After setting the wine glass down on the edge of the garden tub, she tested the bath water, then settled herself inside. The steam clung to her face while the hot water relaxed her muscles. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d soaked in the bathtub, and as she lay in the water, she wondered why she didn’t treat herself to this small luxury more often. Life was busy and the idea of lounging in a bath for twenty or so minutes had always seemed like a waste of time. As it was, she should be on her computer scheduling her employees’ hours, or working on the new menu she was planning for the spring. She should also be making a list of what she’d discuss with the private investigator and thinking about how she would approach him.
According to Ian, George Landry was a former Chicago detective, who, after thirty years of service, had retired nearly a decade ago to become a private investigator. Ian had said that George had worked both Vice and Homicide when he’d been with the Chicago PD, then later had taken an interest in cold case files. Considering the man’s work history, she hoped he would be open-minded once she explained that she was psychic. Since Sandra’s phone records of calls to George had dated back to last year, he could be the link she needed to help her figure out who had wanted Sandra dead.
Right now, she had two suspects—Lea and her husband, Brandon. But what about the third party the attorney had forced them to wait on before the will could be read? And how could she accuse Lea or her husband based on what she saw while holding the woman’s pen? What had she seen anyway? The strange, out-of-focus auras had left her with more questions than answers. The conversation between them had been confusing and in no way an indication of murder or a plan to kill Sandra. Sandra’s name hadn’t even been mentioned, neither had the secret of the daughter Sandra had given up for adoption. The only clear thing she’d gained from the vision had been an overwhelming sense of evil.
Her heart rate quickened. Her mind filled with the image of the all-white room. The unease that had followed, the sense of claustrophobia, of being trapped. The way the black aura had risen to the ceiling and shifted from a smoky figure into a glutinous form. How it had coagulated at the center of the ceiling, then spread, bubbling and oozing over itself, until it had stretched to each corner of the room like a fast-growing cancer. Goose bumps crawled along her skin, despite the heat of the water.
The image she could deal with, the malice and hatred that had surrounded her in the white room was something she wished she could erase from her memory. She didn’t want to believe that Lea could be so hateful or ruthless enough to have killed her own mother over money. Twice today she’d witnessed Lea with her daughter, Zoe. The woman had shown obvious love and affection for the child, and hadn’t acted like the cruel murderer who had terrorized Sandra, taunting her with a gun and with the threat of killing Sandra’s daughter and granddaughter. Maybe she was wrong about Lea. Maybe she should consider Sandra’s ex-husband. They’d been married for thirty years. Maybe he’d found out about the daughter Sandra had given up for adoption, and had worried about his two daughters losing out on their inheritance to the long lost half-sister.
She slid further into the water until it lapped at her chin. With the tips of her toes, she shut off the faucet and closed her eyes. Maybe the third party the attorney had been waiting on was the secret daughter, Tracy. She might have skipped the meeting with the attorney because she had been too intimidated to go. When Celeste had learned that Hugh Risinski, the man who had raised her from birth, wasn’t her real father and that Ian was, she’d been devastated and confused, and hadn’t known how to react or process the situation. Even two years later, she still couldn’t bring herself to call Ian, Dad. While she loved him and cared about him, a large part of her still resented his reasons for allowing another man to raise and adopt her as one of his own. Tracy might feel the same. After all, the woman had learned about her mother, only to discover she also had two sisters. Two sisters who might resent her existence.
Celeste might have only known Kelly for a short time, but she couldn’t see Kelly being involved in her mother’s death. When Kelly wasn’t working or taking care of Avery, she was helping her mom. Based on the way she’d looked and acted this morning, on how grateful she’d been to have Avery’s blanket returned, Kelly was taking Sandra’s death as expected. Lea, on the other hand, hadn’t worn her grief on her sleeve. Again, that didn’t make her a murderer. Not everyone allowed their emotions to show, especially in front of strangers.
Celeste’s temples throbbed with the onslaught of a serious headache. Damn, so much for a relaxing soak in the tub. She couldn’t shut down her mind long enough to let the stress of the day go for even a few minutes.
Keeping her eyes closed, she tried to find a happy place. She thought about her daughter, her dimpled smile and bluer-than-blue eyes. She smiled when she remembered how fascinated Olivia had been this evening when Celeste was rearranging the laundry room and had pulled out the box of John’s baseball hat collection. As she remembered how adorable Olivia had looked trying on the hats, music drifted into the bathroom. Her eyes still closed, Celeste grew frustrated. The melody from a piano, likely the background music from whatever John was watching on TV, was beautiful but if he didn’t turn down the volume, he would wake up Olivia. Although tempted to climb out of the tub and tell him, she wasn’t ready to leave the hot soothing water. Her mind might not be able to relax, but her body certainly had and her limbs had grown heavy.
The melody continued to play. While she didn’t recognize the piece, she found the song both haunting and comforting. Calming. Peaceful. She imagined the piano keys. Saw long lean fingers dancing over them. Pictured the chords rising from the ivories and floating in the air.
A doorbell rang. The music stopped. Disappointed, and anxious to go back to that safe place, she let the tune continue to play in her mind. The doorbell rang again. Now irritated by whatever John was watching, Celeste opened her eyes and gasped.
She sat on a piano bench, her fingers hovering over the keys. But they weren’t her fingers, they were long and lean like the ones she’d envisioned, and bare of her wedding ring. She glanced to the sheet music, where someone had penciled in notes and symbols, and recognized the melody as the one she’d been listening to. Only…she didn’t know how to read music. How could she know the difference between C minor and F major? How could she—
There was a knock at the door. As if someone had tied strings to her limbs and was controlling her movements, she rose from the bench. Panic gripped her by the throat as she was moved across the room. Her peripheral vision became an out-of-focused blur, creating a tunnel effect and making her nauseous. Although she heard her footsteps, she couldn’t feel them. Oh, God, she couldn’t feel a damned thing. Not the warm water, not the hard tub. Instead, she floated through the cozy room filled with antique furniture, lamps and knickknacks. Left behind the beautiful sage and olive-green Victorian style area rug covering the hardwood floors, and entered a small foyer. As she neared the wooden door, golden light streamed through the decorative leaded glass windows on either side of the doorframe. Her body stopped and the tunnel vision grew alarmingly worse as she was quickly turned to the left. As it dissipated and the foyer came into focus, she realized she stood in front of a full-length mirror staring at a reflection that didn’t belong to her.
Terror tightened her chest.
Oh, my God. This wasn’t her. Who was this woman?
Her hands sifted through long dark-brown hair, then touched high cheekbones. She was moved closer to the mirror, and gazing into soft brown eyes. Pretty, intelligent eyes that held a haunting familiarity.
Sandra’s eyes.
No. Sandra’s daughter’s eyes.
She was in the secret daughter’s body. Which meant…oh, God…Tracy Saunders was dead. She had to be. The dead reached out to her, not the living.
If she was right, this moment, this vision might be her only chance to help give both this woman and Sandra justice. Knowing it might be her chance to find out
the truth, she cleared her mind and sought to connect with the woman’s thoughts. Although the tunnel vision continued to make her stomach sick, the pounding in her head slowly abated. The throbbing in her temples, the sensation of having her ears stuffed with cotton lessened and was replaced by quiet whispers. She opened her mind and heart to the woman who had invited Celeste into her body. The whispers grew louder, stronger, more distinct until—
Maybe I should have worn something else.
The woman’s inner thoughts were crystal clear as Celeste looked through Tracy’s eyes and stared at the mirror.
Something less subtle and sexier. Get a grip. Don’t mistake friendly for flirty. Tracy eyed her reflection one last time, adjusted the charcoal-gray cowl neck sweater, before smoothing her hands over the black leggings she knew accentuated her rear. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned away from her reflection, then opened the door.
“Hi,” Tracy said, smiling. Oh, wow. Talk about gorgeous. Tracy stared at her new student hoping to God she was right and she hadn’t mistaken friendly for flirty. It had been too long since she’d been in a relationship, and she’d missed dating, kissing…making love. “Are you ready for your first piano lesson?”
The pounding in Celeste’s head returned, along with fear. The figure in the doorway was nothing but a shadowy blur, similar to what she’d witnessed during her vision at Maxine’s, and she didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she see what Tracy could? When she’d been with Sandra, she’d been able to make out what she had assumed was the woman’s mother. Everything in that vision had been pure and the surroundings vibrant. Then again, she hadn’t been able to see who had been in the room with Sandra when she’d been murdered.
“I’m ready,” the figure said, its voice echoing over itself to the point Celeste couldn’t tell whether a man or woman spoke. “Learning to play the piano is on my bucket list.”
“Well, I’ll have you playing Mary Had a Little Lamb by the time we’re finished today,” Tracy said, leading her student toward the piano.
The figure chuckled, and Celeste wished Tracy would turn around and look at it again. There had been something malevolent in the sound that had her queasy stomach twisting with unease.
“I don’t plan to get to the level where I’m playing Beethoven, but that’s a start.” The black figure, moved alongside Tracy. “I love your home. What year was it built?”
“Thank you. It was built in 1910. I’ve been slowly renovating it over the years, trying to bring it back to what it once was.” Tracy looked around her living room and Celeste could feel the woman’s pride. For a split second, she saw the room as it had been when Tracy had first bought the house—neglected, ugly floral wallpaper and paint peeling, damaged floors, dated light fixtures. “It’s a work in progress,” Tracy continued, snapping the image away from Celeste. “Come, sit on the bench.”
The figure disintegrated, then redeveloped and hovered near the bench. Alarmed and scared for Tracy, Celeste tried desperately to keep her mind clear. But she couldn’t shake the memory of the frightening, black coagulating mass she’d seen earlier today at Maxine’s, the sheer wickedness it had exuded, or how similar it was to this figure.
Tracy sat on the bench and gave the lacquered wood a pat. “I promise the keys won’t bite. Let’s get started with the basics.”
Damn it. Celeste needed Tracy to look at the figure. She wasn’t comfortable having it out of her line of sight. If only she could communicate with the woman. Warn her, let her know that the person she’d invited into her home wasn’t there for piano lessons. A bitter sense of impotence squeezed her chest. In the past, the dead had used her body to tell their stories. What Celeste was experiencing right now was likely the final moments of Tracy’s life. She couldn’t help the woman now, but if Tracy would turn her head and continue to look or even speak to the figure, Celeste might be able to find a way to identify the woman’s killer.
Or maybe she was dreaming. Maybe she was still soaking in her tub and—
“Yes, let’s get to the basics.” The figure’s words continued to echo in a way that added to her nausea, but she swore the voice was female. Which didn’t make sense, since Tracy had been thinking about flirting and had been concerned with what she wore. “You intrigue me. Are you from the area?” the figure asked.
Celeste sensed Tracy’s excitement. The woman looked to the black figure. “I’ve lived here all my life.”
The figure’s black arm evaporated, then redeveloped in a burst of smoke and touched a picture sitting on the small table near the piano. “Is this your family?”
“Yes,” Tracy said, her excitement growing. Her adult students never made small talk. They were usually all business. Maybe she’d been right and hadn’t mistaken flirty for friendly. At least she hoped. It had been a long time since she’d had such an attraction to a person and she would love to have the chance to see if they could take their relationship beyond student-teacher. “Those are my parents and two older brothers.” She looked at the photo, her chest filling with pride. Her mom and dad were wonderful people, and had chosen her. “I’m the baby in the family.”
“You don’t favor any of them. Who did you get your beautiful brown eyes from?”
“My mother.”
“But your mother has blue eyes.”
Tracy hadn’t told a soul that she’d been adopted. She hadn’t even told her parents she knew the truth. Since they were both in their late seventies and their health wasn’t the best, and because they’d kept her adoption secret from her, she hadn’t wanted to upset them. For whatever reason, she felt a strange connection to her student, along with the urge to be honest. “I was adopted.”
The figure’s mass changed. It swelled and rippled, became so incredibly black it sucked the color from the room, turning her surroundings a hazy gray. “Adopted? Not to pry, but do you know your real mother?”
Despite the heavy foreboding weighing on Celeste, Tracy’s spirit grew warm. Sandra’s image filled the woman’s mind, giving Celeste a glimpse of mother and daughter embracing.
“Yes,” Tracy said. “She’s a wonderful woman. She was too young when she gave birth to me and did me a huge favor by giving me up for adoption. My real mom ended up having a successful career, marrying and having two other kids. But if she’d kept me, I don’t know if that would’ve happened. And I couldn’t imagine being raised by anyone but my mom and dad.” She shook her head, which made Celeste dizzy. “I’ll admit, she shocked the hell out of me when she first called. But, I’m so glad I was willing to meet with her. She’s a great lady.” Tracy sighed, the memory of Sandra still lingering in her mind. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you? Do you have a big family?”
The figure oozed forward, the hatred emanating from it suffocating Celeste as it hovered near Tracy. “What’s your real mother’s name?”
Celeste sensed a sudden shift in Tracy. Felt her unease and distrust. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious. I like you. I want to know about you. Maybe I misinterpreted our phone conversation, but I thought you might like me, too.”
Tracy relaxed, and her earlier excitement at the prospect of a possible relationship returned. “Her name is Sandra.”
Black wisps of smoke reached out and touched Tracy’s face. “Sandra,” it repeated, its voice deadened, hollow. “She’s a fucking whore.”
Tracy gasped and drew back. The figure grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair and dragged her from the bench.
Pain radiated from Celeste’s scalp. Terror filled her to the depths of her soul. She didn’t have time to consider why she was suddenly experiencing Tracy’s physical pain, as the figure dragged Tracy’s body off the bench.
Tracy kicked out and her leg connected with the bench, which toppled over and smashed into the piano. The figure let go of Tracy’s hair, then quickly produced a gun. “Get up.”
Tracy shook her head. “Why are you doing this?”
“I’d tell you to ask Sandra,
but she’s as good as dead. Now get up.”
“You killed her?” The deep sadness settling on Tracy made Celeste ache, especially when Tracy’s quick memories of her real mother ran through her mind. The apprehension of meeting Sandra, then later the love and friendship the two women had developed.
“Not yet.” The figure waved the gun. “She should have never looked for you. The slut should have left the past buried. She should have continued to pretend you never existed.” The figure kicked her in the stomach, causing Tracy to double over and Celeste to catch her breath. Then it raised the butt of the gun, and smashed it against Tracy’s head.
Celeste was plunged into darkness. She could no longer hear Tracy’s whispered thoughts, and wished she could wake the woman up and tell her to fight. Trapped in Tracy’s body, afraid that she might not find a way out and back to her own reality, she recalled Maxine’s words.
Remember, what you’re seeing isn’t real. It’s a plane of the past, present or future… Don’t let the vision control you. It’s in your head.
She wanted to know what happened to Tracy, but was worried she wouldn’t be able to escape the woman’s body before it was too late. Celeste also remembered how she’d used thoughts of John to help ground her earlier today. As she summoned his image—the warmth and love she knew she could count on from him—water began to surround her legs again and slowly rose.
Celeste relaxed in the darkness, gave the vision time to disappear and her own reality to return. After a few moments passed and the water lapped against her chin, she slowly opened her eyes. Then panicked when she looked at the naked body that didn’t belong to her, and at the claw foot bathtub that was the total opposite to Celeste’s modern garden tub.
“You never should have been born,” the figure yelled.
Celeste Files: Unlocked Page 8