“Hey,” Melanie said, standing in the kitchen’s doorway.
Veronica turned to her, then gestured to Harry. “I hope it’s okay.”
“Of course.”
“How’s Angie?”
“Resting. She seems so exhausted. Do you think I should take her back to a hospital?”
“No,” Veronica said. “I mean, do it if you think she’s getting worse or something. But I bet it’s normal. I bet it’s not just exhaustion, either.”
“Yeah, you mean like, she’s depressed?”
Veronica nodded. “I would be.”
Melanie sighed and rubbed her eyes.
“She’ll be alright, Mel,” Veronica said.
“Yeah. From your lips to God’s ears.”
“How are you?” Veronica asked.
“Pretty damn wiped.”
“Yeah, I bet. You should lie down, get some rest.”
“What if she needs me?”
“Tell her to wake you up if she does. If you want, I could stick around too. But I might pass out.”
“No, it’s okay, V,” Melanie said. “You’ve already done… so much. Thank you again.” Melanie grabbed Veronica and hugged her. Her voice broke. “Oh V. When I think about her on the riverbank—”
“Hey,” Veronica murmured. “No—she’s okay, Mellie. She’s fine. She’s just upset and tired. Everything is okay.” Melanie released her. Veronica took a step back and grasped Melanie’s hands. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to take Harry around the block, okay? And then I’ll come back and pass out on your couch.”
“It’s okay, you can go home,” Melanie said, her voice catching.
“No, I want to stay. I just have to give this guy a little tour of duty.”
Melanie nodded. “Okay. I’d like it if you were here.”
~~~
As Harry led her down Melanie’s block, the Victorian houses gave way to storefronts. Veronica always liked strolling through Melanie’s neighborhood, especially because one of the shops was a small art gallery. She stopped in front of the window and gazed at the canvases that hung there. Someone had used crackle paint to reinvent Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
Bo would like that, Veronica thought. The memory of her last real boyfriend hit her, accompanied by the realization that it included another episode of insight—well, no, why not call it by its right name? Of clairvoyance. Three years before she’d dated a man named Bo Bedragar, an amateur art collector fond of crackle paint, who, it turned out, was committing fraud at his accounting job. His imprisonment put an end to their romance, but now if she forced herself to look at it, she saw that the relationship never really took off, because on some level she knew he was a cheat. Maybe not the usual kind of cheat, but he’d been lying to her, hiding his true self. But worse than that, she admitted to herself now—now that she could accept it—she had known what he was doing. She’d ignored the knowledge, and yet been proven right. A serious lack of any real evidence had made the knowledge impossible, and it frightened Veronica to her core to realize she could know something like that. She hadn’t wanted to believe in the images that came to her, or the simple certainties that she couldn’t account for. But now, after the night she experienced with Melanie, she had to accept the truth. She knew things. When she was certain of something, it didn’t matter that she lacked proof. It didn’t matter how strange the information appeared. She had better start paying attention.
Chapter 8
The first thing Veronica did, once she’d settled herself on Melanie’s couch and dropped off to sleep, was have another dream. Perhaps it happened because her defenses were down, and she’d decided to let them stay that way.
She was running down the street in the heels. Ahead of her, the trees loomed black in the bad street lighting. She was short of breath and her calves hurt, but she heard him behind her.
“Hey!”
“Leave me alone!” she shouted, but she knew he never would, and saying the words sent a terrible stab of guilt through her heart.
So she ran faster. By the time she reached the roses she was heaving for air. She whirled around and there he was, just a few feet behind her. She couldn’t see his face because of the headlights of a car that was coming down the road. He lunged for her—
~~~
Veronica woke up. Her heart pounded and she felt short of breath. She gripped her covers as if afraid she might tear from the couch and run to McKinley again. But she didn’t. She stayed right where she was. She had perfect control of herself. After a few more minutes, when her breathing went back to normal, she got up.
She got a glass of water and sat down at the kitchen table.
She knew Sylvia knew him. But other than that, Veronica knew precious little. She drank some water. What in the world could she do? She had to do something. They had arrested the wrong person. That meant Mr. Right was still out there.
She wanted to help Sylvia. She hadn’t made it in time to save her, but Veronica still wanted to help her. The clock on the wall said it was after three. Time to go home, Veronica decided. Melanie and Angie would be okay, and she had something she needed to do.
She said goodbye to Angie first—the girl was playing a computer game in her room, looking subdued. Then Veronica went to Melanie’s bedroom. Mel was asleep. Veronica touched her shoulder, and Melanie blinked rapidly.
“Ange—?”
“No it’s me, Mellie.”
“Oh, V.”
“Yeah. Hey, I’m gonna go, okay? Ange is fine. She’s on her computer.”
“Oh. Alright.”
Melanie closed her eyes again and Veronica closed the bedroom door quietly behind her. She leashed Harry downstairs and drove home, thankful that her car didn’t make any ugly noises.
At home she gave Harry a quick break out back and fed the cats. Then she found the card that Detective Seong had given her and called the number. It went to voicemail.
“Hello, Detective,” she said, and cleared her voice. How was she supposed to say this? Well, she couldn’t, not in a message anyway. “If you could give me a call, please. Um. It’s Veronica Barry, sorry, I didn’t say that before. I just—I think there’s something I should tell you. Um. Yeah, so please call.” She gave him her number, feeling awkward and clumsy. He would think she had remembered something that she saw or heard. What would he say when he called back and she told him the truth?
Veronica couldn’t stand just waiting for a phone call. She hated sitting there on her couch, catching herself glancing over at the phone. Time to do something constructive. She had a stack of grading sitting in the big canvas bag she totted to and from school, but she knew it would never be able to compete with a silent phone for her attention. No, only one thing would make her forget about the impending call. Painting. She had been putting it off for long enough. Looking in the gallery window had given her the itch.
Veronica went into her room and removed the canvas from the easel, then carried the easel, canvas, and supplies in several trips back to her painting spot in the living room. She set up, pouring Turpenoid into two cups, pulling the used top sheet of her wax paper pallet off to start with a fresh one, finding the roll of paper towels in the kitchen and bringing it to the living room so it was handy. Just going through this process of set up made her feel more centered, but excited, too. She felt like she hadn’t painted in years. It had only been a little over a week, but it felt like forever.
She would work on the angel’s wings, she decided. She sat down on her stool and stared at the canvas for a moment, visualizing the colors. The wings needed to look white overall, but really they would be a mixture of colors, mostly pale blues. Some yellow, too, here and there, to give an effect of golden light. Soon she was working, and the worry over Detective Seong’s call had completely deserted her mind.
As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about getting a phone call. Two hours later there came a knock on her door. As she looked through the peephole, Harry barking and bouncing beside her,
she saw Detective Seong.
“Hello,” she said as she opened the door, shooing Harry with a hand. The dog stood back a few feet but kept giving occasional barks, just to remind everyone that he was here and he was not letting any intruders take advantage. “Harry, that’s enough. Good boy, but that’s enough. Sorry,” she said to Seong. “Come in.”
Seong entered. “Good guard dog,” he said.
“Yeah,” Veronica agreed. “I don’t like to discourage him too hard, I want him to bark when it’s a stranger, you know. But he can stop now,” this she said pointedly to Harry, who let out another woof.
Seong held out a hand to him and Harry wagged his stub of a tail and sniffed it. “See, no bad guys here,” Seong said. Harry sat and let his tongue out for some happy panting. When Seong looked at her again he gave her a smirk.
“What?” she asked, feeling uneasy.
“You—uh—you have a little…” his voice trailed off, but he gestured to his right cheek.
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I was painting.” She rushed to the bathroom. Sure enough, a large smear of cobalt blue adorned her cheek. She scrubbed it with soap and a washcloth. Luckily, it came off.
As she returned, she saw Seong still standing just inside the front door. “So, you said there was something you wanted to tell me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Veronica said, dread gripping her. She wiped her damp hands on her front of her thighs. “You want to sit?” she indicated a chair at the table. Seong sat and she took the other chair. How to tell him? “Um, this is going to sound…well, I think you might remember I told you… uh, that she knew him, right?”
“That Sylvia Gomez knew her attacker? I remember you said you had a feeling,” he said.
“Well, it’s more than that,” Veronica said. She gazed at him. He had even features, and the outer corners of his eyes tilted up like a cat’s. It gave his face a mischievous quality. She liked it, she decided. She wanted to trust him. “See, last night, in the middle of the night, my friend called me. Her daughter was missing.”
Detective Seong said nothing.
As she continued, the words started to tumble out more and more quickly. “So I went over there and she asked me if I knew where she was and of course I didn’t—but I also did, somehow. I knew she was lost by the American River—by rapids, where the water rushing is very loud. And we got in the car, and I took her to her daughter. I mean it was far.” She tried to take a breath, to slow herself. “It was off highway 49, Detective.”
Seong frowned. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how this relates to Sylvia Gomez, Miss Barry.”
Veronica sighed. “No, you wouldn’t. Because it doesn’t. Except that I knew, Detective. I knew where her daughter was. Sometimes, I know things.” She paused, pushing herself to say it. “Like a psychic.” The word was so awful, so full of connotations. She pictured a woman in scarves with long fingernails belonging to that word. But what else could she call herself? “I am a psychic, I guess. I don’t like the word, but I can’t think of any other way to say it. And I am telling you, Sylvia Gomez knew her attacker. She felt guilty about something to do with him. She wasn’t surprised he was chasing her. She felt like he deserved to punish her.”
Seong said nothing, his face expressionless. The mischievous quality had disappeared.
“Have you at least looked at her boyfriend or husband?”
He rolled his eyes. “Miss Barry, as I’m sure you are aware—as is anyone who watches TV—the significant other is always the first suspect. But Sylvia’s husband has an alibi.”
“Maybe it was a friend of hers? I mean someone she saw socially? Or a brother? Or her father?”
“No siblings locally, father lives in Nevada. We talked to all the local family and a lot of her friends, too,” he said. He shook his head. His dark hair curled a bit around his ears, she noticed. Then she bit the inside of her lip in annoyance. Why was she thinking about his hair? He wasn’t listening to her. “Look, Miss Barry, I appreciate your concern, but Collins did it. End of story.”
“How can you be so sure about that?”
“This may come as a surprise, but we actually do have intelligent, professional people working for the Sac PD,” he said.
“Of course,” Veronica said, “but you can still make mistakes—”
“This isn’t a mistake, we have physical evidence!”
“But—”
Seong held up a hand. “Look, I’m sorry, but if there’s nothing else, this is actually the first Saturday off I’ve had in two months. So if you don’t mind, I’ll get back to it.” He stood up.
Her cheeks burned. She didn’t want him to leave unconvinced, but she didn’t know what else to do. “How do you explain what happened with my friend’s daughter?”
“I don’t know what happened with your friend’s daughter. I just know it has no bearing on this case, Miss Barry. Excuse me.” With that, he left, pulling the door shut behind him.
Chapter 9
Veronica called Melanie the next morning after a rough night of tossing and turning. Between ruminating over the past and stressing about Sylvia Gomez she couldn’t sleep more than a few minutes at a time and that prevented her from having any more revelatory dreams.
“It’s so frustrating,” she said to Mel. “It’s like I said, ‘Okay, what dreams may come,’ right? And I talked to the detective about it and humiliated myself and everything. And for nothing. It didn’t make any difference. And now I can’t get it out of my head.”
“Well, I know a way you can use your gifts for another good cause,” Melanie said. “I have been trying to get Angie to name names since last night and she refuses to talk about any of it.”
“I don’t know if I can help with that, Mel.”
“Well, why don’t you come over for lunch. Chris went back down to San Diego early—they were having some crisis—on the weekend, can you believe it? Anyway, it’s just us girls. Maybe she’ll at least talk to you. I can’t get anything out of her. But she loves her auntie Veronica.”
“Oh, Mel, Angie loves you.”
Melanie sighed. “Yeah. But she won’t talk to me. Will you please come over for lunch? And just try?”
“Yeah, okay. But just don’t get your hopes up.”
~~~
Melanie let her in and gestured toward the stairs. “Why don’t you go up there and check on her while I finish making lunch?”
Veronica rolled her eyes and went to Angie’s room. When she opened the door, she saw the river. She wasn’t standing in Angie’s room at all. She was standing on the bank of the river. It was day. The rocky bank stretched out in either direction and the water seemed not so violent. Veronica took a step, then suddenly a girl stood right beside her. Something was terribly wrong with her. A bluish cast to her skin off-set her purple lips. She reached out toward Veronica, and then everything vanished. Veronica stood in Angie’s messy room.
“Are you okay?” Angie asked. She didn’t look so great either. Dark circles under her eyes contrasted with the pallor of her usually rosy cheeks.
“Um, yeah.” Veronica managed. She looked around, afraid to take a step—would she find herself on the bank of the river again if she did? “I just—um…”
“You sure you’re okay? You can sit down if you want,” Angie said, and she hurried to the bed, where she had to move a pile of clothes to make space.
Veronica took a careful step—no return of the river—and stopped before sitting. “Ange, this room is kind of a mess.” Usually Angie was a bit of neat freak. As something of a slob herself, Veronica had never really understood the quality in her friend’s daughter. And the room she stood in looked a lot more like her own room growing up than Angela’s room ever had. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Angie said. “I’ve just had a busy couple of weeks.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Veronica murmured, still feeling weird from the sight of the river and the girl. It had been a vision. A psychic vision. Lovely. So now she would
start seeing things—like she was there—fully awake, in the middle of the day. Opening herself up to it would bring this sort of thing. Just lovely. “How are you holding up, anyway?”
“I’m fine,” Angie shrugged.
Veronica took a few more steps into the room. Nothing happened. Books piled on both armchairs looked ready to tumble everywhere. “Those are a hazard,” Veronica pointed.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Angie said, cracking a smile.
“Yeah, you should see my room,” Veronica said.
“So did my mom send you up here to get me to tell you who took me to the river?”
Veronica gazed at her. “Well, you can tell me if you want to. You can tell me any part of it.”
“I don’t want to. I want to forget it ever happened. It was stupid. I was stupid. I snuck out and I should have just stayed home.”
Veronica cocked her head to the side. “You know you didn’t deserve anything that happened to you, right? I mean, yes, it was bad to trick your mother and sneak out when she told you that you couldn’t go, but that’s not punishable by near drowning.”
Angie snorted. She shook her head. “I’m not going to tell on them. It’s bad enough I told Mom Grant’s name.”
“Angie, they left you there. You could have drowned.”
Angie started wringing her hands. Veronica had seen Melanie do the same thing when she was upset or worried. In that moment, Angie looked very much like her mother. It made Veronica sad to see—it was such an adult gesture of worry.
“You don’t understand. You can’t. You don’t go to my school. Anyway it’s over,” Angie said. “It’s all done, and you don’t have to worry, and my mom doesn’t have to worry. I’m not going to hang out with those people ever again. They’ll leave me alone.”
The River and the Roses (Veronica Barry Book 1) Page 7
