Cocky Secrets (Cocker Brothers #29)

69. Margaret

SIXTY-NINE

Margaret

W hat an intriguing and disturbing man. Why is he looking at me like someone would a Porterhouse steak when they haven’t eaten in five years? His eyes are darker than the black ink of my pen, his wild hair tied back in a bun he obviously raked together with his dirty fingers. That beard is reminiscent of Genghis Khan’s army. His neck is the size of my head.

My eyelashes flutter away from our magnetized gazes so that I may return to the task of signing in the National Hotel’s latest guests, a tourist couple up from San Francisco for the holiday. With our infamous Victorian Christmas celebration, Nevada City, California gets a lot of these.

“Isn’t it charming?” the yuppie wife smiles, tightening her hold on her husband’s arm.

Proudly he returns, “Didn’t I tell you?”

This time of year our quaint little town – population 3057 – tends to transport people to a simpler age when words were more stilted, manners more kind, and smiles came in abundance.

A time when miracles happen.

But there, so out of place amongst the twinkle lights and green garlands, is that enigmatic man.

As I hand the couple their iron key — no plastic room-keys in our hotel — his gaze locks once more with mine. I try to look away, but it’s so difficult.

“Is it haunted? Have you ever seen ghosts here?” the wife asks me.

Fluttering back to her I say out of habit, “There have been stories…”

Trailing off after such a statement leaves more to the hotel guest’s imagination, so I always leave it at that.

She starts tittering to her husband as they stroll across carpeting so old it’s a wonder it’s not as frazzled as my nerves.

Oh my God.

He’s coming over.

His eyes are trained on mine like he’s trying to hypnotize me. Each slow, heavy step makes my heart speed up. At this moment fear and awe are one and the same.

I cannot look away from him.

He’s so thick and dark and the only thing soft about him are his lips.

He licks them with an almost imperceptible frown forming.

“Hello,” I whisper.

It seems he’s about to say something. I can’t wait to hear what it is. But at the last possible second he turns on his weathered boot heel and heads for the exit to Broad Street. I almost call after him, but I’m stopped by the striking patch on the back of his leather jacket. In Old English font it reads, The Ciphers.