Page 66 of In Her Memory

“I know who you are,” Jenna said, her voice steadier than she expected. “Ethan Pierce.”

With his free hand—his left, because his right was currently holding her own service pistol, aimed directly at her—Ethan reached up and tugged at the corner of his mustache. It came away, revealing the clean-shaven skin beneath. Next, he removed the wig, running his other hand through his real hair, which was shorter and lighter than the dark Victorian style.

“Congratulations,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out. You’re even sharper than I gave you credit for, Sheriff. You’ve found Pete Shannon’s secret lair. His sanctum sanctorum, he called it—a sacred place in a way, where he could be alone with his thoughts.”

“My deputy—”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Ethan cut her off. “I imagine he’s wandering through these tunnels searching for you. He won’t find you, though. The entrance that led you here is closed off. I sealed it behind us.”

Jenna glanced at the walls surrounding them. The room was small, barely eight feet square, no windows, no visible doors.

“Don’t bother looking for an escape route,” Ethan continued, following her gaze. “This chamber is quite soundproof as well as deeply hidden beneath the house’s foundations. You could shout until your voice gave out, and no one would hear you.” He gestured with her pistol. “Even this will be muffled to outside ears. Pete Shannon built well. The Victorian obsession with privacy had its advantages.”

“He built passageways to spy on his guests,” Jenna said. “Not to kill them.”

“You think?” Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Maybe that’s what he told people. But the history books don’t record everything, Sheriff.” He moved to a nearby chair, settling into it with the careful grace of someone who wanted to appear at ease while remaining alert. “Besides, this isn’t about Pete. It’s about his legacy. And mine.”

Jenna kept her eyes on the gun, calculating distance, weighing options. If she could keep him talking, maybe she’d see a chance. “Why kill Donna Marsh? She had nothing to do with the Shannon-Calloway feud.”

“She was unlucky, that’s all. In order to terrify people away from this place, I had to start somewhere.”

“And Boyd?” Jenna prompted.

“Now him,” Ethan said, his voice warming with satisfaction, “that was a key point of the whole exercise. Revenge, two centuries in the making.” He leaned forward, eyes bright with a fervor that bordered on mania. “His ancestor Amos Calloway and Pete were partners—equal partners—but it became a true case of survival of the fittest.”

“The mansion,” Jenna said.

“The mansion, the mine, everything. Pete built this place as a monument to his own triumph. Every brick, every passage, every hidden spy hole. But when Amos Calloway’s great-great-grandson came back to reclaim Shannon House and turn it into Calloway House, he made Pete’s personal realm into condos for rich retirees.” His voice had risen, taking on an edge of genuine anger. “As the last surviving descendant of Pete Shannon, I couldn’t let that stand.”

Jenna glanced around the room, taking mental inventory. The chair where Ethan perched. A small side table with a heavy brass candlestick. A dresser against the far wall.

The only way in or out had to be to be through hidden panels—she couldn’t tell how many or where. No weapons other than her gun in his hands. For now, she had to keep him talking.

“So, you’re the one who’s been playing the ghost,” she said, drawing his attention back to her. “Keeping the stories alive.”

Ethan was visibly pleased by her deduction. “Every generation, one of us takes on the role. Moves through the passages, makes the lights flicker, briefly appears as you see me now. Just enough to keep the superstition going, to make sure no one ever feels completely comfortable in Pete’s house.” He smiled. “And now, with Donna’s death, Boyd’s heart attack, and soon, the mysterious disappearance of Sheriff Graves into the bowels of the mansion, the legend will live on. Boyd Calloway’s project will be thwarted. No one will want to live in a place where three people died under such mysterious circumstances.”

“You’re insane,” Jenna said quietly.

“No,” Ethan corrected her. “I’m devoted to my family legacy. There’s a difference.”

Jenna let her body slump, playing up her injuries, making herself appear weaker than she was. The throbbing in her head provided a convenient focus for her acting. “So, what happens now? You shoot me and leave my body here? Hope no one connects the dots?”

Ethan rose from his chair to pace the small room. “Like I said, you’ll disappear forever. No body, no closure. Just Sheriff Graves, vanished without a trace while investigating the haunted mansion. The papers will love it. I might even write up the story myself.”

As he turned away, completing another circuit of the room, Jenna’s hand inched toward the candlestick. The heavy brass would make an effective weapon if she could get a clean throw. She just needed him to move a little further away, to create enough distance for her to act.

“Ethan,” she called, her voice deliberately weak. “Before you do anything, I want to know one thing.”

He paused, glancing back at her. “What’s that?”

“Was any of it real? The questions about my methods, the interest in how I solved cases? Or was it all just part of the act?”

For a moment, something like genuine emotion crossed his face—uncertainty, perhaps, or regret. “Oh, I was fascinated, all right,” he admitted. “I’ve always been fascinated by people who see patterns others miss. The way you work... it’s almost like you have a sixth sense.” He chuckled. “Maybe you do. Wouldn’t that be ironic? The psychic sheriff, done in by the ghost she was chasing.”

He turned away again, moving toward the far wall, his back partially to her. It was now or never. Jenna’s wrenched her body upward, her hand closing around the candlestick. In one fluid motion, she drew back her arm and hurled it directly at Ethan’s gun hand.

The brass connected with a solid thunk, exactly as she’d hoped. Ethan cried out, his arm jerking reflexively, fingers opening. The gun clattered to the floor, sliding out of his reach. Jenna was already moving, throwing herself forward despite her protesting muscles, reaching for the weapon.