by Lyla Payne
“So you decided to keep him.”
She nods, leaning over to kiss the top of his head. “I don’t even remember deciding. I just did.”
I wait, wondering if she’s going to address the elephant in the room on her own, but when she doesn’t say anything, my patience wears out. “What happened to Ellen?”
“What? Oh. It took me a couple of nights to dig a deep enough grave in the woods, then I wrapped her in a sheet and buried her. It wasn’t easy.”
That sounds like an understatement. Autumn’s not tiny, but she’s not a big woman by any stretch of the word. It’s hard to imagine her manhandling a body into the woods and then into a grave. Humans are capable of crazy things, and we can accomplish feats by the sheer force of will, when we want it bad enough.
“Do you know where?” We need to know, for closure. I’m sure her family wants to bury her where they can go visit.
“Yes. I marked it really nice, with some landscaping stones I filched from the neighbors.” She nudges a navy blue diaper bag on the floor toward me. “There’s a map in the bag, along with the birth certificate and a couple of letters Ellen started writing to Trent and tore up. I taped them back together.”
“Where are you going?” I can’t help but ask. It’s not that I want her to end up in jail or anything, but what if she’s not telling the truth? “I mean, are you going to be okay?”
“No. But I think in the back of my mind I always knew this day would come.” She manages a wistful smile. “It shouldn’t surprise me that Ellen’s ghost showed up to force my hand. That girl had a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
Ellen’s ghost smiles the same sort of smile, as though she’s sorry that things turned out this way.
“Who said anything about a ghost?”
“Please, Graciela. Surely you don’t think you’re the only one who knows how to do a little research.”
“You mean you asked Lindsay Boone and she gave you an earful.”
“Pretty much.” She picks up Noah and snuggles him against her chest for thirty seconds, whispering into his ear and raining kisses on his face. Then she shoves him at me, leaving me no choice but to take him.
He’s heavy in my arms, solid and warm and smelling like only babies do. He squirms, as though he’s trying and failing to get comfortable with the new situation the same way I am, and I have to wonder if he’s ever been away from her.
Surely someone has to watch him while she works. Don’t be dumb, Gracie.
“I’m not going to jail for this,” she says. “I know it was wrong to take him, and to let everyone worry about Ellen, but I didn’t do anything that bad.”
Behind her, Ellen frowns. In the end, though, she makes eye contact with me and shrugs. She’s willing to let this go, even if she hasn’t forgiven her friend for what she took without permission. From everyone.
Autumn doesn’t cry. She takes one last look at Noah squirming in my arms and then turns and walks away. She never sees Ellen, even though the ghost doesn’t disappear.
Once Autumn is gone, I stare at my ghost, waiting for some sort of signal that she’s happy. That this is over, that she’s going to leave.
She walks toward me, one hand out and tears shining in her eyes. The baby sees her, I think. His blue eyes are fixed on her face, and he’s completely still. The closer she gets, the more excited he becomes. I don’t know if it’s because he senses her, or smells her, or if he’s super pumped to see his first ghost before he learns how to walk, but regardless, both of them break into the biggest smiles I’ve ever seen.
And even though I’m holding a kidnapped baby with no parents on record, no official birth certificate, and no mother, I can’t help but think that little Noah Boone is going to be just fine.
I don’t have a car seat so I can’t drive Noah into town. Aunt Karen has started buying baby things for Jack and bringing them over, though, and I find not one, but two strollers in the spare room where we’ve been storing the crap. We were going to turn it into a nursery sooner rather than later, but we’ve been enjoying our downtime.
Or we had been until Ellen showed up.
Noah’s growing antsy—or maybe sleepy or hungry, or just scared after being left with a complete stranger who knows very little about babies. He’s fidgeting and whimpering like a wail isn’t far behind. I’m wondering how anyone can tell what the heck they want and if Amelia will let me skip being an honorary aunt until Jack is old enough to talk.
I set him on the floor and put my phone in front of him, hoping it will entertain him long enough for me to put a stroller together. He’s babbling happily a few seconds later. My phone might not survive but as long as he does, and my eardrums are intact when we get to the police station, it will be a win.
It takes me twenty minutes to figure out how to put the thing together and another ten to get it done, and I use my hand to push down on it before I strap Noah in because I’m afraid I’m going to kill him during the hour he’s in my custody.
Once I’m sure it’s not going to fall apart and we’re going to make it into town safely, we set off. There’s no way everyone’s not going to be talking about me hauling a kid around town, probably by the time I get to the police station, so I use my drooled-on phone to dial Will on my way there.
“Hello?”
“Hey. Listen, I’ve got Noah. I’m headed your way. Could you call Trent?”
“Sure, but Gracie—.”
“I’ll fill you in when I get there,” I say, then hang up.
I ignore the looks and the whispers, marching through town with my eyes straight ahead. The diaper bag is heavy on my shoulder, and by the smell of the baby, I’m thinking I’m going to need to utilize its contents when we get to the police station.
There’s a flurry of activity once I arrive, but no one takes Noah from me. They’re all men, and even though Will has had one baby and is about to have another, apparently he’s okay with letting me—the baby-challenged woman—take care of Noah.
Maybe there’s some kind of buried maternal instinct at play, or maybe it’s just that I don’t want to hold a baby that smells like poop or listen to him scream for the next two hours until Trent gets here, but I change and feed him from one of the bottles in the bag, then rock him to sleep in my arms.
The state police show up first. Then the social workers arrive. I made Will promise not to call Ellen’s parents until Trent gets here, which is mean, maybe, but I want him to be the first one to see his son. It’s only fair.
The social workers go through the bag and find the birth certificate, which isn’t official since it hasn’t been signed by a medical professional but should be admissible in court as Ellen’s statement as to who the father is. Will takes the map that Autumn says leads to Ellen’s body and sends the Ryan twins to Driftwood. They’re supposed to meet with the local police and go check it out.
The letters addressed to Trent, I smooth on the desk in front of me but don’t read. They’re private, and for once, I don’t even feel the desire to peek.
Two hours turn to three before Trent strides through the front doors. He’s dirty, sweaty, and smells like fish, but when his frantic gaze falls on the sleeping baby in my lap, none of that matters. He’s at my side, staring down into his angelic face with an expression of wonder akin to the one Autumn wore while recounting Noah’s birth.
I scoop my hands under the baby and stand up, pressing against Trent’s shoulder so he can get a closer look. “Trent, this is Noah. Ellen says he’s your son.”
His breathing is ragged as he reaches for the baby and takes him from me. Noah stirs in his sleep, his lips pursed into a little rosebud as he quickly snuggles into the broad warmth of Trent’s chest. I can’t help but smile at the sight of them, so obviously related and, on Trent’s part at least, already in love.
“What happens now?” he asks me.
“I don’t know. The police and social services have a birth certificate that Ellen filled out before she died with your name on
it. Autumn signed it as a witness to the live birth, but it’s supposed to be certified by a medical professional and filed within a certain amount of time. They’ll have to verify it, probably with a DNA test or something, and then I don’t know how custody works.” I squeeze his bicep, which is as hard as a rock. “He’s your son. You’ll be together in the end.”
He pulls his gaze away from Noah, his eyes wet with tears. Emotions war on his face. “What happened to Ellen?”
“She died giving birth to Noah. It wasn’t Autumn’s fault. They were caught off guard and didn’t have time to get help. She did her best.” The anguish on his face could only belong to someone who loved Ellen with all of his heart. “She was going to tell you about the baby. She forgave you for everything, and I know she loved you, Trent.”
I pick up the folded, tattered letters off the desk and hold them out to him.
He takes the pages from me. “What are these?”
“Letters she wrote to you and tore up. Autumn kept them.”
“I’m having a hard time not hating her right now,” he mumbles softly. “She kept my son from me. She let us all wonder what happened to Ellen.”
“I know. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it was malicious.” I glance down at the sleeping baby. “She loved you, too, you know.”
He nods, his gaze back on his son. “I know. I couldn’t love her back, but it wasn’t her fault. It was just that Ellen was it for me.”
It’s sort of sad, that he believes that with his first love gone, he’ll be alone forever. I want to tell him that life goes on even if he can’t imagine it right now, that I’ve managed to somehow find a love that, while different from my first, is no less dear to me. I don’t say anything. It won’t help him now, and some things never seem possible or real until we discover them on our own.
There’s no reason for me to stay any longer. I haven’t seen Ellen since I left the house, and Will has everything under control here. Ellen’s parents will be here soon enough, and social services will need to talk to Trent about what happens from here. I’ll want to know if the twins find Ellen’s body where Autumn said it would be, but Will can bring me up to speed later.
I slip out the door, and as if I’m the ghost now, not one person notices.
The walk back home leaves me feeling free, and not only because I’m not pushing a stroller. People are still whispering, still wondering what’s happening in our small town, but the news will travel the gossip network before dinnertime, no doubt.
For my part, I’m thinking about a nap. It is my day off, after all, and I’ve already put in a full day’s work.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday night finds me back at the big, old house Taylor Nash has been renting. Daria asked if I wanted to come along for the cleansing since I kept badgering her about if she thinks Mel’s research is right. The house seems more sad than scary to me now that I know what happened to Rebecca Davis—or I think I do—on that night all those years ago. We may never know the truth as far as the rumors about the affairs, but after reading the editorial in the paper from the older Mrs. Walters, it’s pretty clear to me that Councilman Davis was an asshole of the highest order.
After witnessing what living that way can do to a person firsthand in Amelia, my heart goes out to the angry woman inside, even if she did try to take my head off with crockery the last time I was here.
“You ready?” Daria asks, opening her eyes and squinting at me in the near darkness. Unlike last time, she’s not armed with only a flashlight and her chutzpah. The black bag of Buffy toys is at her feet.
“Yep.”
I have to admit that I’m interested in seeing how this part of her job works. We burned sage at the thing with Mama Lottie not long ago, but, as Daria has informed me on more than one occasion, that wasn’t a normal circumstance. Nothing that happened to me at Drayton Hall could be categorized as “normal,” but damn if I don’t still love the place. Too bad I’m banished for life. Or at least until Cordelia Drayton dies, which by my calculations will likely be never.
Daria crunches up to the house on grass that’s gone dormant for the winter, and I can’t help but wonder how Taylor is handling all of this. I don’t know her at all, aside from nods on the street and at the coffee shop, where she always orders healthy drinks or herbal tea. That, combined with the fact that she runs a yoga studio, probably means I should get to know her better, but there hasn’t been a whole lot of time to focus on myself since my return to South Carolina. Maybe now, while it’s only Henry vying for my attention and he’s sort of on hold, I can start again.
Inside, the house is as quiet as it was the first time we stepped through the doors.
“Are there other ghosts here?” I whisper to Daria.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Do you see any other ghosts? You’re as good at that part as I am.”
“No.”
“I don’t think there are, either. It’s a pretty quiet piece of property for its age.” She flinches and then sighs, pointing upstairs. “Did you hear that?” I shake my head. “Let’s go see the lady of the house, shall we?”
“You want me to do the talking?”
“You’re better at sympathizing than I am. I’m wondering if you tell her we know what happened and that your buddy at the police department is going to open an investigation into her cold case, she won’t just fade away on her own. That would make you actually useful to me, Graciela.”
She says the last part like she’s thinking about tossing a treat into my mouth, and I make a face at her. “My mission in life.”
Daria grins in the face of my sarcasm, looking almost normal tonight with hair so deep purple it looks black in the darkness. Then she winces again, presumably at more noise from Rebecca Davis.
I ignore her and start walking up the stairs, feeling a little oogie about them now that I know this is where she died. At the top, the door to the china cabinet hangs open and some pieces are shattered on the floor. To my right, I find Rebecca in the same room from where she hurled things at me the last time, but now I’m prepared. I dodge a silver serving spoon with ease and block in the doorway so she can’t leave.
Or I guess she could, but none of my ghosts have ever gone through me. I imagine it would be pretty unpleasant, based on the havoc a mere touch of a hand on my arm can wreck.
“Hi, Becca.” I call her by the name Eunice Walters used, figuring it must have been how the people in town knew her best. Rebecca was such a common name a hundred years ago that people used every nickname possible to differentiate.
She startles at the sound of my voice, at the use of her name, and studies me with slightly less malice. She’s out of weapons so maybe she’ll listen, but the impatience radiating off her in waves says she’s not going to give me long to get to the point.
“I know what happened to you. I know your husband hurt you all the time and that he probably pushed you down the stairs and killed you the night you died.” I’m guessing, but the intense shock and relief on her face tells me I’m right. “People knew the truth but he never paid, did he? Because of who he was, or because he was willing to ruin others in order to hide the truth.”
The ghost continues watching me with a wary expression, not saying anything. It breaks my heart to realize no one ever believed her. Ever helped her.
The floor creaks at my back, and Daria’s breath brushes my shoulder. Rebecca’s gaze strays to her, but she doesn’t flip out again. She cocks her head to one side, a challenge gleaming in her eyes now.
“She wants to know what you’re going to do about it?” Daria whispers.
I look straight back at the angry spirit, not wavering. “I’m going to have the police open your cold case. If there’s proof that you were murdered, we’ll find it. I’ll write about it, even if it’s just for the paper. I swear.”
It’s amazing how I can almost see the fight bleed right out of the ghostly figure in front of me. It’s as if all of her fury and betrayal and frustration sink
right into the floorboards when she lets them go, and her figure dims, flickering like a lightbulb with poor circulation.
“Good job, Graciela. She’s ready now.” Daria steps up beside me and frowns. “But she made a mess of the room with her feelings. I’m going to have to cleanse the whole thing.”
I don’t ask what that means since I’m going to be around to watch it. Instead, I take a couple of steps toward Rebecca and catch her attention. “You can go. I’ll take care of it, I promise. I know you’re tired.”
She nods weakly, dark rings around her eyes and wrinkles on her face that shouldn’t be there. She had died a young woman. Too young to have aged this way, but the decades of stomping around in an attempt to call attention to her plight have taken their toll. My chest aches at the sight of her now, at how much she wants to lay down the troubles that plagued her during life.
“You can go,” I whisper again.
And she does. I can hardly believe my eyes as she nods again, gives the room a once-over as if she wants to give it the finger, and then walks straight through the opposite wall.
The room looks and feels empty, but I turn wide eyes toward Daria for confirmation. “Is she gone?”
“Yes. But we still need to take care of the room.” She hands me a sage stick.
“That’s it?” I ask, a little disappointed.
“What, you wanted some fireworks? I would think you’d had enough of that by now.” She cocks her head my direction and puts a hand on her jutted hip. “You did the hard work, as it turns out. But don’t think that means you’re getting a cut of the pay.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply dryly, resisting the urge once again to ask her how much money she makes doing this for people.
“I’m going to put out some bowls around the windows and burn some salt, too, but the owner shouldn’t have any more trouble. You take that sage around the inside and outside, okay?”
