The Sign of Seven Trilogy by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

maybe most important, seen the Pagan Stone in person.
    She loved poking at all the corners and cobwebs of small towns, digging down under the floorboards for secrets and surprises, listening to the gossip, the local lore and legend.
    She’d made a tiny name for herself doing a series of articles on quirky, off-the-mainstream towns for a small press magazine called Detours . And since her professional appetite was as well-developed as her bodily one, she’d taken a risky leap and written a book, following the same theme, but focusing on a single town in Maine reputed to be haunted by the ghosts of twin sisters who’d been murdered in a boardinghouse in 1843.
    The critics had called the result “engaging” and “good, spooky fun,” except for the ones who’d deemed it “preposterous” and “convoluted.”
    She’d followed it up with a book highlighting a small town in Louisiana where the descendent of a voodoo priestess served as mayor and faith healer. And, Quinn had discovered, had been running a very successful prostitution ring.
    But Hawkins Hollow—she could just feel it—was going to be bigger, better, meatier.
    She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth in.
    The fast-food joints, the businesses, the ass-to-elbow houses gave way to bigger lawns, bigger homes, and to fields sleeping under the dreary sky.
    The road wound, dipped and lifted, then veered straight again. She saw a sign for the Antietam Battlefield, something else she meant to investigate and research firsthand. She’d found little snippets about incidents during the Civil War in and around Hawkins Hollow.
    She wanted to know more.
    When her GPS and Caleb’s directions told her to turn, she turned, following the next road past a grove of naked trees, a scatter of houses, and the farms that always made her smile with their barns and silos and fenced paddocks.
    She’d have to find a small town to explore in the Midwest next time. A haunted farm, or the weeping spirit of a milkmaid.
    She nearly ignored the directions to turn when she saw the sign for Hawkins Hollow (est. 1648). As with the Quarter Pounder, her heart longed to indulge, to drive into town rather than turn off toward Caleb Hawkins’s place. But she hated to be late, and if she got caught up exploring the streets, the corners, the look of the town, she certainly would be late for her first appointment.
    â€œSoon,” she promised, and turned to take the road winding by the woods she knew held the Pagan Stone at their heart.
    It gave her a quick shiver, and that was strange. Strange to realize that shiver had been fear and not the anticipation she always felt with a new project.
    As she followed the twists of the road, she glanced with some unease toward the dark and denuded trees. And hit the brakes hard when she shifted her eyes back to the road and saw something rush out in front of her.
    She thought she saw a child—oh God, oh God—then thought it was a dog. And then…it was nothing. Nothing at all on the road, nothing rushing to the field beyond. Nothing there but herself and her wildly beating heart in the little red car.
    â€œTrick of the eye,” she told herself, and didn’t believe it. “Just one of those things.”
    But she restarted the car that had stalled when she’d slammed the brakes, then eased to the strip of dirt that served as the shoulder of the road. She pulled out her notebook, noted the time, and wrote down exactly what she thought she’d seen.
    Young boy, abt ten. Lng blck hair, red eyes. He LOOKED right at me. Did I blink? Shut my eyes? Opened, & saw lrg blck dog, not boy. Then poof. Nothing there.
    Cars passed her without incident as she sat a few moments more, waited for the trembling to stop.
    Intrepid writer balks at first possible phenom, she thought, turns around, and drives her adorable red car to the nearest Mickey D’s for a fat-filled antidote to