A Whisper in the Dark Read Free

of old building—paper dust and vanilla candles—greeted her like an old friend as she stepped into the Book Merchant, the antique bookstore she owned and operated.
    Julia had had a love affair with books even before she’d learned to read, which had occurred at the ripe age of four. Immersing herself in wonderful stories, with characters who were every bit as real as her friends from preschool, had transformed a rather lonely childhood into a world filled with enchantment and adventure. She had understood and appreciated the power of the written word long before most of her classmates had even read their first book.
    As she’d grown older, her love of books burgeoned to include rare and old books. She could sit for hours with a battered volume, thinking about all the people who’d held it in their hands over the years, wondering if they’d wept or laughed at the passages within.
    Two years ago the Book Merchant had been nothing more than a pipe dream. Then she’d discovered the derelict storefront in a historic building in the French Quarter—and known it was perfect. The space had been damaged by water and suffered with years of neglect. But Julia had a gift for seeing potential—whether in people or old buildings—and she’d refused to listen to the naysayers telling her the place couldn’t be saved. Risking her life savings, she’d procured a loan, purchased the narrow space and begun the monumental task of transforming a dilapidated room into her dream. After months of backbreaking work and countless sleepless nights, the Book Merchant had been born.
    Setting the books on the scarred surface of the old-fashioned counter, she worked off her coat. By the time she reached the coffeemaker, she’d already fished a beignet from the box and taken an enormous bite that would have sent her mother scrambling for her Miss Manners’ Emergency Handbook .
    It was the one book Julia didn’t carry.
    She chose a dark roast with chicory, and while the coffeemaker ground beans, she set her mind to the task of opening the shop. She lit the dozen or so scented candles she burned throughout the day. Yesterday had been vanilla. Today was hazelnut. Tomorrow maybe she’d try the café au lait she’d picked up at the candle shop on Magazine Street.
    She’d just begun the task of counting petty cash when she spotted the envelope on the floor just inside the front door. Someone had slipped it through the old-fashioned mail slot, and she’d somehow missed it when she walked in. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp February weather ran the length of her.
    Refusing to acknowledge that her heart was pounding, Julia crossed to the envelope and picked it up. The absence of a postmark indicated it hadn’t come through the mail system. This one had been hand delivered. The others had been mailed. The realization that he knew where she worked raised gooseflesh on Julia’s arms.
    She slit the envelope. Like the others before it, the letter was off a laser and printed on ivory linen stationery in an Olde English font. Hating it that her hands weren’t quite steady, Julia unfolded the letter and read the short passage.
     
Her tainted pen spills sin onto the page
like the fevered blood from a sickle slash.
Soon thine blood will be hers
and vengeance will be mine.
     
“What is that supposed to mean?” she whispered.
    But deep inside, Julia knew. And the realization chilled her almost as much as the letter itself.
    She jumped when the bell on the front door jingled. Relief swept through her when she looked up to see her sister, Claudia, enter the shop.
    “Hi,” she said, tucking the letter into her pocket.
    “Don’t ‘hi’ me.” Glaring at her, Claudia Wainwright crossed to the counter and hefted a cardboard box onto the scarred surface. “I can’t believe you sent me to pick up these books without warning me,” she said, brushing paper dust from her slacks.
    “Would you like coffee to go with your bad mood? It’s