I twist around, wondering how on earth I'll ever seduce him after he's seen me banged up, crying, and full of snot more often than he's seen me clean. The warmth in his eyes as they seek mine suggests maybe it doesn't matter, and somehow his presence pours energy into my limbs.

He looks like he stepped off the pages of GQ with his shower-damp curls, crisp purple tie, and pressed pinstriped suit that's tailored to skim every hard line of his body. His slight smile shows off a hint of his dimples and squeezes me in places I can't talk about in front of my family. He still irritates me with his insistence on coming around even when no one asked him to, but I can't pretend it's not nice to see a face that's 100 percent on my side this morning.

"Mayor Drayton, this is my Aunt Karen and Uncle Wally, from Charleston. This is Beauregard Charles Drayton, the mayor of our fine little town."

The mayor rolls his eyes toward the heavens at my overdone introduction, which is, of course, my whole purpose in doing it. Aunt Karen shoots me a sour look and reaches out a hand, and Uncle Wally does the same.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Mayor," my aunt gushes. "I don't know if you remember, but your mother and I worked together in the Junior League for years."

Now it's my turn to cheek the ceiling for pockmarks. She's more transparent than dead Anne.

"I'm afraid I don't, but I know those things kept Mother busy for many years." The way he says it, as though Junior League isn't worth many words, tickles me pink. "Martin, you're looking much better. You'll be back to watching those Braves games and talking me into bringing you buffalo wings in no time."

Gramps does the smile and head bob thing, but I think he did hear what Beau said, because he makes a face at being ratted out over the buffalo wings. Those are definitely not on his heart diet, but I've been known to get a mad craving myself, once in a while. Every week.

Beau pats Gramps's hand, the one still covered by mine, and I worry the jolt of electricity is going to set off my grandfather's pacemaker. It doesn't.

"Graciela, since your family is here to keep Gramps company, I was rather hoping to take you to breakfast." He glances down at my wrapped ankle and his eyes darken. "Wait here a moment, if you would."

My emotions jerk back toward annoyed, since he doesn't even wait for me to agree to go to breakfast. The time away from Gramps's beloved face argues against it, while the fact that I've done nothing but stare at these four walls for almost twenty-four hours argues in favor, but either way, actually being asked would be nice.

"What's going on here, Graciela Anne?"

The question snaps me out of my internal argument about whether to get out of the room for a while or stand on my principles and be hungry. Aunt Karen's query doesn't make a lot of sense, but that's never been a prerequisite for speaking, as far as my aunt is concerned. "What do you mean?"

"Are you dating the mayor? You've only been back in town a couple of weeks!"

"Yes, Aunt Karen, I work fast. We're already married, actually. Your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. You should really figure out how to use your phone." The sarcasm comes out of nowhere, but it feels good. Maybe all of the worry and depression and vodka have been keeping it down.

"Don't be ugly, Graciela, it was just a question. I think it's a bit soon to be dating after everything that happened back in Iowa, don't you?" She trails off, mostly, I figure, because she has no idea what happened in Iowa. Gramps knows, but he's the only one—or he was, before nostalgia opened my mouth with Mel. Neither of them told Aunt Karen anything, so she's fishing. Which really boils my blood. "Anyway, I was only asking because you blushed the moment he walked through the door. That shade is quite unbecoming on you, did you know?"

I ignore her but file away the slant of jealousy in her words for later consideration. Even if I did marry Mayor Drayton, he wouldn't be a bigger prize in her eyes than Jacob Edward Middleton III. Amelia had landed the son of a U.S. senator, and her husband would probably be one himself sooner or later.

He'd fit right into Washington, the little skeezeball.

Beau returns, rescuing me doing five to ten years for attempted murder—only attempted, because there's no way I'd take Aunt Karen in a hand fight. Beau's dragging the little redheaded nurse from last night, and she doesn't appear to mind his hand on the small of her back one bit. The set of his jaw makes it clear he's not enjoying anything at the moment.

"Mayor Drayton says we forgot to bring you fresh ice for your ankle, Ms. Harper, and a wheelchair. I've left one outside. Here you go." She holds out a bag of ice.

I take it while she peers up at Beau, waiting for approval with all the subtlety of a puppy who just took its first dump in the backyard. She scurries out after he gives her a tight smile and a thank-you. He's standing up for me, throwing his weight around like I asked him to do for Gramps yesterday, and that uncomfortable feeling, one unsure whether or not I like anyone taking up my cause without asking first, dances into my belly.

"You didn't have to do that, Beau. I could have—"

"What, hobbled down to the cafeteria? Hitched a ride on my back?" His smile softens the words, and my resolve. "I was nice about it."

"It's a good thing you've taken on the task of caring for our Graciela, Mayor Drayton. She's smart enough about certain things, but sometimes I think she hasn't got the good sense God gave a goose."

I flinch at the words, which are obviously true, but the silence that transforms into nervous energy makes it clear that her attempt at a joke has fallen flat.

A glance at Beau's face reveals a bemused expression, as though he's being badgered by a small child selling cookies on his front porch. "I think she does a fine job, Mrs. Cooper, but of course we're all entitled to our opinions. Gracie? Breakfast?"

I nod, wondering when I lost the ability to give Aunt Karen what for on my own. It's not a mystery, though. Everything changed the night of Amelia's bridal shower. Me. Her. All of it.

"Sure. But can we eat outside? I have a few things I'd like to talk to you about. In private." I can't help but throw in that last bit, along with a slight eyebrow raise and a suggestive bite of my lower lip. It'll be quite the explanation later, but at the moment, annoying my aunt is too tempting.

He seems to catch on, evidenced by a twinkle in his hazel eyes. "Of course. I have a few things I'd like to say to you as well, though most of them will have to wait until you're feeling better."

Uncle Wally chokes on the oxygen in the room, and Aunt Karen's eyes grow as big as grapefruits. The mayor tucks my hand under his arm and supports my weight until we're outside the door, where he settles me in the waiting wheelchair. It's not ideal, but he's right about me not being able to walk without limping.

We're in the elevator before I break the silence, feeling more than a little ashamed of myself. "Thanks for helping me out back there. She's impossible."

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about, but good Lord above, is she always like that?"

The image makes me giggle, but the gravity of our morning sobers me quick enough. It might have given me temporary satisfaction, to stick my friendship with Beau in her craw, but the truth about Gramps and where this whole thing is headed hangs heavy on my heart.

"It's silly. Her sun rises and sets with her daughter, Amelia, and for some reason she's always kind of viewed me as competition instead of family. But I shouldn't let her chap my ass the way she does."

"Does Amelia feel that way, too, or just your aunt?"

Tears start to gather again, but there has been too much of that. It's time to be the strong one, to stop crying. I've been crying for weeks, it seems like. "Amelia and I were best friends. Sisters. Until we weren't."

"What happened?"

"It's kind of a long story."

"I've got time."

The elevator dings, and the doors swish open, emptying us into the large cafeteria. Beau pushes me toward the buffet line, waiting on my response with the patience of a man who has nowhere to go and nothing to do. Which is silly, since he has a town to run. Presumably. I mean, people call him the mayor but I've never seen him do anything particularly mayorly, unless we count charming his female constituents to within an inch of their lives.

It occurs to me that we've spent the majority of our time together talking about me—that my knowledge of his childhood, his professional goals, his thoughts on national healthcare and immigration, et cetera, lacks serious depth. That although I'm attracted to him, and the way he cares makes me feel warm, there's not enough evidence to decide whether or not we might be compatible on a different level. Turning the tables deserves a little more of my focus, but sadly, that's already spread a tad thin.

We both fill Styrofoam boxes with hash browns and scrambled eggs, and I add a couple pieces of toast with jelly while Beau opts for an English muffin. The silence feels nice, especially after the loudness that surrounds my aunt, and the fact that, if I count Anne, quiet and solitude has been pretty elusive the past several hours.

It's cloudy when Beau wheels me up to a circular concrete table in a little courtyard and helps me onto the semicircle bench. He settles next to me, but not too close, and pops the top open on his container.

"You don't have to tell me about what happened with your cousin if you don't want to."

The comment, meant to sound offhand but failing, curls my lips up the tiniest bit. "You know, you say that I don't have to tell you things but you keep asking questions."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm afraid you've got my curiosity at an all-time high, and you act like you're putting me out by talking, so I have to ask." He has the good manners to look sheepish, which combines with the salty breeze tousling his hair to paint a rather adorable picture.

"It's not you. I've never told anyone what happened, except Melanie. And Amelia, of course. Which went over like a lead balloon."

"I promise to stay friends with you."

I would give up a million years of kisses from men even handsomer than Beau to have my cousin back in my life. But he's here, she isn't, and maybe Aunt Karen's right about one thing—it's time to lay the past to rest, so it can stop wrinkling under my toes and sending me crashing down.

"Amelia and I were pretty typical girls, growing up. We thought we'd do everything together—go to college, join the same sorority, marry brothers, and be each other's maids of honor." The memory of our silly conversations hurts my heart. "Our plans started to fall apart right away, when my mother got sick and I decided to go home to Iowa for school, and Amelia stayed in Charleston. Will and I had broken up anyway, my consideration of an early marriage and house full of babies postponed. It didn't matter. Amelia and I visited every chance we got and talked on the phone or Skype or text message about every day."

I take a deep breath, then chew a mouthful of cold hash browns, somehow finding the strength to swallow them as though they don't taste like wet cement. Once the eggs are down the hatch, it's time to continue. I'm feeling lighter, in a strange way, letting go of my secret. Like with Mel.

"Anyway, she met Jake, her husband, not long after we started school. I met him over New Year's our sophomore year, in Charleston. We'd all gone to a party, and he drove us home; Amelia was passed out in the backseat, and he hit on me the whole drive."

"You didn't say anything to her?"

"No. Not then. I mean, they were just dating, no big deal. Amelia's smart, and I figured she'd see him for what he was eventually. But then she called and said they were engaged, and asked me to be the maid of honor. I agreed, with a fair amount of reluctance, but she's my cousin and I love her. What could I do?"

The rest of my hash browns disappear, and a triangle of toast slathered in blackberry jam. Beau says nothing, just eats his own breakfast as though it's as fake delicious as mine, and alternates between watching the birds yapping and fluttering in the bushes and checking on me.

"It was after her bridal shower when Jake came into my room and tried to...he tried..." I swallow, trying to find the word for the second time. Failing. "He tried to force himself on me. Despite what my Aunt Karen thinks, I can take care of myself; I left him squirming and holding his crotch."

"Oh my God, Graciela." His face goes white, and it looks as though his cement breakfast might make a reappearance. "I'm so sorry that happened to you."

I avoid his gaze, staring down at the remnants of my food instead, and nod. "Thanks. That's not even the worst part of the story. I went to Amelia right then, with blood under my fingernails, my nightgown ripped, but Jake had gotten there first. She didn't believe me. Told me I was jealous because she was getting married first. Said she hated me for ruining everything, threw me out of her house and her wedding, and we haven't spoken since. She didn't even come to my mother's funeral."

His hand covers mine, warm and reassuring even though nothing can fix this. Not as long as she's married to Jake. "You know she believes you, Gracie. She just doesn't want to admit it."

"Melanie said the same thing." I shrug. "I would believe her. I want to think I would trust twenty-plus years of friendship over a brand-new relationship with a guy who's more than a little sleazy, but..."

"You would, Gracie. You're not the type of woman who lies to herself. Or anyone."

That makes me stop and think. Perhaps that had been true of me five years ago, before I turned the reigns of my life and brain and everything else over to David. Perhaps it could be true of me again.

If I'm not lying to myself, then it's time to admit I'm worried about Millie, whether she hates me or not. Everyone's acting a little weird when they mention her, and it can't only be her pregnancy that's making them skittish. The memory of Jake's dark gaze, of the way he gave me the creeps even before the first time he hit on me, zips shivers down my spine, turns my breakfast sour in my stomach. His wrongness is more than being an arrogant cheater, or even the kind of guy who would press an advantage, and it seems impossible to believe he's never shown that side to my cousin during the five years they've been married.

The sound of Beau's Styrofoam container popping closed brings me back to the present, and to the man in front of me—who must have secrets, but it would surprise me to find out they are sinister.

"So, are you going to tell me what's in that box you made me fetch? Or am I going to have to pry it out of you with my considerable tactics?"

The way he waggles his eyebrows encourages me to consider what kinds of tactics a man like him might employ in order to get his information. There is heat in places that have gone cold, including my heart, and it makes me want to hate him and jump him at the same time. It's safer the way I am, playing dead behind poorly constructed but determined walls, but he's determined to poke until he finds a weak spot.

Which is apparently in my pants.

Now that the moment of truth has arrived, at least as far as where I was the morning Gramps got sick—including how I got there and what I found—hesitation stills my tongue. For the millionth time since Anne's ghost appeared to me, I consider the fact that I'm crazy. That all of this is in my head.

Except if that's true, what are the chances I stumbled on that journal by happenstance?

No. And I have to tell someone. I don't have the energy to handle losing Gramps, worry about Amelia, be haunted by a ghost, terrorized by Mrs. LaBadie, and figure out what the heck to do with the diary all by myself.

"Okay, but you're going to have to suspend disbelief for a few minutes."

"I think I've proven myself capable in that arena."

I have a feeling he'd prove himself capable in most arenas. I don't even realize the thought has put a wicked smile on my face until Beau cocks his head to one side in a silent question.

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Graciela, I've said this a few times already, but if it helps, I'll say it again. I don't think you're crazy. Impulsive, perhaps, and bullheaded. Interesting. Speak."

My cheeks heat up even more at the compliment, which is better than telling me I'm pretty. Interesting is far more useful, and it lasts longer, too.

"Anne showed up the night before last, waiting for me when I got into my room."

"I'd think you'd be used to her by now." The twinkle in Beau's eyes makes me wonder whether or not he really believes I'm seeing a ghost or is humoring me.

Until now, I've pretty much humored anyone who claimed to see spirits, but I'll have to reconsider my reactions in the future. "Oh, I am. She and I are besties now, usually sit around painting each other's toenails and gossiping about the cleanest way to slit a throat." I roll my eyes. "She was different the other night. Insistent."

"How so?"

"She ran off with my car keys."

His lips had pulled down, the lines around his mouth signaling concern, but now they tip up, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest across the space between us. It makes me roll my eyes again.

"It's not funny, okay? I followed her out to the car, and she insisted I chauffeur her around until she pointed me toward the land that used to belong to her father. She's a big fan of pointing."

No point in mentioning that the borrowed archive documents had helped us figure out where to go. It wouldn't look good for the mayor to have knowledge of a breaking and entering when Mrs. LaBadie finds out and calls the cops. Or kills me and drinks my blood, then makes a stick doll out of my dry bones.

"Where was it? What did she show you?"

"It's a plantation museum house, now. We parked, Anne prodded me out of the car and off the path, and we traipsed through trees and clearings until she found the one she was looking for, then she disappeared."

"Then what?"

"I tripped, which accounts for most of the scrapes and the tweaked ankle, and while I was on the ground found a bunch of white rocks in the shape of an X."

His expression turns skeptical now, eyebrows raised and chin tipped to one side. "Seriously? Come on."

"It's cheesy, I know, but when I dug in the middle I found that box." I mentally dare him to argue with that, or say I'm making it all up, with physical evidence on the table between us.

"Okay, but why did you stay out there all night and half the next day?"

"I told you the truth about that already. It was pouring, and I followed Anne out there like a blind lady. Once she disappeared, there was no way I could find the damn car without sunlight, and even then it took me until lunch."

"Not much of an outdoorsy girl, eh?"

"No, not exactly, Mr. Mayor," I snap, unwilling to check my sarcasm. It does nothing but make his eyes dance. "Anyway, I've been here ever since."

"I meant to ask how your discussion with Martin went this morning, but your face when I first arrived said it all." He's not smiling now, genuine sorrow chasing away the amusement in his gaze.

The lump is back in my throat, but it's been such a constant companion that