Perilous Homecoming. Sarah Varland

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      “Clay, I need to talk to you.”

      “All right.” He nodded without questioning her, something she appreciated.

      “Something’s going on outside on the north side of the museum. I went looking for some air, heard low arguing, and then it seemed like there was a struggle outside on the porch.”

      “You didn’t go out there, did you?”

      She shook her head. “It didn’t seem wise.”

      “Wouldn’t have been,” he agreed. “You stay here. Stay involved with the party, don’t draw any attention to yourself.”

      Easier said than done. But Kelsey nodded, then watched for a second as Clay hurried away. She felt a longing to be back out there with a team of law enforcement brothers and sisters, helping justice win in the world. But she was used to pushing that feeling away.

      She wasn’t a cop anymore; she was an antiques insurance agent, one who was supposed to be wowing the historical society with her personality and giving them a quote on what her company would be able to do for them in terms of insuring the antiques and historical artifacts at the museum. Since it was a private museum and not state funded, the historical society had their pick of companies and there were more than a few in Savannah they could have called. Kelsey’s boss had said that the museum’s representative had specifically mentioned her by name, and so it seemed like her connection to the town—however tenuous it was right now—was possibly the reason they were being given the first chance at this job.

      She couldn’t mess this up. Kelsey took a deep breath, put her shoulders back and tried to remember that people didn’t just care about the job you did—they cared about your personality, too. She tried to soften the corners of her mouth a bit and look less like she was scowling.

      Kelsey would have been successful, too, except that when she turned to walk to the refreshments table, she ran square into one of the people from her past she would have been quite happy to forget.

      “Oh, I’m sorry.” The man’s accent was pleasant enough. So was his voice. It was clear he hadn’t recognized her yet—understandable, since her red hair was a bit tamer now than in their high school days, smoothed down and cut in an actual style rather than frizzed and messy. She’d also switched from glasses to contacts since she’d seen him last. She might feel like the same girl inside when she looked at him, but Kelsey knew she looked nothing like she had at age eighteen, which was the last time she’d laid eyes on Sawyer Hamilton.

      Hamilton, as in those Hamiltons who owned half of Treasure Point, including the land surrounding this museum. His aunt Mary had given a small parcel of land along with the museum building to the Treasure Point Historical Society, but the Hamiltons still claimed the rest of what had been an immense estate. Sawyer, like all the Hamiltons, had always had everything.

      “It’s all right,” she answered even though, really, was it?

      In one way, yes it was. It was all right that his gaze had swept over her, taken in her face and clearly liked what he’d seen. Maybe it was petty, but Kelsey liked the affirmation of her attractiveness from the boy who had always made her feel like less, whether he meant to or not.

      “I don’t believe we’ve met.” He flashed his signature grin, the one that had netted him the title of Mr. Popular in their senior class yearbook. He’d never used that grin on her before, and she was slightly ashamed at the way it gave her chills down to her painted toenails. “I’m Sawyer Hamilton.”

      Kelsey smiled back sweetly. Sweet like a glass of sweet tea with twice the usual amount of sugar. Stickily sweet. “We have met, actually. I’m Kelsey Jackson. Good to see you again, Sawyer.”

      At the mention of her name, his smile fell and his face paled. Still, he was handsome, with that brown hair not daring to be a bit out of place, those green-blue eyes that sparkled like he was sharing some kind of private joke with you.

      Only there were no jokes between the two of them at all.

      If anything, the joke had always been, and always would be, on Kelsey.

      * * *

      She’d grown up well—it was an understatement, but it was all his mind would articulate in that moment. “It’s good to see you again, too, Kelsey.”

      Her eyebrows raised slightly and she shook her head. Then turned to walk away.

      And then the lights went out. The hum of the electricity in the building—lights, air circulation—was gone all at once, but the gasps from people who’d been plunged into darkness without an explanation filled the void where silence would have been.

      Sawyer didn’t move. It was just darkness, no need to panic simply because it was unexpected—although some people were concerned, judging by the sound of shuffling feet.

      He tensed as something or someone brushed his left hand. He tried to move it away, but the glancing contact turned into a firm grip from a soft, small, feminine hand.

      “Sawyer?”

      It was Kelsey’s whispered voice. It was his turn to raise his eyebrows. A moment ago, she’d seemed eager to get away from him and now she was holding his hand? Surely she wasn’t that scared of the dark.

      “Yeah.” He matched her low volume. “It’s me.”

      “I need to get outside. You always carried a flashlight and a pocketknife in high school. Any chance you’ve got that flashlight now?”

      “I’ve got one.”

      “Great. Take me to the front door?”

      It was less a request than a command, but considering the fact that nothing about this situation made sense, Sawyer wasn’t questioning anything at this point.

      He pulled the small flashlight out of the inside pocket of his suit—glad he hadn’t been able to drop the habit and leave it at home. He’d dated a few girls over the years who had made fun of his tendency to be prepared, but Sawyer liked to think it came in handy now and then.

      He shone the light on the floor in front of them. Kelsey didn’t release his hand, but allowed him to lead her across the mostly empty middle of the room. It seemed most of the people had pushed themselves back against the walls. There were a few other glowing spots of light in the room—apparently, despite the request from the museum board for people to leave cell phones at a table in the entryway, some people were still carrying theirs.

      Finally, they reached the door.

      “Thank you.”

      She released his hand and then she was gone, running across the lawn with her red hair, curled at the ends, flying behind her, holding her dark blue dress up above her ankles with one hand so she could run.

      * * *

      Kelsey hadn’t run far from the blanketing darkness of the house when she ran almost straight into Clay. “Did you find anything?” she asked.

      He nodded slowly, his face in the moonlight showing no signs of his usual lightheartedness or humor. “We did. Kelsey, it’s Michael Wingate. He’s dead.”

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