Excerpt from CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

If you missed the first book in Karen Rose’s Cincinnati series, keep reading for an excerpt of . . .

CLOSER THAN YOU THINK

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Mt. Carmel, Ohio
Sunday, November 2, 5:45 p.m.

“It’s only a house.” Dr. Faith Corcoran gripped her steering wheel, willing herself to look at the house in question as she slowed her Jeep to a crawl. “Just four walls and some floors.”

She drove past, eyes stubbornly pointed forward. She didn’t need to see. She knew exactly what it looked like. She knew that it was three stories of gray brick and hewn stone. That it had fifty-two windows and a square central tower that pointed straight to heaven. She knew that the foyer floor was Italian marble, that the wide staircase had an elegantly curved banister made out of mahogany, and that the chandelier in the dining room could sparkle like a million diamonds. She knew the house top to bottom.

And she also knew that it wasn’t the four walls and floors that she really feared, but what lay beneath them. Twelve steps and a basement.

She did a U-turn and stopped the Jeep in front of the house. Her heart was beating faster, she thought clinically. “That’s a normal physiological response. It’s just stress. It will pass.”

As the words slipped out, she wondered who she was trying to convince. The dread had been steadily building with every mile she’d driven the past two days. By the time she crossed the river into Cincinnati, it had become a physical pain in her chest. Thirty minutes later, she was close to hyperventilating, which was both ridiculous and unacceptable.

“For God’s sake, grow the hell up,” she snapped, killing the engine and yanking her keys from the ignition. She leapt from the Jeep, angry when her knees wobbled. Angry that, after all this time, the thought of the house could make her feel like she was nine years old.

You are not nine. You are a thirty-two-year-old adult who has survived multiple attempts on your life. You are not afraid of an old house.

Drawing strength from her anger, Faith lifted her eyes, looking at the place directly for the first time in twenty-three years. It looked . . . Not that different, she thought, drawing an easier breath. It’s old and massive. Oppressive. It was more than a little run-down, yet still imposing.

It looked old because it was old. The house had stood on O’Bannion land for more than a hundred and fifty years, a testament to a way of life long gone. The three stories of brick and stone loomed large and dark, the tower demanding that all visitors look up.

Faith obeyed, of course. As a child, she’d never been able to resist the tower. That hadn’t changed. Nor had the tower. It maintained its solitary dignity, even with its windows boarded up.