Shade 01 - Shade

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Shade 01 - Shade Page 21

by Jeri Smith-Ready


  He ga­ve me a smi­le that war­med my to­es. “I’d star­ted to gu­ess.”

  “What ha­ve you fo­und out?” Ian’s vo­ice held a hint of thun­der.

  My gut chur­ned, and I knew I had to ans­wer ca­re­ful­ly. “Just that Newg­ran­ge marks the win­ter sols­ti­ce sun­ri­se, and that it was an an­ci­ent bu­ri­al tomb. I’m trying to de­cip­her the mar­kings on the walls of the sols­ti­ce cham­ber.”

  “Why?” he de­man­ded. “Su­rely it’s mo­re than ge­ne­ral cu­ri­osity.”

  I smo­ot­hed my ha­ir back from my eyes, trying not to squ­irm. “That pla­ce and ti­me se­emed so im­por­tant to my mom. She blew off a se­mes­ter of col­le­ge to stay the­re for three months af­ter win­ter bre­ak. And the fact that she was at Newg­ran­ge on the sols­ti­ce, exactly a ye­ar be­fo­re I was born, se­emed li­ke too much of a co­in­ci­den­ce to be… well, a co­in­ci­den­ce.”

  “And what abo­ut Eowyn Har­ris?” Zac­hary as­ked his dad. “How is she in­vol­ved?”

  Ian pic­ked up the wi­ne bot­tle and fil­led Gi­na’s glass, tho­ugh it wasn’t empty yet. “Eowyn Har­ris was at Newg­ran­ge with yo­ur mum and I,” he told me, “the ye­ar be­fo­re you we­re born. Along with ni­nety-se­ven ot­her ran­domly cho­sen pe­op­le from aro­und the world.”

  I sa­id, “Do you ha­ve all the­ir na­mes me­mo­ri­zed li­ke you do Eowyn’s?”

  “Aye, I do.” He pic­ked up his kni­fe and fork. “And that, my fri­ends, must end this con­ver­sa­ti­on, or I will get sac­ked.”

  After an un­com­for­tab­le mo­ment, Aunt Gi­na cle­ared her thro­at. “So how abo­ut this we­at­her? So bit­ter cold the last few days.”

  I lo­oked at Zac­hary, and his eyes ref­lec­ted my frust­ra­ti­on with the abor­ted dis­cus­si­on.

  Gi­na ope­ned the piz­za box for anot­her sli­ce. “At le­ast to­night I know I’ll be go­ing ho­me to so­me warm flan­nel she­ets.”

  I star­ted at her last words, es­pe­ci­al­ly the way she emp­ha­si­zed them. “Flan­nel she­ets al­re­ady?” I as­ked, ho­ping my eyes didn’t lo­ok as wi­de as they felt.

  “It’s al­most Christ­mas,” she sa­id. “I usu­al­ly put them on our beds aro­und Thanks­gi­ving, but this ye­ar it’s be­en so warm.” She ra­ised her eyeb­rows at me and to­ok a sip of wi­ne. “Now we’ll both be cozy and re­ady for win­ter.”

  My pul­se ra­cing, I drop­ped my ga­ze to my half-eaten piz­za sli­ce and pic­ked at the crust.

  She knew. She’d se­en my non-red she­ets. By now they we­re pro­bably in a Dumps­ter, or gi­ven to Go­od­will. My nights with Lo­gan-the few we had left be­fo­re he pas­sed on-we­re do­ne. On my birth­day, of all days.

  Be­si­de me, Zac­hary shif­ted in his cha­ir. My co­cons­pi­ra­tor in she­et bu­ying. If I lo­oked too up­set, he’d ta­ke it per­so­nal­ly. But did he ex­pect me to bre­ak up with Lo­gan now that he and I had kis­sed? Was it even pos­sib­le to bre­ak up with a de­ad per­son?

  Zac­hary le­aned over and sa­id, “Did you want to see the rest of the ho­use?”

  I nod­ded at him in gra­ti­tu­de-and with ad­mi­ra­ti­on for dist­rac­ting me from tho­ughts of Lo­gan. He wasn’t bac­king down.

  “Go on,” Ian sa­id. “It’s fas­ci­na­ting.”

  Zac­hary and I clim­bed the nar­row sta­irs, step­ping ca­re­ful­ly as they cur­ved to the left. He put his hand on my back as he fol­lo­wed-to ste­ady me, no do­ubt, but it had the op­po­si­te ef­fect.

  On the se­cond flo­or, two small bed­ro­oms we­re de­co­ra­ted in la­ce and fe­mi­ni­ne co­lors. In one of them, an even nar­ro­wer sta­ir­ca­se led up to the at­tic. I clim­bed it, tho­ugh the light was so dim I co­uld ba­rely see my fe­et.

  The tiny ro­om at the top of the ho­use was empty ex­cept for a low bed and a desk by the win­dow. Be­si­de the desk hung an elect­ric lan­tern, one that si­mu­la­ted a we­ak fla­me. It cast shif­ting sha­dows on the ba­re, off-whi­te walls.

  “Ow.”

  Zac­hary held his he­ad, which he’d hit on the slo­ped ce­iling. He mo­ved to stand in the cen­ter, tho­ugh his ha­ir still gra­zed the sur­fa­ce.

  Even I had to duck on my way to the at­tic win­dow, the only one in the ho­use not shut­te­red. In the va­cant lot ac­ross the stre­et, the ghost of a man in a ra­in­co­at wan­de­red, exa­mi­ning the mud using his own vi­olet light. I won­de­red if he’d li­ved in a ho­use torn down long ago, li­ke this one al­most was.

  “I don’t sup­po­se we’re al­lo­wed to sit on the bed,” Zac­hary sa­id.

  “It do­esn’t lo­ok much sof­ter than the flo­or, an­y­way.”

  We sat cross-leg­ged fa­cing each ot­her on the thin area rug. “Thank you for get­ting me away from them,” I sa­id.

  “I’m sorry yo­ur birth­day has be­en such crap.”

  “Not to­tal­ly.” I slid my fin­ger along the gra­in of the ebony flo­or­bo­ard, pic­tu­ring a tel­lta­le he­art lying un­der­ne­ath. “And it’s not over yet. It co­uld be­co­me mo­re crap.”

  “My dad can be a re­al bas­tard so­me­ti­mes. Al­ways abo­ut the mis­si­on, not­hing el­se mat­ters.”

  “Can’t be fun for you, eit­her.” I wor­ked up the ner­ve to ta­ke his hand. “Is it true what you told me abo­ut yo­ur mom le­aving?”

  “Partly.” The wall lan­tern cast sha­dows whe­re his eye­las­hes brus­hed his che­eks. “She wasn’t happy, but that wasn’t why she left. My dad sent her away so­mew­he­re for her own pro­tec­ti­on when things star­ted to get dodgy.”

  “But not you?”

  “I cho­se to stay. I wan­ted to find out who I was-why I was-and I co­uldn’t do that from a sa­fe ho­use in so­me god­for­sa­ken Eng­lish vil­la­ge.” He ran his thumb over my knuck­les. “When I met you, I knew I’d ma­de the right cho­ice.”

  “What abo­ut Bec­ca Gold­man?” I as­ked, only half te­asing. “Hasn’t she be­en a go­od am­bas­sa­dor?”

  “Bec­ca.” Zac­hary rub­bed his red­de­ning fa­ce. “I sho­uld exp­la­in abo­ut that.”

  “Did you hang out with her be­ca­use she’s ol­der and wo­uldn’t see you sca­re off ghosts?” I cur­sed the pat­he­tic ho­pe­ful­ness in my vo­ice.

  “That’s part of it. But the ma­in re­ason was for re­con­na­is­san­ce.”

  “Huh?”

  “You wan­ted to know who star­ted tho­se ru­mors abo­ut you.”

  “It was Bec­ca?” Ra­ge sur­ged up my thro­at, al­most ma­king me hic­cup.

  “No. But by jo­ining that gro­up, I he­ard all the gos­sip and even­tu­al­ly fi­gu­red out the truth. It was Bri­an, just li­ke Me­gan sus­pec­ted.”

  “Why wo­uld he do that? Do­es he ha­te me?”

  “No, but he did it for so­me­one who do­es ha­te you. Na­di­ne, a girl from Lo­gan’s scho­ol who li­ked him. Li­ked Lo­gan, that is. Bri­an wan­ted to shag Na­di­ne li­ke mad.” Zac­hary spit out the words with a gri­ma­ce, li­ke they tas­ted aw­ful. “Ma­king you mi­se­rab­le was the­ir lit­tle pro­j­ect. So­met­hing they co­uld bond over. That’s what Bri­an was ho­ping.”

  I brus­hed my fin­gers over the ban­da­ges on his knuck­les. “When did you find out for su­re?”

  “At Bec­ca’s party last we­ek.”

  “So it’s true, you went. How was it?”

  “It was bril­li­ant. The Gold­mans ha­ve the most blin­ding col­lec­ti­on of sing­le-malt scotc­hes. And a hot tub.”

  My pul­se sped up at the tho­ught of him and Bec­ca wet and ne­arly na­ked.

  “Not­hing hap­pe­ned be­yond a bit of so­aking.” He til­ted his he­ad. “Well, no’ bet­we­en us. So­me of the ot­hers, I co­uld tell you sto­ri­es.”

  “Sto­ri­es abo­ut who?”

  “Ah no, you won’t get that for free. You ha­ve
to be ni­ce to me for two mi­nu­tes stra­ight.”

  “I am ni­ce to you.”

  “I me­an, re­al­ly ni­ce.” He nud­ged my knee with his fo­ot. “Fat­her Christ­mas might call it na­ughty, but he’s a filthy old bug­ger.”

  My in­si­des qu­ive­red. I wan­ted to be very, very ni­ce to Zac­hary, for lon­ger than two mi­nu­tes. But first I had to cle­ar up a few things.

  “Why wo­uldn’t you tell me yo­ur fa­vo­ri­te song when we we­re stan­ding at the port­ho­le? Why did you wa­it un­til we we­re in the dark?”

  “With you be­ing so se­ri­o­us abo­ut mu­sic, I was in­ti­mi­da­ted.” He tra­ced the li­nes of my palm with his fin­ger­tips. “I tho­ught may­be it wo­uldn’t be co­ol eno­ugh.”

  His to­uch was ligh­ting up my who­le arm. I had to con­cent­ra­te to ke­ep my words in the right or­der.“ ‘I Will Pos­sess Yo­ur He­art’ is de­fi­ni­tely co­ol eno­ugh,” I told him.

  “See? You jud­ged. What if I’d na­med so­met­hing less co­ol?” At the cor­ner of his jaw, a tiny musc­le twitc­hed. “In the dark at le­ast I wo­uldn’t ha­ve had to see you la­ugh.”

  I wan­ted to la­ugh right then, to ke­ep calm-and ke­ep from thro­wing myself at him. “I think it’s cu­te that you we­re trying to imp­ress me.”

  “I wasn’t. If I we­re, I’d ha­ve just na­med a song I knew you li­ked. One whe­re you co­uldn’t analy­ze every li­ne and won­der if it was abo­ut us.”

  I loc­ked my ga­ze on his gre­en eyes. “Is it?”

  “Not the stal­ker part.” He lif­ted my hand to­ward his lips. “Just the part whe­re he gets the girl.”

  I clo­sed my eyes as he kis­sed the pul­se at my wrist, won­de­ring if I sho­uld po­int out that in the song, the guy do­esn’t get the girl. But su­rely Zac­hary knew that, and it wasn’t the po­int. The po­int was the wan­ting and the wa­iting.

  The po­int was the “Will.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aunt Gi­na and I didn’t spe­ak much on the short dri­ve ho­me. I was still kind of pis­sed from our ar­gu­ment, and be­si­des, I was too busy thin­king to talk. My mind sor­ted thro­ugh the day’s events, trying to sift them in­to ca­te­go­ri­es: the go­od (kis­sing Zac­hary), the bad (cha­sed by dum­pers), and the ugly (sha­de at­tack).

  But each of the go­od parts had so­me bad and ugly mi­xed in, and vi­ce ver­sa. I wasn’t su­re how I felt abo­ut any of it. I only knew I felt ro­ughly ten tho­usand mi­les from sle­ep.

  When we en­te­red the ho­use, Gi­na to­ok my arm with a gent­le tug. “I’m sorry if I up­set you with what I sa­id abo­ut yo­ur fat­her. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I know. It’s be­en a crazy day,” I ad­ded, to dis­miss the su­bj­ect.

  “Spe­aking of the day.” Gi­na led me in­to the di­ning ro­om, whe­re a small box sat wrap­ped in me­tal­lic blue pa­per with a purp­le bow (she knew I ha­ted get­ting birth­day pre­sents in Christ­mas wrap­ping). “I wan­ted to gi­ve this to you alo­ne. I ho­pe you didn’t think I for­got.”

  “Of co­ur­se not.” I ga­ve her a qu­ick hug, then ope­ned the card and scan­ned the af­fec­ti­ona­te mes­sa­ge, wa­iting a po­li­te amo­unt of ti­me be­fo­re I co­uld dig in­to the gift. “Thank you, that’s re­al­ly swe­et.” I pic­ked up the wrap­ped box and sho­ok it. “Ooh, jewelry?”

  “I’m sorry the­re’s only one gift. I was surp­ri­sed how much the­se things cost, but you sa­id last ye­ar yo­ur he­art was set on ha­ving one.”

  I ga­ve her an eager glan­ce, clu­eless as to what I had wan­ted for my six­te­enth birth­day. That felt li­ke a cen­tury ago.

  I un­ve­iled a whi­te box from my fa­vo­ri­te lo­cal jewe­ler-they did su­per-funky, one-of-a-kind items-and bo­un­ced on my to­es, sa­vo­ring the last few mo­ments of an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on.

  I ope­ned the box and swept off the la­yer of cot­ton pro­tec­ting the… oh God. My sto­mach sank slowly, lying down in sur­ren­der.

  “Do you li­ke it?” Gi­na as­ked. “We can exc­han­ge it if you want a dif­fe­rent length.”

  I lif­ted the neck­la­ce from the box. The eigh­te­en-ka­rat gold cha­in and set­ting gle­amed in the chan­de­li­er’s glow. But the te­ard­rop-sha­ped sto­ne ref­lec­ted no light at all.

  Obsi­di­an.

  “When did you buy this?” I whis­pe­red.

  “I or­de­red it last month,” she sa­id in a qu­i­et but firm vo­ice. “Right be­fo­re Than­k­s­gi­ving.”

  Last month. Af­ter Lo­gan’s de­ath.

  I la­id the sto­ne in the cen­ter of my palm. It was so­lid black, but if I sta­red hard eno­ugh, I co­uld see red flecks de­ep wit­hin.

  Every musc­le in my fa­ce went ri­gid. I had to say so­met­hing, an­y­t­hing ni­ce to ke­ep from scre­aming. “It’s be­a­uti­ful.” Not a lie. But tor­na­dos we­re be­a­uti­ful too.

  “Swe­etie, you pro­bably fe­el li­ke you don’t want that right now. But ple­ase ke­ep it. You’ll want it so­on eno­ugh.”

  I wan­ted to hurl it ac­ross the ro­om. But ins­te­ad I han­ded it to Gi­na, then tur­ned my back and lif­ted my ha­ir so she co­uld put it on me. The so­oner it was on, the so­oner I co­uld ta­ke it off.

  “The clasp is stub­born.” She ga­ve a lit­tle grunt. “We might ha­ve to ask them to lo­osen it.” She lo­oped it aro­und my neck, whe­re the sto­ne thud­ded aga­inst my chest. A click ca­me from be­hind my he­ad. “The­re. Let’s see how it lo­oks.”

  We went to the mir­ror. The fa­ke Christ­mas pi­ne bo­ughs dra­ped over it ma­de a fra­me for our fa­ces. I smi­led to ple­ase Gi­na, but my eyes fi­xed on the de­ad cold black of the ob­si­di­an.

  Aunt Gi­na hug­ged me. “Happy bir­t­h­day.”

  “You too,” I sa­id ab­sently, then re­ali­zed what she’d sa­id. “I me­an, thanks.” I kis­sed her che­ek and tuc­ked the pen­dant in­si­de my swe­ater. “I’m gon­na go to bed early, okay?”

  “Wa­it.” She blin­ked ra­pidly. “The­re’s so­met­hing you sho­uld know.”

  You chan­ged my she­ets.

  “Mr. Ke­eley cal­led to­day,” Gi­na sa­id. “Appa­rently Lo­gan plans to le­ave this world be­fo­re the tri­al.” She pa­used, as if wa­iting for me to con­firm the in­for­ma­ti­on. “But the Ke­eleys want to push for­ward with the law­su­it, even in his ab­sen­ce.”

  “Are you kid­ding?” I ste­adi­ed myself with the tab­le ed­ge. “I tho­ught the who­le po­int was to get Lo­gan to mo­ve on, to sa­ve his so­ul. If he finds pe­ace, why not drop the ca­se?”

  “It’s be­co­me the­ir cru­sa­de.” She swi­ped a ti­red hand ac­ross her fo­re­he­ad. “I’ve se­en this hap­pen with ot­her cli­ents. They lo­se a lo­ved one, and the only way they can find me­aning in that de­ath is to pre­vent ot­hers li­ke it.”

  “How do­es su­ing the re­cord com­pany ke­ep ot­her mu­si­ci­ans from snor­ting co­ke?”

  “If it ma­kes the­se men think twi­ce be­fo­re lu­ring am­bi­ti­o­us kids with free drugs, it’ll be a mo­ral vic­tory. Even if we lo­se.”

  “Wit­ho­ut Lo­gan, you will lo­se. The who­le ca­se de­pends on pro­ving he didn’t know what he was do­ing when he to­ok the drugs.”

  “We’ll still ha­ve yo­ur tes­ti­mony as to his sta­te of mind. We’ll al­so ha­ve Lo­gan’s de­po­si­ti­on, which the jury can re­ad. It’s not as ef­fec­ti­ve as he­aring his tes­ti­mony, so to spe­ak, but it’s bet­ter than not­hing.” She clenc­hed her fists. “If only the sta­te had pas­sed that drug de­aler li­abi­lity law, War­rant wo­uld’ve set­tled out of co­urt we­eks ago.”

  I tur­ned away from her, my mind spin­ning. If it was al­re­ady too la­te to avo­id the sha­me of the tri­al, Lo­gan might as well stay in­de­fi­ni­tely. But did I want him to? The cho­ice was ours aga­in.<
br />
  I pres­sed the he­els of my hands to my che­ek­bo­nes. “I don’t know what to do.”

  Gi­na pul­led out two of the di­ning ro­om cha­irs. “Aura, I’m abo­ut to tell you so­met­hing I’ve ne­ver told an­yo­ne but Fat­her Ro­tel­la.”

  I drop­ped my hands. I was right when I’d told Zac­hary my birth­day co­uld be­co­me mo­re crap.

  When we sat down, Gi­na smo­ot­hed the cre­ase in the gre­en-and-gold tab­lec­loth. “You know that be­fo­re the Shift, I was ab­le to see ghosts. But what you don’t know is that I was on­ce in lo­ve with a man who-” She pur­sed her glossy pink lips. “He di­ed and be­ca­me a ghost. Just li­ke Lo­gan.”

  I suc­ked in a sharp bre­ath. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” My vo­ice pitc­hed an oc­ta­ve hig­her than usu­al.

  “Be­ca­use I was mar­ri­ed at the ti­me, but not to him. We had an af­fa­ir.” Gi­na ro­ta­ted one of the brass cand­les­tick hol­ders flan­king the cen­ter­pi­ece, avo­iding my ga­ze. “To ma­ke mat­ters wor­se, yo­ur mot­her had a mad crush on him. Then aga­in, yo­ur mot­her had a mad crush on just abo­ut every man she ever saw,” she ad­ded with a ten­der smi­le. “But I knew it wo­uld hurt her if she fo­und out.” She rub­bed her thumb aga­inst a spot of wax on the cand­les­tick hol­der, smud­ging it. “Then he di­ed in an ac­ci­dent and ca­me back to ha­unt me. I was so dist­ra­ught, I left my hus­band. I ne­ver told him why, just that I didn’t lo­ve him an­y­mo­re.”

  I tho­ught of my re­ac­ti­on to Zac­hary’s kiss, how it had ma­de me miss Lo­gan mo­re than ever.

  The cand­le top­pled out of the hol­der. Gi­na set it asi­de. “It was pro­bably true in that mo­ment,” she sa­id, “but le­aving him was the stu­pi­dest thing I ever did. By the ti­me I re­ali­zed my mis­ta­ke, he’d got­ten over me, fo­und so­me­one el­se.”

  “That’s hor­rib­le.” I’d known Gi­na had be­en mar­ri­ed be­fo­re I was born, but the fa­mily ne­ver dis­cus­sed her ex-hus­band. “What abo­ut the ghost? Did he pass on?”

 

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