head. "I think she’d take one look at you and, well, freak out without some forewarning. I should go with you, and see if she’s receptive."

Richie stepped protectively in front of Ang. "There’s no telling how it would affect Ang if that happened. I don’t think it’s a good idea."

"How else are we going to figure out what happened?" Marty asked.

"We?" Richie echoed, arching an eyebrow.

"I think I have just as much a vested interest in this now as you do," Marty responded. "Maybe even more so, if my blood was involved in something so sinister." He shook his head. "What if Angel Rose stays here?" he asked Richie. "Does Kirstin talk to you?"

Richie rubbed at his arm and smiled ruefully. "Not so much talk as gouge and scratch," he said, making Ang chuckle.

"Richie, I should go," Ang said. "We know she has a connection to me, and you can take me out of there if something starts to happen." At the frown on Richie’s face, she hastened to add, "besides, I know she will talk to me, do you KNOW she’ll talk to you?"

Chapter Twenty

Some time later, Angel Rose awoke, finding it dark in her bedroom. She closed her eyes and sighed when she felt Richie’s warm presence still behind her. He had his arm around her, anchoring her to his chest. Being held like this felt wonderful. She shifted slightly, testing to see if he was awake.

The hand that was draped over her began stroking her stomach lightly. Slowly, his hand crept upward until the very tips of his fingers were grazing the underside of her breasts. Ang sucked in a breath but made no move to stop him. Richie palmed one, kneading and squeezing gently. He was kissing her neck; slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that ended with just a little teeth, and he felt her nipple pebble up against his palm. He pinched it lightly, then traced gentle lazy circles around it until Ang thought she was going to scream. Then he moved on to the other breast, torturing it the same way.

Ang shifted restlessly on the bed and the friction of her motions was causing Richie to sweat. He was impossibly hard, and he wanted her again. “Sweet Angel Rose,” he said to her softly, as he kissed and nipped her neck and shoulder. He levered up on one elbow to roll Ang beneath him so he could see her face. “Hey there,” Richie said.

Ang just smiled, her eyes darting back and forth between his.

Richie dipped his head, fully intending to kiss Ang gently, but the taste of her had him deepening the kiss until he couldn’t breathe. Ang threaded her hands into his hair, sealing his mouth to hers, and tangled her tongue around his. She shifted underneath him so he was seated in the apex of her thighs, and sighed. The pressure of Richie against the slow, throbbing ache that pulsed there was almost unbearable.

Ang ran her hands down Richie’s neck and explored his strong chest; her fingers playing over the muscles and sprinkling of fine dark hair. She lightly scraped her fingernails across Richie’s nipples, and he hissed and arched into her, making Ang moan.

“Good Lord, woman,” Richie groaned, and bent to capture her mouth again. He trailed kisses across Ang’s cheek and to her neck, and kissed his way down her chest to a tender, pink nipple where he sucked. Ang cried out and wrapped her arms around Richie’s head.

Richie looked at Ang, his brown eyes nearly black with passion. He flexed his hips and rubbed against Ang again, making her back arch and her head loll to one side. He took advantage, nibbling on her earlobe and neck and Ang wound her arms around Richie’s shoulders and hung on.

“I’m all out, darlin’,” Richie whispered, as he continued to slide his cock against her.

“Night stand,” she croaked back, and waited for Richie to sheathe himself.

He devoured her mouth as he pushed into her slowly, savoring the way her body all but pulled him into her. He started moving slowly inside her, letting her catch up to his rhythm, and within minutes, she was whispering his name, asking, begging for more. Richie moved faster, his cock slamming mercilessly into her. Ang purred and moaned and dug her fingernails into Richie’s shoulders, trying to pull him onto him, wanting to feel his weight. He complied, gathering her into his arms, holding her close while his hips worked furiously to bring them release.

Ang cried out softly when the next wave engulfed her, and the spasming was enough to bring Richie along for the ride. He slowed then stopped his movements when he felt Ang go completely limp beneath him. He rolled off her and gathered her to his chest, kissing her temple.

She was quiet for so long, Richie felt a finger of dread dance down his spine. “Angel Rose? You aren’t having regrets, are you?”

“No,” Ang said, meeting his gaze. “No regrets at all. It’s what I needed, what I wanted – YOU were what I needed and wanted. No regrets.” She was quiet for a minute. “That other, stuff; everything that happened up at the house, that changes everything,” she said softly.

“How?”

“I saw him,” Ang said. “If I close my eyes, I can picture him clearly.” She rolled away from him and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching slightly. “I can draw him.”

Richie stood and stretched before heading to the bathroom. He came back with a warm, wet washcloth and a small towel. He helped Angel Rose clean up before holding out a hand for Ang to take, and he pulled her to her feet. Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her soundly, loving the feel of her arms looped around his neck, and the press of her body against his. When they ended the kiss, Richie looked around and saw their clothes in a wet heap on the floor. “Uh, Angel, darlin’, not that I mind being naked, but, uh…”

Ang smiled. “C’mon, I can fix you up,” she said, scooping up their clothes and heading for the little room off the kitchen she had set up as her laundry room. She tossed everything into the dryer and fished two clean sets of sweatpants out of the basket on the washing machine. She handed him one, saying, “they’re clean, but they’re gonna be short. You can pull up the legs.”

Ang stepped into her pants and watched as Richie yanked up the uncooperative cotton sweatpants. She nearly groaned out loud when she saw how they cupped him. He tugged on the legs, bunching the elastic around his knees, and the sight of his strong, tanned, hairy legs sticking out from the very snug grey cotton nearly took Ang’s breath away. She raked her gaze upward, scanning his broad chest. Smiling wryly, she added, “unfortunately for you, all my t-shirts are going to be way too tight on you, so you’re gonna have to do without.” She pulled a t-shirt out of the basket for herself and slid it over her head before leading him from the laundry room.

She started a pot of coffee and walked into the living room, to where she had left her pad and charcoals. Richie could feel the fear wafting off Angel Rose and hugged her close. He could feel her shuddering against him, still shaken by what happened at the house, and afraid of what she would see when she drew this Jeremiah. Richie had to admit, he was a little shaken, too. He wasn’t a neophyte by any means, but he had never seen a woman so desperate for a physical connection like Ang was. He tilted her face up with a gentle finger under her chin. After searching her face, he kissed her so softly, so lovingly, that fresh tears sprang to her eyes.

“Don’t cry, sweet, Angel Rose,” Richie said. “I’m here with you. I’ll protect you.”

“You can’t protect me from this,” she said. “You can’t save me from my own mind. But it’s sweet that you want to try.” She stretched up on tiptoe to brush her lips against Richie’s. He caught the back of her head and held her there, pouring all the emotions of the past day into his kiss. His arms trailed down hers, settling around her waist, anchoring her to him while their mouths played over each other. Long minutes later, Ang eased back from the kiss and cuddled into Richie’s chest, pulling strength from him.

With a sigh, Ang gathered up her drawing supplies and took a seat in her chair by the window. Silently, Richie sat by her, watching as the pencil flew over the page. Her hand was a blur as it sketched lines and circles, each joining the last in creating an image of a man, Halfway through, Ang growled in frustration and tore the sheet from the pad, letting it flutter to the floor. “Nose is wrong,” she muttered.

Even before it hit the rug, her arm was hastily moving back and forth across a fresh page. She got further this time before she tore this page from the pad in exasperation and tossed it to join the other on the floor. “Lips. Fuller lips.”

On and on she went, discarding one sketch after another, muttering about the shape of an eyebrow or the cleft of the chin. Finally, when she had nearly exhausted the pad of paper, and had gone through three pencils, she dropped the pad from her lap. “That’s him,” she said, pointing a shaky finger at the sketch.

Richie bent to pick up the pad, but before he could look at it closely, Ang said, “Wait,” and took it from him. She colored the irises of the eyes an eerie jade green. “NOW that’s him,” she amended, and handed the pad back over to Richie.

He stared at the drawing for a full minute. “I know this man,” he said.

“Of course you do,” Ang said. “This is Jeremiah.”

“No,” Richie said. “I mean yeah, that’s who it is, but I’ve seen him. I know I’ve seen him. Or at least a someone who looks like him.” He racked his memories, trying to remember. “I almost have it,” he said.

“Don’t force it, or it’ll never come,” Ang counseled. For her, it was the opposite. If she tried to force it, the images would never leave her head. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Come on, let’s make something to eat. It’ll distract you, while you figure out who this man is, and you’ve got to be ravenous.”

They bustled around the kitchen for a few minutes, making sandwiches from what they found in the refrigerator. They ate at the kitchen table, an easy, companionable silence between them. As they were cleaning up their mess, Richie stopped. He strode to the discarded sketch pad and picked it up. He stared at the drawing for a moment, standing statue-still in the middle of the kitchen. “Where’s my wallet?” he asked.

“Probably still on the floor in the bedroom,” Angel Rose answered.

Richie jogged from the kitchen, snagged his wallet, and was back in less than a minute. He pulled a small white card from his wallet and held it up. “I’ve got it,” he said to Ang. “Can I use your phone?”

She motioned to the wall where a fire-engine red phone hung. “Go for it,” she said. “Who? Who does Jeremiah remind you of?” Richie had dialed and had the phone pressed to his ear.

Richie held up a finger as the caller answered. “It’s Richie Sambora. Listen, sorry to bother you at home, but something interesting happened at the house, and I want to talk to you about the house’s history.” Richie listened for a few minutes. “That’s fine. Can we meet at the Historical Society, say at 10 tomorrow?” He nodded. “Great. See you then, Marty.”

“Marty?” Ang asked, confused.

“Yeah, Marty. Halstead. My real estate agent.” He pointed to the drawing as he spoke. “He has eyes just like this, and the chin is the same.”

Ang shook her head. “Richie, do you know how many men have green eyes and a cleft in his chin? I think you’re trying too hard.”

“I know what I know,” Richie said, taking another swallow of his beer. “We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

There was a bit of an awkward “what now” silence between them. Angel Rose cleared her throat. “Are you heading back to your house tonight?”

Richie shook his head. “Uh-uh. Not tonight. Not when Kirstin is still in poltergeist mode. That was messed up.” He looked at Angel Rose, and sensed the real question she was asking. “Oh,” he said. “Do YOU want me to head back to my house tonight? I mean, I’ll need fresh clothes for tomorrow, but I’d like to stay if you’d like to have me.”

Angel Rose smiled. “Of course I want you to stay.” She reached out to pull the pad from Richie’s hands, and studied the drawing. “I wonder what made this man attack Kirstin,” she said.

“Well find out, Angel Rose. I promise you.”