by Lyla Payne
“Right?” my cousin quips.
I glare at Amelia before answering. “This isn’t new trouble. It’s related. And I just want to see if there’s anything in her house that can tell me more about my father or his family—I’m not going looking for Gillian Harvey, I promise.”
To tell the truth, after reading the increasingly ominous journal entries written by my ancestors, I’m thinking that the fewer family members I meet, the better. Just in case. Frank was a loner, and it’s starting to seem like that was a prudent decision. At least, it worked for a while.
“You want me to tag along?” Daria offers. “I mean, Mommy here can’t go, and I know Melanie’s busy with Bunco night or some other such nonsense. Unless you’re dragging your rugged, blue-eyed puppy dog along, I’m guessing you could use the company.”
I don’t respond to the puppy dog comment, which is obviously about Leo. Daria has no way of knowing what happened the other night, but the reminder hits me hard.
Millie shifts, uncomfortable, and there’s no doubt that Daria picks up on the fact that she’s struck some kind of nerve. She decides for once not to stir the pot. Perhaps it’s partly out of gratitude for her unusual restraint, but I find myself warming to the offer.
“You want to go tonight?” I question, unsure why I didn’t think of it.
Daria shrugs. “Sure. Why waste time, I say.”
“Sure, okay. That way if Lavinia—the ghost—shows up, you can make an assessment.”
“I mean, I didn’t think you said yes because you crave my witty repartee.”
I snort. Amelia stands up, brushing off the cat hair that’s somehow accumulated on her pants. Daria doesn’t own a cat. At least, not that I’ve ever seen, but maybe that’s not reason enough to assume one doesn’t live here.
“Well, you ladies seem to have this under control. Grace, I’m glad you’re not going alone. You get into enough trouble when there are other people around.” She shrugs into her coat and picks up Jack, then holds her hands out for the keys.
“You can run me home later?” I ask Daria.
“Or you can stay here on the couch and your friend Mel can drive you home tomorrow.”
“I have to work in the morning. You know, like regular people?”
“I’m sure you two can figure this out.” Millie yawns. “Jack’s going to be hungry soon, and Brick’s coming over with dinner. See you later, Grace. Good luck. Daria, take care of my cousin.”
Daria salutes Amelia, and I give my cousin a suspicious once-over, wondering if she was hoping all along that the medium would rope me into some sort of scheme tonight that would leave her alone with Brick.
As I watch my cousin leave, my heart aches at the thought of her being so happy, maybe falling in love—in a good way, and in a bad way, too. I’m not sure why, but this entire thing with Leo has made my depression over my love life worse than ever.
“Whatever mental pity party you’re having, best buck up and get over it,” Daria says. “Men are a dime a dozen and they sure don’t deserve headspace while your life is hanging in the balance, Graciela.”
I’ll never get used to Daria’s eerie ability to know so much about what’s going on in my life. She’s an enigma, but I can’t help wondering whether maybe our impromptu road trip tonight could provide a bit of a chance to get to know her better.
It occurs to me that I would have agreed with Daria’s thoughts on men before coming back to Heron Creek.
Even now, Beau…I miss him, but maybe he isn’t irreplaceable. Leo? He’s different. How could I ever hope to find another person who knows me as well as someone who spent half his life unraveling my secrets? The same goes for Will, of course, but I can’t imagine one single thing in the world that could drive us apart.
I certainly won’t be flinging myself at him anytime soon.
“Let’s roll,” I say, choosing not to respond to her comments.
“I don’t know,” she says, “it’s kind of early…”
A sigh escapes my chest. There’s no reason to remind her again about most people having jobs that occur during the day.
“I’m not even sure if she has her electricity on,” I say, hoping a practical argument will do more to sway her, “so the sooner we get there, the better.” It’s early evening in January; the sun has already climbed halfway under the covers for the night.
“Fine.” She heaves a put-upon sigh. “But you’re cutting into my nap time.”
It turns out that I’m not interrupting her nap time, because Daria makes me drive so she can snore all the way to Sheldon. There’s an actual drool spot on her passenger window. At least it’s her car.
Daria sits up, blinking sleep from her eyes, when we hit the long, gravel drive that leads to the abandoned farmhouse. She grumbles something about the dings on her undercarriage, and I barely manage to suppress a snort. Daria’s car isn’t any nicer than mine, though it does smell better—I’ll give her that.
Maybe I should buy some of those little Febreeze pods to stick on my vents, though I’m dubious as to their ability to conquer the smells embedded in my upholstery.
I think I may need a priest, at this point.
“This it?” she asks, flipping down the visor and wiping the smear of drool from her chin, then patting her wild hair back into place. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“This is it,” I confirm as I park the car. “And it’s no better inside. It looks like she’s been gone for at least a few weeks, so if you’ve got a problem with dust, I apologize in advance.”
“Yeah, as if the woman who spends half her life traipsing around other people’s houses isn’t used to things like that. I’ve learned a few tricks, myself, so here’s a tip for you—don’t open the fridge.”
I push open my door, laughing a little. Daria does the same, taking a moment to contemplate the house with one hand on her hip. She’s right, of course…it doesn’t look like much. But after my morning of quick research, Gillian Harvey and her odd history is not only the best, but only, clue I have to go on. Almost a week has passed since Brick and I spoke, and Travis and I have barely gotten anywhere in our quest to figure out who else might have killed Frank. Or why.
Time is running out. I can feel the preliminary hearing, then the trial and the inevitable—as of now—conviction creeping closer every morning when my eyes creak open.
Impatience flutters through me, snagging on the dread. This woman might have been deranged, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t leave clues about the Fournier family in her house. I needed to find another viable suspect in Frank’s death, and fast—without one, the evidence they have against me, no matter how circumstantial, starts to look pretty convincing.
Even to me, and I know for sure I didn’t swing that shovel.
“Let’s get going.” Daria pops the trunk and pulls out her duffel bag of tricks.
My lips twist in amusement. “You expecting company?”
“There are flashlights in here,” she says, slinging it over her shoulder, “plus you never know. Always be prepared and all of that.”
“Was the ghost hunting manual inspired by the Boy Scouts?”
“Hey, they might live in the stone age as far as civil rights are concerned, but they didn’t get everything wrong. Let’s not toss the baby out with the bathwater.”
A dozen pithy responses come to mind, but I have no real argument against preparation, so I let it go. Daria is unlike pretty much everyone I’ve ever known, which is one of the reasons I like her.
She hands me one flashlight, keeping out another for herself, and we silently make our way up the rickety steps and onto the front porch. The door opens as easily tonight as it did yesterday, but it only takes a couple of steps into the stale air for me to realize it’s the only thing that’s the same.
The place has been trashed.
It reminds me of coming home to the mess of my grandparents’ living and dining room after Brick got me released on bail. Could this be the handiwork of the s
ame thief who took the documents from that bag Frank gave me? And if so…what does it mean?
It means Gillian probably wasn’t the person who killed Frank. Disappointment crashes through me at the realization that I’m still so far from figuring out what happened to my father.
“Some housekeeper, huh?”
“Someone else has been here,” I explain, my tongue thick. “It was dirty yesterday but not messy.”
Lord, was that only yesterday? Factually, I know it’s true, and yet my brain tries to insist it must have happened more like a week ago. A month.
Cold dread grips the back of my neck as I’m filled with the near certainty that someone must have been watching Travis and me when we were here. Must have either followed us or been hanging out around the barn or the edges of the woods, just waiting for…what? Visitors? Family members?
Where’s the woman who had lived here? Is she still alive? Does she have answers, or could she still be the one behind my father’s death? The possible attempt on mine?
Frustration balls my hands into sweaty fists. No matter what I do, it feels like some unknown entity is always one step ahead.
“Huh. Well, a ghost didn’t do this.” Daria sighs, shining her flashlight beam around the mess. It’s actually worse than our house; the cushions on the couches are ripped open, stuffing has been flung around like fake snow, and the intruder even pulled the drywall apart so that they could search this place all the way to the studs.
I can’t help but wonder what they found. If it was what they were looking for, or whether they were even looking for anything specific at all.
“We’re here, so we might as well look around,” I manage, the words barely making their way through my tight throat. “And how do you know it wasn’t a ghost? Can’t a poltergeist do some crazy crap like this?”
“You watch too many movies.” She shrugs. “I never heard of a poltergeist terrorizing an empty house. They kind of do it for the glee of the reaction.” Daria kicks aside trash and pieces of the splintered coffee table as she pokes around the room. “Besides, there’s no reason to think this place is haunted. I don’t feel a thing. Do you?”
I shake my head. I didn’t sense anything yesterday, either.
Maybe, like with my river bath, I just want to believe some unknown entity could be responsible. Then I won’t have to consider the alternatives.
Daria keeps poking around even though I haven’t told her what we’re looking for. Somehow, I’m not too worried that she’ll miss something. She’s perceptive.
Leaving her alone, I wander into the kitchen, doing my best to recall what it looked like yesterday. What I might have missed.
The old phone still hangs on the wall, and the little rack with the water bill in it remains on top of the counter, as though whoever came through here knew there was nothing in there to interest him. Or her. Despite Daria’s warning, I do look in the fridge, but it’s mostly empty—the only items on the shelves are a box of baking soda, a bag of moldering oranges, and a few cans of cheap beer.
There’s nothing much to check out down here, so I climb the stairs again. The spare rooms earn only a cursory glance from me, and it would seem they received the same sort of tossing from whoever was here earlier—the empty wardrobes stand open and the bare closets are exposed, but there’s nothing more to see.
In the master, I tiptoe in on the creaking wooden floors to examine the old desk the way I didn’t have time to yesterday. It’s still bare, but the filing cabinet, full yesterday, has been emptied. I kick myself for not taking the time to at least riffle through it.
“Dammit,” I growl to no one in particular, just expressing my general frustration with the universe.
A search of the drawers and the trash can reveals nothing, but a mound of ash still glows in the fireplace beneath the grate that once held fresh logs. I poke around, my fingers overheating quickly against the reddish coals, but manage to extract a few partial pages that could possibly be read after they cool. I drop them on the bed and make a mental note to come back for them before I leave. For now, the attic I ignored the other day is calling my name.
Don’t ask me why I’m so sure there is one. The only explanation I could offer is the vague impulse that farmhouses like this always have unfinished space up there—and that it’s usually haunted by an evil ghost of some kind.
Maybe I do watch too many movies, I think, laughing to myself as I find the back set of stairs. The air gets noticeably chillier the higher I climb.
The space at the top of the staircase looks undisturbed by the intruder and isn’t a disappointment, exactly, but after spending half an hour going through trunks and boxes, moving aside mirrors and unused furniture, I’m not sure there’s anything useful here. Interesting, sure—old clothes and newspapers along with the typical contents of a basement or attic. Rarely used dishcloths and linens, books with covers so faded the titles have long ago worn away.
I stack the books, deciding to go through them later, and stuff the newspapers into a cloth bag that was holding a crockpot and blender that look so old they might have been prototypes. There’s no telling whether the papers will be helpful, but they should be fun to read through. And once I’m in prison, I’m sure good reading material will be like gold.
A shadow moves in the corner of the room, almost as black as the ones that were already there. My heart pounds and I swallow, waiting for someone to kill me.
At first, my body tries to be relieved at the sight of Lavinia’s ghost. Then I remember that the last time I saw her she tried to kill me—I think—and back away toward the stairs.
Before I reach them, I think better of my plan. The steps are long, steep, and uncarpeted. If she shoves me again, I might not live to tell the tale.
The look on her pale face is angry, as though I’m the one who’s done something wrong. Pinpoints of light glow in her pitch-dark eyes as she advances, pinning me against the wall. The finger she stabs at my chest is cold and accusing, but there’s no way to escape it. I gasp, my lungs constricting with the chill of her brief touch.
Right then, I decide she can’t have pushed me off the pier. I could never miss the distinctive, awful, bone-breaking feeling of a ghostly hand.
It could only have been a living person.
“Hey, lady. Back off my friend.” Daria’s appearance in the doorway, her flashlight beam focused on Lavinia Fisher’s spirit, distracts the unsettling presence from me.
Thank God.
“What do you want?” Daria presses.
Lavinia drifts silently over the raw wooden floors toward Daria, who doesn’t give one inch, and stops a foot or so away. Then her mouth starts moving. The words are as inaudible to me as the ones in the vision Lavinia shared with me. But Daria, whose abilities are indeed different from mine, is listening.
I hate the fact that I can’t hear them most of the time.
“Hmm. Well, Graciela says you’re a liar, and violent besides, so I’m not too sure why you think we should help you.” Daria’s tone is lazy and disinterested, and even without being able to hear my ghost, it’s easy enough to see that she’s agitated.
“Again, you’re a liar, so…how about you just move along to where we all know you’re supposed to be and leave Graciela here alone? I know y’all just met, but she’s kind of a mess. She doesn’t need this.”
“I really don’t think a hundred-year-old ghost is concerned with my problems,” I hiss across the room. Then immediately regret it when Lavinia shifts her gaze to me.
“Let’s go,” Daria snaps, ignoring the ghost.
I want to go. I want to leave with my books and burned paper fragments and never come back, but I’m more than a little scared of Lavinia’s ghost, which is somehow even creepier in her bare feet and simple dress.
“Ask her what she wants first.”
Daria raises her eyebrows at me, annoyance flashing in her gaze. “Do you seriously think I didn’t try that? Help, she says. Followed by something snotty abou
t you Fourniers having a reputation for helping everyone, so why not her?”
“Help her how?” I ask, frustration creeping up to take over my fear. “I don’t have time to play guessing games.”
“She won’t say. I think she likes the game.” She presses her lips together, casting another glance at the ghost, who doesn’t look pleased that we’re ignoring her. “Or, like you said, the request for help is some kind of smokescreen. Distraction.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know, but we should leave.”
“What about, you know, her?”
Daria, who just called me her friend for the first time ever, heaves a sigh that lets me know she probably already regrets it. “What about her, Graciela? She’s a ghost, remember?”
“And she’s already pushed me once today, remember?” I say it even though now I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s not true, just for the reaction.
Sarcasm bleeds into my tone and Lavinia’s head swivels between us, keeping track of our conversation.
The expression on the ghost’s face isn’t amused, though—she’s clearly getting more agitated the longer we stand around chatting.
Daria frowns. “She says she didn’t push you.”
“Well, if the dead murderer says so, then it must be true.” The sarcasm is flowing freely now, no way to stop it.
“Look, if it makes you feel better, you can lug your bag downstairs and I’ll keep an eye on creepy hell-lady over here until you’re safe at the bottom, okay?”
“What about you?”
“I’m good.”
“Whatever,” I grumble, hugging the wall to stay as far away from the ghost as possible. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and I swear she actually rolls her eyes at me.
I barely manage to restrain myself from giving her the finger. Only because I figure it won’t help Daria and me get out of here unscathed.
Which we do, a couple of minutes later. The backseat of the car is laden with the things I took, and it doesn’t cross my mind until we’re halfway back to Heron Creek that I basically stole them. The woman could come back and wonder what happened to all the crap in the attic, though it probably wouldn’t be her first concern considering the state of the rest of the place.