Raquel Byrnes

by Whispers on Shadow Bay

  “Well, because of the gala, of course.” Bernard leaned on the table, a gleam his eyes. “The governing board has elected to throw a gala at the museum in honor of the newest acquisition.”

  “You’re serious?” Simon’s face registered surprise.

  “Well, it’s no Roman artifact,” Bernard sniffed. “But it is an important piece none-the-less.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “What is it that you’re talking about? Noble Island has a museum?”

  “Of course we do.” Bernard chuckled. He ripped the package of crackers open, sending them bouncing across the white-and-red checkered tablecloth. Clearing his throat, he set down the wrapper. “Simon, here, is to thank, actually. He does these authentications and restorations for big name museums, and in return, our little island museum gets rare pieces of art to display. And this one is the end all be all, if I do say so myself.”

  “It’s a few photographs,” Simon said, looking embarrassed.

  “Nonsense.” Bernard poked another packet of crackers in our direction.

  “Is it sort of a trade off?” I asked.

  “Exactly. Surely, you didn’t think Simon worked for the money. He has no need of course. No, no, it’s for the good of Noble Island that our resident art expert offers his services.”

  “That’s very, well, noble, Simon,” I said and smiled. “What is the gala for?”

  “We have on loan from the famous art museum in Seattle, a photographic series from Erin LeSeiur.” Bernard leaned forward as if it was a juicy bit of gossip. “She may even come for the opening.”

  “Really? That is definitely a coup for you, then.”

  “You know her work?” Simon asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I saw her opening in Los Angeles a few years ago. She does the most incredible landscapes. They’re breathtaking.”

  “Ha, then it’s settled.” Bernard clapped. “You must come.”

  “Wait…” I backpedaled.

  “He’s right, Rosetta,” Simon said. “If I wanted to share the fruit of my labor with anyone, it would be you.”

  Heat rose up my neck, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bernard smirking. I was sure the talk of the village would be of nothing else tonight.

  We sailed back as the sun set crimson over the dusky water, and I let my thoughts wander as Simon wrestled Lavender into a jacket.

  She seemed exceptionally difficult tonight, her nervous glance my way sending ripples of worry through me. I needed to talk to Simon about her, but it needed to be out of her earshot. She wiggled from his grasp and ran to the railing.

  “I’m not cold,” she said and folded her arms.

  “Lala, will you please just put this on?” Simon said, exasperated.

  She shook her head, and Simon sighed.

  “How about a blanket, then?” I asked.

  She looked at me and then nodded.

  “If it’s all right with your daddy.”

  “As long as she’s warm,” Simon said, tossing the jacket on the seat. “Go grab the one that you want, Lala.”

  Lavender ran to the hatch disappearing into the belly of the yacht.

  “We have to talk about something,” I said quietly.

  “I had a feeling.” He sat next to me and took my hand in his. “What is it?”

  “I-it’s about Lucien.”

  “You know about Lucien?” Simon sucked in a breath, stood, and paced to the helm. He glared out at the dark water. “How much do you know?”

  “I know that she plays with an imaginary friend she calls Lucien and that he was her twin.”

  “She what?” Simon rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “She doesn’t ever mention him.”

  “Simon, I saw the photographs with the mouths scratched out.”

  “The psychologist said she was just acting out her grief. That it’s common for children to paint pictures without mouths or to scratch out mouths in photographs if they feel guilty for something.” He looked at me, his face tight with anguish. “He said she may have some sort of survivor’s guilt but is not able to articulate it, and it ends up feeling like a secret to her. I don’t know if he’s right or not, but I know she’s troubled. He said she’d get through it. She did…that to all the pictures of Lucien and her mother.”

  “She pretends he’s alive.”

  “Oh, Lala…” Simons face paled. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and finger. “Lucien drowned, Rosetta. He drowned a couple of weeks before Amanna died.”

  “I’m so sorry, Simon.”

  “Lavender and Lucien were up at the lake with Amanna. It’s a mile or so from the house.” He looked at me helplessly. “She said she accidentally fell asleep while sunning and woke to their screams. She could only get to Lavender. It devastated all of us.”

  “Maybe it is survivor’s guilt.” I shook my head, not sure I believed it. “Whatever is going on in her mind, she’s worried about my wellbeing and everyone else’s. She took things, personal things, to keep us safe.”

  “She’s scaring me, Rosetta,” he said. “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”

  Lavender ran back up the steps dragging the blanket behind her. She climbed onto my lap, and I arranged the blanket around her, tucking in the sides.

  Simon watched us with worry etched on his face.

  I looked up at him and nodded. “Yes. I think so.”

  “What am I going to do? I don’t know how to…” Simon crossed to us, ran his hand along her hair, smoothing it. His lips pressed tight, the worry on his face broke my heart.

  I slipped my hand over his, squeezing gently. “We’ll figure it out together.”

  He bent down, kissed my hand and then the crown of her head.

  “Thank you, Rosetta.” His voice broke, and he turned, faced the helm, with his hands in his pockets.

  I rubbed her back, and my throat ached so much I had trouble breathing. How could I even begin to know what to do? How could I stop all this from getting worse?

  Please give me wisdom, Lord. Please show me how to help Lavender and Simon.

  27

  I woke with dread squeezing my heart. Breathless, I sat up. My gaze flitted around the room, and I strained to see into the unsettling darkness. Something was wrong, the energy of the room disturbed somehow. I listened, my hammering heart the only sound. Throwing off the covers, I flicked on the lamp. Nothing looked out of place. I slipped out of bed, taking a turn in the room, uneasy.

  The bedside clock read five in the morning. No nightmare this time. Smooth darkness pressed against the window, a silent night without storms.

  Why am I awake?

  I wandered the room, looking for something to calm my thoughts. Maybe I could still get some sleep. The book of botany from Davenport’s library sat on the bedside table. I ran my thumb along the ragged edges of the pages, not in the mood to read. Walking over to the dressing table, I sat and ran a brush through the tangles in my hair, thinking.

  A large knot snagged my fingers. I craned my neck to see the back of my hair in the mirror and froze. Entangled with my own hair, a long lock of jet black hair wove in and out of mine in a braid. I gasped, yanking at the hair. It came away in my hands, and I stared at it, barely breathing, dread pooling in my chest as I realized someone had to have come into my room. Had to have put their hands on me while I slept. Dark strands floated onto my white nightgown, and I slapped at them as if they were spider’s legs, desperate to get them off of me. Anger and fear squeezed my throat, and I sucked in a jagged breath, my hands shaking.

  I stood panting in the middle of the room, locked with indecision, and then I rushed to my dresser, threw on jeans and a sweater, and headed for the door. I yanked it open, peered up and down the hall hoping to see something, anything that I could chase or yell at, but the dark corridor was still.

  Frustrated and burning with adrenaline, I slammed my hand on the door, tears squeezing from my clenched lids. This was getting out of hand. This was getting personal. I shook, helpless and without
direction, when a thought occurred to me about the night I saw the specter in the woods. Simon said he never fired his gun. So, who was shooting out there in the middle of the night?

  How could I have forgotten about that?

  The only person I knew who had a gun was O’Shay. Not able to prove the noises or the specter in the woods, there was one thing I could prove. I could prove that O’Shay shot his rifle. That at least was something.

  I had no idea where to find it, and I didn’t know what to check for. But he seemed intent on keeping me from the deck. Why should I trust that he saw nothing out there? And hadn’t I heard a door open and close inside the room when he went to check? A closet maybe? It was worth a look at least. My eyes went to the package of hairpins on the dresser. Grabbing them, I left the room and padded down the hall in my black gypsy slippers. I headed towards the study door with the flashlight and pins in hand. Determined to see what was on that deck, I shaped the hairpins into the forms I’d used on my father’s office door. The last time I’d done this, broken into someplace for answers, the truth had sent waves of disasters leveling my life to nothing. Was I willing to risk the same thing happening again? My hands shook.

  What would I gain from doing this, especially if I found nothing? What could I lose? I was frightened and off balance already. Should I go and ask Simon to open it? No. I had to have something to show him. Something more than frightened ramblings. Until now I was reacting, but with this act, I was doing something at last.

  Slipping the pins into the rusty lock, I worked them until I felt the tumbler give. The older lock was easier to open than I expected, and I pushed through the study door. It closed behind me with a soft click, and I used the flashlight to pan the room. Nothing looked different. I went to the closet, took a breath, and pulled it open. My flashlight beam sliced across the floor picking up the corner of a stock. The rifle leaned in the corner behind some musty coats. Kneeling, I picked it up, smelled the hammer. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to find, but it smelled of oil and metal. Disappointed, I put it back and stood, closing the door.

  My gaze went to the French doors. Jiggling the handle, the lock disengaged like the other night, and I eased it open. The dark night met me with a chilling breeze. I stepped out onto the deck, my breath caught in my throat as I shined the light in the corner. Empty. No hunched figure lunged for me. No tree limb lay there, either. I raised a brow. Had O’Shay removed it?

  A white mound on the floor at the far end of the deck near the railing caught my eye. The flashlight beam illuminated a crumpled ball of material. I crept forward, reached for it, and held it up in the light. The mass unfolded and a shock of red marred the bottom of a T-shirt. Blood. I dropped it, backpedaling with my racing pulse. Wiping my hand on my jeans, I panned the shaking beam across the floor but stopped when I found the drag marks. Dual lines of dirt traced a path from the French doors to the railing. I followed them, my mouth dry, not knowing if I wanted to see what was there. I followed the deck as it wrapped around a jutting section of the house to a small alcove cast in shadows.

  Please be empty.

  The beam glided along the wood deck, and I breathed a sigh of relief to find nothing there. I turned, my eye catching something on the side of the house that made up the back wall of the decking. There, encircled in the light, a bloody smear.

  Tendrils of terror wrapped around me, squeezing the air from my lungs, and I panted, not able to take a breath. I scrambled back towards the door. Fear made my hands fumble with the handle. I ran through the study, closing the door behind me and relocking it with trembling fingers.

  Simon. I had to show Simon.

  I flicked off the flashlight and hurried down the hall to the stairs as fast as the limited light allowed. Almost to the steps, a door squeaked open. I froze, flattened against the wall of the stairwell, and held my breath. Footsteps, muffled in the plush carpet, sounded in the hallway.

  The rusty lock rattled and I tried to creep down the stairs away from the hall. I paused on the landing, listening. I thought of Lavender—that she might be in danger—but hesitated. If I was found out, then whoever it was might be pushed into doing something rash. I bit my lip, debating, then slipped through the kitchen and out the side door to the gravel path.

  I ran to the cottage, my arms and legs pumping, hair on my neck standing on end. The light was on, a square in the darkness.

  “Simon,” I yelled and slammed my palms on the door. “Simon, open up!”

  I looked back over my shoulder at the swirling fog, and my heart rammed. Something moved in the mist. Back against the door, I fumbled with the flashlight, dropped it, and groped on the ground for it. The crunch of gravel floated out of the night, and I fell back against the door, fear suffocating me. The bottom half of the door gave way, and I tumbled backwards into the workshop.

  “S-Simon,” I yelled and crawled forward, pushing the door shut with my feet and slamming home the lock. “Simon, where are you?” The lights of the workshop blazed bright.

  I scooted against the wall, listening, willing the panic to not take over. Ten seconds passed. Nothing. No sound outside. No movement. I chanced a peek out the window and peered from the corner through the wire mesh. The night sat still and the silence unbroken.

  Sliding back down with my back against the wall, I tried to settle my racing heart and looked around the workshop.

  Where was he?

  “Hello?” I got to my feet and walked the main workroom. The tables still in disarray looked more jumbled. How could he work this way? “Are you here?”

  I moved to the living area. The couch cushions and pillows littered the floor. Clothes and dishes took up the coffee table. I smelled the pungent odor of his tea and found a tipped over cup on the floor. Worry rocked through me. A moan came from the bathroom, and I hurried over. I flicked on the light and found Simon crumbled on the floor by the shower stall, his clothes covered in mud.

  “Simon.” I rushed to his side. “What happened?”

  “Rosetta?” His eyes swam, and he looked at me with confusion. “Where am I?”

  “We’re in your bathroom.” I tried to help him up, but he stumbled, going back down on his backside with a grimace.

  His hand went to the back of his head and came away with blood.

  “What…How long was I out this time?” Fear flitted across his face, and he reached out to me. “Did I hurt you?”

  “This time, Simon?”

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He slurred his words, seemed off balance. “They’re back…I tried to stop them, but…”

  Alarm thrummed. I helped him to the toilet seat. Wetting a washcloth, I rung it out, and pressed it to his head. “This has happened before?” I dabbed at the cut in his scalp. It wasn’t bad, but it might need stitches. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “No.” He clasped my wrist. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  I froze in his grip, and he looked at me with bleary eyes but let go.

  “Simon, are you saying you have blackouts? Is it from drinking? Do they happen a lot?”

  “Not alcohol.”

  “Then why?”

  “I don’t know, Rosetta.” His voice was pained, and he looked at me, his gaze pleading. “I have to tell you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “No…never mind.” Simon stood, stumbled out of the bathroom, and I followed. He looked around and the blood on the back of his shirt made me remember why I’d come.

  “Simon, I have to show you something back at the house. I found blood up on the deck.”

  “What?” He turned, braced himself on the wall. “What are you talking about? You went back onto the deck? I thought it was locked.”

  “Did you lock it?”

  “O’Shay, I think. I went to go and find the telescope, but he said he’d already removed it and locked the door. He said the railing is rusted.”

  “Simon.” I crossed to him, put the cushions back on the sofa, and led him to it. “I went to see
if it was O’Shay that fired the rifle that night. You remember? Out in the woods when I saw the…the thing in the fog?”

  “So dizzy.” He sat with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “What time is it?”

  “It’s five in the morning. Simon, do you remember that night?”

  “No.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Five, really?”

  “Simon, listen to me.” I knelt in front of him, held his face in my palms and tried to catch his gaze. “You’re scaring me. What is wrong with you?”

  He looked at me then, and something dark flitted behind his gaze. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I rocked back, dread gripping my gut. He reached for my hands and held them together as he pulled me closer.

  “What are you doing?” My pulse raced. “Simon, let me go.”

  “Promise me, Rosetta,” Simon breathed. “Promise you won’t let anything happen to you or Lavender.”

  “Anything like what?”

  “I don’t remember, but I woke up the next morning, and I was like this.” Simon let go, tried to stand, but fell back against the couch. “Covered in dirt and outside.”

  I watched him with growing alarm.

  “The morning after what, Simon? When did this first happen?”

  “Two years ago,” he whispered, a pained expression on his face. “The morning after Amanna went missing.”

  28

  I stood against the wall watching him. He pulled on a clean shirt buttoning it slowly, his hands shaking. He seemed clearer now, but it had taken close to twenty minutes. The shower helped.

  “How do you know it wasn’t me?” he asked.

  “On the deck?” I shrugged, not sure what to say to him. He was who I’d run to when I was scared, and now I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “The blood was dried, old. The cut on your head is fresh. It wasn’t you. Not that, at least.”

  He stopped what he was doing and looked at me. Purple shadows traced fatigue under his eyes. Rubbing his hands over his face, he sighed heavily.