The Final Deception

by Heather Graham

  Which gave Kylie an out now.

  She offered Dr. Sayers her best, most effervescent smile. “That was great—and reminded me we’ve still got a lot to get done tonight. Guys, I’m so sorry if I freaked you all out! But it was really amazing. Truly unique. So...” She paused, looking at her threesome of concerned friends. “Onward!”

  She wasn’t seeing any visions and she wasn’t feeling the agony of the knife, but she was anxious to move and go—anywhere. Out of the doctor’s office.

  And forget.

  “We have to take care of Dr. Sayers,” Nancy said quietly.

  “Looked after it with the receptionist—that sweet older woman—when we got here,” Kylie said, never so happy she had chosen to take care of a bill—and that she had done it discretely ahead of time. Corrine protested; all three of them argued that this was her special time, they wouldn’t hear of her paying for anything. Then, of course, Nancy and Jenny turned on Kylie—she shouldn’t have paid the whole thing.

  “You guys get dinner,” she said, standing and collecting her purse and jacket.

  Assuring Dr. Sayers once again she was all right, Kylie managed to herd the others back out to the street. And she managed to get them all moving through shop after shop, looking at charming local art and nice handmade jewelry, along with the t-shirts, bumper stickers, incense, and souvenirs that could be found just about anywhere in the city.

  At last, they headed to the Cauldron.

  They ordered their first round at the bar. The bartender was named Matt, and he was friendly, tall, dark, and charming—the perfect bartender—and his partner, Cindy, just as cute and perky. Then, as a dinner table cleared, they settled into one of the restaurant’s upholstered booths.

  “You know, it was Laurie Cabot who made it all what it is today,” Nancy said, looking back at the painting of the typical evil witch one often pictured—a crone in a black hat and cape, stirring a cauldron--at the entrance to the restaurant. “In the mid nineteen-seventies, Governor Dukakis gave her the title of ‘Official Witch of Salem.’ The practice of Wicca has nothing to do with the devil-worshipping, dancing naked in the moonlight witchcraft those poor people were accused of doing. I mean, I remember as a kid—it was always so historic, and sobering, really. How horrible to imagine people were convicted on spectral evidence!”

  The four of them new all the theories regarding the 1682 trials. Nancy was from Marblehead, just a stone’s throw from Salem and, at one time, an area caught up in the witchcraft hysteria as well. Her family was all but entrenched here. Her mother belonged to the Daughters of the American Revolution and wanted Nancy to belong as well. Jenny’s parents had come from Germany as children, but settled north of Boston, in Lynn, Mass. Corrine had been born and raised right in Boston, and for Kylie, it had been Swampscott—a tiny place just outside of Salem.

  “Well, I, for one, do not agree with mold in the wheat in the least!” Jenny said. “Everyone would have eaten the wheat.”

  “Suggestion—the art of suggestion!” Kylie reminded them all gravely. “I mean, seriously, there were a zillion property disputes going on at the time. And kids were bored out of their skulls. It was dark as all hell at night, and the girls had Tituba telling them all kinds of tales... mix that with the fact that you got into trouble for just about anything, you were afraid of native attacks, the woods were terrifying—and you could hear authority figures talking about their problems with their neighbors. Not to mention the fact that in Europe—”

  “Hey,” Corrine said, “you weren’t being attacked as a witch back in the seventeenth century, were you, Kylie?”

  Kylie shook her head.

  “They hanged the so-called witches,” Nancy said. “Oh, it drives me crazy when people depict them as being burned! No witches were burned here in America—all went to the gallows.”

  “Salem has a long history—and not all to do with the Witch Trials of 1692,” Kylie said gravely.

  As she spoke, a tall man with shaggy blond hair walked over to them. “Hey, ladies. Just stopping by to say hello and welcome to Salem. I’m Carl Fisher. I lead ghost tours. I start out just down the street in about an hour. I hope you’ll join me. I mean, I really hope you’ll join me.”

  “Maybe tomorrow night,” Corrine said politely.

  Carl Fisher looked them all over and smiled. “That will be nice. Oh, if you want some lowdown on the town, I come back here after. I’d love to help you out.”

  “I’m from Marblehead,” Nancy said, staring at him. “And we’ve all been here... many, many times. But thank you.”

  “We’re all from the great Commonwealth of Massachusetts,” Jenny added.

  He was cute and friendly and obviously interested in them. Kylie knew her friends were trying not to be rude. But Corrine was getting married, Nancy was in a serious relationship, Jenny had just gotten out of a relationship and wasn’t ready for even a rebound. And Kylie had been working hours and hours per day, getting up to speed on just what her new job was going to entail. She was too busy to date. Then again, she hadn’t been interested in the dating scene for a while now.

  Carl Fisher looked at them all hopefully for a moment.

  “Girls’ weekend,” Kylie told him, wincing slightly. She hoped her tone and body language were right—they thought he was fine, they just weren’t ready to welcome a stranger into their evening. “Corrine here is going to be married.”

  “Ah, well. Congratulations!” he told Corrine, who smiled and nodded her thanks. “But I do give an amazing ghost tour—chock full of history. Which you guys probably know. But I tell it well—if you should change your mind or maybe tomorrow night or whenever.”

  “We love ghost tours—and we will look for you tomorrow night,” Jenny assured him.

  “Great. See you then,” he told them, and moved on. He headed back to the bar, where, obviously, the bartender and several customers who were probably regulars seemed to know him.

  “Slow to take a hint!” Corrine muttered.

  “Hey, he’s cute,” Jenny protested. “You may be getting married—that’s not on the horizon for the rest of us yet.”

  “Ouch—and, hey! Nancy and Scott have been together a long time now,” Kylie said.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a handsome man,” Nancy said, grinning. “Besides, he was looking at you, Kylie.”

  She tried to smile; she still felt odd. She’d been trying to shake what had happened during her “regression” all afternoon.

  “She’s right. He is cute, and he was definitely into you, Kylie,” Corrine said.

  “He was into all of us,” Kylie said. “We’re women, and we’re young. Anyway, we’re here to celebrate our last time together as a foursome of single women. We’re here for Corrine to go crazy as a bride-to-be. So what if for her, crazy is a little tame. Past-life regression, shopping—and museums! And dinner. And we’re all into it.” She grinned at Corrine.

  “You guys are the best,” Corrine told them. “Thank you for doing that regression thing. But... oh, Kylie. I’m still so sorry that yours was awful. Mine... my life under hypnosis was truly spectacular. I could feel the breeze and sunshine, and I knew I was hurrying to meet my love! But Kylie, we were worried. He tried to get you out—Dr. Sayers, that is—he counted and snapped his fingers, because you were literally screaming... it was really scary.”

  Kylie waved a dismissive hand in the air—she just wanted to forget.

  “So what is everyone going to order?” she asked. Conversation turned to the menu.

  Kylie heard them speaking, but fell silent herself, her attention elsewhere, as the others discussed what looked most delicious.

  She was staring at one of the wide-screen televisions set over the bar.

  The news was on, and something inside her seemed to freeze.

  He was on the news.

  The man she had seen u
nder hypnosis.

  The man viciously dragging her into the graveyard, the man who had shoved the knife into her, time, and time again.

  Kylie stood, heedless of the looks from her friends. She approached the bar.

  On the television, the man was nicely dressed in a designer suit; his hair was conservatively cut and framed his face—a handsome face, lean, with broad cheekbones and a square chin.

  Kylie couldn’t hear the sound, but the words were close-captioned at the bottom of the large screen.

  “I will serve Massachusetts—and this country—with my full heart, soul, and energy, all the power within me, if elected. I know what lies in the heart of my people, I know my people. I make a point of knowing my people. I like nothing more than taking to the streets to talk about the economy, gun control, foreign relations—anything and everything that matters, because, we need to know what matters most to all of us. I am a family man. My wife and I know the trials and tribulations of raising children, and believe me, we are dedicated to improving our schools. Our schools must be safe.”

  Kylie quit reading; she was just staring at him.

  “Kylie?” Matt, the charming bartender said, staring at her—curious.

  She barely heard him speak.

  She knew the face on the screen too damned well. She had seen how he looked when he was furious and determined; she had seen the pleasure he had taken in stabbing her over and over again.

  Corrine was behind her, truly concerned again.

  “Kylie, what...”

  She shouldn’t say anything—she knew it. She was just so confused and unnerved. Kylie turned to Corrine. “That’s him! That’s the man with the knife... the man who was... murdering me... I saw his face. I knew him. Corrine, I saw him so clearly!”

  “Him?” Corrine said. “Girl, where have you been? That’s Michael Westerly. He—he was a state senator. Now, he’s campaigning to be a United States senator from Massachusetts.”

  Kylie wanted to laugh. She wanted to say something like, “Of course it can’t be him, then!” and go back to their table and talk with her friends and make Corrine happy.

  She couldn’t speak.

  “That’s it!” Corrine said. “You’ve seen his picture—you’ve seen him campaigning. And somehow, under hypnosis, you transferred that into...whatever it was you saw. Hey, come on! He’s even your political party!” Corrine tried to joke.

  Kylie felt weak. The sense of cold, of blood draining from her...of death seemed to be slipping over her again.

  “No! I saw him,” she said urgently. “He’s a murderer! He killed me...with the knife...”

  Corrine and the bartenders stared at her as if they needed to rush her to the nearest psych ward.

  Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?

  Why couldn’t she have been hypnotized to believe she had been a Regency heiress at the very least?

  Anything other than a victim. And now... that feeling of terror, slipping over her again, just seeing the man, and his easy smile, his assurance... The sensation was horrible. The sensation coming over her again now, as if she was seeing it all, feeling it all.

  She fought it desperately.

  No good.

  She was going to fall, slip down to the floor, into pure black oblivion.

  Someone took hold of her.

  She turned. It was a man. When he touched her, she initially felt her fear increasing.

  It was him... Michael Westerly, the man who had murdered her!

  But it wasn’t. It was someone else entirely, someone she’d never seen before, tall, strong in his hold, and somehow fierce.

  He had ice-blue eyes and dark hair.

  Something about him both scared and somehow assured her, even as he caught her, kept her from falling.

  He was good looking, not quite as classic in his looks as the would-be senator. His jawline was rock hard and his look more rugged. His arms were very powerful, as if he were made half of metal beneath the fabric of his pinstriped suit.

  She didn’t like the way he was looking at her.

  He eased her onto one of the bar stools. “Oh my gosh, thank you!” Corrine said for her.

  Kylie still couldn’t speak. Those icy eyes of his seemed to be staring into her, into the place where she had been that day, somewhere in her soul, in a strange reality.

  “Murdered?” he said. “You appear to be alive and well to me, but what’s this about murder?”

  Corrine laughed nervously. “We did ‘regressions’ today and saw our past lives. It’s all just silly. But seriously, thank you. Kylie could have gotten hurt. She was a little freaked out. You know—we were all cool princesses or whatever, and Kylie was some poor woman who got murdered.”

  The man wasn’t looking at Corrine. Those ice-blue eyes of his were still on Kylie.

  “There was a murder today,” he said quietly. “Out in the old St. Francis graveyard, between here and the Rebecca Nurse Homestead. A young woman was found stabbed to death—knife went into her twenty times.”

  As if on cue, the news story on the TV switched.

  News just in—there had been a murder.

  Annie Hampton, twenty-four, of Peabody, had been found just an hour ago, brutally stabbed and left among the gravestones.

  Fear settled into Kylie, and darkness clouded over the world.

  She passed out cold.

  Copyright © 2020 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  ISBN: 9781488055423

  The Final Deception

  Copyright © 2020 by Heather Graham Pozzessere

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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