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For all his evasions, Morgan Harrison had to know things were not right in his bookstore. Perhaps he was blinded not only by the twisted myth he’d convinced himself but also because this was his home and he had nowhere else to go. But who had last lived in this place? Whose eyes had looked outward? Whose hands had touched the cool glass and longed for something more? He turned to the voice that called his name but saw nothing. It was a trick of memory, nothing more; no hidden meaning or sign. He would not believe otherwise, could not accept any alternative. To do so would be dangerous. But Morgan Harrison was beginning to suspect that this building held memory. Somehow, it knew emotion. And he never should have mentioned he was leaving.