“My nurse?”

“Meet Margaret Woodard, RN. I’m assuming her identity.” Betty handed him a glass of champagne. “Drink up, Jack. We’re leaving in an hour.”

“An hour?” Jack’s head was spinning and he hadn’t even tasted his champagne.

“It’s all set. You took care of me for over four years and now it’s my turn. You won’t mind if I play nurse, will you?”

Jack began to smile. If playing nurse was anything like playing doctor, it was the best proposition he’d ever had. “I won’t mind. And you certainly look prettier than the last time I saw you, Miss Woodard.”

WHERE INNOCENCE DIES . . .

Expectant parents Karen and Mike Houston are

excited about restoring their old rambling Victorian

mansion to its former glory. With its endless maze of

rooms, hallways, and hiding places, it’s a wonderful

place for their nine-year-old daughter Leslie to play

and explore. Unfortunately, they didn’t listen to

the stories about the house’s dark history.

They didn’t believe the rumors about

the evil that lived there.

. . . THE NIGHTMARE BEGINS.

It begins with a whisper. A child’s voice beckoning

from the rose garden. Crying out in the night.

It lures little Leslie to a crumbling storm door.

Down a flight of broken stairs. It calls to their

unborn child. It wants something from each of

them. Something in their very hearts and souls.

Tonight, the house will reveal its secret.

Tonight, the other child will come out to play . . .

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

Joanne Fluke’s

THE OTHER CHILD

coming in August 2014!

PROLOGUE

The train was rolling across the Arizona desert when it started, a pain so intense it made her double over in the dusty red velvet seat. Dorthea gasped aloud as the spasm tore through her and several passengers leaned close.

“Just a touch of indigestion.” She smiled apologetically. “Really, I’m fine now.”

Drawing a deep steadying breath, she folded her hands protectively over her rounded stomach and turned to stare out at the unbroken miles of sand and cactus. The pain would disappear if she just sat quietly and thought pleasant thoughts. She had been on the train for days now and the constant swaying motion was making her ill.

Thank goodness she was almost to California. Dorthea sighed gratefully. The moment she arrived she would get her old job back, and then she would send for Christopher. They could find a home together, she and Christopher and the new baby.

She never should have gone back. Dorthea pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and blinked back bitter tears. The people in Cold Brook were hateful. They had called Christopher a bastard. They had ridiculed her when Mother’s will was made public. They knew that her mother had never forgiven her and they were glad. The righteous, upstanding citizens of her old hometown were the same cruel gossips they’d been ten years ago.

If only she had gotten there before Mother died! Dorthea was certain that those horrid people in Cold Brook had poisoned her mother’s mind against her and she hated them for it. Her dream of being welcomed home to her beautiful house was shattered. Now she was completely alone in the world. Poor Christopher was abandoned back there until she could afford to send him the money for a train ticket.

Dorthea moaned as the pain tore through her again. She braced her body against the lurching of the train and clumsily made her way up the aisle, carefully avoiding the stares of the other passengers. There it started and she slumped to the floor. A pool of blood was gathering beneath her and she pressed her hand tightly against the pain.

Numbness crept up her legs and she was cold, as cold as she’d been in the winter in Cold Brook. Her eyelids fluttered and her lips moved in silent protest. Christopher! He was alone in Cold Brook, in a town full of spiteful, meddling strangers. Dear God, what would they do to Christopher?

“No! She’s not dead!” He stood facing them, one small boy against the circle of adults. “It’s a lie! You’re telling lies about her, just like you did before!”

His voice broke in a sob and he whirled to run out the door of the parsonage. His mother wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be dead! She had promised to come back for him just as soon as she made some money.

“Lies. Dirty lies.” The wind whipped away his words as he raced through the vacant lot and around the corner. The neighbors had told lies before about his mother, lies his grandmother had believed. They were all liars in Cold Brook, just as his mother had said.

There it was in front of him now, huge and solid against the gray sky. Christopher stopped at the gate, panting heavily. Appleton Mansion, the home that should have been his. Their lies had cost him his family, his inheritance, and he’d get even with all of them somehow.

They were shouting his name now, calling for him to come back. Christopher slipped between the posts of the wrought-iron fence and ran into the overgrown yard. They wanted to tell him more lies, to confuse him the way they had confused Grandmother Appleton, but he wouldn’t listen. He’d hide until it was dark and then he’d run away to California where his mother was waiting for him.

The small boy gave a sob of relief when he saw an open doorway. It was perfect. He’d hide in his grandmother’s root cellar and they’d never find him. Then, when it was dark, he’d run away.

Without a backward glance Christopher hurtled through the opening, seeking the safety of the darkness below. He gave a shrill cry as his foot missed the steeply slanted step and then he was falling, arms flailing helplessly at the air as he pitched forward into the deep, damp blackness.

Wade Comstock stood still, letting the leaves skitter and pile in colored mounds around his feet, smiling as he looked up at the shuttered house. His wife, Verna, had been right; the Appleton Mansion had gone dirt cheap. He still couldn’t understand how modern people at the turn of the century could take stock in silly ghost stories. He certainly didn’t believe for one minute that Amelia Appleton was back from the dead, haunting the Appleton house. But then again, he had been the only one ever to venture a bid on the old place. Amelia’s daughter Dorthea had left town right after her mother’s will was read, cut off without a dime—and it served her right. Now the estate was his, the first acquisition of the Comstock Realty Company.

His thin lips tightened into a straight line as he thought of Dorthea. The good people of Cold Brook hadn’t been fooled one bit by her tears at her mother’s funeral. She was after the property, pure and simple. Bringing her bastard son here was bad enough, but you’d think a woman in her condition would have sense enough to stay away. And then she had run off, leaving the boy behind. He could make a bet that Dorthea was never planning to send for Christopher. Women like her didn’t want kids in the way.