Six months pregnant and newly widowed, I inherited a château in France I never knew existed.
My husband died speaking French to someone who wasn't there, and left behind a last name I'd never heard him use: Beaumont. The same man who'd stalked my photography exhibitions until I had to notice him, who'd sworn he loved me in every language except French—he'd been someone else entirely.In the small town of Valmorne, the locals crossed themselves when they saw me coming. Old women clutched iron. The servants turned every mirror to the wall. Nothing made sense.
I should have left when I started waking at 3 AM, choking on things that weren't there. When French words I'd never learned bled from my mouth. When the roses bloomed out of season, the wrong shade of red.
I should have left when the last Beaumont arrived—my husband's brother, whose existence I'd never known. He'd steady me with hands that lingered too long, warn me away with words that sounded like invitations. I couldn't tell if he was protecting me or claiming me. I hated him. I couldn't stop thinking about him.
Winter was coming. My belly grew rounder. And inside the château's walls, something scratched. Pressed. Waited. As if the house itself was pregnant with secrets it couldn't birth.
At Château Beaumont, love rots softly in the walls. And some inheritances wake it hungry.
Genre: Mystery