No.

She was not going to run at the first little glitch. She would see this through, even if the trip ended up being a bust.

Taking her foot off the brake, she eased through the gates and into a tunnel of dense foliage that put the brambles and thorns Sleeping Beauty’s prince had battled to shame.

Thank goodness a passageway had been cleared for vehicles.

But if the rest of the grounds were as overgrown as this, and if maintenance on the house had also been allowed to slide, she was out of here. She may have let herself get carried away with the fanciful notion of owning a piece of a historic property, but she wasn’t about to get lured into a bank breaker.

Blue sky appeared around a bend in the gravel drive, and she pressed harder on the accelerator. The house should be—

Whoa!

Ashley jammed on her brakes yet again as she exited the warren of tangled greenery. Stared at the house, situated across a wide expanse of lawn dotted with stately evergreens and deciduous trees and backed by the bright June sky.

Double whoa.

The pictures supplied by the owner hadn’t lied. Nor had they done this place justice.

Edgecliff wasn’t crumbling. Or overgrown with vegetation. Or missing any vital parts.

It was beautiful. Stunning. Exactly what a classic 1910 Queen Anne Victorian–style house should be.

And the setting?

Breathtaking.

Surrounded on three sides by the sea, the house had a commanding view from its perch on the ten-acre promontory it had claimed as its own long ago.

Easing back in her seat, she studied the details of the ornate three-story home. The wide wraparound front porch, with a rounded, domed-roof extension on the right and decorative railings, posts, and spindles. The asymmetry of the façade, with a section bumped out beside the front door. An octagonal turret on the left, its roof steeply pitched. A multitude of windows, all different shapes and sizes.

The brick exterior also gave it a sense of permanence and stability often lacking in shingled Queen Anne houses—but unusual for this part of the country, particularly in that era.

Even more unusual given that a lumber baron had built it.

But perhaps the solid construction was why it had held up despite its exposure to the Oregon coast’s notorious fall and winter storms, when powerful winds and the raging waters of the Pacific put on quite a show.

Or so she’d read while researching the location.

If this trip panned out, however, she’d find out firsthand what—

Her phone began to vibrate, and she picked it up off the seat beside her. Skimmed the screen. Grimaced.

She did not need any more negativity undermining her confidence. Especially on the heels of her unsettling encounter at the gate.

Author’s Note

ONE OF THE QUESTIONS I’M OFTEN ASKED during interviews and speaking engagements is how much research I do for my books. The simple answer: a ton. By the time I finish a suspense novel, I generally have more than one hundred pages of single-spaced typed research notes and citations. Only a tiny portion of that material ends up in the book, but in order to write credibly about often complex subjects, I have to do extensive homework. Yes, my stories are fiction, but the protocols for the various law enforcement agencies and organizations I write about are real. Likewise for the professions of my characters. And I’m a stickler for accuracy.