Allison had undergone a complete change, he realized. He smiled. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

She obviously wasn’t impressed with his cliché. “But two friends have died in a matter of days,” she said.

“You’re right. We’ll grab a sandwich and head on up.”

Thirty minutes later they were back in the attic. Allison made piles, gathering financial papers to put with financial papers, bookings for private events with bookings for other private events, and research materials with other research materials. He offered to help her but she suggested he read; she knew what she was doing.

He came across a number of articles on the people of Philadelphia at the time of the Revolution and found himself fascinated by these snippets of history. He’d assumed that, with the exception of the Civil War, their own era was the most contentious in American history, but now he recognized that the founding fathers hadn’t had an easy task. Nor had the patriots and their families. There were cases in which sons were determined on the Revolution while their fathers were adamant that they pack up for Canada—the British colonies—“until the foolish fighting and dying was over.” There were sad human-interest pieces on daughters who’d married into patriot or Loyalist families when their parents were on the opposite side.

As he read through newspaper, magazine and other articles printed from online sites, he noticed that Allison had finished gathering most of the paperwork together but seemed troubled. She looked at him.

“May I?” she asked.

He was seated on the floor, back against the wall, his pile of research materials before him. She indicated the pile. “Of course,” he told her.

“I was thinking about a certain article. It was written by a man who’d been a high school history teacher in Maryland and then moved to Valley Forge and had his own tour company. He knows quite a lot about generals, including Washington, and even the enlisted men.”

“I was looking at it the other night,” Tyler said, producing the article he’d been reading about Beast Bradley just before he’d made Julian’s acquaintance and the others had arrived. “It’s by Martin Standish. Is this it? ‘Brian Bradley was born to Lord and Lady Bradley in Yorkshire, England, in 1750. His family could easily trace their lineage to the Royal House of Hanover—literally, he was born with a silver spoon ready for his mouth.’”

“Yes—I mean, no,” she said. “That was the first of two articles he wrote. I’d been planning to drive down to see him. He’s a brilliant man. The first article focused on Bradley. He wrote another on Lucy and her patriot lover, Stewart Douglas—and that’s gone missing. I remember that he focused on the Tarleton family and their social situation and standing as the crises came to a head. It’s assumed that both Bradley and Douglas were killed during the war—but there’s no proof. They were presumed dead. Neither of them appeared to claim their property afterward, and because of who he was, it was assumed that perhaps Bradley’s own men did him in and that’s why there’s no record of it. And of course hundreds of men died on battlefields and were never identified.”

“I’d like to see that second article,” Tyler said. “Can’t you just bring it back up online?”

“I’m sure I could.”

“But why would someone take it?” he asked.

“I don’t know. He quotes from letters he has in his own possession and they make her patriot lover sound like a bit of an ass. Maybe that’s what someone didn’t want anyone taking seriously?” Allison suggested.

“He’s not even buried here, is he? Stewart Douglas, I mean. Do you speak about him on the tours?”

“Sometimes. We would’ve spoken about him a lot more if he was buried here, but he isn’t.”

“Was he supposed to have killed Beast Bradley in retaliation?”

“We don’t know. I guess that’s one theory. All we know is that neither of them came home after the Revolution—to Philadelphia or England—so the assumption is that they were both buried in a mass grave at some battlefield. Although historians know what happened to a lot of rank-and-file soldiers. Those two just seem to have disappeared.”

“Have you spoken with this fellow—Martin Standish?”

“I’ve emailed him a few times. He appreciates my interest—he thinks it’s great that people at the house aren’t just ignoring him. I guess he tried to make contact years before and he was shut out. I can call him.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Do you think he can help?”

“Maybe.” Tyler stood, yawning. “Okay, I’ve got to call it quits. That means you have to call it quits. The rest of the house has called it quits.”

“I can keep going—”

“No. I want you across the hall. I want to jump out of bed like a lightning bolt if I hear the slightest sound coming from your room.”

She sighed. “I am tired.”

“Then we definitely call it quits. No one’ll be coming up here until we come back. No one can get in the house without us knowing it. No one—dead or alive—can move around downstairs without appearing on one of Sean’s screens. Bed,” he said firmly.

She lowered her head for a moment and then nodded. “Fine.”

He didn’t turn out the attic lights; he wanted anything that happened up there clearly visible on the screens.

They went downstairs to the second floor.

Julian—or Julian’s spirit—was slumped against the wall by Allison’s room. For a ghost, he seemed to need his sleep.

“Good night,” Allison whispered to Tyler.

“Good night,” he said. “Leave the door cracked. If anything happens, scream like a banshee. I’ll be right with you.”

* * *

Men were supposed to have the minds that resided in gutters, Allison told herself.

But when Tyler had said that one word—bed—her mind had immediately leaped to other thoughts.

As she lay down to sleep, she realized that her opinion of him had changed drastically. When they first met, she’d considered him a tall, good-looking shyster who was going to turn this house into a gawker’s showcase. She’d imagined ridiculous lights and people caught in them with wide, reflecting eyes while they shouted, “Did you hear that?” or, “Yes, there’s a ghost here, I can feel it....”

But she knew differently now.

Now, he was tall and good-looking and exceedingly…

Attractive. Sensual. Yes, the word bed had made her think of quite another way that a bed could be used.

She had to stop thinking like that. He was with five other agents. He was kind and protective and sincere in his efforts to help her—and be helped by her.

She wasn’t an object of attraction or sexual interest to him.

She was a key.

But she couldn’t stop remembering the way it felt when he touched her. His hand on hers, electricity shooting through her. There was something about him….

The machismo of a Texan, a cowboy.

Except he wasn’t like that. Well, he was a Texan, but he didn’t seem to think a man had his place and a woman had hers. He was just strong by nature—and he was there whenever she felt confused or vulnerable.

Transference. That was it. He was her rock through all of this. She wasn’t really attracted; she was just leaning on him. That wasn’t true. Yes, it was. She was leaning on him.

But she liked him. And she hadn’t trusted herself since she’d ended it with Peter Aubrey. She’d understood that Peter had loved her, but he was an addict and he wasn’t going to change for her or for himself. What she’d done was right, and she could only hope that Peter would live long enough to find his way.

So, yes, this stirring was fantastic. This longing, this…

Bed.

She found herself imagining him naked. His body was long, sleek and hard—she knew that. He was probably beautiful when he was naked.

She groaned, tossing in bed. This was ridiculous. She’d been better off when she’d considered him a ghost-busting sexist.

She had to sleep. She had to stop her mind from going in this direction. She had to remember that Sarah Vining was dead. Dead. Someone was killing people, and they were here to figure out why.

She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep.

Eventually, it came.

She didn’t dream in the night; she awoke suddenly. When she did, she saw someone at the foot of the bed.

She would have screamed except that the scream died in her throat, and while she was gasping for breath, she saw that it was the woman who’d appeared on Sean’s footage the night before.

Lucy Tarleton.

A woman she resembled to an uncanny degree.

Fear nearly strangled her.

The ghost of a friend slept outside her door, and she had spoken to the corpse of another that afternoon. There was no reason to feel such terror at this point, especially since she was certain the woman had not come to hurt her.

Lucy raised a finger to her lips. She looked around as if afraid she’d be seen. She walked out of the room, then returned, hovering by the doorframe and beckoning to Allison.

Again, as it had earlier that day, Allison’s terror receded.

She reminded herself of what she’d determined earlier—she wasn’t going to live in fear. Whatever this was, she was seeing it through.

She rose from her bed, letting the spirit know that she meant to follow. As she trailed behind Lucy, the ghost began moving more swiftly. Allison was halfway down the stairs before she heard Tyler calling her.

She paused but didn’t stop. Tyler would follow her; she didn’t want to lose the ghost.

Lucy swept down the stairs and turned into the central hallway, heading for the door. When Allison reached it, Tyler was right behind her.

“Allison!”

“It’s Lucy. She just went through the door,” Allison explained. “I have to get out there. I have to see where she’s leading me.”