by Nicola Marsh
I’d never seen her move so fast as she leaped out of the chair and crossed the kitchen in three steps to grab hold of my arms. “You want to dismiss everything I told you yesterday? Fine. But I won’t send you into this thing blind, and that means you need to let me protect you as best I can.”
Her fear shook me as much as her sincerity and as usual I hid my alarm behind a smart mouth.
“How’re you going to protect me? Garlic? Silver cross?”
A glimmer of a smile lit her eyes. “Vampires aren’t real.”
“But lost souls are?” I tried to shrug off her grip but she held firm. “Mom, I can’t…I’m not…”
“We compromise. I won’t discuss your soul retriever status ’til you’re ready, in exchange for you letting me conduct a spiritual cleansing.”
An instant refusal sprung to my lips. Until my rebellious gaze fell on the clock over the stove and I realised I had less than half a day to get the info I required on Sammy and head to Broad River.
Feigning defeat, I hung my head. “Fine, you win. Let’s get this over with.”
She released me and cupped my cheek for an instant. “We do it tonight.”
“But—”
“You’re not heading to Broad River ’til you’re spiritually protected and that’s all there is to it.”
“Way to go with the parental act now,” I muttered, deriving little satisfaction as she stiffened at my cheap shot.
Seriously pissed I’d let her trap me into a ritual I didn’t believe in, I headed to the den for some fact gathering. Facts were solid, tangible, believable, and far removed from the paranoia plaguing my mom.
The sooner I discovered Sammy was okay, the sooner I could relegate Mom’s revelations to the back of my mind, in the place I usually reserved for her. A place I knew was there but didn’t want to acknowledge for fear my heart would break with sadness.
Considering how my visit had panned out so far, I shouldn’t have been surprised the den looked nothing like I remembered. Stepping into the postage stamp-sized room, I glanced around and some of my antipathy eased. Whatever theories Mom believed in, she’d certainly done a great job overhauling the house.
This had been our spare room and junk depository, storing years’ worth of magazines, old schoolbooks and an untouched, boxed sewing machine, serving as a coffee table to the saggy sofa bed. I blinked at the transformation: minimalist wooden veneer, chrome-legged desk, ergonomic chair, slimline PC. The walls were the same pale lemon as the hallway and a thick kingfisher blue rug covered the polished floorboards.
Indignation burned my gut as I looked around. What I would have given to have studied in this welcoming room the last few years, rather than holed away in my room, squinting at a dilapidated laptop, my iPod on full blast to plug my ears from Mom’s mutterings to non-existent ghosts.
My fingers curled, the blunt nails biting into my palms, my latent resentment festering. Maybe I could have accepted all this if I’d come home and Mom had apologised for phasing out the last five years, had given me some plausible explanation for making my life hell. Instead, she dumped the blame squarely on me.
I’m a soul retriever.
I made the voices worse for her.
I am the reason she’s been catatonic and alcoholic.
I needed to fire up the computer and do some more investigating but the longer I stayed in this room, the more I took umbrage at the radical changes it had undergone—after I’d left. Maybe if Mom had left me alone when I returned and hadn’t tried to push her freaky soul agenda down my throat, I would have assimilated the changes better. As it was, standing in the middle of this room, looking around, all I could think was how unfair this was. It made me angry, like most things lately.
In fact, I’d been angry since Noah died. Didn’t take a genius to figure out why. Guilt. Helplessness. Sorrow. Felt like I’d been on an emotional rollercoaster since then and sadly Ronan, Seth, Angie and now Mom had borne the brunt of it. I wasn’t making excuses for my vacillating behaviour but the way I felt, floundering and out of my depth in a situation I had no control over, I knew that until I solved this mystery I’d be a basket case.
“What do you think of the renovations?” Mom called from the kitchen and in a second my angry fuse re-lit, spread like wildfire and made me shake with the injustice. Blood surged to my face, flushing so hot I swear the tips of my ears blew off.
I marched back to the kitchen and barged in, banging my elbow on the doorframe along the way. Not helping the situation as I swore and rubbed at my throbbing elbow.
“What’s wrong?” Mom flew at me like the concerned mother she should have been the past five years.
“Don’t.” I held up a hand to ward her off and she stopped, confused. “Why, Mom? Why did you really do all this? The house? The sobriety? The hair?”
Her hand fluttered to the pixie cut that accentuated her high cheekbones and blue eyes, tugging on strands before falling to her side. She didn’t look away or tremble or collapse in a heap as I’d half expected.
Her apologetic gaze never left mine for a moment.
“Because I knew you’d come back and when you did, it’d be time for the truth.”
I whirled away in disgust and she laid a hand on my shoulder that I shrugged off.
“Angie wanted to take you years ago, to make it easier on me, but I wouldn’t let her. B-because I love you too much—”
“Angie knows about this?” My voice rose to a shriek. “About your dumb spirit voices trying to get to me?”
And she left me here to rot? To run the household by myself? To practically raise myself?
“Angie has suspicions of what you are.” She paused, as if searching for the right words. “If Noah hadn’t died, she would’ve taken you for a while anyway, to let me, uh…rehabilitate.”
“That’s bullshit—”
“Watch your tongue, young lady—”
“It’s too late to pull the mom card on me now. Way too late.” My chest heaved with the effort not to cry as I dragged in deep breaths. “If you really loved me, you would’ve sent me to live with Angie five years ago, when my supposed power would manifest. I would’ve been happy, you would’ve been happy. No spirits, no voices, nada. I could’ve been a normal kid, not the primary caregiver to a screw-up mom hiding behind voices. So tell me, why did you keep me around, really?”
Her face crumpled, eliciting a momentary twinge of remorse that vanished when she didn’t answer.
Muttering, “Fuck this” under my breath, I turned away and stomped towards the den, the faintest sound making me stop in the doorway and look over my shoulder.
Mom wasn’t crying or snivelling. She was staring at me like she could see right through me.
“What?” I yelled, sick of her freaky stare.
She took a few steps forward and paused in the kitchen doorway, the hallway separating us.
“You’re my daughter and I love you, I’ve always loved you, and that’s the truth. You don’t want to believe it, fine. But know this. When your power comes into being, I need to be the one to guide you through it. We’re linked, just like I was linked to…”
She clammed up as I entered the den and slammed the door.
I didn’t like what I was hearing. I didn’t like how everything she said could explain the madness of the last five years. I didn’t like how a part of me was tempted to buy into her supernatural crap, just so I’d feel better for my mom acting like a crazy person and ruining our relationship.
I didn’t want to believe in spirits or magic or anything beyond the grave.
But for one insanely curious second, I wished she’d finished that sentence.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LIKE I DIDN’T have enough to figure out, what with my apparent supernatural stalker and the Sammy mystery, now Mom had to reveal that tantalising snippet about being psychically linked to someone else.
Wishing I did believe in crystal balls so I could figure out this convoluted mess, I paced th
e tiny room, happy for the distraction when my cell rang. One glance at caller ID made me sigh in relief. If anyone could cheer me up, it would be Ronan.
He hadn’t called until now but considering we’d only just started dating, it wasn’t a huge deal. I might be edgy thanks to everything Mom had dumped on me since I’d returned home, but the last thing I needed was to take it out on him.
I inhaled slowly then hit answer. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.”
Some of my tension melted beneath the smoothness of Ronan’s voice. That sort of depth was wasted on the sax, he should be lead vocals.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” The truth slipped out before I could censor the stark reality of being home and living with Mom’s revelations. And I’d thought dealing with the crap in New York had been bad.
“Wish I was there to help.”
“Wish you were here too, though thought you might’ve called before now.”
So much for not taking this out on him.
He sighed, his exasperation audible. “It was late last night when I got in, didn’t want to wake you.”
Ever heard of texting?
It was like he read my mind, for he rushed on, “I knew going home would be tough on you, I wanted to give you a bit of space.”
Whatever.
“You could’ve called me,” he added as a mild admonishment and I plopped onto the ergonomic chair, using the tips of my shoes to push off and swing round aimlessly.
He was right; I should have called. I’d even said as much when we’d parted. Guess I kinda got caught up in the fact my mom could hear voices and anticipated I would too any second now.
“I should’ve, but Mom’s worse than expected.”
“Sorry.” His cautious, trite apology didn’t help. “Is there anything I can do?”
Yeah, be my boyfriend. Let me vent and cry and wrongly blame you but like me anyway.
Let me deal with the fact that being home has hit me harder than I could have ever imagined.
Let me envisage us a week from today, cuddling in your apartment with this nightmare over.
I wanted to say those things, to trust him, to lean on him. But the independence forced upon me in the last few years was ingrained and I knew I had to put this mess behind me before we could move forward.
“Not really, but thanks for offering.” I sighed. “Sorry for being grumpy. You caught me at a bad time.” Then again, there had been several bad times for me over the last week and, sadly, Ronan had been privy to some of them. How long before he lost patience with me? “I’ve been a moody cow lately with all the crap going on.”
His laughter acted like balm for my battered soul. “I figured.”
“I need to tie up loose ends here and work through some stuff with Mom, so how about I call you when I get back to the city?”
“Yeah, okay.”
I heard the faintest hint of disappointment in his voice and my resentment towards Mom spiked again. Not that she had anything to do with my new relationship and the reasons I’d come home, but the timing of her bombshell sucked.
“Thanks for calling.” Great, now I’d reverted to stilted, overly polite formality.
“Take care.” He rang off and left me staring at the phone with regret in my heart.
I’d botched that call big time and hoped I could make amends when I returned to the city.
My thumb absentmindedly scrolled over the screen, coming up with a list of recent text messages, the last one from Seth. I’d blown him off too, leaving town with a short text and staring at his brief “ok” response. I realised it sounded more terse than agreeable.
I’d been so hell-bent on getting to Broadwater and solving this mess, I’d potentially alienated the only kid at school I could call a friend. He’d accepted my bizarre dead body sighting and had even tried to help by teeing me up with Tabitha. It wasn’t his fault the craziness had escalated and I’d withdrawn.
But it would be my fault if I let the stress of Mom’s wild theories taint both my relationship with Ronan and my friendship with Seth.
Guilt gnawed and, on impulse, I hit the call button. On the sixth ring I almost gave up, prepared to leave a message or text, when Seth answered.
“Alyssa?” By his flat, unimpressed tone, he was pissed at me too.
“Hey Seth, how’s it going?”
“Not bad.”
Not good either hung unsaid between us.
“Sorry for bailing without saying anything, but I needed to get out of town for a while. Family stuff. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He paused, as if carefully weighing his words and I screwed up my nose, hating how I’d stuffed up our easygoing friendship. “Don’t worry, I get it.”
He did? Glad one of us did, because since I’d seen that dead body—potentially Sammy’s dead body—on that music clip, I didn’t understand anything.
“You’ve had a rough week, you needed to get away.”
Shit yeah.
Sounding distracted, he muttered, “When are you getting back?”
“Day after tomorrow if…” If I discovered the whole Sammy thing was some sick joke. I didn’t want to contemplate what I’d do if it wasn’t and I couldn’t find her.
“If?”
“If things work out here.”
“Sounds cryptic?”
He didn’t know the half of it.
“Haven’t seen any more dead bodies?” He sniggered and I didn’t understand the snideness underlying his forced laughter. I’d rung and apologised, so why the attitude? Besides, one grouchy person in this friendship was bad enough and that honour belonged to me.
“You know you can’t tell anyone about that, right?”
“Who’d believe me if I did?” I heard a grinding noise and the rush of water, like he’d turned on a tap in an ancient bathroom. “You gotta admit that whole thing was kinda crazy.”
“No more crazy than you introducing me to your psychic friend to help.”
Great, now I sounded spiteful. I slapped my forehead with the heel of my hand. Better turn off my cell before I made a mess of every call today.
“Tab’s not that bad. You were the one who freaked.” His cold tone made me wish I hadn’t rung.
“Yeah, sorry, guess I’m overtired.”
The grinding sound came again, followed by a loud thump.
“Where are you?”
“Plumbing in my aunt’s apartment sucks; I’m trying to fix it.”
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Bye.” He hung up so fast I was left staring at my cell for the second time in as many minutes.
So far today I’d managed to piss off my boyfriend, my best friend and my mom. Way to go.
Moodier than a witch without a wand—pathetic metaphor, I know—I threw my cell on the desk and settled in to solve the Sammy mystery so I could get the hell out of here.
I typed Sammy Van Cleave, Broadwater, New York into the search engine and waited.
A few dozen hits came up: mentions in the Broadwater Bulletin, our high school newspaper, swimming medals as a kid, some writing comp she’d won in fourth grade.
Boring, irrelevant stuff that gave me nothing to help my search.
I scrolled down the list, increasingly despondent, when I saw another name that made my heart twist.
Sammy Van Cleave present at the funeral of Noah Nash.
Sadness clogged my throat as I clicked on the link, reluctant to see a newspaper report on my ex’s funeral. I’d seen nothing at the time, assuming the local papers had been added to the years’ worth stacked around our house. I hadn’t cared. I didn’t want to read some reporter’s manufactured account of Noah’s death; didn’t need to be reminded of it when I had to live with the truth every day.
The article flared to life on the screen, front-page news in the Broad River Gazette. I averted my eyes from the print detailing Noah’s death and focused on the pictures along the bottom of the page instead, the one wh
ere Sammy was mentioned.
A bunch of mourners huddled around a hole in the ground; the hole where my first boyfriend was laid.
A sob bubbled up from deep within me and I jammed my fist into my mouth, hating the fact I hadn’t had the guts to say goodbye to him properly at the end. I’d attended his memorial service but had been too distraught to go to the cemetery. Bad enough I had the image of him lying cold and lifeless in his coffin burned into my retinas, I didn’t want to see him lowered into the ground with a tonne of dirt shovelled on top.
Now, seeing Sammy at his graveside where I should have been was like lemon juice on a paper cut. I scowled and surveyed the rest of the pictures, which were more of the same.
Feeling worse than when I’d started, I was about to click off when something drew me back to the original photo of Sammy. Most of the mourners were a blur, sombre faces with eyes downcast. Except one.
My heart jackknifed in recognition.
No way.
I knuckled my eyes, blinked several times, and reopened them.
Couldn’t be.
The photo was too small, the pixels too grainy but the closer I leaned to the screen, the faster my pulse pounded.
Rigid with disbelief, I stared at the irrefutable proof that one of the few people I trusted in my life had known Noah.
I’d been looking for a link to my past and I’d found it.
Found him.
Seth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
FREAKING HELL.
I sat for a full five minutes, staring at the photo. Changing angles, tilting my head, squinting. No amount of wriggling around could change it.
Why was Seth in a photo taken at Noah’s funeral?
Numb, I sorted through possibilities in my mind: he’d been there as someone’s partner/son/fifth cousin removed. He’d been visiting to support a grieving friend. He’d been mourning with a distant relative.
My first instinct was to pick up my cell and call. To ask him what he’d been doing at my ex’s funeral, and why the hell he hadn’t mentioned it to me.
Then again, what were the odds of my Noah being the Noah’s funeral he’d attended eight months ago, probably as some distant relative? Little wonder he’d been so curious as to why I’d freaked over the name Noah at Tabitha’s séance, when he’d lost someone with the same name not that long ago. Had to be coincidence it happened to be the same person.
