“My mother’s a fan,” she said. Her smirk said it all. She wouldn’t be caught dead watching my show, but her middle-aged mother with questionable taste loved it. “Is it true then? You didn’t deny it.”
“Is what true?”
“That you’re psychic,” Lourdes said. “King and Queens was haunted before it burned down.”
Jazmin faked a laugh. “You’re not serious, are you? Ghosts aren’t real.”
“I don’t buy it,” said Lourdes.
“How do you know about the fire?” I asked. “The local news hasn’t reported it yet.”
“I told you. I overhead Nick Porter talking about it.” She waggled an audio recorder. “Got it all on tape. Would you like to go on the record with me? You’re the ultimate source for my story, and it might bandage your flailing career. That last episode of the Parlour was” —she grimaced with intentional theatrics— “sad.”
“Go to hell.”
She had the gall to laugh. “Whatever. I don’t need your permission or participation to write an excellent story. There’s so much to unpack here. You have no idea. Besides, the best journalists work under the most challenging conditions.”
“The best journalists also chase stories built on facts,” Jazmin said, dry and cold like the surrounding ice. “Your thesis advisor isn’t going to support a child’s haunted house exposé.”
Lourdes’s upper lip curled. “My thesis advisor already approved my story.”
“We don’t care,” Jazmin said, piloting me away from the insufferable student. “Leave my friend alone.”
“I’m still writing the story!” she called after us.
I raised my middle finger without looking back. Jazmin grabbed my fist out of the air and shoved it into her own mitten to keep my fingers from committing any additional crimes of impropriety. Our boots shuffled across the slick stone pathway. Jazmin walked with ease, sliding across patches of ice when she encountered them. I skidded out every few feet.
“Forget about the journalist,” Jazmin suggested after she’d caught me from busting my butt for the eighth time. “She won’t find anything.”
“It’s not just her.” Eyes glued to the ground, I spotted the next ice patch and skated across it. It half-worked. I made it to the other side without dying, but my arms windmilled wildly as I did so. “People died because of me, Jazmin. If I hadn’t come to King and Queens—”
“Thelma Watson would still be dead,” she finished for me. “And who knows what would have happened to Riley? She was lost without you. Stop thinking you’ve ruined everything. You saved Riley and the other employees.”
“They saved themselves,” I corrected. “They had the nerve to leave King and Queens. If they’d done what I told them to do and stayed in the Eagle’s View, they’d all be barbecue by now.”
“But they aren’t,” Jazmin said. “You shouldn’t keep the people who died on your conscience either.”
“Daniel—”
“Couldn’t come to terms with the extent of his addiction,” she interrupted again. “If he had been honest with us—with you—from the beginning, maybe he wouldn’t have run into the killer.”
We reached the main doors. They slid open to welcome us into White Oak’s expansive lobby. A purple fuzzball ran into my legs, looked up, and squeaked, “Sorry!” before running outside. I smiled sadly as the little kid took a flying leap into the nearest snowbank. What a dream to be that carefree.
“Who’s going to tell Daniel’s ex-wife and daughter about him?” I asked Jazmin. “The police, right?”
“I imagine so,” said Jazmin. “Let’s stop talking about this. It’s depressing. Want to do something fun?”
“Like what?”
She grabbed a random brochure from a display of thirty or forty and unfolded it to check the contents. “Ooh, hot springs! What do you say? Adventure up the mountain to get a little steamy?”
She winked in jest.
“The snow is too deep,” I reminded her. “Do you plan on hiking up there? Because if you are, I expect you to carry me piggy-back style.”
She plunked the brochure into the holder. “I forgot you’re not much of a hiker, or a skier, or an athlete, or—”
I plucked another brochure from the display, rolled it up, and whacked her with it. “Keep listing my flaws, why don’t you?”
“They’re not flaws.” She caught my makeshift weapon and tossed the ruined brochure into a nearby wastebasket. “They’re character traits. What about the spa? I could do with a facial and massage.”
“I’m really not in the mood,” I said. “I’d rather go up to the room and rest.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“I need some time alone.”
“You shouldn’t be on your own,” she said. “Especially with Stella on the loose.”
“So you’re going to babysit me all day?”
“No, but we should stay together,” she said. “Look at this place. One wrong turn and you’re at the gym instead of the sauna, and what a tragedy that would be, right?”
Usually, Jazmin could pull me out of a funk, but her attempt at making light fell flat. A hot rock massage and an avocado facial weren’t going to make me forget about the past few days, but Jazmin wouldn’t let up.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll go to the spa. Check us in while I ditch our coats upstairs. Give me yours.”
Jazmin did a happy dance as she handed hers over. “You won’t regret it. I promise. Everything always feels better after a trip to a spa.”
She kissed my cheek and bounced off. When she was out of sight, I put Jazmin’s coat on over mine and went back outside. The bright sunshine cleared my head. I gulped the cold air, savoring the crisp flavor of clean snow on my tongue. A nearby sign caught my eye: High Pine’s Lookout - A Bird’s Eye View. Beneath the title was a map of the mountain’s hiking trails. One led to the hot springs Jazmin wanted to visit. A shorter one led to a bird-watching platform. It was two miles to the top. On the spot, I decided to hike it, despite my lack of outdoorsy skills. When I first arrived at King and Queens, I made it through an entire day skiing with Riley, and later, an entire night hiking through the wooded parts of the mountain. If I’d survived that, a clear cut path would be a piece of cake.
I rented hiking poles from the equipment shop. They came in handy for the deep drifts of snow and icy bits on the hiking trail. The trees closed in around me, and a hush fell over the path. The pine needles and thick snow muffled the excited yells of the riders on the adjacent slope. No one hiked with me. Everyone was too busy taking advantage of the fresh powder to bother with birdwatching. All I wanted was some time on my own to process everything that had happened in the last couple of weeks. Jazmin’s good intentions fueled her spa suggestion, and I felt horrible for tricking and ditching her, but she didn’t understand what I was dealing with. The farther I hiked from White Oak, the better I felt. Up ahead, I spotted the overhang of the birdwatching platform. It was a steep climb to reach it. A White Oak employee had bolted wood planks to the landscape, creating an uneven staircase up to the platform. My legs burned as I lifted myself up the deep gaps between steps. When I reached the lookout, I puffed to catch my breath, but the exquisite view made it infinitely harder to do so.
If I could have lived there—right on the lookout—I would’ve. I would’ve built a little treehouse and wired it for electricity and Wi-Fi. I would’ve crapped in an outhouse and boiled my water if it meant waking up to this sight every morning. Though the lookout was only two miles up the mountain, the steep elevation made me feel like I was standing at the top. I could see across the entire basin: the busy slopes, miles of forest, and in the distance near the horizon, the small town of Crimson Basin. Far below, past White Oak’s monstrous presence, a few cars trundled along the freshly-plowed road. I was happy to see black asphalt instead of more snow. I leaned over the railing of the lookout and peered straight down. The mountain dropped off at a sharp angle. If I were to fall, I’d probably be
impaled against the pointed rocks below. A slushy waterfall trickled between the stones, and steam rose to the platform above. I positioned my face over the rising humidity. The earthy, metallic mist caressed my pores with a delicate touch no cosmetologist could ever compete with. As nature settled in around me, I forgot what I was doing at White Oak. Then a fire truck and an ambulance drove by on the road below, sirens wailing and lights flashing as they headed to King and Queens.
Odette’s absence perturbed me. Why had Stella followed me from King and Queens while her daughter—whom I was more acquainted with—had not? Odette had asked one thing of me: to solve the mystery of the 1988 King and Queens fire so she could move on to whatever life existed beyond this one. I had failed her. There was a block in my head. The steady dull throb acted as a barrier between my conscious thought and whatever part of my brain controlled psychic ability.
“Odette,” I muttered, feeling like a fool for speaking into the wind. “Your mother mentioned ghosts can attach themselves to people. I assume that’s why she’s around. Where are you?”
Nothing but the howl of the wind answered me. Not even a flicker of the dead girl’s conscience rode on the breeze.
“Did you move on?” I asked. “Or are you still trapped at whatever’s left of King and Queens? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s happening.”
Still nothing. Odette’s pearly figure did not appear. The hair on the back of my neck remained flat against my skin. Nothing prickled or stung to indicate my psychic energy waking up. I felt empty, like my energy had been dug out of the gaping hole in my chest. I leaned over the railing, balancing on my rib cage as I let my weight tip forward.
“Careful!”
Someone tugged on the hood of my jacket so my feet landed on level ground again. The sudden jolt yanked me out of my pleasant state of mind. I steadied myself as my vision swam. The figure of a woman came into focus. She was older, in her sixties or seventies, with curled, box-blonde hair and gray eyes. She wore a look of concern beneath her garish burnt-orange scarf, and when I lurched toward the drop off again, she clutched the front of my coat to guide me away from it.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” she said. “Take it easy. What are you doing up here all alone? You shouldn’t hike without a trail buddy. It’s the first rule on all the signs.”
“You’re alone,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but I’ve been hiking all my life,” she said. “Beginners can get lost or hurt, even on the easiest trails. Are you feeling okay?”
Sitting helped, as did pinching the bridge of my nose to redistribute the shooting pain between my ears. “Getting there. Must be the altitude, you know?”
She rubbed my back through my thick layers of jackets and coats. Then she unhooked a metal water canteen from a carabiner on her belt and offered it to me. “Drink this. You might be dehydrated. It’s easy to forget water in the cold. You don’t notice how thirsty you are until it’s too late.”
I coughed as the frigid stream of water from the canteen trickled down my throat. “Thank you. I needed that. What’s your name?”
“Gina,” the woman replied, holding her hand out for me to shake. “And you?”
“Lucia.”
“It’s a pleasure, Lucia. I assume you don’t hike often.”
“No, I can’t say it’s one of my favorite pastimes.”
She chuckled as she settled on the step next to me and screwed the cap to the top of the canteen. “Can I ask why you decided to suddenly take up the hobby then?”
Sweat dripped into my eyes. Despite the cold, it was hard work getting to the lookout. I swept my hood and hat off to wipe my forehead, enjoying the brisk breeze across my heated scalp.
“It’s been a rough few days,” I said. “Hiking seemed like a good way to get away from everything for a while.”
Gina hooked the water canteen on her belt. “I agree. When I need to let off some steam, I take to the woods, but I don’t often dangle myself over massive drop offs. That, I imagine, is more stressful than not.”
The statement housed a silent question. Had I purposely leaned too far over the railing? My first instinct was to answer no. I didn’t have a death wish.
“I guess I got a little carried away,” I answered. “Wishing I was a bird.”
“Would it help to get your mind off things?” Gina asked. “There are a few birds popping out of their hiding places if you’d like to check it out.”
I stood shakily, and we returned to the lookout. This time, I remained firmly at the center of the platform instead of approaching the railing. Gina peered skyward, searching the vast blue atmosphere for signs of feathers or wings. When she finally spotted something, she pointed into the trees rather than up at the sky.
“There.” She lined me up directly in front of her so I could follow her eyesight. “Through those branches. Can you see?”
I squinted, spotting nothing but pine needles and snow drifts. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“It’s a Northern Goshawk,” she said. “See the streaky patterns in the white on its belly? She’s a juvenile.”
My eyes strained to pick up any difference in the landscape. Finally, the bird turned its head sharply from one direction to the other, giving me a movement to pick up on.
“I see it!”
The exclamation startled the raptor into flight. It spread its wings and took off with ease, swooping low over the lookout as it took its leave. Its beady yellow eyes flashed in every direction and brimmed with intelligence. It was like getting an inside look at Mother Nature’s true intention.
“That was a lucky spot,” Gina remarked as the goshawk rode an air pocket up and away. “Goshawks are usually pretty elusive, and they’re mostly found in the Rockies.”
Reeling from the close encounter, I asked, “Do you know a lot about birds?”
“I picked up quite a bit of information on various hikes,” Gina said. “They came to fascinate me after a while. What a dream to be so free, don’t you think? If only humans had similar paths of escape.”
“I’d never land,” I said.
“Neither would I,” Gina agreed. She set her backpack on the lookout, rooting around in it until she unearthed two granola bars. “Want one?”
“Sure.”
We sat at the edge of the lookout and dangled our feet. Gina made sure that the lower rung of the railing kept me securely in place. Her worry was unnecessary. I didn’t intend on jumping, but I did get a secret thrill from our proximity to the drop off.
“So what do you do, Gina?” I asked, munching on the granola bar. “Do you hike all the time?”
“I wish,” she said. “My dream is to retire to a camper van and travel cross-country. Simple, sustainable living. Low cost too.”
“Why can’t you do that now?”
“Because retirement is a scam,” she said with a wink. “I wasn’t good at managing my money when I was younger, and as an artist, I never made much money to begin with. Besides, when you work for yourself, no one tells you to set up a retirement fund, so here we are.”
“You’re an artist?”
She tossed a raisin over the railing, where it hurtled into the open space below. “I paint. What about you?”
“No, nothing like that. My dad was a portrait artist though.”
“Was? He doesn’t draw anymore?”
“He died.”
“Oh, dear,” Gina said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t worry, it happened a long time ago,” I said.
The last time I thought of my father in a positive light was long before the idea for Madame Lucia’s Parlour popped into my head. Jazmin and I once visited an art gallery in Downtown Burlington, where one of the artists exhibited a style similar to my father’s. Jazmin had to drag me away from his booth after I perused his pieces for a solid hour, studying the charcoal patterns on the canvas with the same intensity of a sinner asking for forgiveness at church. Of the things I remember
ed about my father, his art was the most beautiful. He drew my mother mostly. She was stiff and strict in real life, but through my father’s artistic process, she embodied a languid love. I preferred my father’s version of my mother, and I preferred my father as an artist rather than a person. When he was a person, he was not a good one.
“Thanks for this,” I said.
“For the granola bar? Nonsense! I buy them in bulk.”
“Not just the granola bar,” I laughed. “For the talk and showing me the goshawk. I really needed a break from all the crap going on in my own head, and it’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t wrapped up in my drama.”
Gina patted my hand. “It’s been a pleasure, dear. Are you staying at White Oak much longer?”
“I’m not sure.”
She dusted her hands over the ravine and tucked the torn granola bar wrappers into her backpack. “I’ll be around for a few more days. If you need someone to talk to, feel free to look me up. I enjoy the company.”
She offered me the canteen again. I took a swig and handed it back. “I might take you up on that.”
A burst of bright copper hair disrupted the earthy landscape as Jazmin climbed the last step to the lookout. She spotted me and Gina sitting at the edge.
“There you are! And wearing my coat.” She had borrowed a ski jacket from White Oak to compensate for the one I had stolen. “You never planned on meeting me at the spa, did you?”
“I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Gina chimed in as she climbed to her feet. “Lucia and I met in the lobby and immediately bonded over our love of art. I convinced her to come bird-watching with me. You know what they say! You should never go hiking without a buddy, and these old hips of mine aren’t as reliable as they used to be.”
She grimaced and limped to one side. I disguised a chuckle. For her age, Gina was in phenomenal shape. I had a feeling that her hips were just fine.
The Haunting of Riley Watson Page 41
