by Rysa Walker
Aaron doesn’t argue, just pulls a pillow under his head and closes his eyes.
“Aaron, if I decide to leave, I’ll drop down from the porch outside my room into the bushes below. Or I’ll sneak out the back. If they contact me, and they tell me to come alone, I will be going alone. If the terms are me for Deo, that’s what they’ll get.”
His eyes are still closed, but he says, “Why do you believe they’ll let him go if you give yourself up?”
“Because Deo doesn’t have anything they want. Dacia said her bosses are interested in what I can do.”
“They’ve got a woman who can read minds. Cregg can apparently make people do whatever he wants. Why do they need someone who picks up ghosts?”
It’s a good question. “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, though. I’m the reason Deo is in this mess, but even if I wasn’t, I’d still be following their instructions to the letter.”
He doesn’t budge from the couch. I stand there for a minute, debating whether to just let him suffer.
“Okay. I can’t promise that I’m not going alone. But I will promise not to sneak out of the cottage without telling you. So would you please go upstairs and get some decent sleep?”
He agrees to the compromise, but he takes the room facing mine and leaves his door open. Trust but verify, I guess.
I close my door and splash my face with cold water. Then I turn on the TV, keeping the volume low. But there’s nothing that seems likely to keep me awake, so I flick it off and look through the old books stacked in the closet, probably left behind by vacationers over the years. Mostly spy thrillers (no), murder mysteries (no), and horror (hell no). There are a few romances, and even though it’s not my favorite genre, that seems like the best option for keeping me awake tonight. I pick the only hardback in the bunch, which looks ancient. Something called The Middle Window, from the 1930s.
It’s clear as I thumb through the first couple of pages that the book is sappy and sentimental, but it’s set in London. That’s different enough that it shouldn’t trigger any thoughts about my current circumstances.
I crank up the volume on my phone to max, in case I doze off, and settle in.
It’s dark and cold. A damp cold, almost like I’m in the snow. The person next to me on the tiny bed is shivering, her entire body shaking. “Are you sick?”
She doesn’t respond.
I reach onto the floor and pull the thin blanket around us. The wound on my left hand throbs as I try to tuck the blanket in. It’s pointless anyway—she’s thrashing too much. Then she screams, “El vine acum! Ajută-ne! Ajută-ne!”
Daciana shrinks back against the wall, pulling the blanket with her. The words are in English now. “He is here.”
I glance up at the ceiling, but there’s no light coming through the floorboards. “No! It’s okay. You’re dreaming.”
“No. No dreaming.”
And she’s right. I hear a thud, and then pinpoints of light shine through the slats. I hear his boots as he crosses the floor. When he throws the cellar door open, the light that floods in is so bright that I have to turn away.
I expect Daciana to scream again when he comes closer, but instead, she grabs his arm. And then she begins to laugh, shrill and hysterical.
“It’s the black girl’s turn to go first.” It’s her voice, but it sounds more like him. “Maybe the grill lighter this time. That would be interesting.”
Suddenly she grows sober, frightened, and backs away, cowering behind me. “What did you say?” He shines the lantern toward the bed and it’s bright, wicked bright. It burns my eyes, and I duck my head into my arms.
His hand is in my hair, yanking me to my feet, then he’s shaking me and saying—
“Anna! Anna, wake up!” Someone’s hand pushes my hair aside and I tense up, holding back a scream.
I’m scared to open my eyes. “The light . . .”
A click, and he says, “There, it’s off.”
It takes me a moment to place his voice. “Aaron?”
“Yes. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re okay now.”
I slowly open my eyes, and the faint light coming in from the street doesn’t burn like the light in my dream. The room isn’t cold. It’s Kelsey’s beach house. I glance down at my hands and see that my fingers—not nine, but all ten—are knotted tightly in Aaron’s T-shirt.
He wraps his hands over mine. “Breathe, Anna. You’re safe. It was a dream. Just a dream.”
There’s a book in his lap. The one I was reading earlier. The one that apparently wasn’t interesting enough to keep me awake.
A light flicks on in the hallway and I bury my face in his shoulder.
“Turn it off!” he says.
When I open my eyes again, Taylor’s frame is silhouetted in the doorway. “What happened?”
“She had a nightmare. Go back to sleep, okay?”
Taylor doesn’t move. “That sounded like . . . like Molly screaming.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think it kind of was.”
“Does she need some water or anything?”
I nod into Aaron’s chest and he says, “Sure. Thanks, Tay. Just . . . don’t turn on the light in the hallway, okay?”
“Sorry,” I say, once my breathing returns to normal. “I’m sorry I woke you.” I realize that my hands are still wrapped in his T-shirt. I relax them and scoot backward a bit so that my shoulders are against the headboard, but Aaron doesn’t let go of my hands.
“You’ve got a pretty powerful set of lungs there. Waking Taylor after a reading is quite an accomplishment. Mom had to throw ice water in her face one morning.”
Taylor hands me one of the bottles of water from the fridge and I take a few sips. She sits on the edge of the bed, tugging her threadbare nightshirt—Team Volturi—over bare knees. “Molly’s gone, isn’t she? That’s why you’re having those dreams.”
“She left before we reached the house in Havre de Grace.” I pause for a moment, trying to calm my breathing. “She was nearly gone anyway, and . . . she didn’t want to relive everything. I don’t blame her.”
“So, is that the end of it?” she asks. “I mean, you just dream about it the one time and then . . .”
“Maybe.” But it sounds like no, even to my own ears. I know better. And if they are in the same house with me the next time I happen to fall asleep, they’ll know better, too.
She glances at Aaron’s hand, still on mine. Then she leans over and gives him a hug. “Night, bro. I think you got this and I’m wiped out. Call me if you need me.”
He pulls his hand back, looking self-conscious. “That’s . . . ,” he begins, but then shakes his head and waves her on. “Get some sleep, then.”
“G’night, Anna.”
When she leaves, Aaron picks up the book. “What’s it about?”
I give a weak chuckle. “A ghost, as it turns out. Thought I’d made a safe pick, but . . .”
“The lamp was on when I came in. You were reading to stay awake, weren’t you?” He looks at the bottle of pills on the nightstand. “Are those your pills? Can you take another one or—” A look of comprehension comes into his eyes. “Oh. You didn’t take them. You’re worried you won’t hear the phone.”
“Won’t hear it. Won’t be coherent enough to respond to it. Or I’ll be so groggy I make a stupid mistake.”
“Things are going to be as bad, if not worse, if you don’t get some sleep.”
“But if they call—”
“I’ll wake you. It can’t be any harder than waking Taylor.” He picks up the bottle and removes the cap. “Two?”
I nearly tell him to just give me one, but I nod.
Once I swallow the pills, he takes my phone from the nightstand and sticks it in his back pocket. “Should I go?”
“Probably. The dream was so vivid. I’m not even sure that two pills will ward it off.”
“That’s not a reason for me to go. It sounds more like a reason I should stay. Unless you feel safer . . .”
I don’t even have to think about it. I feel safer with him here. I want him here. And I’m too tired and too frightened to worry about how much of that is me and how much is coming from Molly.
“Stay.”
He squeezes my hand and goes over to the rocker in the corner of the room. “If you decide you want the light on, it won’t bother me.”
I watch him for a moment as he tries to get comfortable in the small chair. I don’t want him over there. I want him here.
“Everything I said about the couch downstairs goes double for that rocker.” I slide against the wall. “I can’t promise I won’t bite or kick if the dream comes back. But if you’re willing to take a risk, there’s room here for two.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’m lying in a forest. Tiny dots of greenish-yellow light dance on my skin. The scent of pine surrounds me like a warm blanket. It’s safe here. A bird caws in the distance and my mind follows it, but I tug it back. I want to stay where it’s warm. Safe. Don’t want to wake . . . up . . .
Aaron’s arm is under me. His skin is warm against my neck, and one jean-clad leg is flung over mine. My fingers are again tangled in his T-shirt. I’m not sure when that happened.
I close my eyes and try to recapture the feeling I had when I first woke up. Safe. Warm. But it dances away like the light coming through the trees.
The other dream came twice more. Each time I woke up well before Molly died. That’s both good and bad. On the bad side, it means the dreams will stick around longer. I’ll have to process the entire thing before they end. On the good side, however, this is one exit scene that I clearly need to take in small doses.
It was easier to pull myself out of the memory and back into this world with Aaron next to me. I was pretty sure that would be the case. Arlene Bennett, the soccer mom who overdosed, exited during one of the times that Deo and I were on the streets together. Deo would shake me and remind me to breathe, that I wasn’t choking on anything. And he’d hold my hand until I could finally relax enough to believe that I wasn’t going to die in my sleep if I nodded off again.
Waking up thinking you’re drowning in your own vomit is miserable, but I’d take it a thousand times over the Molly dreams.
There’s a long scratch on Aaron’s neck. I don’t remember doing that, but it’s a close match for the scratches on my left arm. My nails are bitten almost to the quick. I’m very glad for that bad habit right now, otherwise the damage could’ve been much worse.
I don’t see a clock in the room, and my phone is still in Aaron’s pocket, but it’s well past sunrise. And it looks like the sun is actually making an appearance today, unlike yesterday, when it never managed to break through the clouds.
Part of me wants to snuggle closer to Aaron, even though I doubt I can actually fall back asleep. It would be so nice to lie here for a bit longer and try to avoid worrying about Deo and this entire colossal mess. But the rational side of my brain that didn’t fully kick into gear last night is working just fine now, and it’s asking whether this desire to be close to Aaron is really coming from me. Or is it a remnant of Molly’s feelings for him?
She’s gone, so in one sense, it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like she’d come back and haunt me for taking her guy. In fact, I know I’d have her blessing.
But there’s way too much going on right now to trust my emotions. More importantly, I don’t want to mislead Aaron. And I don’t want to misinterpret him. He was right last night when he told Taylor that it kind of was Molly screaming. Even if you can’t really separate the two of us any longer, did he stay to comfort me or to comfort Molly?
I reluctantly pull my leg out from under Aaron’s. He stirs long enough to roll over and sink his face into my pillow. My phone is wedged beneath him, and as much as I want it, I can’t bring myself to wake him up to get it. I settle for leaving the door open. If it rings, I’ll hear it.
I’m surprised to see that it’s nearly eleven a.m. I grab a slice of cold pizza—one of only four that remain—and am just finishing my breakfast of champions when Taylor comes downstairs. She’s still in the Team Volturi tee, over the black jeans she was wearing last night.
She grabs one of the other slices and leans against the counter. Her eyes flick to the scratches on my arm. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Some. It’s always rough when my hitchers move on, but this one . . .” I shake my head, not really wanting to discuss the dreams. “It will pass eventually.”
We’re both silent for a moment, then she says, “Don’t hurt him.”
And I’m wishing that I’d closed the bedroom door. “It’s not like that.”
She takes another bite of the pizza and shrugs. “Maybe not for you. But I know my brother.”
That could mean half a dozen things, and I’m tempted to ask her to clarify. Instead, I say, “You heard him last night. He was comforting Molly as much as anything else. Probably because he blames himself for not being around to warn her. And given everything that’s going on right now, I really don’t think—”
“I think you’re a little naive when it comes to guys.” She rips a paper towel off the roll and wipes the grease from her fingers. “That is, if you really can’t tell he’s attracted to you. Aaron’s not exactly experienced in that regard either, so you’re probably perfect for each other. I’m not saying hands off, or anything like that—although I probably would have to Molly. That would never have worked out. All I’m saying is don’t hurt him.”
I can tell it’s not worth arguing with her, so I focus on making coffee. The convenience store choices were limited, but Folgers is better than the syrupy stuff Aaron found in the pantry. Taylor gives the pot a dismissive sniff and grabs a soda from the fridge.
“I’m going back upstairs to finish the reading on Deo. I’ve got an outline, but it’s going to take one more session. Maybe two. I wish I had more time, because I’m pretty sure they’re going to call you either today or tonight with instructions.”
“Where are you getting that from? Aaron said you could only do the remote viewing stuff.”
“Right . . . but this isn’t based on my sixth sense.” She picks up Aaron’s tablet and opens a browser. “It’s just common sense, if we assume those texts last night were coming from Graham Cregg.”
She waits a minute, then spins the tablet toward me. Across the top of the site is a picture of an older man in a dark suit shaking hands with a crowd of people. The banner behind him says, Cregg For Our Future.
“But . . . that’s Ron Cregg,” I say, still not following her logic.
“I know. He’s running as an independent, so he’s doing a ton of rallies, fund-raisers, and town hall meetings. Mostly on the weekends. And since Papa Bear can’t hit every event on his own, he’s had the entire family traveling, including his son. See . . . this one is from a few Saturdays back.”
Sure enough, two of the images are of a speech by Graham Cregg at an event in Colorado. He looks thinner than he did in the photo we saw at Sam’s office, but it could be the angle. A perky-looking woman with pale-blonde hair stands next to him at the podium, which is decked out in red, white, and blue.
“He’s married?”
“That’s not his wife. That’s his stepmom. But yes, he’s married. Two kids. An uber-rich senator’s son, reasonably decent looking for his age? I’d be more surprised if he wasn’t married. And the poor woman might not even know she’s married to a psychopath. Lots of husbands have hobbies.”
I laugh. Taylor’s sense of humor is kind of dark, but I like it.
“There were a bunch of events listed on the schedule this weekend,” she adds, “including a few in DC, Virginia, and Pennsylvania. Friday and Saturday night is prime time. They probably have events going late into the night. But they’ll wrap things up earlier today, since it’s Sunday and some of those people have jobs to be at tomorrow morning.”
I’m about to click away when another picture catches my attention—a dark-haired woman shaking ha
nds with an elderly man. Lurking in the background is a man who looks a lot like the bodyguard from the police station. I can’t be certain, given the angle, but . . .
“That looks like Dacia Badea.”
Taylor looks at the picture for a moment. “I’d imagine someone who can read minds is pretty handy on the campaign trail. Especially teamed up with a guy like Cregg who can make people whip out their checkbooks and contribute.”
From Molly’s memories, I get the sense that Cregg’s gift isn’t quite that flexible. I think he may have to focus really hard to get people to do his bidding, and it’s not exactly stealth mode.
“But they’d know, wouldn’t they? I mean maybe not in Dacia’s case, since she’s only snagging their thoughts. But Molly knew Cregg was inside her mind.”
She shrugs. “Convincing someone to snip off a pinky is hard. But making some rich dude add an extra zero to a check he was already writing? Probably not so much. And Daniel said the card she flashed was from the senator’s office, so I think it’s safe to say they’re putting her to good use.”
“Isn’t that . . .” I catch myself on the verge of saying illegal, but we’re talking about someone who’s been complicit in more than one murder. “Never mind. But you know, it actually does make sense, thinking back. Dacia was dressed up when she arrived at the police station. It was a suit, but more like something you’d wear to an event. And she made it clear that she had other places to be.”
“They probably planned on waiting to deal with you until Monday . . . but then you and Deo took off and forced their hand. They’re just pushing your buttons with these quotes.”
“Maybe.”
Most of the other photos on the site are of the candidate himself. One is a close-up of Ronald Cregg, a slightly overweight man in his sixties. He’s down on one knee, smiling at two small children holding up one of his campaign signs.
“Do you think the senator knows his son is a killer?”
Taylor cocks her head to the side. “Meh. No way to tell. And from a practical standpoint, does it matter? He’d have to cover it up anyway. Ever heard of a president with a mass murderer for a son?”