1 Chapter 1

Ryan Callahan pulled his motorcycle into the driveway of the isolated house and turned off the engine. He made no move to get off the bike. Wasn’t sure he was ready.

So this was the house his father, Jack Callahan, had built before Ryan was even born. It was on a hill, up a private lane. He could see the closest house a few miles away, the lights shining in the windows, but there was no direct neighbor. Which could be good or could be creepy. Ryan wasn’t sure which.

The house hadn’t been occupied for five years when the last renters had moved out. Ryan had been told a neighbor came by once a month to check on it but that it likely would need some work. Probably some paint for the outside, too, he noted, staring at the faded, cracking bright blue paint. It had been built Victorian style for his mother, Meg. Or so Ryan’s grandparents told him.

Ryan had been barely five when they’d both died in a boating accident. He couldn’t remember them, not much anyway, and he couldn’t remember this place, though apparently he’d spent his first five years in this house on a hill in Sutter’s Bay.

Of course Ryan knew the rumors even though his grandparents had tried to shield him from them. People said it was a murder suicide. Jack had drowned Meg, then himself. He had a picture of them taken around the time they got married. They looked unbelievably happy and in love. But Ryan knew life was more complicated than what could be seen in pictures.

He leaned back to ruffle the head of the small mutt poking his head out of the saddlebag on the side of his motorcycle. “I guess we’re here, Jonesy.”

Jonesy, a rather ugly dog made up of yellow matted fur, licked him enthusiastically.

There was no reason not to go into the house. Ryan had the keys in his pocket. The deed to the house in his papers. Yet still he just sat waiting on his motorcycle.

Waiting for what? He had no clue.

Finally he swung off the motorcycle. He had little with him. He had Jonesy and a small bag of personal belongings and a sleeping bag. Hell, Ryan didn’t even have a job. He’d had to borrow money to get the water, electric and gas turned on in the house. For that matter he had to borrow the money to get from Maryland, where he had lived with his grandparents and where Donovan had been, all the way to Sutter’s Bay in California.

In the morning, he’d have to get a job. Or start looking anyway. He picked Jonesy up out of the basket and carried the licking dog with him to the front door. He turned to look out over the bay. It was just starting to get dark, but he could make out much of the scenery from up here. It was definitely pretty, anyway. He could see why his parents had wanted to live here.

Ryan fished the key out of his back pocket and stuck it in the lock. The door creaked a little as he pushed it open and the empty house smelled vaguely dusty and unlived in. Strange how old empty houses had a certain scent.

He set Jonesy on the floor and the dog took off to explore without him. Eventually he’d have to get some furniture. Some pots and pans to cook with. A fridge. He had to start earning money first for such luxuries. Ryan flipped the light switch for the ceiling light in the living room. It wasn’t the brightest light but it was better than the darkness that would soon permeate the house as the sun continued to go down. He loved the bay window facing out from the living room. What a great view.

He tossed his pack and sleeping bag down and followed after Jonesy. Besides a small kitchen and dining room, too small as far as Ryan was concerned, there were two bedrooms on the first floor. Also a half bath with a toilet and a sink. And a closet.

At the back of the house off the kitchen a set of winding stairs led to the second floor. The second floor held a full hallway bathroom, three larger bedrooms, and the master bedroom and bathroom. This would be Ryan’s eventual room and he loved the round turret and window seat. This room had a fireplace just as the living room did.

“Good job, Dad,” Ryan said as Jonesy ran into the room after him. He’d have to paint probably. Or get someone to paint. The job seemed really big for someone who knew like zilch about painting.

He looked down at Jonesy. “What do you say we have pizza for dinner?”

* * * *

Ryan had been informed that tourism had been picking up in Sutter’s Bay. Once a city that only had a steak restaurant and a breakfast and lunch café, the embarcadero was now dotted with seafood restaurants and novelty shops. The restaurant in front of him, Mabry’s, was one of the newer ones. According to what Ryan had found out about the restaurant, they’d only opened about six months earlier.