The attic stairs were to her right. When she saw that the door at the top was open, fear sliced through her again. It hadn’t been opened since she’d moved in. Shaking, determined, she took a firmer grip on the poker and started up the stairs.

At the doorway, she paused, hearing the faint whisper of movement inside. She pressed her lips together, swallowed, then stepped inside.

“Damn it, Maggie, you could hurt someone with that thing.”

She jumped back, banging smartly into the doorjamb. “What are you doing up here?” she demanded as Cliff scowled back at her.

“Just checking. When’s the last time you were up here?”

She expelled a breath, releasing pent-up tension. “Never. It’s far down on my lists of priorities, so I haven’t been up since I moved in.”

He nodded, taking another glance around. “Someone has.”

For the first time, she looked into the room. As she’d suspected, it contained little more than dust and cobwebs. It was high enough that Cliff could stand upright with an inch or so to spare, though at the sides it sloped down with the pitch of the roof. There was an old rocker that might prove interesting after refinishing, a sofa that was hopeless, two lamps without shades and a large upright traveling chest.

“It doesn’t look as though anyone’s been up here for years.”

“More like a week,” Cliff corrected. “Take a look at this.”

He walked toward the chest, and making a face at the layer of dust on the floor, Maggie padded after him in her bare feet. “So?” she demanded. “Joyce mentioned that there were some things up here she didn’t have any use for. I told her not to bother with them, that I’d take care of hauling them out when I was ready.”

“I’d say someone already took something out.” Cliff crouched in front of the dust-covered chest, then pointed.

Annoyed, stifling the urge to sneeze, Maggie bent toward the dust-covered chest. Then she saw it. Just near the lock, and very faint, was the imprint of a hand. “But—”

Cliff grabbed her wrist before she could touch the imprint herself. “I wouldn’t.”

“Someone was here,” she murmured. “I didn’t imagine it.” Struggling for calm, she looked back at Cliff. “But what could anyone have wanted up here, in this thing?”

“Good question.” He straightened, but kept her hand in his.

She wanted to play it light. “How about a good answer?”

“I think we might see what the sheriff thinks.”

“You think it has something to do with—the other thing.”

Her voice was steady enough, but with his fingers on her wrist, he knew her pulse wasn’t. “I think it’s odd that everything’s happening at once. Coincidences are curious things. You wouldn’t be smart to let this one go.”