by Sarah Wynde
He followed her gaze. “Oh, of course.” He looked at the phone for a minute, almost as if he wanted to use it, and then turned back to Rachel, voice abrupt. “Could you wait right here for a moment? Right here, don’t go anywhere, I won’t go far.” He was backing away from her as he spoke and as he reached the door to the restaurant, he turned so that he was no longer facing Rachel and whispered fiercely, “Have you lost your mind, Dillon? That’s a little girl!”
Dillon almost laughed. Keep her safe, he texted. And don’t tell.
His grandfather scowled at the phone. “Keep her safe? Keep her—” He shook his head and turned back to Rachel. She was rubbing one foot along the back of her leg, smile gone, and—much to Dillon’s relief—Max immediately softened. He beckoned her towards him and pulled open the door to the restaurant.
“I’m afraid I was confused by Dillon’s message,” he said apologetically as Rachel hurried to catch up with him. “It didn’t occur to me that he’d be communicating with, well, you know, someone with a heartbeat. You’ll have to explain to me how you came to know him.”
Max made his way to the booth in the back corner where he always sat, still talking, Rachel at his heels, but Dillon was stopped in his tracks when Rose bounced off a counter seat and rushed to hug him. “Dillon, it’s so good to see you,” she was saying as she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, before hastily stepping back and adding, “But your grandpa’s gone insane.”
Dillon grinned at her. “I can’t wait to tell you everything that’s happened,” he told her. Talking—really talking—was such a relief. “But the crazy’s my fault. I asked him to meet my friend at the bus. I guess he thought I meant a ghost friend.”
A waitress passed them, headed to the table in the corner with two plates of food: one, a barren platter holding nothing but a plain turkey sandwich on whole wheat bread, the other a mound of chocolate-chip pancakes piled high with whipped cream.
“Come on.” Dillon grabbed Rose’s hand and tugged her over to the booth, sliding in to sit next to Rachel.
Max sighed as he saw the plate in front of him.
“Maggie’s mad,” the waitress said, sympathy in her voice. She put the pancakes in front of Rachel, adding with a wink, “Here you go, sweetie. Enjoy.”
“What’s Maggie mad about?” Dillon asked Rose.
Rose patted Max’s shoulder, careful not to let her hand pass through him. “He’s been bringing ghosts here all morning. Not real ghosts, but he’s been talking like there were ghosts and inviting them to stay. Maggie said she didn’t want to run a haunted café and he told her it’d be good for the tourist business. She told him to cut it out and he told her not to be a stick-in-the-mud. She went back into the kitchen and hasn’t come out since. He tried to apologize and she made Emma bring him decaf coffee. And you know he hates decaf coffee.”
Next to them, Max and Rachel had introduced themselves and Max was saying, “So what brings you to Tassamara?” as Rachel dug into her pancakes.
“Dillon wants to talk to his mom.”
Max stilled. “His mom? Sylvie?” He looked at Rachel intently, eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly to one side as if he were trying to solve a puzzle.
“Mm-hmm,” Rachel mumbled through a mouthful of food. Dillon was glad to see that she was eating eagerly. He’d been anxious when she hadn’t eaten on the train. He thought it was because she hadn’t wanted anyone to see her, but he would have told her to take the risk if he could have.
“Ah, that’s . . . well . . . hmm.” Max glanced at his watch. He looked worried, Dillon saw, but before he could think too much about it, Rose distracted him.
“Your mom!” She clasped her hands together. “How exciting. How did you find her? Did you like her? Is she nice?”
Nice? Dillon didn’t laugh, but his grin felt as if it would break his cheeks. He liked Sylvie a lot but nice wasn’t how he’d describe her.
“Rachel.” Max had his phone out and was typing in a number, the slow, old-fashioned way, frowning as he did so. His voice, as he spoke to Rachel, was urgent. “I need to warn you. In a few moments, some strange things may start happening. It’s nothing you need to worry about. No harm will come to you. But it would be most helpful if you’d remain calm. If you get upset, Sylvie will get upset and then . . . well, then things will go downhill very quickly. Can you do that for me?” He finished what he was saying, finally looking up at Rachel and smiling although the expression looked strained, as he held his phone to his ear.
Rachel had stopped chewing, eyes wide.
“William, yes, it’s Max. Yes, yes, no time for that. Do you remember the case I told you to prepare for—oh, it must have been a decade or so ago?” He paused and then chuckled. “Nag is a strong word. But I believe today’s the day.” As he spoke, he was sliding through Rose and off the seat.
“What’s going on, Dillon?” Rose asked.
Dillon shook his head, watching his grandfather. Max was going around the room, plucking silverware off the set tables, still talking and nodding. He paused by one occupied table and pointed to a knife, appearing to ask if the patrons needed it, then picked up the knife and continued moving. Finally he stuffed his phone in his pocket and headed toward the kitchen.
As Dillon concentrated on sending him a message asking what he was doing, he heard Max calling out, “You were right, Maggie. Bad idea!” as he moved behind the counter and headed into the kitchen.
And then the glass door to the outside opened. For a moment, Sylvie stood in the doorway, backlit by the sun, her hair a corona of red-gold. Dillon wanted to stand up and cheer. Their plan had worked! They’d gotten Sylvie to Tassamara. He couldn’t wait to tell Rachel, to tell her and to thank her for her help.
But as his mom stepped inside, his heart sank. Raymond Chesney, a malevolent scowl on his face, was right behind Sylvie. Why had she brought him? And how was he going to help Rachel with her father right here?
*****
The rental car had a GPS. Sylvie followed its instructions precisely; no shortcuts, no search for better routes, no detours down roads that looked more interesting.
Her mind didn’t seem to be working the way it usually did. Instead of the constant risk assessment that was the usual silent soundtrack of her life, she found herself lingering over the sense of regret she’d felt from Mateo in his last moments and wondering what he’d been thinking when he died.
As she pulled into a parking place on the main street of Tassamara, the sight of the Christmas decorations—garlands wrapped around the lamp posts, tiny lights draped across the street—made her realize that she should call her mom. She needed to tell her she wasn’t going to make it home for Christmas.
And Lucas.
She needed to call him, too.
She needed to tell him . . . but she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. Thinking of Lucas, thinking of what she’d want to say, thinking of how bright their future had seemed just a few hours ago—her mind veered away and she latched on to the thought of Ty instead.
She should call him first. Last night, he’d told her to take care of Chesney. He was not going to be happy about how she’d interpreted that order. She stepped out of the car, automatically locking it behind her. Florida was a death penalty state, though, and for a double murder, she was going to want a good lawyer. Ty would send Jeremy.
And then there was Rachel. She needed to tell him she’d found Rachel.
If, that is, she had. She looked up and down the street. Despite the holiday décor, the small town looked much as it had twenty years earlier. Some of the shops had changed: the old drugstore was gone, replaced by an antique shop, and the store next to it with all the dangling crystals in the window had to be new. Mostly, though, it had the same quiet, dusty feel that she remembered.
Where would Rachel be?
“Oh, my.” The voice came from right behind her and Sylvie whirled, the black layers of chiffon in her skirt floating up around her. The tiny woman standing on t
he sidewalk shook her head, saying, “Your aura, my dear.” She tsked with disapproval. “You should drink some tea. Lavender, perhaps. Very good for anxiety and nervous exhaustion.”
Sylvie’s smile in response was more of a crooked twist of the mouth as she answered politely, “Hello, Mrs. Swanson. If I get a chance, I’ll give it a try.”
“Maggie will have some for you.” The woman gestured to a storefront a few doors up the street, then cocked her head to one side and narrowed her gaze, staring intently at the air next to Sylvie’s head. “She’s new since you were last in town, but she fits right in. Sylvie, isn’t it? Does Max know you’re visiting?”
Sylvie held back her sigh. Within twenty minutes, half the long-time residents of Tassamara would know she was in town; within an hour, it’d be all of them. But it was genuine worry she felt from the old woman, with not even a hint of malicious interest. Still, Sylvie needed to find Rachel and get her to safety and quickly. Maybe the restaurant would be a good place to start.
“I’m sure he will,” she responded as she backed away, nodding and smiling. “Good to see you again. Take care now.”
She opened the door to the restaurant and stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the change in light. By the time they did, Max was already moving toward her.
Sylvie froze.
The last time she’d seen this man, she’d been leaving her baby behind.
Forever.
A rush of grief—for Dillon, for Lucas, for the life she could have had, for all that might have been—swept over her. She would have stepped back and away, but Max was taking her hands in his and saying, his voice warm, “Hello, Sylvie. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”
She frowned. He looked so much like Lucas—older, of course, with his hair touched with gray and the laugh lines around his intense blue eyes more deeply engraved—that instinctively she wanted to trust him. But what a ridiculous thing to say. Nothing was going to be okay.
She opened her mouth to snap at him, but he forestalled her, raising a hand and saying, “I know you don’t believe me right now, but that doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. But Sylvie, please—I beg of you—please don’t hit the sheriff. I promise I’ll take good care of Rachel.”
She blinked at him, and then looked around the restaurant. It was half-full of people, many of them watching in fascination, but no one who looked like a sheriff. She looked back at Max.
“He’s not here yet.”
Sylvie sighed. Twenty years and despite the gray hair Lucas’s father hadn’t changed. “Is Rachel here?”
He stepped back, indicating a booth in the corner, where a dark-haired head peeking around the edge of the seat ducked back immediately.
Sylvie took a deep breath, bracing herself. She should have planned this conversation during her drive, she realized, but she hadn’t. She felt curious eyes on her as she made her way to the corner booth and slid into the seat across from Rachel.
The girl was staring at the table, a slight flush on her cheeks and her chin set stubbornly. “I don’t want to go home,” she muttered without looking up at Sylvie. “It’s not fair.”
Sylvie stared at her blankly. What was Rachel talking about? And then she shook her head at her own stupidity—of course that’s why Rachel thought she had come—and said, voice gentle, “I’m not here to take you home.”
Startled, Rachel looked at her directly, eyes wide. And then her eyes grew even wider. “Sylvie? Is that blood on you?”
Sylvie looked down. She hadn’t realized it before but she’d been hit by spatter. Little tiny flecks of red-brown dotted the leather of her dress and the pale skin of her cleavage. “Oh, God.”
She shuddered, feeling nausea rise. Was it Chesney’s blood or Mateo’s? Had she come to Rachel wearing her father’s blood? She was horrified at the thought.
“Are you hurt?” Rachel stood up, her emotions an immediate churn of worry and fear, glancing around the room for help.
“No, no,” Sylvie reached for her, putting a hand on Rachel’s arm and then quickly pulling away. She shouldn’t touch Rachel, not when she’d just murdered her father. She tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s not my blood.”
Slowly, Rachel sat back down. “Whose blood is it?”
“I—” Sylvie swallowed and then admitted the truth. “It might be your father’s.”
The silence felt as if it lasted forever, but it was only a few seconds before Sylvie found the courage to continue. “I wanted to be the one to tell you this. I wanted to—”
“Is he dead?” Rachel interrupted her.
Sylvie stared.
“Because the way you’re talking, that’s not right. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to say, he’s fine, don’t worry, but you’re not saying that.” Rachel’s eyes were bright. “And if what you want to say is something that you wanted to tell me, you specifically, then it’s because you thought I’d be upset. So you ought to be telling me he’s going to be okay even if he’s not right now, but you’re not saying that either. So is he dead?”
Rachel had been talking so quickly that Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure what she’d heard. But she’d gotten the gist of it. She said flatly. “Yes.”
“Yes, he’s dead?” Rachel asked.
Sylvie nodded.
Rachel didn’t say anything. She picked up her fork and poked at the dissolving whipped cream on the pancakes in front of her.
Sylvie waited.
Rachel traced a pattern in the white with a tine.
Sylvie stayed silent. She knew she needed to tell Rachel the rest, but she could feel Rachel’s distraction. Maybe the girl needed a little time to come to terms with her loss first, she told herself.
Finally, Rachel asked, voice tiny, “Is it my fault?”
“No! Absolutely not.” Sylvie hesitated. Was Rachel ready to hear all of it?
“He didn’t die because I ran away?”
“No,” Sylvie said firmly. Okay, Chesney wouldn’t be dead if Rachel hadn’t run away but she wasn’t going to expend any energy analyzing cause-and-effect. “But . . .”
“I’m not sad,” Rachel interrupted her. She looked up and her eyes met Sylvie’s. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?”
Sylvie paused. She wasn’t sad, either. Not about Chesney, anyway. But then he wasn’t her father. Picking her words carefully, she said, “I think sometimes it takes a little time to understand your own feelings when you lose someone. And that you shouldn’t worry about how you feel right now. It’s okay to not feel sad.”
Suddenly, a photograph on the wall next to them slid down and landed on the table with a crack. Both Sylvie and Rachel startled, and then Sylvie shook off the surprise with a little laugh. “I have to tell you, though, Rachel—” Sylvie started as Rachel set down the fork that she’d been playing with and picked up the photograph. She leaned it against the wall.
Her fork slid across the table and onto the floor.
Both Sylvie and Rachel glanced at the fork and then Sylvie, shaking her head, slid out of the booth and bent to pick up the fork. She set it on the table and turned back to Rachel.
“I’m really not sad,” Rachel announced. She picked up her fork and eyed it critically. “I think I’m happy. May I have a clean fork, please? I want to finish my pancakes.”
Sylvie paused. Okay, that was unexpected.
Rachel smiled at her. “Can we stay here for a while? Dillon wants to talk to you but the girl with the funny name who talks to ghosts isn’t here right now. Dillon’s grandpa was telling the ghosts about it. Except I think he was just confused.”
Sylvie stared. And then, “Ow,” she yelped as something hit her in the back of the head. What the hell? She turned around. A spoon was on the floor by her feet. She bent to pick it up as the door to the café opened and a man in uniform walked in.
“Rachel,” Max called from across the restaurant by the counter. “Remember what I told you? Now’s the time.”
; Rachel looked puzzled and then she yelped as her plate skidded across the table, away from her and toward Sylvie. Sylvie felt a burst of fear from the girl and quickly straightened, turning in time to catch the plate before it flew off the table and onto her.
“Rachel?” she asked.
Rachel was staring at the table. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said under her breath. “It’s okay. Nothing bad will happen. Dillon’s grandpa said so.”
People were starting to notice what was happening and move, craning to see, standing up, beginning to talk and point.
“Colin,” Max called out cheerfully to the man at the door. “Lovely to see you, how’s the family? Let me introduce you to Sylvie.”
“Max,” the man drawled, his voice low Southern honey. “I’m taking a pretty big chance here. Lucas swore on Maggie’s apple pie that the SWAT team could stand down.”
SWAT team. Lucas. Ah, hell. And she still hadn’t told Rachel. The worry and tension and fear coming from the man at the door, Max, and Rachel were like a pounding beat under a pop song of curiosity and confusion created by the other restaurant patrons.
Sylvie laid her hands flat on the table in front of her but didn’t otherwise move. Two more minutes, that was all she needed. Enough time to admit the truth to Rachel and then to reassure her and make sure she knew she’d be okay. She felt her muscles tightening as Max and the other man approached.
The light over the booth crackled, popped, and with a burst of sparks, broke. Bits of shattered glass from the light bulb fell to the tabletop.
Sylvie’s jaw dropped. Rachel’s eyes widened. Their eyes met and Sylvie knew that they were both thinking the same thing.
“Rachel, get under the table,” Sylvie ordered.
Rachel shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t have said that about not being sad, huh?” she said faintly. And then she set her lips and crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. “But I’m not.”
“Rachel!”
Rachel shook her head. “Dillon’s grandpa said not to be scared.”
Dillon’s grandpa was insane, as far as Sylvie was concerned. Always had been. But behind her she felt Max and the sheriff approaching and inside her she felt the rising urge to strike out and she knew that at least this time Max had foreseen a possible future correctly. She took a deep breath.
