by Marion Myles
He was about to continue on up the driveway when the door to the house opened, and the woman herself stepped out. She was surrounded by dogs. A literal fucking pack of them. Who owns four dogs and why, he wondered? He watched while she and the dogs walked toward the back of the house and disappeared from view. Perfect. He’d cruise up closer and poke around before she came back.
Driving so slowly up the driveway he barely raised any dust, he parked by the front door. He noted the lawns were well tended, and all the shutters had a fresh coat of paint. A deep, forest green. He thought the color suited the house. There were even window boxes, for Christ’s sake, with bunches of pink and purple blooms spilling out.
The front sun porch was no longer shabby but sported new looking windows, and the screens were free of tears and gaping holes. It would be a nice spot to sit on a warm summer day, sipping a cool beer with the dogs stretched out at her feet.
Impatiently, he shook off the cozy image and stomped around the side of the house, stopping short when he caught sight of the gardens. They were extensive. Beds of shrubs and flowers had been planted close to the house. What Roman assumed must be vegetables occupied the two large plots near the end of the yard. There was even a greenhouse, he noted, though on closer inspection, it didn’t seem to be in use. Still, it was neat as a pin inside. The floor swept, a tidy stack of clay pots organized in the corner, and the glass panels, catching the light of the low evening sun, shone like mirrors.
“What are you doing?”
Roman spun around, furious at being caught flatfooted. “Looking for you,” he said smoothly.
“Well, I’m not in the greenhouse,” she said, eyes hard on his face. “Though how could you possibly know. It’s not like the walls are made of glass or anything.”
He stepped back out through the door she held open. The dogs rushed him, and when he saw that one of them was a massive Doberman, he froze, keeping his eyes on Mia. “You want to call them off?”
“It’s not nice, is it?” she said. “It’s an awful feeling to be surrounded and ganged up on by hostile creatures. Sort of reminds me of the interrogation room in the police station and a couple of dickhead detectives.”
The Doberman pinned him with eyes as cold and dead as a shark’s. “Call them off. Now,” he said, keeping his tone firm but entirely pleasant.
“Yeah, I could do that,” she mused. “Or me and Mac here could escort you to your car, nice and slow. That way nobody gets hurt.”
He could see she was amused, and he held her gaze for several beats. “Sure. Or we could have a nice friendly chat. I guess it’s your call,” he said, slowly raising his hands into the air like a perp caught by the police.
Her eyes flicked down to the dog’s. “Mac, it’s okay. Friend.” Reaching up, she touched Roman’s chest. “Friend,” she repeated.
Although the dog didn’t actually move away, the quality of focused stillness in the Doberman changed subtly, and Roman knew he was safe to resume normal movement. “Should we take this inside?”
She shook her head. “Nope. We talk out here. What do you want, Detective Mancini?”
“I want to know what happened to my sister.”
“So do I, but like I told you, I don’t know.”
“Look, this is two people talking off the record. You can drop the I-had-a-vision charade and tell me the truth. Did you know Anita somehow? Or Luke? Is that it, you met Luke at college maybe? What is your connection to all this?”
She sighed and dropping her gaze, rested her hand on Mac’s head. The large dog watched her like an overbearing parent. “I never met any of them. The first I knew of Anita’s existence was when that echo came out and grabbed me Sunday night after the fair.”
“What do you mean echo?”
“The vision. That’s what I call the ones I get from physical places. It’s as if the event leaves an echo and sometimes it hits my frequency. I see things from people and objects, too, but they’re all a little different. It’s hard to explain.”
He stared at her. “You really believe your own bullshit, don’t you? Okay, I came here in peace because I hoped you’d show some compassion. If not for me, think of my family. We all miss her. Our lives have never been the same since she disappeared. Finding her might help a little.”
She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. Roman felt a jolt when her warm fingers curled around his elbow. For a split second, her eyes widened in shock, and then she hastily withdrew her hand. “I want to help. I do. Hopefully, more of it will come to me. It sometimes works that way. I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
The detective stepped back, eyes hardening. “Right after we lost Anita, there was a woman like you. She came to my mama and told her a bunch of crap about how Anita was fine, in Florida, on a beach. Said she could see a sign with pink flamingos in the background. On and on that woman went, but she could never actually tell us where my sister was. She just kept insisting she was alive.”
Roman turned away from the gardens and the greenhouse and looked out over the field toward the far tree line. “My mama clung to her like a drowning woman grabs onto a life raft. My dad, too. They couldn’t let go because the woman kept coming up with more crap. I found out later they’d paid her.” His voice hitched, and he cleared his throat. “My parents paid that gypsy scam artist thousands of dollars. The whole time she never knew a single thing about what happened to my sister. When I became a police officer, the first thing I did was run a trace on her. Unfortunately, the evil witch was dead. Cancer. But I found out she’d run dozens of grifts. Her specialty target was families of missing kids.”
“I don’t want money,” Mia said fiercely. “I don’t want anything.”
“That’s fine. Good for you. Just make sure you stay the hell away from my family.” He turned back to her, staring into her furious face. Her eyes were huge and greenish-gold against skin leached of all color. “Because let me assure you…every single move you make, every breath you take…I’ll be right there watching you.”
Chapter Six
And watch her, was exactly what Detective Mancini did. She caught sight of his car early the next morning lurking predator-like at the bottom of her driveway. Later that day, determined to keep going about life as normally as possible, she and the dogs drove into town to pick up food from Gabe’s Diner. The detective appeared in the restaurant, standing by the counter and staring at her with a look of disapproval on his face. He exited the building alongside her before dropping several paces behind and trailing her to the car.
There he was again the next afternoon, loitering outside the grocery store. He didn’t say a word, simply crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a hip against her SUV while she loaded the bags in the back. Then he gave her a mock, two-fingered salute and casually sauntered away. Later that night, he was back at the bottom of her driveway. He dug in and stayed a full two hours making her feel like a prisoner in her own home.
Mia had always thought of herself as even-tempered, but this constant and blatant surveillance was getting on her last nerve. And to make matters worse, small towns being what they were, word had spread about her story to the police. Now, where people had previously been blasé about her presence in town, they watched, and they whispered.
She was sick of it. The whole situation was too much for one person to bear. All she wanted was: to find a community, fit in, and pass as normal so she could live a quiet, contented life.
Well, she could always pack up and move on again. Sell her beloved log house, take the dogs, and locate some other perfect place. And from now on, no matter what came to her in a vision, she was going to ignore it, her conscience be damned.
The monitor on her counter pinged and the dogs came to attention. Someone was coming up the driveway. Since there were no scheduled pickups or deliveries, she could only imagine it was Detective Mancini again, determined to take another pound of flesh.
Enough was enough. Throwing back her shoulders, she strode out the
front door, across the porch and down the steps to the lawn. The dogs were on alert, milling about and ready to spring the moment the visitor’s car pulled into the parking area.
Except it wasn’t the black Impala she’d been expecting but a cherry red Volvo with an older woman sitting behind the wheel. The flash came to her like it sometimes did. Molly Mancini, mother of Anita and Roman Mancini.
Seriously? And here she thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse.
The woman stepped out of the car, heedless of the dogs, all of whom seemed to immediately accept her and give way, parting like the Red Sea. She marched straight up where Mia stood uncertainly at the bottom of the steps.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked. Mia nodded. “Good. I thought you would. And you’re Mia Reeves. I’ve heard all about you from my son and others.” She flicked her hand, indicating their opinions didn’t necessarily hold weight with her. “It’s about time we got acquainted. Shall I come in or do you have somewhere out here we can sit and chat?”
Like a cornered animal, Mia’s eyes darted around, but there was no escape in sight. “Um…I guess we could sit in the porch,” she said, gesturing to the door.
Molly Mancini strode up the stairs as if she owned the place and let herself into the screened porch. The dogs trooped in after her. Mac glanced back at Mia with a clear come on gesture.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Molly announced, looking around approvingly. “Jasper Martin had it for a good twenty years, but I don’t think he so much as changed a lightbulb the whole time he was here.”
“Thanks,” Mia managed. “Mrs. Mancini, you must know your son doesn’t want—”
“Molly,” she interrupted. “Do you mind if I call you Mia?”
Mia nodded weakly. “By all means.”
“Good. Okay. First off, if my son gives you any trouble, you come straight to me. He may be a detective, but he still minds his mama. Secondly, I’m a grown woman and can talk to whomever I want. I assume it’s the same for you?”
“Yes, but he’s pretty steamed…”
“Mia, you’ve got to relax. A young thing like you shouldn’t get all worked up over nothing. Now tell me, do you have the gift of sight?”
The question was asked casually, as if nothing more than a simple inquiry about how she took her coffee. Mia sat blinking at her. “Um…I…well, yes, I do,” she finally said, meeting Molly’s eyes straight on.
“Oh, child, it must have been a very hard way to live. People might say it’s a gift, and Lord Almighty it surely is, but it’s a terrible kind of responsibility as well. There was a girl back home in my village in Italy. Things came to her from time to time. The poor thing was crushed by it. Killed herself on her eighteenth birthday.”
Tears sprang to Mia’s eyes. She wiped them away, but they kept coming, faster and faster, backing up in her throat until she was sobbing. No one had ever looked at her situation in such a straight-forward manner and gotten to the heart of it like this tiny, dark-haired woman. “Yes, it was hard,” she hiccupped.
Molly leaned forward and patted her arm. “I’m sorry, dear. I can’t even imagine.” She waited respectfully until Mia had dried her tears. “Now, I want you to tell me what you know about my Anita. Don’t hold anything to yourself. The not knowing is so much worse than the cruelest truth could possibly be.”
“Are you sure?” Mia asked. When Molly nodded, Mia took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and told her everything.
Molly sobbed. Moved by desperation, Mia knelt beside the woman and rubbed a hand up and down her arm. The dogs crowded in. Little Fifi especially seemed to absorb the woman’s pain, whining piteously until Molly scooped her up into her lap.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “No one would tell me. Roman thinks he needs to protect me. Protect me, for heaven’s sake? I come from tough peasant stock. My Frank and I traveled to a new country with barely a hundred dollars in our pockets. No English, no family or friends. No jobs. We worked and learned, built businesses and raised three children. With God’s help, I can stand anything that comes.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mia said quietly. “And I want you to understand I didn’t go to the police for any reason other than the hope they might find something in the woods and bring Anita’s killer to justice.”
“I know, sweet girl. Now, I have a favor to ask. If you could come to my house, meet my Frank, maybe go in Anita’s room. I’m hoping something else might come to you. Something that will help us find our baby girl. We need to bring her home and bury her properly.” Molly’s voice hitched, and she covered her mouth and swallowed hard. “I’ll pay you.”
Mia sprang back so quickly Mac let out a startled yelp. “No. No money.”
Molly nodded her head approvingly. “Food then. That’s what we’ll do. You come tonight. I’ll make pot roast and vegetables and maybe pie.” She clapped her hands together. “Seven o’clock. And you can bring this sweet little dog.” She patted Fifi’s head. “The others might give my old Sylvester a heart attack. He’s our cat. Eighteen this year.”
Mia’s heart sank. Truly, it was about the last thing on earth she wanted to do, but somehow she was nodding and saying yes. She might have the power of sight, but Roman Mancini’s mother had the power of persuasion.
* **
In the end, she left Fifi at home with her beloved Mac and headed out…alone…to face Molly and Frank. They lived in the town of Dalton proper on a lovely old tree-lined street. The house was yellow brick with white shutters and large white columns on either side of the front door stretching all the way up to the second floor.
It was Frank who opened the door and welcomed her in. This is what Roman will look like in his later years, Mia thought, smiling at the tall, muscular man with thick salt and pepper hair and the same deep, dark eyes he’d passed on to his son.
“Please, come in. Molly is in her usual controlled chaos on the final countdown to dinner. Can I get you a drink?” His accent was thicker than Molly’s.
“Water, please,” Mia said, stepping into a spacious foyer and following him through to a room on the right. He pointed her to an armchair and disappeared through the far doorway.
“You’re here. I’m so glad you came.” Molly leaned out through the same doorway, wearing a well-worn red and white checkered apron and a matching oven mitt on her hand. “I’ll be right out.”
She disappeared again only to be replaced by her husband, a tall glass of water in one hand and a highball glass in the other. When he settled on the seat opposite her, he swirled the amber liquid and took a sip, watching her over the rim.
“Mia, I’m happy to have you in my home, and I’m sure you’re a wonderful young woman. I look forward to spending an enjoyable evening with you.” He took another measured sip of his drink, this time putting it down on the side table. “But I do not share my wife’s belief in this magic hooha. When we lost our girl, I was so full of grief I went along with whatever Molly wanted, but we’ve had enough.”
“Frank Edward Mancini.” Molly’s sharp voice cut through his words. She stepped into the sitting room and planted both hands on her hips. “You make me want to scream sometimes. I told you, you don’t have to be part of this. That’s your right, but you will not make our guest feel uncomfortable in our home.”
Mia cleared her throat, “I understand—”
“No, you don’t understand,” Frank said mildly. “We believed someone like you before, and I swear to our Lord above, she was an evil spirit praying on our weakness.”
“Frank,” Molly said again, “take Mia up to Anita’s room. I’ll join you as soon as the meat comes out to rest.”
Mia decided she must have taken leave of her senses accepting Molly’s invitation. Talk about a mistake. When Frank sighed, she sprang up from the chair.
“I’ll say good night…tell Molly thanks…”
“No. We’ll go up otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Frank got to his fe
et with a determined look on his face and gestured her out toward the front door and up the stairs. The upper hall was lined with family photos, and though she wanted to stop and study each one, Frank brushed by her and strode to the last room on the right, pushing open the door.
Once she’d stepped inside, she imagined it hadn’t been touched in the ten years since Anita had disappeared. Posters of boy bands lined the wall and a student desk sat in the corner. Pictures had been taped to the large mirror above the dresser. A few contained images of the Mancini family, but the majority were of a cute teenage boy either posed with Anita or simply on his own. Mia reached out and slowly ran her fingertips along the edges of the photos.
The flashes came. Not every picture, but here and there. They gave her a sense of a normal and happy girl, confident, ambitious and excited about the future. Through it all, though, was the overwhelming theme of Anita’s love for this boy, Luke. She saw them kissing, fleeting moments of hands twining, feet touching under tables. The sweetness of it was foreign to Mia.
She turned away from the mirror and roamed the room. Nothing else spoke to her until she opened the closet. Mia was immediately drawn to a blue and grey silk scarf hanging on the back of the door. When she touched it, the vision came strong and fast. She was in an old house filled with the enticing smell of garlic and basil and pasta sauce. Anita sat on the bed while Molly and another woman sorted through clothes in an ancient dresser.
Your grandmother had this since she was a young woman. When she was old enough for courting, her mother bought it for her. She told her as long as a lady wore a lovely scarf, she could go anywhere with pride. You must have it now. The words echoed in Mia’s head as if hearing them in present time. In the vision, Molly’s eyes were filled with tears, and the other woman sobbed into a white handkerchief.
“Oh, it’s so lovely,” Mia said, coming back to herself and stroking a finger up and down the fine fabric. “What a wonderful item to pass down to a grandchild. Your wife should wear it or else maybe Lina could have it. I know she got the shawl and the pearl earrings, but it’s a shame to keep this beautiful keepsake hidden away.”