His eyes stung, and he bit the inside of his mouth, trying to divert the pain. He lifted his eyebrow, taking refuge in the same cynical smile he’d given her on her arrival at Winterwalk. He had to find that safe, sarcastic distance again. Why had he ever let himself forget how much it hurt to love Laura Nolan?
“And, frankly, I don’t relish the thought of becoming the next gargoyle in your memory book.” He opened the door. “One room full of nightmares is enough for any house.”
9
WHEN Laura finally pulled herself together and went up to the tower bedroom to pack, Drew was nowhere to be seen. The bed in the small anteroom was empty, rumpled as he must have left it when he rose to follow her. The sight shamed her—testifying silently to his uncomplaining guardianship, his disrupted sleep, his unceasing, undeserved loyalty. And how had she repaid it? With more begging, crying, clinging—the kind of scene he must have hoped he was through with forever. And then another of those gut-wrenching, frustrating sexual failures that must seem like farces to him. No wonder he was well and truly sick of it all.
But she couldn’t let herself think about that, about how disgusted he had been. If she did, her heart would break, scattering all over the floor like bits of chipped marble. She’d vowed to herself that she would leave quietly, sparing him any further hysteria. She could give him that, at least.
It would be dawn soon. Through the tower window she could see the first blue pearl hint of day as it began to break open the darkness. Was he still in the house, she wondered, asleep behind one of the other twenty-three silent doors? Or had he left Winterwalk completely, to avoid any risk of encountering her again? She listened while she packed, but the house for once was hushed. Even the ghosts seemed to be gone.
She packed everything—the broken music box, the silver dress she had worn to Stephanie’s party, everything. She was determined not to leave any debris behind for Drew to clean up, though her suitcase bulged so badly she feared it wouldn’t latch.
There was one last thing she had to do before she called for a taxi. She hauled her suitcase to the front door and deposited it there, her purse and coat stacked on top, and then, with a deep breath, she turned toward the conservatory. Steeling herself, she walked in boldly, closing her mind to memories, shutting her heart to fear. She had to face this without falling apart. She refused to shed another tear in this house, another tear that Drew would have to dry.
Tomorrow, she thought as she passed the beckoning statue, staring with grim determination into the marble woman’s strange, knowing eyes. Tomorrow she would let herself cry over everything she had lost. But not today. Not here.
It wasn’t as difficult as she feared it might be. The dawn softened everything it touched, and Laura’s heart beat with a fairly natural rhythm. It was a terrible room, an evil room. She didn’t think anything could ever change that. But, strangely, she also knew the room couldn’t really hurt her anymore.
Her lungs relaxed. Though she obviously hadn’t found a miracle cure here at Winterwalk, to her great relief some residual strength seemed to flow through her veins. Drew had given that to her, from his arms into hers. And now she was going to clean up the tools she had stupidly tossed everywhere last night, and then she was going to walk out of this room forever.
Gathering silver-handled implements into her hands, she knelt beside the pond. She could see her face reflected in the glassy blackness, wan and blurred, rippling away, then appearing again, as she jostled the lilies that floated on the surface. Damian’s last project in the conservatory had been to drain the pond, preparing it for a new concrete lining. In her memory she could see the muddy, lumpy shape of the empty hole in the ground when the construction workers were finished removing the old lining. It was as if it had happened yesterday.
Damian had left before the new lining was poured in. That had always seemed sad, somehow. But not surprising. If love for his wife and responsibility for his adopted daughter hadn’t been enough to make him stay, surely the prospect of enjoying his new pond, however lovely, couldn’t have changed his mind.
But enough memories. Laura stood, dumped her armload of tools into the box, and turning to the sculpture, slid her fingers across the sad eyes, the full childish lips, as if to say goodbye.
Suddenly the face shifted under her hand. Her stomach clenched in a spasm of irrational terror before she realized that the pedestal was unsteady and had rocked on its base.
Bending down, she saw she’d hit the statue so hard last night that the pedestal had shifted. She rocked it again, testing its balance, finding it alarmingly precarious. It was a good thing Drew had stopped her. She might have toppled the whole thing, bringing it crashing down on herself.
She tried to tug the base into place, but the marble was too heavy, and it wouldn’t quite fall into the proper alignment. But she couldn’t leave it like this. It wasn’t safe. She scraped at the dirt, trying to deepen the hole so that she could get under the pedestal for better leverage.
And that was when her fingers met metal—cold, unyielding metal that sent a shock through her hands and all the way up to her elbows. Something was buried in the dirt.
Her heart began to thud heavily. What was it? She carefully brushed dirt from the edges of the metal, and slowly bits of color appeared under the layers of gray. Blue. Then green. Then blue again—an ever-changing mosaic of color that looked eerily familiar. Her fingers flew, keeping pace with the new, rapid beat of her heart.
Finally she lifted the long strip of metal clear of the soil. It was a knife. Oh, dear God... Laura opened her mouth, as if to cry out, but no noise emerged. The dirt-encrusted weapon lay in the open palm of her hand, which she held as far out in front of her as she could reach, as if the knife was something obscene she had been forced to touch against her will.
She stared at it, knowing but not believing. It was the same knife—the blue-and-green handled knife that had dominated her terrifying vision. But what was it doing here? Her mind skittered wildly, as if it was looking for somewhere to hide from the thoughts that were invading her brain.
She knew this knife. It was too unusual for her to be mistaken. She had seen it before. It was Damian’s. He had used it whenever he worked with materials other than stone. She had often seen it muddy with curls of wet clay or fuzzy with whiskers of wood shavings. But she suddenly knew that the last time she had seen it, it had been shining with something wet and dark.
Her fingers closed around the sharp blade, as if she could absorb images from the metal itself. It felt strangely hot in her hand, and she shut her eyes, concentrating, willing the picture to come.
And suddenly there it was. In her mind’s eye the steel caught the moonlight with startling clarity, and for one shattering instant she saw that the blade was wet with blood. Red, running blood.
Bile rose in her throat, and dropping the knife to the floor with a clatter, she rose, fighting the nausea that threatened to overtake her. Oh, what had she done? Staggering slightly, she reached a hand out to steady herself against the pedestal, forgetting in her distress how unstable it was. She put all her weight on it, and with a slow, dreadful tilt, it swayed away from her.
As if in slow motion, Laura, the sculpture and the pedestal all fell together. Greenery swam crazily, and blinding pain streaked through her body as she hit the floor. She heard the appalling smash of marble splintering against marble, and she saw her own sad face explode into a million pieces around her. And then, mercifully, everything went black.
* * *
WHEN, sometime later, Drew’s face floated into focus, she thought for a moment it was another one of her visions. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the house, was he? Hadn’t he gone to Springfields? She couldn’t quite remember. But her head seemed to be in the crook of his arm, and she could have sworn she saw him bending over her, white-lipped and grim-featured.
“Laura,” the vision said. “Laura, can you hear me?” And then he slapped her cheek.
Why would he slap he
r? Confused, she reached up, holding her fingers protectively against the stinging, which finally seemed to bring her to at least a partial awareness of what had just happened.
She blinked, clearing her vision, and wondered how long she had been out. She decided it couldn’t have been long. The light still looked weak and dawn-pale. At the side of her head something pounded fiercely, and her elbow and hip were aching in huge waves of throbbing pain. She was awake, all right. And Drew was definitely here, holding her.
“How did you know?” she asked, perplexed, looking at him, trying to sort out why he was there.
His face relaxed subtly. “Know what?” His voice had a soft, gentling quality, as if he was talking to a disoriented child. He stroked her hair from her face, carefully avoiding the knot of pain at her left temple. “How did I know what?”
“That I needed you.” She wondered if she was making sense. Things still seemed a little distant to her, a little hazy. And then she saw the quizzical expression that wrinkled the corners of his eyes, and she almost laughed at herself, except that it would have hurt too much. “Oh. Dumb question, huh?”
He smiled, though a small frown still furrowed his brow. “Well, it has been a fairly regular occurrence lately.”
She nodded. “I know,” she said, her eyes drifting shut again. “I'm sorry. You just can’t seem to get rid of me, can you? But I was going to leave as soon as I cleaned up in here, honestly I was. My suitcase is already by the door.”
He made a small, almost indistinguishable sound, and then he stroked her hair again, as if he was studying the lump of pain behind her temple. His touch was so soothing she was afraid she might go to sleep.
But something was niggling at her mind, something very bad. It was like an oppression settling over her spirits. Something terrible had happened. Something had made her fall in the first place.
It came back to her suddenly, with the terrible jolt of an electric shock, and her eyes flew open painfully.
Blood. Her throat constricted, but looking up she met Drew’s serious eyes. Remembering just in time her vow to avoid any more hysterical scenes, she fought for control. No crying. No pathetic whimpering and helpless clinging. She would have to tell him, of course, but she didn’t have to dump the whole tragic mess in his lap, as she had been doing all week, expecting him to fix it for her.
She struggled to sit up, grateful for the bracing hand he placed at the small of her back. She felt slightly more in control when she was upright.
As soon as she was steady, he let go. “What happened, Laura?” His frowning eyes surveyed the wreckage around them. “Was this an accident?”
She flushed, realizing suddenly that he believed her capable of willfully destroying the sculpture. And, given what she had just remembered, he probably was right. She might well be capable of that—and more.
“The pedestal was off balance,” she said, “and when I leaned on it everything came crashing down. I'm sorry,” she added again, her voice breaking. She knew how much he loved Damian’s work.
“It doesn’t matter.” He didn’t even look at the mess. “I'm just glad you're okay. Do you think you can stand up? We ought to wash that cut.”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I have something to tell you.” With difficulty she met his questioning gaze, praying that she wouldn’t come unraveled. “Something...” She swallowed. “Something terrible.”
His brows contracted, deepening the line between his eyes. “What?”
“I found the knife, Drew.” But where was it? She suddenly remembered dropping it, just before the crash, and she had a piercing fear that he would think she had imagined the whole thing. With a murmur of desperation, she leaned over, rummaging through the debris in spite of the way her exertions made her head thump.
Finally, with a sigh of relief, she found it and held it out to him. “This is it,” she said, her voice tight. She could hardly wait for him to take it from her. “This is the knife I saw here yesterday, in that memory I told you about.”
Slowly, Drew took the knife. He turned it over, peered at it, brushed away a little more of the dirt. Finally he looked up. His face was grim. “This is Damian’s.”
“I know,” she answered, horrified to hear her voice breaking. She cleared her throat and tried again. “But it’s not what you think—not what I thought. It’s—” She wrapped her arms around her chest. “It’s worse than that.”
“No.” He shook his head firmly, and his voice sounded hollow. “Nothing could be worse than that.”
“This is.” She quelled a shudder. “I've remembered more. When I held the knife, it was as if I could see the memory all over again.” She stared at the blue and green handle, wondering what black magic the object possessed, afraid to touch it. If she was right about her suspicions, she didn’t ever want the entire memory to come back to her. Tears burned behind her eyes. “It was awful....”
“What was?” He took her wrist in his free hand. “For God’s sake, tell me, Laura.”
She raised her chin, willing the tears not to fall. “I remember that there was blood on this knife,” she said. “But it wasn’t my blood. It was Damian’s.”
His grip tightened so hard the pain forced wetness into her eyes in spite of her determination not to cry. “Damian’s?”
She nodded, the motion dislodging two tears, which ran in hot, curving paths down her cheeks. But her voice, thank God, sounded steady.
“Damian didn’t abandon us, Drew. I'm sure of that. You see, I think he’s dead.” She closed her eyes, because the room seemed to be swaying. “I think I may have killed him.”
At first a long moment of silence was his only answer. She didn’t dare open her eyes. She didn’t want to see the revulsion that must have settled on his features. She could almost feel him recoiling from her, from her terrible suggestion, just as she recoiled from it herself.
And so she was utterly shocked when she felt him grab her by the shoulders.
“That’s the most ridiculous piece of insanity I've ever heard,” he said roughly. Her eyes flew open and met his, which were glittering like hard bits of stone. “I don’t want to hear any more of your suspicions, Laura. Just tell me what you know. Can you honestly tell me you remember killing someone?”
She looked away, frightened by his vehemence. “No, I don’t remember actually doing it. I only remember seeing the knife, and knowing that Damian was dead.” She winced as he tightened his grip on her shoulders. “But I feel guilt, Drew, such a suffocating sense of guilt that I can’t describe it to you. I must have done it.”
“You didn’t.” His voice was harsh, unyielding, his hands bruising her. “It’s as simple as that. Do you hear me? You just by God didn’t!“
Letting go of her shoulders abruptly, he grabbed her hands and, without warning, he shoved the knife between them and pressed them together so hard the handle bit into her palms. She tried to jerk away, dreading what pictures the terrible thing might send her this time, but he was too strong. He wouldn’t let her go.
“You wanted me to force you to face all this, Laura. Well, now I'm going to do it.” He ground her hands together even more tightly. She let out a soft cry of pain as the handle dug deeper. “You're ready to remember the real truth, Laura, you know you are. All these pieces of memories are just spilling out of you, begging to be set free. Now all you have to do is let the rest of them out, too.”
“I'm afraid,” she said, still trying to tug her hands away. “I'm so afraid, Drew.”
“I know you are,” he said, his voice softening, though his hands never relaxed by even a fraction of an inch. “But I'm not going to let you run away from this, not now. I'm not going to let you leave here believing you killed a man. God, Laura, don’t you know yourself better than that? I do.” The intensity of his gaze was hypnotizing. She couldn’t look away.
“You have to think harder, Laura. Remember more. Remember all of it. You loved Damian. Loved him. Can’t you remember that?”
She
moaned softly. The knife seemed to tingle under her fingers, growing strangely hotter, so hot she feared she’d carry the brand of it on her palms forever.
“Remember.” Drew voice was insistent, low and deep. “Go back to that night. You were only ten years old. You couldn’t have killed Damian even if you’d wanted to. You weren’t strong enough. Go back, Laura, and remember. You were only ten years old, and you loved your father....”
* * *
THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK was chiming eight o'clock, and Laura knew she should get ready for bed. She had school tomorrow. But her mother was out at a meeting, and Damian had just suggested that they try to sneak in a little session on the sculpture, which was almost finished. He wanted to rework the chin a little, he said.
Laura hesitated, her emotions torn. She was eager to pose—she loved the cozy talks she and Damian always had while he worked, and she loved the sweet little sculpture that looked just like her. It made her feel very special.
But she was also afraid to go. Yesterday her mother had told her never to pose for Damian unless someone else was with her. Laura was terrified of disobeying her mother. Just the thought of getting caught was enough to make her knees wobbly.
But, looking up at Damian’s smiling face, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him what her mother had said. It was embarrassing, somehow, because, though she wasn’t quite sure what it meant, she instinctively knew it was insulting.
“Okay,” she said. “That would be fun.”
Damian helped her with her homework as he sculpted, quizzing her on the European countries and their capitals for her social studies test. But sometimes she could tell he wasn’t listening. He’d be staring really hard at her jaw, his eyes never moving from her even while his hands flew over the sculpture. So she’d throw in something goofy, just to catch him up.
“Transylvania,” she said, “Capital, Vampireville.” Damian nodded absently.
Then she challenged him, and they both laughed until tears came to her eyes. It was a great game.
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