The Girl in the Mist: A Misted Pines Novel

by Ashley, Kristen

  I needed to get on my computer and do it not looking at paint colors and lake house interior Google searches (they were all too light and carefree anyway—that vibe didn’t go with the Blue Velvet/Riverdale one I was searching for).

  And I needed not to obsess about that girl who I had seen, at the same time I wasn’t sure I had.

  It felt like she was a ghost.

  And the fact not one mover noticed her, considering how beautiful she was, exacerbated that feeling.

  But my computer could take me away.

  I could escape there.

  Always.

  I’d done just that for twenty years.

  Very successfully.

  However, there it sat on a desk that was too big and too modern for that space, and I couldn’t find the motivation to open a new document in Word and let it flow.

  On this thought, my phone rang.

  Considering it did, as all others were blocked or silenced, it meant it was one of the girls, one of the exes, or one of the others—those being someone on Hawk Delgado’s team.

  Or the FBI.

  Obviously, I took the call.

  Because it was the FBI.

  “Agent Palmer,” I greeted.

  “Ms. Larue,” she replied. “I wanted to follow up on the situation with Sheriff Dern.”

  Good Lord.

  I’d forgotten.

  The local sheriff was supposed to come by. Introduce himself. Etc.

  He’d been briefed by Agent Palmer, Joe Callahan and Hawk Delgado.

  I’d been told he wanted to assure me, personally, that I also had his department’s support and protection.

  I did not need to read between the lines that he wanted to meet me.

  In fact, not entirely successfully hiding her smirk, which, coming from the fantastically professional special agent said quite a bit about Sheriff Dern, Agent Palmer had told me that Dern wanted to assure me I had the entire town’s support and protection.

  “We did,” she noted drily, “explain in rather firm terms that the point of you being here was for the entire town not to notice you or know anything about your current dilemma. He promised he didn’t mean it…in that way.”

  This did not give me a good feeling about Sheriff Dern.

  However, he had authority and a gun, and if something triggered Callahan’s sensors, or was caught on Delgado’s constant surveillance, his department would be call two and that might mean he, or his deputies, could be in danger.

  I had to respect that.

  “Considering,” Agent Palmer stated, taking me from my thoughts. “He’ll need to reschedule.”

  Considering?

  Considering what?

  “I—” I didn’t quite begin.

  “But we’re still monitoring, and Mr. Booth, Mr. Kyle and Ms. Rosellini, as well as yourself, are all getting communications as per the MO. This leads us to believe that the suspect is not aware that you’ve all moved to safe houses.”

  Well, that was good.

  “As you know, but I wish to assure you, we’re continuing to investigate vigorously, and we hope a break will come soon, we’ll find this person, and you’ll be free from his machinations. Of course, you need to live your life as usual, just please, as we discussed, take precautions,” she went on.

  “Of course, however—”

  “Sorry to disturb you, I know you’re busy. I’ll leave you to it. Thank you and be safe.”

  And with that, Agent Palmer rang off.

  For a second, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

  This was because I wasn’t sure I’d been hung up on since Angelo threw that fit after I told him under no circumstances was I going to pretend still to be his loving wife when he was fucking all three of his backup singers, I didn’t care how many Grammys he’d been nominated for that year.

  And the time before that was my agent when I flatly refused another acting gig.

  I only had a second to think about all of that.

  Because movement out the window caught my eye.

  And when I focused there, I saw the girl was back.

  Two

  No Trouble

  The phone in my hand rang before I could even get to the top of the stairs.

  I took the call.

  “Hello, Mo.”

  “Ms. Larue, the girl is Celeste Bohannan. She’s the daughter of your neighbor at the bottom of the lake. She’s sixteen. Good grades. Good student. No trouble, except a recent suspension that we do not consider an issue. She’s safe.”

  Good grades.

  Good student.

  No trouble.

  But…

  Recent suspension.

  Wasn’t that, in essence, how many wayward souls were described by those surprised acquaintances, friends and loved ones who had no idea they were psycho killers?

  They were quiet. Smart. Kept to themselves. No trouble.

  On the other side of that coin, wasn’t that the lament of the sorrowful acquaintances and friends of beautiful young girls who met grisly ends?

  What a waste. She was so young. Good grades. Quiet. No trouble.

  I hit the bottom of the stairs, and Mo kept speaking.

  “No idea why she’s coming to visit, except she’s probably bored and curious about her new neighbor.”

  “Thank you, Mo.” My reply was a whisper.

  Because Celeste Bohannan, the Girl in the Mist, was not out in my pine-needle strewn yard.

  She was on my deck, at the glass doors, staring at me.

  “Are you all right?” Mo asked.

  We had code, and to tell Mo I was not all right, I would say, “I’m perfectly fine.”

  Obviously, I didn’t say that, even if I did have this uncomfortable feeling, watching that girl as I walked through my new house to the back doors, that I was what that phrase meant to say.

  The opposite of perfectly fine.

  Something was wrong.

  Very.

  I might be fine, but something was not right.

  Even though I felt that keenly, I said, “I’m good, Mo. Thank you.”

  “Take care and call if you need anything.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “’Bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  I said this as I opened the door.

  And looked, without barrier, into the eyes of Celeste Bohannan.

  A wave of such melancholy struck me, I instantly longed for the uncomfortable feeling I’d just been experiencing.

  My life had just changed.

  The world had just changed.

  With one look in the wounded, haunted, lost eyes of Celeste Bohannan.

  “Hello,” I greeted.

  “Hi,” she whispered.

  Shy or affected, I did not know, but her fragile voice played its part in the overall delicacy that was so very her, it permeated the air around her.

  “Can I help you with something?” I asked.

  A brief pause and then, “That’s why I’m here.”

  I didn’t understand, tipped my head to indicate that, and backed it up with words. “I’m sorry?”

  “To see if I can help you.” Another pause before, “Move in.”

  When I didn’t immediately allow her entry, she turned at the waist, lifted a lethargic arm and pointed to the green, corrugated metal roof down the way.

  “I live there,” she said, dropping her arm and turning back to me. “With my dad and brothers.”

  It hit me belatedly she lived there with her father and brothers.

  Behind a rather daunting gate.

  A gate that had, on either five-feet high column at the sides, plaques—not signs, plaques— that read, Private Property and Trespassers will be Prosecuted.

  Again, two of them, one on either side.

  Along these columns was a stone fence, also five-feet high, that extended well into the woods.

  I had been informed by Joe Callahan there were cameras located in random places in the woods.

  No
t only that, those places were changed, randomly, so anyone who would think they could clock those areas and avoid them so they could find lake access or a free campground would eventually be disabused of those notions.

  Finally, she lived with her dad and two brothers on a property that was one of only four in perhaps a ten-mile radius, sitting behind a daunting gate with threatening plaques affixed (twice), a fence and cameras. All of this approved by the Federal Bureau of Investigations as a good, safe place for me to be because the garden-variety stalker myself and my former costars were experiencing had done things—done such terrible, terrible things, and was still doing them—and we now knew he was not-so-garden-variety at all.

  And here she was, wounded, lost, for some unusual reason suspended from school, a good kid who got good grades, on my back deck offering to help me unpack.

  It was without a doubt the mother of two beautiful daughters that had me asking a question the answer to which I knew.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Celeste.”

  With that, I stepped aside, saying, “Hello, Celeste. I’m Delphine. Please come in.”

  Three

  Foundation

  Clearly, for a project to do with Celeste, we couldn’t be wandering around the house, haphazardly unpacking boxes.

  This wasn’t about her (entirely), or the situation I was facing which brought me there.

  I was accustomed to protecting my privacy.

  After all these years, it had become habit.

  I offered Celeste a drink, something she declined.

  It was then I had to make a decision.

  The kitchen was large.

  To the side off the kitchen there was a dining area, complete with a truly vile, smoked glass seventies chandelier (please don’t worry, I’d not only found its replacement, I’d already ordered it).

  This was part of a great room that was either by design of the original house, or an indication of clairvoyance by its now-dead owner who had lived there for fifty-seven years, and thus he’d torn down walls not knowing one day the chandelier would be woefully dated, but knowing that compartmentalized living would be a thing of the past.

  There was a small study and a large mudroom/laundry tucked on the other side of a set of stairs that rose to the upper floor off to the side of the living room area.

  But the remainder of the lower floor was one large room.

  And an entire wall of that room was built-in bookshelves.

  These, I would not be altering.

  Though, I would be relieved that the glut of boxes stacked around them would be gone.

  On that thought, I made a decision and I led her to the shelves.

  Through my moment of contemplation, she did not survey the house.

  Instead, she kept her attention solely on me.

  This was unnerving due to the fact the reason for this was not because I was famous. However, it wasn’t unexpected, and this was also not because I was used to it because I was famous.

  The person who had lived and died in the house had been there decades before Celeste was even born. She’d probably known him since her first memories.

  His space would not be a mystery.

  But I was.

  I came to stand in front of the bookshelves.

  “Those,” I indicated the smallish, square book boxes stacked six high, four across and three deep, “are my books. These,” I indicated the four larger boxes on the floor behind me, “are the bits and bobs I’d like placed in among the books. The books were packed in order and the movers placed them so the first ones to be unpacked will be the ones on the end. That one there,” I pointed to a box at the top of a pile, “is labeled one. If you can start there and load them on the shelf up here,” I indicated the space atop the first shelf, “I’ll unpack these.”

  “Okay,” she replied, turning instantly to the box.

  As she did, I wondered if I should give her a knife.

  Being in my home, she’d lost the Girl in the Mist aura, and some of her vulnerability seemed to eke away.

  That said, make no mistake, she did not seem normal.

  She was extraordinarily stunning with the perfectly symmetrical features of a classic beauty, also tall and slender, with fine bones and thick, glossy hair.

  But somewhere along the way, this sixteen-year-old had lost something of great value and great importance.

  Something as integral to her as breathing.

  I knew this because, whatever it was, was unhidden. It was sitting under every expression on her face, infused in every movement she made.

  “There’s a letter opener on the bar,” I shared.

  She was gazing at the boxes, but at my words, she turned only her head to me and nodded.

  And with the grace carried only by one of youth holding such beauty, she floated to the bar.

  I watched her, and when she was back at the box slicing it open, I moved to where I’d left the box cutter to start my own chore.

  We worked in awkward silence for ten minutes, me attempting to get through the wall of gloom that clung to her so I could further my bead on her. She was more than likely intimidated and definitely introverted.

  Therefore, I thought it strange it was Celeste who broke our silence.

  “Mr. Nance took good care of this place.”

  “It seems he did,” I agreed, uncovering my Emmy from bubble wrap. For the first time when handling it I wondered why I didn’t donate it, and the other two, to the small museum devoted to me that had sprung up about fifteen years ago in my hometown. “The inspector was impressed.”

  “Yeah,” she mumbled, placing books on a shelf with the care one would use to place a bust by Houdon. “Dad figured you’d be sure to look into that. But, you know, just so you know…”

  She was finished with her first box, not to mention she’d apparently exhausted her only conversational gambit. She looked directly at me again, lifting the empty box.

  “Do you want these broken down?”

  I nodded. “Please.”

  “Where do you want me to put them?”

  I was stacking them in the mudroom.

  There wasn’t much to see in the house that was unpacked, but I didn’t want her wandering when I was occupied somewhere else.

  It was, it’s important to repeat, not about Celeste or any feeling I was getting from her that she was a problem or that I was in any danger from her.

  Privacy, I’d also repeat, was important to me.

  It was something else, though.

  I was feeling odd because I didn’t know what I was getting from her.

  I just knew it was not good, even if I didn’t know how it wasn’t.

  “I’m stacking them in the mud room. But just set them on the floor against the end of the bar. We’ll take them to the mudroom when we have a bunch to go.”

  She did as told.

  And as she’d pulled out of the gate, she found it in herself to share even more.

  “The senior project last year was headed by this do-gooder, Malorie. She’s in college now. She was kind of a pain. And everyone thought she was also kind of crazy. But the project was so good, people still use it. And at the end of last summer, before she went off to school, the town council gave her a big award.”

  She came back my way, and again I got those eyes.

  They were, incidentally, wide, lushly lashed and a deep blue.

  They were also innocence mixed with injury, a vision no person was comfortable with and no mother on the planet could endure.

  I was no exception and was again fighting a deep desire to hold her in my arms.

  Or build a fortress around her.

  She kept speaking.

  “There’s this storeroom, behind the Double D. No one used it. You have to rent it, you know. And no one was renting it. So Malorie talked to the owner, because, like, a little money is better than none. Now, you go in and tell Pete at the Double D you got stuff to dump in there, he gives you the key, a
nd you dump it. Or, if you need something, you go in and tell Pete you need it, give him a donation and go in and get what you need. He keeps the donations, gives them to the guy who owns the thing, and they pay the rent.”

  I did not take my attention from her as she relayed this story.

  Seemingly emboldened, she kept at it.

  “Like, people use it to get boxes to send Christmas presents and stuff. It’s got bubble wrap and tissue paper and all sorts. Boxes are expensive, you know, especially when you need a lot of them. Like, when people move or whatever. Now, because of Malorie, they can go there and get everything they need. They’d be real happy to get all your stuff. And Jesse or Jace could take it over for you.” Pause and, “Or Dad.”

  The pause before offering up her father was interesting.

  And I couldn’t read that either.

  “Who’s Pete?” I asked.

  “He owns the Double D.” Realizing I didn’t know what that meant, she said, “The diner in town.”

  Ah.

  “That is an excellent project, recycling and cost savings, all rolled into one,” I remarked. “I’ll see how it goes and let you know if I need someone to help me get all my stuff over there.”

  “Okay,” she whispered, timidly but still visibly pleased her story was received so well.

  “Okay,” I repeated.

  She went back to the massive stack of boxes.

  I kept unpacking, uneasy about the fact that Celeste offering some banal, but unquestionably useful information, should please her like that.

  The silence we then fell into was a bit more comfortable.

  I had mementos scattered across surfaces, all my boxes empty and broken down, she was into box ten when I began to shift and add to the shelves, arranging the space so it would look good and speak to me.

  Framed pictures of the girls.

  The small piece I’d bought in the Place du Tertre in Montmartre.

  The Herend giraffes Warren had given me for our wedding, which I ended up loving more than I loved him.

  Case in point, I kept the giraffes.

  And got rid of him.

  Celeste seemed in a rhythm, and she was indeed helping, making me realize that perhaps I was procrastinating because the task at hand, especially that one, was overwhelming, even if I’d had a plan to tackle it.