by Кей Хупер
"Maybe, but there's something just a little bit spooky about how you do it, pal."
Instead of responding to that, Bishop merely said, "I've been meaning to ask if you're enjoying your first official SCU assignment."
"It has had its moments," Beau said, ruefully accepting the change of subject. "I think I've helped a few of the students, anyway. Do you consider that a plus?"
"It's what I expected." Amusement crept into Bishop's voice. "The whole point of someone like you joining the unit, Beau, is so that you can do what you're best at — painting, and helping others. Whatever you do for me on the side is just a bonus."
"Umm. So you weren't really counting on any of my psychic skills this trip, huh?"
Immediately, Bishop's voice changed. "Why? What have you seen?"
Beau walked around the worktable and headed for the back corner and the secluded spot where Diana's easel had always been. With her otherwise occupied today, he had set up his own "doodling" oil painting there, and had worked on it earlier before his students had arrived.
"Beau?"
"I thought it was me, at first," he said conversationally. "Because I was working on a painting here on Diana's easel. But then I remembered that her big sketchpad was still here, behind my canvas. And since that's where it's coming from, I don't think it's me."
"Beau, what are you talking about?"
The artist lifted his half-finished oil of The Lodge off the easel and set it aside, then opened the big sketchpad and began turning the pages. "The thing is, she tore that page off the sketchpad. I noticed later that it was missing. So it shouldn't be here at all."
"Her sketch of Missy?"
"Yeah. It's here again, Bishop. Or something that looks a lot like the original." Beau stood back, studying the open sketchpad and the drawing it revealed, all in charcoal — except for the vivid slash of scarlet marring the figure of the little girl and still dripping very slowly off the page and onto some rags Beau had earlier placed beneath the easel.
"And it's bleeding."
"Tell me about my sister, Dad," Diana said.
There was a long silence while she waited patiently, and then Elliot Brisco finally replied.
"I am not having this discussion with you over the phone. I'll be finished up here and head back to the States by Monday. Then we can talk. Go home, Diana."
Quentin felt as well as saw her slump a little, not in a release of tension but rather as though a new weight had settled onto her shoulders.
"Home to more lies? I don't think so. I'm staying here, Dad. I'll find the answers myself."
"You don't know what you're saying. What you're doing. Go home. Go home, and I promise we'll talk."
Diana drew another breath, and this one sounded ragged as the frozen stillness of her face began to shatter. "More than thirty years. You've had plenty of time to tell me the truth about Missy, about who she was. Makes me wonder what else you've been lying about, Dad."
"Diana—"
She snapped the phone closed, hanging up on her father, and handed it back to Quentin without looking at him. But her words were directed to him when she murmured, "Somehow, I don't see this story having a happy ending, do you?"
He automatically returned the phone to its belt clip, and with his free hand grasped her arm, because he once again had that unsettling feeling that she could somehow drift away from him. "Diana, you don't know the story — neither of us does."
"He didn't deny Missy was my sister. If it wasn't true, he would have denied it."
"Maybe. But there could still be a reasonable explanation for all this."
She turned her head and met his intent gaze, her own not quite pleading. "Could there? What could that be, Quentin? Why would a father never mention the existence of another daughter? Why, in all these years, have I never found any pictures of her except for this?" She lifted the photo again. "Why don't I remember her?"
Quentin answered the last question, because it was the only one he could think of an answer for. "You don't remember a lot of things from your life, you told me that yourself. The drugs, Diana, the medications."
A frown flitted across her face as they both heard a distant growl of thunder, and he felt her tense, but her gaze remained locked with his. "Yes, the drugs. Maybe that's something else my father has to answer for. Because if he could lie to me about Missy... then maybe he lied about other things. Maybe he lied about me being sick."
"It doesn't have to have been a deliberate lie." Quentin played devil's advocate because he had to, because he knew how dangerous it was for Diana to so suddenly lose all trust in her father. "With everything you've described about your childhood, he had every reason to believe you were going through something out of the ordinary. He just looked in the wrong place for answers, for treatments."
"Or he knew. He knew and did his best to keep me doped up and unaware."
"Why would he do that?"
"So I wouldn't remember Missy."
Another rumble of thunder, this one louder, made Quentin pull her away from the window and guide her to sit on one of the sofas near the boxes he had brought down from the attic. He sat down beside her, silently cursing the approaching storm because already he felt edgy and uneasy, and was all too aware that his senses were becoming untrustworthy. It was like someone turning the volume up and down on a stereo system randomly, so that one moment his senses were muffled and the next they were blasting "loudly" in his consciousness.
It was, to say the least, distracting, and he called on all the discipline he had learned and earned over the years to concentrate on her and what they were talking about.
"Diana, listen to me. As far as I've been able to determine, Missy and her mother came to live here at The Lodge when Missy was about three. You can't have been much older than that. When did you turn thirty-three?"
"Last September."
He nodded. "If Missy had lived, she'd be thirty-three this July. So, assuming you two were sisters, you were older by less than a year, and no more than four when — when she came to live here. How many of us remember much at all of our lives from those early years?"
"I should remember a sister." She stared down at the photo she held, frowning.
"It's not something we can be sure about, Diana. Not without more information."
Her gaze shifted to the nearby boxes. "Maybe we'll find something in there."
"Maybe. But don't get your hopes up. Most of Missy and her mother's belongings were destroyed in the North Wing fire years ago. It's sheer chance that this photo survived." Except that he didn't believe in anything as random as chance, didn't believe in coincidence. There was always a reason. Always.
Even as the scattered thoughts raced through his mind, Diana looked at Quentin, a sudden hope in her eyes. "Her mother. Quentin, what happened to her mother?"
He didn't want to deliver more disturbing news, but had no choice. "She left not long after the fire. I've never been able to trace her."
"And that was when? How many years ago?"
"The fire was less than a year after Missy was murdered. So, twenty-four years ago, give or take a few weeks."
"What did she look like?"
Quentin had to pause for only an instant. "A lot like Missy. Dark hair, big dark eyes, oval face. Average height. On the thin side, as I recall. Maybe even fragile."
"Are you sure?"
"I remember her, Diana, vividly." He watched the hope in her eyes turn to confusion, and added, "What is it?"
"That isn't my mother."
CHAPTER 13
“My mother was a redhead, like me," Diana said. "Tall, athletic. There was nothing fragile looking about her; that's one of the reasons I always wondered about her illness, because in all the pictures, she looked so healthy. So strong."
After a moment, Quentin suggested, "Same father, different mothers?"
"A half sister?" Diana thought about it, absently drawing her arm free of Quentin's grasp so she could rub her temple. Her whole head was th
robbing, making it difficult for her to think. "Maybe. As far as I know, he never married again after my mother died. But there could have been some sort of relationship along the way, I suppose."
Quentin hesitated, then said, "You told me you were very young when your mother died. How young?"
"I was four." She nodded before he could point out the obvious.
"Yeah, I've already thought about that. If Missy was less than a year younger than me, it means she was born while my mother was still alive. She was in and out of hospitals even before I was born, but it got worse with every passing year. Which means my father was involved with another woman while my mother was probably ill in a hospital."
"Diana, we don't know that. We don't really know anything. Except that we've found a photograph of you and Missy together and that your father — caught completely off guard — didn't deny she was your sister when you asked him about it. That's all we know."
"You sound like a lawyer," she murmured.
"I am a lawyer, technically. And I'm a cop. Look, all I'm saying is that we can't assume anything. If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that any situation is always more complicated than it looks at first. Always."
Diana felt as well as heard the thunder rolling down from the mountains, and rubbed her temple harder, wishing the pounding would stop and wondering why his voice sounded distant all of a sudden. "We probably won't have to assume for long," she said. "If I know my father, he'll be here by Sunday evening, Monday at the latest."
"Are you okay with that?"
"I don't have much choice, do I? It's a public hotel."
"That's not what I meant."
She knew that. "If I have to face him, it might as well be here, and might as well be now. I want the truth. I'm tired of... not remembering. Not knowing."
"You'll get there. We'll get there."
"Yeah." She looked away from him finally to stare at the photo in her hand, still rubbing her pounding temple. "In the meantime, I feel like I'm in the middle of a bad soap-opera plot without a rudder. Sisters separated in childhood, one of them murdered and now a restless ghost. A mother who died in a mental hospital. A lying, cheating father. An old Victorian hotel where ghosts walk. And an FBI agent who believes I can somehow make sense of it all."
"I do believe that."
Thunder rumbled and boomed, loudly now, and lightning flashed.
The photo blurred a little and then cleared. And Diana caught her breath as she could have sworn that the image of Missy took her hand off the dog and held it out as though beckoning. To the person holding the camera. Or to her older sister looking on.
"Diana—"
Before he could touch her, she flinched away from the movement she felt more than saw, murmuring, "No. Don't." She didn't take her eyes off the picture.
"What is it?" he demanded, his voice strained.
Don't let him touch you. Not now. Not this time.
The voice was too familiar, its urgency too real, for Diana to be able to disobey, and without even considering the matter she heard herself tell Quentin tensely, "Don't touch me. There's something I have to — Just don't touch me. Wait."
Lightning flashed brilliantly seconds after she uttered the command, and abruptly Diana found herself in the gray time.
Alone.
Ellie Weeks hadn't believed she could be more nervous than she had been making that phone call, but with everything happening in and around The Lodge, she was convinced she'd jump out of her skin if somebody so much as said boo in her general vicinity. Of course, being watched like a hawk by that old bat Mrs. Kincaid was enough to make anybody jittery, and she expected that pregnancy hormones could account for the rest, but still.
She was beginning to think getting kicked out of this place might not be such a bad thing. Assuming she had someplace else to go, of course.
She checked her cell phone for the tenth time, just to make sure she had a strong signal and hadn't missed a call. And like the other nine times, the indicator promised a strong signal and no missed calls.
"Shit," she murmured softly.
"Ellie!"
She jumped and then turned to face Mrs. Kincaid, knowing she looked guilty as hell but unable to do anything about it. As unobtrusively as possible, she slipped the cell phone back into the pocket of her uniform. None of the staff was supposed to carry their phones on duty. "Yes, ma'am?"
"I thought I asked you to get the Orchid Room ready. We have a Very Important Guest arriving tomorrow."
There were always Very Important Guests checking in, Ellie thought. But her mild curiosity as to who might be checking in became something else as she wondered suddenly whether this guest might be the result of her phone call.
Could he have gotten here so fast? Would he?
"Yes, ma'am." She tried to keep the hope out of her voice, asking as casually as possible, "A returning guest, ma'am?"
Mrs. Kincaid frowned at her.
Quickly, Ellie said, "I just wondered if it was somebody we knew liked a certain kind of soap or extra towels or — or something like that."
Still frowning, the housekeeper said, "As a matter of fact, it is a returning guest. Check your worksheet, for heaven's sake, Ellie. His preferences are noted, as always."
"Oh, yes, ma'am. I'm sorry. Sort of scatterbrained today."
"I noticed," Mrs. Kincaid snapped. "Keep your mind on your work if you want to keep your job."
Ellie nodded and went hurriedly to get her cart, her heart pounding in sick excitement. Was it him? Was he coming here after getting her message, perhaps because he knew or had guessed what she had to tell him?
Her worksheet was, as they usually were, maddeningly enigmatic. No names. The guest due to check into the Orchid Room the following day preferred no fresh flowers or scented soaps due to allergies, and required both extra towels and pillows.
Which told her nothing. Ellie hadn't prepared his room before his last visit. But her friend Alison had.
It required only a few minutes for Ellie to push her cart into the service elevator and take it up to her floor — which was mostly deserted due to check-outs. Whether it was the fairly unobtrusive presence of the police or general unease about what the hell was going on, quite a few guests had decided to cut short their stays.
Not that Ellie minded that. She unlocked the door to the Orchid Room and pushed it open, forgetting in her haste the automatic knock-first-even-if-you-know-the-room-is-empty rule drummed into them all by Mrs. Kincaid.
At The Lodge, privacy and discretion were guaranteed.
She quickly stripped the bed and dragged the vacuum out into the room, just to make it look as if she had been working in here. And it was sheer chance that as she turned for the door, she noticed a flicker of lightning from outside the window catch something metallic that was otherwise hidden in the deep pile carpet.
Ellie hesitated, but she was too curious not to look, to search for what the flash of light had revealed.
A locket.
The locket.
The same damned one she had found before, in this very room.
"You're in the Lost and Found," she murmured, staring down at what lay in the palm of her hand. "I took you there. I put you in an envelope and left you in the Lost and Found. So... how did you get back here?"
It was a puzzle, and baffling, but Ellie had more important things on her mind at the moment and was easily able to shrug it off for now. She slid the locket into the pocket of her uniform, disobeying yet another of Mrs. Kincaid's iron rules because she didn't have time to stop and do the envelope thing.
Besides, it apparently hadn't worked the last time.
She checked the empty and very quiet hallway, then went in search of her friend.
Despite the earlier flash of lightning, Ellie was only vaguely aware that another storm was crackling and groaning outside. She'd been here long enough to be familiar with the way spring storms rolled down from the mountains, and since she didn't have to be out in this o
ne, she didn't pay attention to the increasing violence in the sounds.
Where was Alison working today? Hadn't she said something about the North Wing? Yes, because she'd been unhappy about the assignment; she was one member of the staff who was easily spooked, and was convinced The Lodge was haunted. Particularly that wing.
Ellie had never shared that conviction, largely because she was singularly uninterested in ghosts. Even if they existed, they were dead, so why worry about them? It wasn't as if a ghost could hurt anybody, after all.
Still, as she slipped through corridors and crept up stairways, Ellie was conscious of a weird impulse to look back over her shoulder. She'd rarely seen The Lodge so seemingly deserted, maybe that was it. Or maybe it was just because she was unusually jumpy today, unusually anxious.
Those pregnancy hormones, probably.
She had searched two floors of the North Wing without success. Not that she knocked on every door, of course; she was just looking for Alison's cart. But it was nowhere to be seen, and by the time Ellie climbed yet another set of stairs, she was getting as weary as she was impatient.
She got tired so easily these days, dammit. And that hardly boded well for her ability to hide her condition from the eagle eyes of Mrs. Kincaid.
"He has to come," she murmured as she rounded another corner. "He has to."
"Who has to?"
Almost jumping out of her skin, Ellie stared at someone else who wasn't supposed to be here. "Just — talking to myself," she said hastily, and before that could be questioned, added, "What're you doing up here?"
"Waiting for you," he said.
Diana looked around the still, silent lounge, vaguely interested as always in the peculiarity of this. The strong Victorian colors were gone, the patterns of fabrics and wallpaper muted and blurred now. No lightning flashed outside the blank, silvery sheen of the windows. No thunder rumbled. Everything was gray and silent and cold.
Diana knew Quentin was still sitting beside her, but when she turned her head, he wasn't there. And for a moment, she felt a rush of terror as she wondered if she would be able, this time, to find her way out of the gray time.
