by Lyla Payne
“Okay,” I say, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about or when he talked with Amelia again. “Thanks for coming by.”
I don’t tell him that, living down the street from us, this might not be the last strange occurrence. I get the feeling Beau’s biting back the same warning.
“He seems nice,” Beau comments after I shut the door.
“I can’t tell, but Amelia seems to like him.” I bite my lower lip, wondering if I shouldn’t have said that, with Brick and all. My boyfriend’s expression is only half-interested, though.
“Come on, I’ll help you clean up.”
Beau and I go back into the kitchen and tidy up from dinner, and then he sends me upstairs to take a shower. I can’t stop shivering, and only part of it is because of the chill sweeping into the house through the front window. He’ll be up as soon as Will leaves, with any number of suggestions on how to keep warm. After I receive my lecture on not telling him about the text message straightaway, of course.
In my bedroom, I find Ellen’s ghost pacing back and forth in front of the window where Anne Bonny liked to sit when she first came to visit. A pang of sadness over what we had to do in order to lift our family curse from our DNA, the way we had to pry Anne from our history, thuds in my chest.
This ghost’s anxiety dances over and right into my limbs, making me feel like pacing alongside her. My heart flutters, beating irregularly, and it’s hard to breathe.
“What happened to you, Ellen? Is that what you want me to find out?”
She stops, turning to face me with a thoughtful, grave expression. Her head cocks to one side, her lips pursed, making her the ghostly picture of a woman contemplating her answer. In the end, she shakes her head no.
“No? That’s not it?”
More thinking, and this time she holds up one finger—not pointing at me, but the number one—and shakes her head again. After she’s sure I’ve got that part, she moves another finger beside the first one, so she’s showing a number two. Then she shrugs and nods.
We’re engaging in a bizarre game of charades that I should be better at after months of playing one game or another with various spirits. Ellen throws up her hands and starts pacing again while I puzzle out what her actions could mean.
An idea goes off like a lightbulb. “Oh! You mean you wouldn’t mind if I find out what happened to you but that’s not the number one reason you’re hanging around, right?”
That gets her attention and she stops again, nodding so vigorously that she reminds me of the Little Mermaid after Prince Eric finally guessed her name.
The stray comparison makes me giggle, which seems to confuse her, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned something, even if I don’t know what to do with it or what it means, and that makes me feel better.
“I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m probably going to have sex with my boyfriend. You don’t have to stick around for the show.” I go into the bathroom and close the door on the disgusted face she’s making, which only makes me laugh harder.
My smile falls away as the spray from the shower eases some of the tension from my shoulders and neck. It’s always nice when my ghosts and I can find a way to communicate, but the truth is, Ellen’s left me with more questions than answers again.
There’s a clue in there, though, and the longer I let my mind drift the more the seed of truth starts to work loose from the dark mud caked on top of it. Because if there’s one thing I know better than anything else these days, it’s pregnant women.
Which means I know exactly what Ellen would consider more important than finding out what became of her.
She wants me to find out what became of her baby.
Chapter Ten
At the police station the next day, I’m feeling both better and worse about being able to help poor Ellen Hargrove. I frown as I wait for Will to come back with a pen that works and a cup of coffee, even though the crap that comes out of the machine at the Heron Creek PD should be cleaned up by the EPA. I can’t help but be distracted by what happened to Ellen’s baby after she died, or worse, before she died. Autumn said that her friend had left home when she started to really show, and at first I assumed her pregnancy was recent. Now, I have to wonder if she wasn’t farther along when she ran away from Heron Creek with nothing but the clothes on her back—maybe six months or more. She was young, it was her first pregnancy…she could have hidden it for a long time.
Yet, she never went to see Trent. That part of the story still bothers me.
If they were as “inevitable” as her mother believed, as Trent seemed to accept, why wouldn’t she have told him about the baby? If she was so far along, it made even less sense. She should have told him a long time before then, but perhaps she’d been thinking—or maybe hoping—their off-again status would switch to on-again, making the entire thing easier.
Regardless, to find out what happened to Ellen’s baby, I still need to figure out where she went when she left. Since her mother, Trent, and Autumn all believe Ellen left town on her own—and her best friend gave me a good reason why—I see no reason to doubt that hypothesis.
“Here you go.” Will sets down a steaming mug, which has a stained ring around the inside of the rim, and a mechanical pencil.
I raise my eyebrows. “A pencil?”
“I know how you like to revise as you go.”
It’s true that words never come out of my brain and go down on paper correctly the first time. It’s a little tidbit about Graciela Harper that only people who live in this town would know, and Will’s at the top of the list of people who know useless trivia about me.
“Thanks.”
I set to work writing down what happened last night, stopping to erase and rewrite several sentences along the way, then pause and tap the eraser against my teeth while I consider what to say about Ellen. Might as well tell all, with the exception of what I know about her pregnancy. Beau, Millie, Autumn, and I are the only people aware of that part, and I think holding it back is smart. Having the secret in my back pocket might come in handy if I need to trip someone up later on in the investigation.
Gracie, you’re not a detective.
Yes, I know that, I tell myself. But I’m something like a detective. A detective for the dead.
My lips twist into a wry smile. Maybe I should use that as a slogan on some business cards.
“What are you smiling at?” Will asks, watching me over the rim of his coffee.
I haven’t touched mine and don’t plan to, either. “Nothing. Just the voices in my head.”
“If we hadn’t known each other our whole lives I’d be worried about you.”
“Hmm.”
“I mean, since I have known you my whole life, I worry about you for different reasons.” His expression is soft when I glance up again, and my heart squeezes.
“I worry about you, too. We’re family.”
“I suppose we are.” A sly twinkle creeps into his gaze. “Does that mean the mayor has to ask my permission if he wants to marry you?”
I can’t help but snort at the idea. “It does not mean anything of the sort. You don’t own me, and neither does anyone else. He can ask me, and that’ll do.”
Will grows serious. “Is he going to ask you?”
My heart stutters at the thought, and there’s no mistaking the fear that tumbles a chill through my veins. I shake my head. “We’re nowhere near there yet. We’re still figuring things out.”
Will drops the subject when I bow my head back over my paper, keeping one arm bent around it as if I’m taking a test at school and don’t want anyone to cheat off me. It doesn’t take me long to finish up, and then I slide the paper across the desk to Will and contemplate the cooling cup of coffee while he reads.
“I kind of can’t believe she’s really dead,” he says after he reads the whole thing twice and then sets it down on the desk between us. “And that apparently, someone in town—or nearby—has known what happened this whole time.”
“Did you know her?”
He shakes his head. “Not well, but she went to our church. Mel and I volunteered with the youth group for a few years before Grant was born.”
Every time he says shit like that it becomes crystal clear that the two of us would never have worked out in the long run.
“What was she like?”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t easy, but I think she liked it that way.” He shrugs. “Typical teenager. Ellen had no idea who she was, but she tried harder than most to figure it out.”
“That’s pretty much what her mom said.”
“I know people thought her parents were long on punishment and short on understanding, but they weren’t bad people. Not bright people, but not bad.”
“So what do you think?”
“I think you should stay out of it, but we both know that’s not going to happen.” He fiddles with the edge of the paper. “But if you find out anything concrete, any lead I could help you follow up, please ask for my help, Gracie. You’re not alone. You never will be, as long as I’m close by.”
I smile at him, touched by his offer to stand by my side. He knows I would do the same for him, for Mel, but for a while there, after she’d gone out on a limb to help me and lost her job—a job they need—I worried that I would lose their friendship. That things wouldn’t be the same.
Of course, it doesn’t seem as if she’s told him about her desire to get into this ghost-mystery-solving gig full time, and who knows how things will change then. I’m starting to believe that even if a tornado barrels into the four of us it wouldn’t knock us down. The confidence that gives me sometimes makes me feel as though I have superpowers. Other times, it makes me feel weighed down by the responsibility that rests on my shoulders, and I worry that it won’t be possible to carry them all without letting one or more fall.
“I will. I promise.” I cross my fingers behind my back because the baby thing is sort of a solid lead. We could track down birth records, things like that, but I don’t know… If Ellen’s dead and her baby is nowhere to be found, I have to figure out one of two things: either the baby also died and someone buried them both, or Ellen died, the baby survived, and someone kept him or her for themselves. In both scenarios, no official records of the baby’s birth would have been filed. Which means he couldn’t help anyway, right?
Will sighs. “Good enough. But I know you’re crossing your fingers behind your back.”
I don’t bother to protest, and we’re both distracted by the sound of the bell tinkling over the front doors, anyway. Travis strides in, looking clean today, at least, and strangely relaxed in a pair of jeans and a University of Texas hoodie. The burnt orange shouldn’t be a good color on anyone, but it doesn’t look bad on Travis with his ruddy, dark complexion. My stomach squeezes at the sight of him, because he has no reason to be here—and what if it’s about Amelia? I’d texted him this morning and asked him to watch out for her while I came here.
He startles when he sees me sitting across from Will, who gets to his feet and hurries around the front of the desk in a move that smacks of protectiveness.
Travis stops a few feet away and licks his lips. “There should be a package for me here.”
My nerves settle and I blow out a heavy breath. Not about Amelia.
“Yeah, it’s up here.” Will strides up to a desk that should belong to a receptionist, if Heron Creek had the need for one.
Well, based on the state of the station and the mess of files and papers, they need one. It still can’t be justified with so few people to serve and protect, though. Four police officers—three at the moment—are really more than we need, but our town council has a soft spot for the Ryans and takes a hard stance on even nuisance crime.
Will digs a fat shipping envelope out and hands it over. “Why did you have it sent here instead of to your house?”
“Two reasons,” Travis grunts. “First, they respond more quickly if the kit is requested by a police department, and second, my mailman is a drunk who delivers my mail to my neighbors more often than not.”
“Can’t you just get it from your neighbors?”
“Depends. Most of them aren’t that fond of me, it turns out.”
Hard to believe. I bite my tongue to stop from saying that out loud. Travis doesn’t need any more grief from me, but if his neighbors aren’t all that friendly, it’s probably because he didn’t make an effort to be friendly to them in the first place.
Or they just don’t like cops. In that part of town, maybe that’s the most likely reason.
No matter the reason, or how iffy I am about this DNA thing, Travis is doing me a solid as far as Millie. Then again, he should be with her, now.
I stand up and walk over to them, deciding that with Ellen showing up, I’d better find out what Travis needs from me now so I won’t forget to do it later.
“So what’s in there?” I ask, nodding toward the package. “Do I have to go to a doctor and get blood drawn or something?”
I don’t have a doctor in the area. Heron Creek has one family doctor, but it will be a cold day in hell when I let the townsfolk in on my medical issues, as well as all of the ones they already know about. Or let old Doc Stafford poke around my vagina.
Travis laughs, lines crinkling around his eyes, and even Will looks amused.
“What?” I demand, not enjoying being out of the loop.
“I just need one of your hairs, pulled out by the root,” Travis replies gently, sobering in the face of my irritation. “There are lots of them now that just need a saliva swab, but for what we need, this way is more accurate.”
“Oh. That’s it?”
“Yep. Isn’t science amazing?”
“Truly.” I reach up and run a hand through my hair, which is clean and looks nice today, despite the fact that I did nothing but brush it. “Can I give it to you now?”
“Yeah, hold on.”
Will wanders over to refill his coffee mug while Travis wrestles open the envelope, pulling out a cardboard box with a stupid-looking girl on the front who’s terribly excited to find out whether she should drink Guinness or Steiner. My former boyfriend has apparently decided that I can handle Travis on my own, which I could have told him from the start.
Are you sure? A little voice wells up from the back of my mind to pose the question.
It startles me, and I break the hair I’m yanking on without getting the root. Travis has always seemed surly but harmless to me, but the truth is, I don’t know him that well. I trust him with Amelia because he’s always gone out of his way to help with her, but he’s been lying since he set foot in this town. Whatever happened back in Arkansas is bad enough that he quit his job and is ready to move again, no questions asked, at the mere threat of anyone finding out.
Which means he hid it, or lied about it, on his job application, too. Beau would know about it otherwise, and I can’t imagine he would’ve kept something like that from me. Maybe before, when Travis was an employee and could expect some protection of his privacy by the people who employ him, but now? Beau would have told me if he knew anything, especially since it’s come out that Travis’s whole reason for choosing Heron Creek is me.
I watch him open the box and pull out a test tube-looking thing with a cap. He unscrews it and then looks at me expectantly. This time, I get the hair out with no trouble and give him a second one just in case, then peer into the kit.
“There are four vials.”
“Yes. We only need one sample each, but they send extras.”
I point toward the Q-tips. “You want me to do the saliva thing, just in case?”
His eyebrows knit together. “You want to get rid of me that bad, huh?”
I heave a sigh. “Travis, it’s not that, it’s just—”
“It’s fine.” He cuts me off, handing over a Q-tip and a second vial with sharp movements that relay his hurt feelings more than any real irritation. “Amelia’s at the coffee shop with Melanie. I didn’t see a
nyone suspicious near your house, though that new neighbor of yours was giving me the side-eye pretty hard.”
It would be easy to explain that I’m busy, that with everything else going on I don’t want what I promised him to fall off the radar, but the words pile up in my throat. I swallow them, knowing that saying all or any of that won’t do anything to make him feel better. They’ll just sound like lame excuses.
I run the Q-tip over my gums after reading the brief instructions, then seal it in the tube. Travis makes me stand there while he puts stickers on both vials and writes my name and date of birth on them, presumably so I can’t accuse him down the road of making some kind of mistake or swap.
I wouldn’t do that. Despite the fact that I have no idea how I’m going to react or what it might mean if the tests come back showing that Travis and I are related, I want to know the truth.
“How long does this take?”
“A month at the longest, but hopefully we’ll know something sooner,” he snaps, closing the case and stuffing it back into the envelope. “I’ll see you.”
I frown. “See you.”
He stomps out of the station, leaving me feeling like the world’s biggest bitch. Will gives me a look from the other side of the room like he might agree, in spite of his natural distrust of the man he called his boss for a couple of weeks.
I shrug. “I gotta go. Leo and I are going for a run.”
“Have fun, Gracie. And remember what I said.”
I nod, and this time Will doesn’t call me out on my lie. Or at least on my insistence to play this whole thing by my own rules.
On my way out, part of me almost wishes he would have pressed me one more time. I may have had the good sense to give in.
Leo and I are puffing along the river’s edge when I realize we’ve made it farther than we usually do and I don’t feel like dying. My endurance is returning, and it makes me feel strong, a fact that makes me realize how bad I need to feel that way in the face of the text and the brick through our front window.
