“Oh.” Instinctively she reached for her hair. “I’ve used the same stylist for five years.”
“That’s what my sister said you’d say. But it’s on the list. Liquor store. Collin had a nice collection of wine, and there’s sipping whiskey and so on. Butler’s pantry.
“Cable company,” he continued. “Service can be iffy up here in a storm.”
He took out another sheet. “Wi-Fi password—you can change that.”
“LBManor,” she read. Lost Bride Manor. “This is fine.”
“Password for Collin’s computer. The combination for the safe in his office.”
“Six-twelve-nine-six.”
“The month, day, and year his wife died. Johanna.”
“You’d have been too young to remember her, or that day.”
“I was about four. I was there, so was my sister. She’d have been a newborn. But no, I don’t really remember.”
“It’s terrible. On such a happy day, a wedding day. Just a stumble, a trip on the stairs, and—”
Somewhere in the house, a door slammed.
“You’ll have this.”
“I guess. Old house.” Sonya rubbed her arms at the sudden chill. “I thought, when I first saw it—in person—it looked like a house in a classy horror movie. And, of course, I thought I saw someone at one of the upstairs windows.”
He said nothing for a full beat.
“Do you spook easily, Sonya?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” She tried a smile. “It’s the kind of house where things go bump in the night, isn’t it?”
“It’s all that. You’ve got my number if you need it.”
She angled her head. “Your father said it’s haunted.”
“That’s right.”
“That’s right he said that, or that’s right it’s haunted?”
He gave her a long look and that quiet smile. “Both. I’ve never known any … entities, we’ll say, in the manor to be more than sort of playful.”
“Playful. You’re serious. You actually believe in ghosts?”
“It’s more what you believe, or don’t. You strike me as someone who decides for herself.
“So … Collin never put in a security system—never saw the need. But we can arrange that for you if you decide you want one.”
“A lot of good that’ll do if I’m going to need Ghostbusters.” Then she shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
“Have another cookie.”
“Do I look like I need one?”
He surprised her by reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Have another cookie.”
Then he took a cigar box—an actual cigar box—out of his briefcase.
“Cookies and stogies?”
“If only. Keys.”
When he opened the box, she sat back. “Oh my God, there are so many.”
“They’re labeled, color coded. See—exterior doors. Front, south side, north side, back, apartment. The little shed. I didn’t take you out there. You’ve got the lawn tractor, the snowblower, shovels, chain saw, various tools.
“There’s a generator out there. Power goes out, it comes on. You won’t be in the dark.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Door opener for the detached garage. And the key fob for the truck.”
“What truck? There’s a truck?”
He took another cookie himself, studied her as he bit in. “Did you read the inventory list?”
“I got lost in it.”
“You’ve got his Ford F-150.”
“What is that?”
“It’s the same model I’ve got.”
“That big, burly thing?” Horrified didn’t quite cover it. “I’ve never driven a truck in my life.”
“Your Hyundai’s got all-wheel drive, but you’re not in the city now. Even with John Dee, you might find a big, burly thing useful.”
She pushed up, walked to a window.
Everything outside held quiet, all sound muffled by the gently falling snow. It was a picture, a painting, a postcard.
And her nerves had boomeranged back.
“You said there was wine.”
“There is.”
“I think I could use some. Do you want some?”
He rose. “What kind of man would I be if I let you drink alone? What kind do you want?”
“It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter.”