The chandelier in the center of the room brightened it considerably, but it couldn't quite drive back all the shadows or the memories. Cyndi took a step inside. The room hadn't changed in fourteen years.

Oak bookcases filled two walls of the room. They were stuffed with law books and books on business, as well as with leather-bound classics that were meant to impress. She'd never seen her father read any of the books except the law ones. He had a law degree even if he'd never used it, preferring instead to go into banking and business.

Two dark, leather sofas and several chairs clustered in a seating area in front of the towering bookcases. A liquor cart sat nearby, and she knew that the decanters would be filled with the best bourbon and whisky that money could buy. Heavy, crystal glasses sat beside the bottles.

An area rug in dark greens and burgundy sat in the center of the room in front of the imposing desk that dominated the room. This is where Cyrus James had sat and passed judgment on her and the rest of the world. Like some third-world dictator, he'd ruled with an iron fist and woe to the person who tried to thwart him in any way.

Cyndi realized she was shaking, her entire body trembling. A bead of sweat trickled down her back, making her shiver in dread. “The man is dead,” she assured herself. “He can't hurt you, or anyone else, ever again."

It was hard to believe the monster who stalked her dreams was truly dead. In the end, he'd proved he was truly just flesh and blood like the rest of them. How it must have galled him that he couldn't take his money and power with him.

Shaking off her melancholy memories, she took a deep breath and then another. When she felt steady again, she forced herself to walk into the room. Floor-to-ceiling drapes shut out the light, not that there was much this time of day. It was fall and the evenings were closing in quickly. She'd meant to tackle this room in the daytime, but time had slipped away. She promised herself she'd just give the place a quick look. Still, Cyndi strode to the first window and yanked back the drapes. She went from window to window until all four were unveiled.

Maybe she should have waited until morning.

No. She had to start going through his things tomorrow, deciding what to do with everything. Then there were the contents of the house itself. She had to start making a list of what she was keeping and what she was going to get rid of. If she'd already gotten over her jitters, she'd be able to work more efficiently.

The darkness outside seemed to add to the gloom inside the room. Rubbing her arms against the chill, she walked to the desk and turned on the heavy, brass lamp that sat off to one side. It illuminated the center of the desk, spotlighting the papers on top.

It looked as if it was just waiting for him to return.

The wind gusted outside and something brushed against the window. Cyndi jumped, her hand plastered to her chest as she whirled around. She almost expected to see her father standing there, except she didn't believe in ghosts, not really. Memories definitely, but not spirits.

Maybe opening the drapes had been a mistake. She heard the sound again. It was just a branch from one of the many trees and shrubs surrounding the place, hitting the window. Nothing to be concerned about.

She crept behind her father's desk and pulled out his chair. Ever so slowly, she lowered herself down on it. She swallowed hard as she stared out over the room. This is what her father had seen when he'd sat in judgment of her so many times.

She flattened her hands on top of the desk and pushed the files that sat there to one side. This was her desk now. She could use it or sell it. Staring around the room, she gazed at the depressing artwork on the wall. Three rather large canvases peered down at her from their lofty perches. The heavy colors and subject matter reflected her father's taste, not hers.

The house creaked and groaned as the wind gusted again, sending shivers racing down her spine. This house was big and spooky with no one else around, like something out of a horror movie.

"Great,” she scolded herself. “Scare yourself even more, why don't you."

Cyndi tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, ignoring the fact her heart was pounding. “Fake it ‘til you make it,” she muttered. If she acted calm, eventually her body would follow suit. There was no one in the house but her, but it was an old house that complained when the wind blew.

Ignoring the few things on top of the desk, Cyndi began to open all the desk drawers one at a time. She rifled through papers and files, getting a general idea of what was here. There was a four-drawer, wooden file cabinet behind the desk and she knew that it was filled with business papers that would have to be gone through one at a time. All her father's business dealings and secrets were in this room.

Secrets.

Her head jerked up as she peered at the canvas directly across from her. It was a biblical scene of hell and damnation, one that had terrified her as a child. Bracing her hands on the chair arms, she levered herself up. As if an invisible cord was pulling her forward, she advanced toward the painting.

She'd seen her father move the painting only once. She'd been about seven years old at the time and wasn't supposed to be in this room. When she heard her father approaching, she hid behind a chair, shaking in terror that he'd find her. She risked a glance from around the corner of the chair and had seen her father take the painting from the wall and put it aside. Then he seemed to open the wall itself. The child hadn't understood, but the woman in her knew there was a wall safe there. She'd all but blocked the memory from her consciousness until now.

Gripping the edges of the heavy canvas, she lifted it off its hook and lowered it to the floor. Sure enough, she could see the faint outline of an opening. She smoothed her fingers over the edges until she found a slight indentation. Hooking her finger beneath it, she tugged. It opened to reveal a metal plate with a dial.

She didn't have the combination.

Cyndi thought for a moment and tried her father's birth date. Reaching out, she grasped the small handle and pushed. Nothing. She really hadn't expected it to be that easy. Perhaps he'd used numbers from one of his bank accounts. She'd check those tomorrow.

On a lark, she tried her own birth date, but that didn't work either. What would her father have used as a combination? Something he could remember without having to write it down, obviously. Her father wouldn't have trusted the staff not to snoop.

Maybe her grandparents’ birth dates, or possibly a combination of them. She had plenty of time to try to figure it out. If all else failed, she'd call in a locksmith and get them to open it for her. There was a discreet, metal tag on the base at the front that gave the company's name.

She placed her hand on the cool metal, wondering what secrets her father had hidden inside. Knowing him, they couldn't be good. Hopefully, there was nothing more than a few pieces of her mother's jewelry.

Her mother.

Taking a chance, she turned the dial again. This time she used her mother's birth date. Anticipation filled her as she gripped the handle and tugged. Disappointment filled her when it still didn't budge. She'd been so sure that she'd be right.

By all accounts, her father had loved her mother to distraction. But Jennifer James had died when Cyndi was just four. She barely remembered her mother. She was more of a shadowy memory—a beautiful, smiling woman who always smelled of rose perfume. Her father had never looked at another woman after her mother's death. He'd had a mistress instead—money. And she was a demanding bitch.

Her mother's death.

Surely he wouldn't have. But Cyndi was even more sure than before. This time when she turned the dial, she put in the date of her mother's death. The tumblers of the lock clicked and when she turned the handle, it gave easily.

Cyndi held her breath, the creaks and groans of the house receding into the background as she pulled the small, metal door open and peered inside. There were quite a few velvet cases, some papers, and some leather-bound journals. It was obviously going to take some time for her to go through all of this.

Unable to resist, she reached in, her fingers wrapping around a blue velvet case. She pulled it out and rubbed her hand over the soft fabric. Whatever was inside had belonged to her mother. With shaking hands, she pried the lid open. A necklace unlike anything she'd ever seen rested inside on a bed of pale blue velvet. A large sapphire drop was the pendant and the necklace itself was a series of smaller sapphires interspersed with gleaming white diamonds. Cyndi was no expert, but this necklace was worth an awful lot of money.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she reached out and placed her fingers against the large gemstone. This stone had touched her mother's skin. Had her mother worn it to some fancy party? Probably. Her father would have wanted to show off the fact he could give such trinkets to his wife.

A tear trickled down her cheek and she turned her head into her shoulder, swiping it away. Her mother had been dead for decades, but somehow it felt fresh. Cyndi had never really known a mother's caring, not until she'd run from Jamesville fourteen years ago and ended up in the loving arms of her mother's sister, Verna. It was from Verna that she'd learned about her mother. Her father had never talked about her, never mentioned her name.

Closing the case, she placed it carefully back in the safe. Now that she knew she could open it, she'd deal with everything in there tomorrow. She'd had enough for tonight. Still, she was proud of herself. It was the first step in facing the demons of her past.