When a mysterious figure shows up in the photograph an architect takes of the derelict Seabrink Hotel, ghostly encounters and murder are unleashed. Aubrey Spencer loves photographing classic old buildings and abandoned places that hold old secrets. The Hotel Seabrink, perched overlooking the sea, is one such place. Currently abandoned but scheduled for a major renovation, it has a torrid history. Back in the 1920s it hosted A-list celebrity clientele, and now the locals insist it is haunted by the ghosts of two young women who died there. When Aubrey goes to photograph the site before the renovation begins, she bumps into a man named Dimitri Petroff, a minor online celebrity who shares her fascination with old buildings, the Hotel Seabrink in particular. When he is found dead the next day at the base of a cliff, the police are quick to close the investigation. But Aubrey feels unsettled by locals who claim he was murdered and that it’s not the first time someone interested in the hotel was killed. As she digs deeper into the property’s dark history (and its origins as an asylum) as well as Dimitri’s professional rivalries, she becomes mired in an unsolved murder case from several decades earlier, one with eerie parallels to the contemporary case. But someone is determined to keep her from discovering the truth—at any cost. "Gothic mystery with modern edge, perfect for fans of haunted history, true crime tangents, and hotels that should’ve stayed condemned." — Daily Mom “Readers who remember Barbara Michaels’s wonderfully ghostly genre-blurring novels and fans of newer authors such as Jennifer McMahon and Riley Sager will be beguiled by Blackwell’s chilling, supernatural literary treat.” — Library Journal “This atmospheric standalone from Blackwell offers supernatural mystery fans a hearty helping of murder, ghosts, and doomed love at a long-abandoned hotel overlooking the Pacific Ocean.” —Publishers Weekly Juliet Blackwell is the pseudonym for the New York Times bestselling author of Off the Wild Coast of Brittany and The Vineyards of Champagne . In addition to writing the beloved Witchcraft Mystery series and the Haunted Home Renovation series, she also coauthored the Agatha Award–nominated Art Lover’s Mystery series with her sister. One A rusty, pockmarked No Trespassing sign dangled from the Hotel Seabrink's massive wrought-iron gates. It clang-clang-clanged against the open gates, swaying slightly in the breeze; the mournful sound echoed off the high stone walls surrounding the grounds of the former hotel. Aubrey got out of her car and paused, breathing deeply of the damp mountain air scented with evergreen needles-redwood and Monterey pine-as well as the distinct but indefinable aroma of the decaying plants that carpeted the forest floor. In the normal course of her life Aubrey Spencer was a rules follower, sometimes to a fault. But when she was on the hunt for photographs, all bets were off. After another brief moment of hesitation, she slipped through the gates. The Seabrink's once-manicured grounds were now choked with weeds and wild plants native to the Northern California coast; the forest was reclaiming its own. Leaves and pine needles blanketed the brick and stone pathways, and ivy had run wild, climbing over the walls and winding itself around lichen-encrusted statuary whose original forms were now left to the imagination. Vibrant ferns dotted old stone benches, and a thick carpeting of moss encased long-empty stone planters. Gravel crunched underfoot as Aubrey walked up the long drive. The grounds were otherwise quiet, the only sounds those of nature: the birds flitting through the trees and the breeze rustling the oak leaves. A squirrel eyed her from the top of one high stone wall, chattering indignantly at her presence, and two hawks-or maybe turkey vultures?-glided through the air high overhead. The drive ended in a large loop encircling a massive fountain in front of the hotel's main entrance. The pool was filled with stagnant rainwater, bright green with algae. The fountain's sculpture featured three women, their faces distorted in anger and their hair entwined with snakes, attacking a cowering young man as he attempts to flee, his head covered by his muscular arms. "Welcome, one and all, to the Hotel Seabrink," Aubrey murmured to herself. She snapped a few photos of the fountain and gardens but did not linger. It was the building itself that called to her. Aubrey had first stumbled across a brief reference to the Hotel Seabrink while perusing the musty aisles of her favorite used bookstore in Oakland. In a slim, self-published volume on the history of coastal Northern California, she read: The famous Hotel Seabrink, tucked into the hills north of Stewarts Point with a spectacular view of the mighty Pacific Ocean, was from its beginning mired in scandal and lurid rumor. The pet project of the fabulously wealthy salt miner, T. Jefferson Goffin, the lavishly decorat