Touch Me In The Dark - PDF Free Download (2024)

Touch Me in the Dark By

Jacqueline Diamond Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com

Triskelion Publishing 15327 W. Becker Lane Surprise, AZ 85379 First e Published by Triskelion Publishing First e publishing May 2007 ISBN 1-60186-168-0 Copyright 2007 Jacqueline Diamond All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher except, where permitted by law.

Cover design Triskelion Publishing. Publisher’s Note. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to a person or persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental. Play Nice: Piracy is a crime and in stealing books your favorite authors do not receive royalties or any payment.

3 Touch Me In The Dark

Chapter One Through the downpour, Sharon Mahoney stared at the Victorian house. She hadn’t expected it to be so massive, three stories of bay windows and gables with a small balcony jutting out near the roof. Beneath a slanting sheet of water, the light gray walls darkened in streaks, as if trying to return to some former age. The only sign of modernization was a small skylight on an outthrust section of the second floor. From the street, no one could have told that the place had been made over into apartments. The Victorian was an anomaly in Southern California, where most of the homes dated from the 1920s or later. Wipers streaked the windshield, blurring the house. She remembered her sister’s comment about the place having atmosphere. Maybe a little too much atmosphere, she thought, fighting off a sense of oppression. “Mom?” said her seven-year-old son, Greg. “It’s spooky. Let’s go home.” “This is home now.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. Tears glistened on his face. “I won’t get out!” She understood his reaction. Since his father’s fatal heart attack nearly a year ago, Greg’s familiar world had crumbled. In addition to devastating them emotionally, Jim’s death had left only a small insurance policy. Then last summer the private school where Sharon taught had laid her off. Months of searching and a lucky connection had finally landed a midyear position teaching first grade at College Day School. They’d left Buffalo, N.Y. a few days after Christmas and spent New Year’s on the road. Sharon was tempted to drive a mile to her sister Karly’s apartment, but they’d already arranged by phone to meet tomorrow. Tonight, after four days of driving crosscountry, she wanted to get their stuff inside and see the place where they were committed to stay for a year. She appreciated her sister’s coup in finding the two of them an affordable place to live in Fullerton. Rents in Orange County had skyrocketed since Sharon left eight years before. She only wished Karly hadn’t felt obligated to sign a one-year lease in order to make sure another would-be renter didn’t snag the place first. She slipped an arm around her son. “Aunt Karly wouldn’t have picked this place if there was anything wrong, would she?” “Maybe.” Greg shifted closer. “Pretend this is Hogwarts.” The place slightly resembled the wizard’s school in the Harry Potter films. “Ready to go in?” “What about our stuff?” he asked. Sharon was too tired to unload a mini-van full of possessions tonight. “We’ll fetch our suitcases after we meet the landlady. We can collect the bulky items tomorrow.” Greg’s mouth twisted. “Okay.” Huddling beneath a shared umbrella, they scurried from the van to the wide, oldfashioned porch. Water splashed the hems of their pants and Sharon felt her hair losing what remained of its curl. “I thought the sun shined all the time in California,” Greg grumbled as they reached the overhang. Sharon struggled to keep her tone light. “It’s January, and practically the middle of

4 Jacqueline Diamond

the night. Go on, ring the bell.” When he obeyed, rich brass notes echoed inside. While they waited, Sharon checked out the sturdy glider, a window box thick with begonias and four mailboxes, labeled J. Fanning; Gaskell; I. Fanning; and no. 4, Mahoney. The landlady, an elderly woman named Jody Fanning, had posted their name already. According to Karly, most of the tenants were related to the owner. She’d mentioned a couple in their sixties and Jody’s grandnephew, Ian, a disabled former policeman. Sharon hoped sharing a kitchen wasn’t going to be too awkward. Greg hugged himself. “Maybe nobody’s home. Mom, I’m cold.” Sharon doubted the landlady expected them at this hour, nearly eight o’clock. “It’s an apartment building. Maybe we’re supposed to let ourselves in.” The knob turned in her hand. She half expected the door to creak as in some old movie, but it swung open on well-oiled hinges. They stepped into an entryway lit by an electric wall sconce. To their left lay a parlor illuminated only by a streetlight shining through the window. Sharon made out rose-patterned wallpaper, a braided rug and a settee. From outside, a bolt of lightning illuminated a large, finely detailed painting above the mantel, showing a Gothic mansion set on a hill. From an attic window stared a man’s face, his expression so agonized that Sharon was relieved when the room fell back into shadow. Thunder boomed through the floorboards. Greg moved closer. “Can’t we find some place else?” “Not for such low rent.” Sharon sighed. “And there’s an easy commute to the school. It’ll be much more pleasant in daylight, I’m sure.” Greg chewed his lip, unimpressed. He was staring ahead at a staircase that disappeared upwards into darkness. Any minute now, he was going to start crying again, Sharon thought in dismay. The only sign of life was a sliver of light seeping beneath a door to their right. In the hope that they’d found the landlady’s unit, she rapped twice. Out of habit she tugged at her earlobe, fingering the pearl set into the deep crease. Jim had given her the earrings for their seventh anniversary, a month before his heart attack. Touching it provided a measure of comfort. The door cracked. The old woman who faced them had eyes undimmed by age and a straight figure only an inch or so shorter than Sharon’s five-foot-eight. “Yes?” “Mrs. Fanning? I’m Sharon Mahoney.” “Sharon?” the woman repeated. She didn’t sound confused or forgetful, simply reflective. “You talked to my sister Karly,” Sharon prompted. “You’ve got my name on the mailbox.” Spotting the boy, the landlady broke into a smile. “Oh, yes, of course! Please forgive my rudeness. I’m Miss Fanning. Call me Jody.” The door swung wider. Jody, who wore a crinkly peach-colored pantsuit that almost matched her fluffy beige hair, moved back to admit them. “Sorry about the weather. Please come in and get warm” Stuffed with country-style furniture, the cheerful room smelled of laundry softener and peppermint tea. Instead of the usual knickknacks, a large china cabinet displayed model spaceships and fighter planes. On the far wall hung watercolor paintings of skateboarders and street-hockey players. “Did you paint those?” Sharon inquired. “They’re wonderful.”

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Jody nodded indulgently. “My grandnephew made them when he was much younger. He’s quite gifted.” “He’s a painter?” Sharon wondered how disabled the man was. “A very good one,” his great-aunt said. An electronic beep made them turn. “Hey!” Greg broke into a grin. “Mom, look at that!” On an antique table by the front window blinked a computer, the screen dotted by tiny spaceships hovering against a special-effects background of swirling galaxies. “We’ve interrupted your game. If you’re anything like my son, that’s a criminal offense.” “Laser Space Attack!” Greg cried. “Third edition. A recent acquisition.” Jody spoke with pretend solemnity. “Haven’t gotten beyond the second level. You should come help me tomorrow, young man.” Greg beamed. “You bet!” “I’m amazed you enjoy such things,” Sharon blurted. Jody didn’t appear offended. “My family owned a toy store for years. I knew the business inside and out. I used to take my nephew, and later Ian, to the product shows at the Anaheim Convention Center. It was better than anything Santa’s elves could dream up, believe me.” “You’re retired?” “The chains drove us out of business. Not that I sit around. I keep active in service clubs, and I pay attention to new products. At heart I’m a kid myself.” The landlady handed them two keys. “That’s to the front door. Please lock up once you’ve brought your things inside. The other’s to your suite, upstairs and down the hall on the right.” Jody explained that her grandnephew occupied the unit across from theirs. Her cousins, the Gaskells, who lived directly above Jody’s apartment, were spending the weekend in Palm Springs. “What about the third floor?” Greg asked. “That’s the attic.” “Does anybody live there?” he pressed. “Only the ghosts.” Jody winked. “Now, you’ll find the kitchen through the parlor and the dining room. We’re pretty informal here. Feel free to borrow sugar or whatnot. We can cook some meals together if you like. Oh, the laundry’s just off the kitchen.” “Thanks.” The warmth of the greeting dispelled Sharon’s initial unease. “You’ve made my son feel at home. And me, too.” “It’s good to have a little boy in the house again.” The computer beeped. “Duty calls!” “Good luck.” Sharon shepherded her son into the hall. “I like this place,” Greg said after the door closed behind them. “I told you Aunt Karly uses good judgment.” Usually, anyway. Sharon remembered during their teen years when her sister used to sneak out the window at night to sing with a rock band. Lucky their parents hadn’t caught her. Karly had been the only freewheeling member of the family. Sharon had followed her share of impulses too when she was younger, but she’d put that behind her. She felt grateful to be back in California. She’d never really adapted to the icy climate or the winds that blew off Lake Erie. Even the rare sight a few weeks ago of Niagara Falls framed by cascades of ice had been as much a demonstration of nature’s raw power as a vision of splendor. At least now she’d be near Karly, her husband and their baby. No one else was left.

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Since their mother’s death ten years earlier, Sharon’s father had remarried and moved to Hawaii, and she’d lost track of old friends. As she and Greg climbed the stairs in semi-darkness, she felt the smoothness of the well-worn banister. She began to appreciate the charm of the creaky old house, which Karly had said dated back to the 1890s. She wondered if Jody would be willing to visit her classroom and tell the children the background of the place as a living history lesson. That depended on what lessons their former teacher had been covering, of course. Sharon had been hired to complete the year after the teacher’s husband was transferred to Seattle. The steps reversed angle at the landing. As they mounted the final flight, a wall fixture revealed a man’s figure standing at the top, half shrouded in mist and half sharply in focus. Shocked by the malevolence in his gaze, Sharon reached instinctively to shelter Greg before registering that it was a painting. “Mom!” He shook off her hand. “I’m not a baby.” Apparently their visit with Jody had restored his confidence. “I know. Your Daddy would be proud of you.” Vacillating between childishness and independence seemed normal enough at this age, although she had to admit that the past year’s disruptions had intensified the swings. At the top, Sharon examined the painted figure in the dim light. Almost life-size, it appeared real enough to step from the canvas. Up close, what she’d taken for malice changed into wary suspicion. Sharon checked the signature—Ian Fanning. His style certainly had changed since the youthful watercolor days. Although she admired his talent, the painting made her wonder what sort of man she had for a neighbor. The Gaskells’ apartment, number two, lay to the left. To the right stretched a darkpaneled corridor. “Our rooms are this way.” Sharon hurried Greg along the hall and unlocked their door. Flipping on the light, she surveyed the front room with a twinge of dismay. Tiny and windowless, it formed more of a wide passageway than a parlor. The only furnishings were a couch across from them and a low TV stand next to the entrance. No wonder the place rented below market. With a pang, Sharon thought of the years she’d spent making crafts and browsing through shops to decorate their old home, a rental that had felt as if it belonged to them. She’d been forced to sell or donate most of their furnishings before the move. Well, Sharon could whip up decorative pillows on her sewing machine. She’d find posters to brighten the walls as well. . “Kind of small,” Greg muttered. “Cozy, or it will be when we fix it up,” she responded a shade too brightly. “Let’s check out the rest, okay?” To their left, they found what apparently passed for a master bedroom, filled by a double bed and a bureau, a modest desk and chair. Branching off the room, tucked behind the parlor, stretched a tiled bathroom dominated by a claw-foot tub. “There’s a room on the far side.” Greg dashed through to the second bedroom. The small space held a dresser and a desk made of chunky blond wood, plus a loveseat. “This is your room.” Her son frowned. “Where do I sleep?” “That loveseat must open into a bed.” Barely the width of a cot, though. Hardly ideal for a growing boy.

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“How does it work?” “You remove the cushions, then pull on the handle.” She showed him. “Let’s wait until you’re ready to go to sleep or we’ll trip over it while we unpack.” “Okay.” Greg walked to the door and peered into the parlor. “Where’s the rest?” Sharon swallowed. “No more, I’m afraid.” “I guess this is kind of like a play house,” the boy said slowly. “Exactly.” They ought to be cozy. And she wouldn’t need to spend as much time cleaning. Outside, a gust of window rattled the window and sent a chill through the damp wool of Sharon’s coat. A second later, something scraped the glass. “What’s that?” Greg held still, as if embarrassed to show that he was frightened again. “A branch, most likely.” She peered out the window. “What a big tree!” Through the branches, she surveyed a rear parking court and a lawn that sloped to what she hoped was a large garden. The boy ventured closer. “Wow! That tree’s huge. I bet I can climb down.” “Don’t you dare!” He grinned. “I wouldn’t really. Scared you, huh, Mom?” Sharon wrapped her arms around him. “You sure did.” He squirmed away. “Can we go get our stuff? I want to play with my Game Boy.” Drops spattered the pane. Despite the intensity of the wind, however, Sharon no longer heard a steady thrumming. “The rain may be letting up. Let’s delay a couple more minutes. Why don’t you figure out where you’d like to put everything, and I’ll do the same in my room.” “Okay.” She left Greg to explore. In the front room, she noticed a small painting over the TV stand. When they’d entered from the opposite direction, she’d missed it. Through a sunlit meadow, a woman in a long skirt and peasant blouse ran away from the viewer toward a house in the distance. Auburn hair about the same color as Sharon’s streamed behind. She drew closer. The figure seemed eerily familiar, from the set of the shoulders to the angle of the hips. The painting was so realistic she almost believed the woman was turning her head, but surely the curve of a cheek and one ear, set close to the head, had been visible all along The woman in the painting showed an unusually deep crease on her earlobe. Just like Sharon’s. The effect of a long day and the unsettling weather must be what gave her the sensation of freefall. Dizzily, she grasped the doorframe for support. How ridiculous to let imaginings carry her away. This was nothing more than a coincidence. So what if Ian Fanning picked a model who resembled Sharon? If the painting bothered her, she would simply remove it. Sternly, she proceeded past to the bedroom. ***** Ian flung the paintbrush across the room. The contact left a flesh-toned splatter on the wall. He glared from the painting to the photograph he’d shot of an ivory-skinned model.

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Why did he keep mixing the hues wrong? Why did the golden hair keep coming out red? The gallery owner had been right to accuse him of falling into a rut. Jane Argyle, a sixtyish bohemian who’d gained a reputation for recognizing new talent, was the best thing that happened to Ian’s career. She’d sold half a dozen of his paintings and she was trying to guide him. She’d insisted he paint no more canvases of that mahogany-haired woman and no more scenes of Gothic houses. The subjects were keeping Ian in a rut. Choosing a blonde model marked the first step toward exploring a less hard-edged style. Yet how the hell was he going to strike out in a new direction when he couldn’t paint the colors he envisioned? The problem, Ian reflected, was that he was painting what he envisioned. Maybe he lacked the ability to make a transition. Maybe Jane was wrong and the gallery owners who called him dated and limited were right. From across the hall came the scrape of a key and the sound of soft voices. That must be the widow and her son. Ian visualized a middle-aged woman and a teenager. He hoped they weren’t going to play loud music. He didn’t like having new people in the house. Not that he’d been fond of the previous occupants. The young couple had bickered constantly. He should have gone out tonight. Mingling with a loose-knit local group of artists, writers and filmmakers stimulated Ian and drew him out of himself. He’d decided to work instead. Bad choice. Going to sponge off the molding before the splatter dried, he was crossing the room when a wave of dizziness hit. As Ian grabbed a chair, bands of color and noise throbbed through his head. For months, he’d thought the seizures were gone. Until this week. He eased into the chair, hating the loss of control, the helplessness. He wanted back the tough, athletic man he used to be. After a few minutes the throbbing eased. The memories that descended in its wake, however, proved scarcely less painful. One day five years ago, he’d climbed into the patrol car with a distracted mind. That had been the twenty-fifth anniversary of his parents’ deaths. When dispatch sent him on a pursuit, his twenty-nine-year-old self had hit the gas without an inkling that his world was about to get smashed into a jigsaw puzzle lacking several key pieces. According to the report, the stolen pickup truck had rammed him broadside and sent his car careening down an embankment. A Jaws of Life had required half an hour to pry him out. For weeks, he lay in a coma. The doctors nearly gave up on him. Only Great-Aunt Jody persisted, visiting every day, talking, scolding. Finally one morning Ian awoke. For months, he couldn’t use his body with any confidence. Gradually, he’d built up physical strength and he still worked out at a gym three or four times a week. Even so, the recurring dizzy spells barred a return to police work. Eager to get off disability, he lived on the income from odd jobs, occasional freelance graphic designs and the sale of his paintings. Although the report cleared him of blame, he was haunted by the guilty sense that he’d brought this situation on himself through inattentiveness. Painting, a talent his grandfather had shared, changed from a hobby to an outlet for pent-up energy. He’d become obsessed with capturing his inner turmoil on canvas, hoping at some level that exposing it would free him. So far, no luck.

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At last the spells had diminished. Abruptly, this week, they’d returned full strength. Sunday would mark the anniversary of too many tragedies, including his own. The strange perceptions hadn’t started with the crash. Intermittently since childhood, Ian had heard strange whispering in the house. But they were much worse now. During an attack, Ian felt as if he were being physically assaulted—from within. He sensed someone invading his mind. Trying to take over. He hesitated to consult Dr. Finley, his therapist. The medications she prescribed produced unpleasant side effects when they worked at all. He also remembered how she’d reacted once when he’d mentioned his sense that inner forces were struggling for control. From her subtle tensing, he’d known, as clearly as if she’d spoken, that she feared he might be going off the deep end. He’d backtracked quickly. Even if he was delusional, he damn well didn’t want anyone else knowing. Ian sat up and discovered the dizziness had passed. He was getting to his feet when a wordless howl of pain and fear burst through the air. For a moment, he thought he’d made it himself. Then he heard the cry again. Down the hall, someone was in trouble.

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Chapter Two Another shriek sounded through the open door of the new tenants’ apartment. Ian pelted inside, scarcely giving a thought to how disheveled he looked. The noise came from his right, where the smaller bedroom lay. “Is somebody hurt?” He stepped inside. On the floor huddled a woman in slacks and a turtleneck sweater, bent over a boy. Abstractedly, Ian registered the striking color of her hair, which was tied back. “He tried to open the bed himself and got his hand caught.” She stroked the boy comfortingly. “Do you know first aid?” “Sure.” As Ian bent to inspect the wound, the woman looked up. For a moment he thought he was suffering another dizzy spell. Although his head didn’t hurt, his mind went whirling down corridors lined by angry old faces. Before him sat the woman who dominated his paintings and violated his peace of mind. If her hair were loose, he’d have noticed the similarity instantly. “Who the hell are you?” Ian demanded. ***** Staring up into the fierce eyes of Jody’s great-nephew, Sharon got the irrational impression that he must be some kind of maniac. What else could explain the fury that twisted across his face? Even under less upsetting circ*mstances, she’d have been leery of Ian Fanning, with that paint-smeared dark hair and the scar slashing across one cheekbone. Greg whimpered. Dismayed, Sharon stared down at the blood flowing from a gash on his hand. “We’re the new tenants.” She used her calmest schoolteacher voice. “I didn’t bring in the first-aid kit from my van.” The man knelt. Only a twitch of the unshaven jaw revealed the strain of his emotions. “Show me.” Hesitantly, she gave him Greg’s hand. At the contact, gentleness shone in Ian’s eyes. “That must hurt, huh, fella?” Her son’s tear-stained face reflected misery. “Yeah.” “You’re brave.” Ian raised the boy’s arm. “Keep that elevated. The bleeding’s already slowing. I’ll be right back.” He sprang out of the room. The change in attitude reassured Sharon. What had spurred that savage glare? Perhaps he’d suspected she was abusing the boy. By the time Ian returned with bandages and antiseptic, the bleeding had stopped. “Do you think he needs stitches? I could drive him to the emergency room.” Sharon refused to consider the cost, although she didn’t yet have medical insurance. “It doesn’t look deep. He should heal okay. At his age, scars fade rapidly.” Ian cleaned the wound skillfully. At close range, she noticed the lean build beneath his soft plaid shirt and worn jeans. He had a watchful air even while absorbed in his first-aid work. Her gaze flicked instinctively to the white mark on the man’s face, and then away. If Ian noticed, he gave no sign. At last the wound was bandaged. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” she

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said. “I’m Sharon Mahoney, by the way. You must be Ian.” A nod. “My great-aunt told me she’d rented the place to a widow. You’re younger than I expected.” He frowned. “She mentioned you were from New York, but that can’t be right.” “Upstate New York. Buffalo, to be exact. A city famous for deep snow and spicy chicken wings.” “Somehow I get the feeling you’re from around here.” She wondered how he could tell. “I was, originally. I moved back East after I got married.” When they’d met, Jim had been staying in Orange County on temporary assignment, consulting for an engineering project. Ian rocked back on his heels, his gaze probing. “What led you to this house? Why this one in particular?” “My sister found it.” She didn’t understand why he seemed to be throwing out a challenge. “Surely there’s nothing wrong with that.” “I’m afraid there may be. Seriously wrong.” Greg fidgeted. “Mom, I still hurt.” “Give the boy some Tylenol and go to a hotel. Both of you.” Ian got to his feet. “Believe me, I have good reason for telling you this.” Sharon didn’t like being bullied and she didn’t trust this man’s moods. “We appreciate your help, but we’re not going anywhere. If you dislike having neighbors, you’d better talk to Jody.” “Nobody bosses my mom around,” Greg added proudly. To her surprise, the man threw back his head and laughed. She liked the curve of his mouth and the boyish glint of teeth. The ogre from across the hall could be charming. “Stepped on the wrong toes, did I?” Sharon brushed herself off. “That’s right. My son and I are renting this apartment. If that annoys you, I’m sure you’ll adjust.” “You misunderstand.” His expression sobered. “I have to show you something.” “What?” “Follow me.” “Maybe tomorrow.” Sharon reached into her purse for a bottle of painkillers. “We’ve got to carry in our gear and make the beds. We drove a long distance today.” “I’ll help,” Ian promised. “But first, you should look upstairs before you decide to stay.” “In the attic?” Greg’s eyes widened. “Let’s go, Mom!” “Great. Now you’ve got him stirred up.” She turned on Ian. “I’ll make you a deal,” he replied, unfazed. “Half an hour at most, that’s all I ask. If you still want to stay, I’ll haul up your things myself.” “All of them?” Sharon could certainly use the help. “We’ve got a mini-van crammed to the rafters.” How lovely to have everything brought in tonight. “Okay. This won’t take long, I promise.” She might as well agree. Greg and Ian would keep on arguing and, besides, getting their stuff hauled up was worth a delay. “All right.” Greg darted ahead as they emerged into the hall. Sharon indicated the stairs and the painted man swathed in mist. “That’s a remarkable picture. I thought he was real.” “The title is, Memory of My Father. Hey, Greg! Back this way.” To Sharon, Ian explained, “The attic steps are at the far end of the hall. Don’t ask me why they built them that way. People weren’t fixated on efficiency a century ago, I guess.”

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He steered them along the hallway to the attic staircase. Greg trotted upwards. “Why did you show your father hidden in mist?” Sharon held the rail as she climbed. “Because I hardly remember him. My parents died when I was five.” To Greg, Ian called, “Jiggle the knob. The rain makes it stick.” A cold draft blew across Sharon’s face as the door rasped open, bringing a musty smell like old flowers and mold. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected; perhaps a brightly lit, remodeled chamber. The smell told her instantly that she’d been wrong. She sensed without knowing why that this was the kind of place that held secrets best forgotten. A tendril of fear reached into her throat at the realization that she’d agreed to venture up with this intense man. Greg’s voice drifted to her. “Mom, this is great!” At the top of the stairs, Sharon stared into a place from another era. Sprawling the length of the house, the attic roof sloped steeply on both sides from a cobwebbed center beam. By the light of several stark overhead fixtures, she made out trunks and blanketdraped furniture stretching into the depths. Among the boxes, her eye picked out an ornate, tarnished birdcage and an old rocking horse. “My great-aunt hates to get rid of anything.” Ian indicated the piles of belongings. “I’m sure Jody won’t mind if your son plays with this stuff.” Greg poked at a cardboard box that had split to reveal small, carved figures. “Mom, toy soldiers. A whole army!” “Take them,” Ian said. “They used to be mine.” “Really? Thanks!” Leaving the boy to enjoy his new treasures, Ian guided Sharon farther into the attic. When a tight space between a table and a cabinet forced them together, she felt the brush of his thigh and the hard length of his body pressing hers. She became sharply aware of the warmth of his breath on her neck. “Excuse me.” Leaning past, Ian lifted a large cloth to expose an oil painting set on an easel. “This is what I wanted you to see.” In the dimness, Sharon made out two formally posed figures, a seated man and a woman standing partially behind him. Nearby, Ian clicked on a table lamp. As the glow clarified the painting, Sharon caught her breath. Even through the patina of age, there was no mistaking the auburn hue of the woman’s hair, cut and rolled in the style of the 1940s. Although the face was slightly wider and the nose more upturned, Sharon could have posed for this portrait herself. As for the man, despite a coarser face and hooded eyes, he bore a strong resemblance to Ian. She struggled to speak. “Who are they?” “My grandparents.” Ian’s jaw worked before he added, “He murdered her and then killed himself. Here, in this attic.” Outside, the wind cried through the eaves. Sharon tried to absorb this information. These two people—the woman almost identical to her, the man so like Ian—had died violently in this spot. “What happened?” “They were deeply in love, but Grandma Susan’s family didn’t approve. Grandpa Bradley was a manual laborer as well as an aspiring painter. A shady character in their eyes.” Ian fingered the edge of the gilded frame. “This painting was his work, as a matter of fact.” “He had talent.” And great cruelty, to kill someone he supposedly loved.

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“When World War II came along, the Army drafted him,” Ian explained. “After he left, Susan found out she was pregnant.” “That must have been a shock.” Sharon tried to imagine how this woman, her double, had felt in that less tolerant era. “Jody says their parents locked Susan up here until she gave birth.” “That’s medieval!” “They were rigid people, obviously.” Ian scowled. “Also, they wanted to prevent her from contacting Bradley. You’d think they’d have encouraged the pair to marry.” “It’s hard to grasp how people thought in those days. Please, go on.” Sharon needed to learn what had happened. Against her wishes, she felt as if the unusual similarity between her and Susan created a bond. “They burned Bradley’s letters so she believed he was never coming back. Finally, they wore her down until she agreed to give the baby up for adoption. That wasn’t all. They also made her promise to marry a friend of the family, an older businessman.” His expression grim, Ian explained that Bradley had returned from the Pacific with a leg wound. While recuperating at a military hospital in Tennessee, he somehow learned about the wedding, went AWOL and hitchhiked cross-country. Then tragedy struck. The night before the wedding, while the rest of the family was at church, Bradley confronted Susan at the house, stabbed her to death and hanged himself from a rafter. Only the baby, Ian’s father, survived. Sorrow touched Sharon for this woman whose painted image radiated serenity. “How terrible. How did Jody come to raise your father, though?” “Apparently she maintained he was all she had left of her sister. Somehow she prevailed.” “Good for her.” Sharon would have felt the same way about Karly’s child. “Didn’t she ever marry?” “No. She devoted her life to Dad and then to me.” He took a deep breath. “Sharon, listen. You’re not safe. That isn’t the end of the story.” His words made her skin crawl. You’re not safe. “What do you mean?” He swung around, full face. “Sunday is the sixty-fifth anniversary of their deaths, and the anniversary of other things as well. The bottom line is, there’s something unresolved in this house.” Prickles ran along Sharon’s spine. “I don’t believe that.” “You must be related to Susan. Maybe in some way you are her.” His breath came harshly. “Don’t you understand? Your sister didn’t just happen to pick this house. How likely is that?” “What’s your explanation, then?” she demanded. His mouth formed a tight line. After a moment, he said, “I believe you were drawn here.” Sharon refused to accept such superstition. “For heaven’s sake, you were a policeman. You can’t believe that!” The only danger likely came from this man. From the moment they’d met, Sharon had felt a roughness in him. He might be as unpredictable as his grandfather. Ian moved away. “My father used to say he sensed a presence. He put off marrying, Jody says, because he was afraid something might happen to his wife. Then it happened anyway.” “You can’t believe that had anything to do with Bradley and Susan!” “My parents didn’t get along very well,” Ian went on. “Jody told me they used to

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fight. One night when I was five, on the anniversary of the deaths, they went out for a drive. Maybe they were arguing. Dad slammed the car into a wall and killed them both.” His fists clenched. “I’m sure there’s a rational explanation.” A cord of tension stood out in his neck. “If so, I was too young to understand.” Wind jolted the attic, sending Sharon’s heart skittering. Outside, something thumped into the house. “Mom?” Greg called. “What was that?” “Probably the tree.” “Nothing to worry about,” Ian added loudly. “Old houses always make noise in a storm.” To Sharon, he murmured, “The tree’s on the opposite side of the house. I’d better check.” As Sharon followed him across the attic, a board groaned beneath her foot. “I hope you keep this place in good repair.” “Not as good as we ought to. I’m afraid I’ve been wrapped up in my work.” Ian led the way around a wardrobe trunk. “Aunt Jody has kind of let things go in recent years, too, although she’s got a lot of handyman skills. She should have hired someone to inspect the place ages ago.” They stopped before a multi-paned glass door. Outside, Sharon glimpsed a few blurry lights across the street. “Is this the balcony?” Before he could respond, a dark shape from outside flung toward them like a prehistoric bird, hitting the glass with a whump! Sharon jumped back. “Something must have broken loose.” Ian thrust open the door, blasting them with rain and a chill gust of wind. He pushed away an object. “It’s a shutter.” Sharon’s heart didn’t stop pounding even though she registered the fact that the problem was merely a loose piece of wood. “Isn’t that balcony what people used to call a widow’s walk?” “I’ve heard that term, yes,” Ian called, leaning out. Widow’s walk. She’d noticed quite a few of them during a honeymoon trip to New England with Jim. The roof-level balconies had allowed sailors’ wives to stare off to sea, hoping for their men to return. “I imagine Susan used this balcony to watch for Bradley.” Ian’s voice floated back. She felt Susan’s loneliness as she huddled in this constricted world, hoping the man she loved would rescue her. Those parents must have been maniacs. You didn’t lock an unwed mother like the proverbial madwoman in the attic, even in the 1940s. Ian was still braced half in and half out, straining to hook the louvered casing. “Damn hinges are loose.” His foot must have skidded on the rain-soaked balcony. Sharon saw him start to slide and grab the frame. With a thrust of the shoulder, he shoved the shutter into place. A cracking noise shot through the attic. “Bloody hell!” Ian reached above the outer doorway, grabbing a support. More steadily, he called, “Thank God the flagpole held. The whole thing might have gone.” “Get in!” She caught his arm and pulled. Ian staggered in, damp and windblown. The impact knocked her off-balance, and they caught each other instinctively. She registered his solid power and the gentle way he tried to avoid putting too much weight on her. When he was inside, Ian held on for a beat longer than necessary. “I told you this house was dangerous,” he said ruefully.

15 Touch Me In The Dark

Boldly, his mouth grazed her cheek. Sharon trembled, less from cold than from the stimulation of Ian’s nearness. When he drew his head back, his eyes locked into hers. She had only to tilt her chin to send an invitation. This man stirred a wildness that she’d worked hard to restrain ever since her teen years. No matter how much he tempted her, she never wanted to visit that side of herself again. When Sharon pushed against Ian’s chest, he yielded. Desire and regret played across his face. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” Her words surprised her. “I mean …” “I wasn’t imagining it, then. You react the same way I do.” Sharon refused to confirm the claim. “Let’s keep this light. We’re neighbors.” “Are you sure that’s what you want?” “A minute ago you were warning me off.” He smiled reluctantly. “You’re right. I plead guilty of inconsistency. And I respect your wishes.“ With a jerk of the head, he added wryly, “Let’s go. I hear I’ve got a lot of stuff to haul up.” “Darn right.” Greg was yawning when they collected him. Leaving the toy soldiers for later, Sharon escorted the sleepy boy downstairs. ***** What the hell did you think you were doing? He’d been wrong to drag Sharon upstairs, Ian reflected as he entered his studio after hauling up the suitcases, boxes, TV and other belongings. He deserved sore muscles and a kink in his back, and worse. A man ought to protect a woman, even if she did radiate self-sufficiency. He had no business acting as if a chance similarity in an old painting gave him the right to disturb her peace of mind. And he certainly shouldn’t have tried to kiss her. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about that vivid face and that body—tall, slender, full-breasted—exactly as he’d dreamed. A trace of innocence lingered in her gaze, tantalizingly mixed with eagerness. Lord, he wanted to lower her to the bed and watch that red hair tumble across the pillow. Wanted to hear her moan with pleasure and feel her arch against him. Absolutely not. He understood the danger as well as she did. No, better. Beyond the circle of lamplight, the darkness waited. It had waited a long time. In his youth, Ian had dated recklessly. He knew the pleasure of making love to a woman with nothing at risk. He remembered those days as if they’d happened to someone else. Since the accident, he’d quit trying to form relationships after a few disastrous attempts. His unpredictable moods always ruined things. Physically, he had healed from his accident. Inside was a different story. Not only flesh had been torn in that crash. Some kind of membrane deep in his brain had burst, releasing a torrent of ancient impulses. Where once Ian had lived a calm, even cheerful existence, now he saw pain in the scarlet skeletons of leaves and threat in the glare of headlights against a rain-dark street. Then, tonight, he’d looked into Sharon’s eyes and found something he’d been seeking without realizing it. He reached for a sketchpad. Swift strokes brought forth her face, the eyes

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challenging, the lips parted. As he created the image, he had the sensation that she somehow belonged to him. Was this how Bradley had felt about Susan? How could a man harm such a woman, no matter how angry he became? He’d promised Jane to start a new series of paintings. Forcing himself to set the drawing aside, Ian picked up a series of photos from parks and beaches. He’d focused on patterns and textures, fighting to find new subjects that inspired him. Hell, he was thirty-four years old. He ought to have discovered what he wanted to paint by now. Still, as Jane had observed, this wasn’t a race. Selecting one shot, Ian gave a short nod of recognition. The scene that had caught his interest along the cliffs of Laguna Beach showed an elderly woman and a small girl feeding a squirrel. The angles and curves formed by their shadows interested him more than the figures. After sketching the scene onto canvas in charcoal, he began laying down thin layers of grayish-brown tones. At this stage, the painting was mostly a monochrome, the people more outlines than humans. He worked doggedly, trying to prolong his concentration. In the midst of rinsing his brushes before the next stage, Ian realized he’d lost the impulse. The painting engaged him only on an intellectual level, like a debate in which he didn’t care who won. He was removing the canvas to be reused later when a bout of dizziness threw him off balance. Brain waves throbbed into bands of color and noise. Not another seizure, not so soon! As he sank into a whirlwind, Ian heard someone speaking in a deep incomprehensible mutter. In the split second before losing control completely, he grasped a single word. It was ‘Revenge.’

17 Touch Me In The Dark

Chapter Three Ian sank into a white space that might have been unconsciousness. After a while, he drifted back to awareness. When he checked his watch, he saw that several minutes had passed. His gaze fell on the sketch of Sharon. Someone had ripped it from the sketchpad and skewered it to the wall with an X-Acto knife. Across her face, in red ink, slashed the words—“Get out!” Had someone—or something—controlled his hand, or had he done this out of deeply buried rage? Ian pulled the knife from the wall and stared at the picture. The paper trembled in his grip. He wanted to throw the thing away where no one would ever see it again, but despite the damage, her face was so lifelike that destruction seemed an act of cruelty. Smoothing the sketch, he laid it in a drawer. ***** Saturday didn’t turn out the way Sharon had expected. She’d planned to have lunch with Karly’s family, finish unpacking and shop for groceries. Instead, she spent most of the day in bed, struck low by a stomach virus. The return of the rain, harder than ever, intensified her sense of physical and mental depletion. She spoke briefly on her cell phone with Karly, declining an offer to hurry over. No sense in spreading the virus. Instead, they made a date for Sunday afternoon, conditioned on Sharon’s feeling better. Karly’s husband Frank would be away at a computer conference, seeking clients for his consulting business. The only bright spot in the day turned out to be Jody. The older woman seemed to enjoy battling Greg at her new videogame. Later, finding Sharon dozing, Jody volunteered to take the boy to the Fullerton library. She agreed gratefully, glad the boy seemed in high spirits and that his cut hand was mending rapidly. They’d been gone half an hour when a tap at her apartment door was followed by Ian’s voice calling, “Hello? Feel up to eating?” Almost too weak to lift her head from the pillow, Sharon couldn’t summon the energy to worry about what a mess she must look. “I haven’t kept anything down all day, but I’m feeling a little better.” Honesty forced her to clarify, “Well, less lousy, anyway.” “I’ll take that as an invitation.” In walked a more civilized version of the man she’d met last night, the shaggy hair brushed into a semblance of neatness and a smile softening his angular features. On a tray, he carried a covered bowl and a ceramic cup from which drifted the scent of cloves. “We’re talking chicken soup and tea from a shop on Harbor Boulevard. Think you can manage any?” “Maybe the tea.” On the other hand, chicken soup supposedly had healing powers. Ian set the tray on the bed, its feet spanning Sharon’s body. “I’m afraid taking you into that cold attic last night didn’t do you any good.” “I’m sure the virus was already in my system.” Sharon liked being taken care of. No one had done that for her since her mother died ten years ago. Illness had made Jim uneasy. “I hope Greg doesn’t catch it.”

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Ian pulled up the desk chair. “You’re a gutsy lady. I’m afraid I went overboard with the dramatics last night. By the way, I told Jody about the widow’s walk. The workmen will be here next week.” Through the thin shell of the cup, the heat burrowed into her hands as she sipped. In addition to cloves, she tasted cinnamon, mace and an exotic fruit juice. “This is good.” Her stomach stopped roiling. “Glad you like it.” Ian’s tongue swept across his lower lip, as if savoring the drink with her. Her mind flicked back to their encounter in the attic. She realized abruptly that she’d dreamed about this. The details had vanished, leaving only a faint realization that they’d done more than kiss. She must be on the mend if she could think about any such thing. An hour or so earlier, her only desire had been to move permanently into the bathroom. “We both grew up around here,” Sharon recalled. “Do you suppose we ran into each other?” “I’m certain I’d remember.” Nevertheless, they compared notes. Ian was right. They’d gone to different high schools and graduated four years apart. She gathered her courage to broach a touchy subject. “I’m curious about the painting in my front room. Who’s the woman?” “I suppose you noticed she looks like you.” She nodded. “She’s Susan, or my take on Susan.” Ian gazed into the distance. “That portrait in the attic imprinted itself on my soul. I visualize her even when I use another model. Frankly, it’s cramping my style and blocking my career.” “I hate to suggest therapy…” He didn’t seem angry, only resigned. “I had plenty after my accident. I got broadsided during a pursuit when I was on the force. Seeing a shrink helped to a point. I still have issues to work out for myself, though.” “What kind of issues?” He shrugged. “My therapy focused on adjusting to losing my career as a police officer. The insurance only paid for a limited number of sessions. We didn’t spend much time on unresolved issues from childhood.” He certainly had more of those than most people. “Losing your parents when you were five must have been horrible. I was twenty-one when Mom died and I felt like she’d been ripped away from me much too soon.” “You lost your husband recently?” he asked. “Last year.” “How did he die, if you don’t mind my asking?” “Heart attack. He collapsed at work.” Her throat caught. “I’m sorry.” Confiding in an adult after trying so hard to be strong for Greg’s sake came as a relief. “It didn’t seem real at first. I kept thinking I must be dreaming. He was only thirtyseven. Even though his family had a history of heart disease and he smoked, I wasn’t prepared.” Sometimes she still felt numb when she thought about Jim, as if their marriage of seven years had happened to someone else. She’d loved him, but not madly, searingly, dangerously. Ian smoothed a strand of hair from her temple. “You look tired. I’ll tell you what.

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I’ll put the soup in the refrigerator and reheat it later if you want. Give me a call.” He jotted his phone number on a pad. “You seem to be coming to the rescue a lot.” Sharon hadn’t forgotten how he’d patched Greg’s hand. “I didn’t become a cop for no reason. I like to help.” A twist of the lips hinted at wryness. “You know, now that I’m over the initial shock of seeing you, I think maybe you belong here after all.” “No more trying to chase me out?” she teased. “I hope not.” He picked up the tray. “I can’t make promises about things I don’t control.” He appeared on the brink of saying more, then reconsidered. The man was nothing if not mysterious, Sharon reflected after he left. Her eyelids drifted shut. When she began to dream, she found Ian already there. ***** Despite the rain, Ian went to the Argyle Gallery late Saturday afternoon after a few hours at the gym. He hadn’t talked to Jane in several weeks. Although he doubted she’d like what he had to say, she deserved the truth. The gallery occupied a converted store that had once sold women’s lingerie. Shops had come and gone over the decades along Harbor Boulevard, which had suffered first from the growing popularity of malls and then from the disruptive effects of redevelopment. However, gracious landscaping, picturesque signs and frequent area-wide festivities had brought the public back to its boutiques, curio shops and restaurants, as well as art galleries. When he entered, Jane was standing atop a ladder adjusting a spotlight on a canvas of a star-flung galaxy. The science fiction-inspired display by a Northern California cover artist opened tonight with a wine and cheese reception, according to a flier in the window. She favored Ian with a steely eye. “I gather things didn’t go well with your new model.” Her comment took him aback. “What makes you say that?” “You’re not lugging a canvas.” Jane studied the angle of the light before shifting the fixture a few degrees “I’m afraid you’re right.” He made no excuses. She already understood the problem. “I hate artistic temperaments, so why have I chosen to make my living working with them?” She shook her head. “Did I mention your deadline? August.” “What’s August?” He’d heard nothing previously about a deadline. “The show.” The gallery owner descended the ladder with a series of thumps. A sturdy woman, she radiated an air of self-possession. Ian imagined she must have been born in sensible shoes and with that gray streak through her hair. An odd-looking baby, perhaps, but a formidable woman. “I’m putting together my top talent. There’ll be publicity, and I plan to round up art critics and collectors from LA even if I have to blackmail them to get them to Orange County.” “Jane, I wish I belonged in that group.” The admission that he didn’t tore at Ian. “Like hell. You have more talent in your little finger than most artists have in their— in their...” She paused for effect before concluding, “In their big toe.” He laughed. “I’m not sure how to take that.” “Take it as a kick in the butt.” Trust Jane to use blunt phrasing. “A deadline is a

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godsend. Don’t fight. Yield.” She made no threats. Ian had no idea what it would take to lose her confidence and he wasn’t going to find out. One way or another, he had to live up to her expectations. “I surrender.” He dodged barely in time as the ladder swung, nearly smacking him. “Let me carry that.” “Not necessary.” She positioned the device beneath the next spotlight. “As for your work, if you’re not finished with your red-haired-woman period, you need to find a fresh approach.” He considered mentioning Sharon and decided not to. “That might be possible.” She planted hands on hips. “You told me once that someone inside you was pushing to get out. Well, let him. Stop thinking with your head and paint from your gut. To hell with what anybody else thinks, including me.” “This guy inside, he might not be very pleasant.” Ian chose not to mention how he’d defaced his own sketch. “Art isn’t supposed to be pleasant.” August. Eight months might seem a long time, except when you understood the complexities of creating a body of work. Especially for him. Ian’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to be part of this exhibit. He wanted to build a reputation and a future. “I’ll do it.” “Go thou and get thy ass in gear,” Jane commanded. “Yes, ma’am.” Only after reaching the car did he remember that he’d forgotten to say thank-you. The work would have to speak for itself. He drove home cautiously. For two years after his injury, he’d been denied a license. Relying on buses had intensified his frustrations, and since his doctor cleared him, he’d gone out of his way to avoid infractions. So far, his seizures had occurred only when he was home. Ian arrived at the studio with fresh resolve. He sat down with a sketchpad and let his mind roam. What he craved was to paint Sharon. She’d dominated his thoughts for the past twenty-four hours. To capture her would require his utmost skills as an artist and as a man. Blood had to rise and sparks ignite until the two of them exploded together, he thought, and wondered if he was musing about painting or about making love. Both, most likely. You told me once that someone inside you was pushing to get out. Well, let him. As usual, Jane was right. Ian decided to work with the theme of the past returning, of old things overtaking the new. As his hands began to move, he lost track of time. Coming up for air at last, he stared at the drawing he’d roughed out. Two figures, neither clearly male nor female, intertwined in a struggle. Their angry rawness bulged from the paper. He’d never managed to get such power onto paper before. And, for a change, he’d managed to release his demons without incurring a seizure. Energized, Ian pulled out a canvas and began copying the figures on its surface. For whatever reason, he felt on the brink of a new stage. He was going to plunge into the primordial muck of his creativity elbow-deep to drag out new life forms. Some of the creatures would be deceptively beautiful. Some of them, he realized, might look like

21 Touch Me In The Dark

Sharon. Although he was still leery of letting her stay in this house, how could he go on urging her to leave when the image of her stirred him so strongly? Artists had a right to be selfish, didn’t they? Perhaps his fixation about the tragic anniversary revealed more about his psyche than about any real danger, Ian reflected. Returning to his sketchpad, he let the images flow. And they did, freely. ***** “I think I’m in love.” Sharon gazed at her three-month-old niece. Lisa’s chubby limbs flailed, throwing her against the crib’s pink bumpers in an unsuccessful attempt to roll over. “I’m definitely in love,” she confirmed. “She’s adorable.” Yesterday’s illness had left almost no trace except for sore stomach muscles and dreams that she couldn’t quite remember. Greg seemed unaffected by the virus, and Karly had urged them to keep their plans to visit. “My daughter’s a determined little thing. I hope I’m not spoiling her.” Karly set a plate of oatmeal cookies on a table in the baby’s brightly decorated room. Greg helped himself to a handful. For a former free spirit, Karly had turned remarkably domestic. First the smell of lemon polish in the air, now homemade cookies. She’d even stenciled teddy bears on the nursery wall. Nearly three years ago, when Karly and Frank married outdoors in a gazebo overlooking the ocean, her sister had sworn never to become a housewife. And for a while she hadn’t. Strikingly beautiful with long dark hair and a slim build, Karly had continued singing with a band and pursuing a recording career. Her husband, a computer programmer, had supported her ambitions. But the hoped-for recording contract hadn’t materialized and Frank suffered a layoff followed by months of struggle to build up a consulting business. Rents had soared and, just when Karly decided to take a job teaching music, she unexpectedly became pregnant. Sharon wished she’d been here to help, especially when complications forced her sister to stay in bed for weeks. Preoccupied with the fallout from Jim’s death, however, she’d been able to do little except give pep talks by phone. Matters seemed to have improved. Karly clearly adored her baby and Frank had more work than he could handle. Even so, Sharon sensed tension beneath the surface. She respected her sister’s right to privacy. All the same, she hoped eventually Karly would feel comfortable enough to confide. The baby made a gurgling noise. Greg eyed his cousin dubiously. “Can’t she talk?” “Maybe in another year.” Karly draped an arm around his shoulders. “Don’t you wish you knew what she was thinking? She sure does make funny faces.” “It’s gas,” Sharon teased, and laughed at her sister’s outraged expression. Greg’s attention span had reached its limit. His next question was, “Does she have any good toys?” “Not for your age group, but you can use Frank’s remote-control car as long as you don’t bump the furniture. He never has time for it any more, anyway.” Karly went to fetch her husband’s plaything.

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Greg settled on the nursery floor with the toy, to Lisa’s fascination. Sharon hoped this would be the start of a long and loving relationship between the pair. The two women moved into the living room, leaving the door open so they could hear if the baby cried. Karly had decorated with blond Scandinavian furniture and bright prints. “Babies can be exhausting. How’re you holding up?” “I don’t mind.” Karly plopped onto the couch. “Most of the time.” Sharon took the recliner. She tried very hard not to act nosy, for all of thirty seconds. “What’s wrong?” Sticking out her long legs, Karly crossed them atop the coffee table. At twentyseven, she’d tamed her once-frizzy brown hair but her movements remained coltish. “I guess I’ve got cabin fever.” “Have you thought about teaching music part-time?” Sharon remembered the sense of confinement from when she’d stayed home, until Greg entered preschool. Not that she regretted a minute. Still, she was anxious to meet with the director of her new school and take over her class. Teaching meant waking up each morning excited about the possibilities for her students. Karly grimaced. “Who has the energy? I’ve hardly slept in months. Lisa wakes up two or three times a night and Frank’s exhausted from working so much.” “He’s probably trying to make up for lost time.” Sharon knew the couple had emptied their savings account during the pregnancy. “I keep waiting for things to get back to normal. The problem is, I’m not sure what ‘normal’ is any more,” Karly admitted. “I need something to look forward to. Sometimes I feel like throwing things at Frank, except it isn’t his fault.” “Things will get easier when Lisa’s older.” That seemed a long time away. “No doubt.” Karly launched into a new subject. “How do you like the Fanning House? Isn’t it right out of The Addams Family?” Probably more than she realized. Then Sharon recalled Ian’s remark that the discovery hadn’t been a coincidence. “How on earth did you find the place?” “That’s the funny part.” Karly stretched languidly. “I was on my way to a new discount baby store when I got the strangest urge to turn down one particular street. What an incredible house! I knew you were meant to live there.” Sharon made a face. “Next you’ll tell me you’re getting signals from space aliens. If you start walking around with aluminum foil on your head, I’m disowning you.” “I think the place is exciting. We should throw a Halloween party next fall.” “I’d rather not. Things are weird enough already.” Sharon described her trip to the attic with Ian. Karly drank in every word of the tale. “You really look just like her? Maybe we’re related. Mom’s family lived around here since the early 1900s, so we could have distant cousins.” Sharon didn’t recall her mother mentioning any other family. Still, there could be a connection. “Do you have Mom’s scrapbook?” Karly jumped up eagerly. “I’ll get it from the bedroom.” After their father remarried, they’d divided up their mother’s memorabilia. Sharon had coveted an heirloom set of silverware, while Karly opted for the photo album. Because they were so close, neither felt she’d lost anything. As Sharon listened to Greg zooming the toy car around the nursery, her thoughts drifted to Ian. His kindness yesterday had melted many of her misgivings, yet he aroused

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disturbing feelings. She didn’t want to remember the touch of his mouth or imagine the rising desire as their bodies pressed together. Before meeting Jim, she’d carried on a white-hot affair with man who turned out to be dangerously unstable. She’d been lucky to escape unscathed. The last thing she needed was to repeat the experience, especially with Greg relying on her. Karly strolled in with a heavy album. “I wish Mom had identified people better. Do you remember a Cousin Thea? Was she Mom’s cousin?” “I have no idea. Did you find anyone who resembles me?” She shifted onto the couch beside her sister. “Not yet. We could call Dad in case he recalls anything.” “How likely is that?” Neither of their parents had taken much interest in family history. Busy with church work and charity fund-raising, Beth Ridgeman had lived in the here and now. She’d been an only child, and so, effectively, had Dad after losing his seventeen-year-old brother in a traffic accident. Sharon retained only a vague recollection of her grandparents and a great-uncle on her mother’s side, also long deceased. “We’re going to have to do this ourselves.” Karly leafed through the yellowing pages. The pictures were only partially chronological, since their mother had acquired them as elderly relatives passed on and had pasted them in as they arrived. That made figuring out who was who even harder. Karly pointed out a black-and-white photo that showed a stern couple wearing formal dress. “That’s Mom’s handwriting.” She’d written, “My grandparents, Leila and Joseph.” Sharon saw a family resemblance to the solemn-faced woman. There was no way of telling her hair color, however, and her name was Leila, not Susan. Karly flipped a page to a snapshot of two couples and three children playing on a beach. A baby dozed on a blanket. “They’re not so constipated-looking in this one.” “That’s rude!” “Like they’re going to care?” “Hey, wait.” Sharon shifted the album to her lap. She recognized her greatgrandparents from the earlier photo, but who were these other people? Squinting at the faded, unfamiliar handwriting, she made out the names Leila and Joseph. The other couple was identified as Annamarie and Samuel Fanning. Fanning. That was Ian’s last name and Jody’s as well. Excitement mingled with uneasiness. Maybe the similarity to Susan really wasn’t a coincidence. Karly got excited, too. Together, they scanned the names of the children and realized one girl, Rachel, was their own grandmother. The boy must be Rachel’s brother, their great-uncle Benjamin. The other little girl’s name was Susan. A chill ran through Sharon. This was the murdered woman as a child. Her throat tightened. “I can’t believe it. The baby must be Jody.” “This is amazing!” Karly peered closer. “They had to be some kind of cousins. You weren’t kidding about her being practically a twin. Hold on.” Impatiently, she turned clumps of pages until reaching a picture of Sharon at almost the same age. From the pixyish smiles to the way the little girls’ hands rested jauntily on their hips, the two were identical. Yet they’d lived more than half a century apart.

24 Jacqueline Diamond

Sharon hugged herself. “Maybe we should stop. This doesn’t seem right.” “I’m not giving up now. No way!” Karly plowed ahead. When Lisa began to wail in the other room, she gratefully accepted Sharon’s offer to investigate. She returned after changing a diaper to find her sister triumphantly displaying a snapshot of two middle-aged women. The caption cited them as Grandma Leila and her cousin Annamarie. They were related. Distantly, anyway. I believe you were drawn here. She’d dismissed Ian’s comment as superstition. But how to explain this coincidence? Karly chattered on, oblivious. “If Susan’s mother was great-grandma’s first cousin, what kind of cousin was she to us?” “Don’t ask me. By the time you get into all the ‘twice-removeds,’ I’m lost.” Sharon tried to picture this sweet-faced woman locking her pregnant daughter in the attic and destroying her lover’s letters. That must have been her husband’s doing. Returning to the beach scene, Sharon touched the faded photograph of the girl’s face. Little Susan, her twin across time. At the edge of awareness, Sharon heard a subliminal hissing, like static or someone whispering. She caught words—just us, or perhaps justice. A shake of the head dispelled the impression. She’d read of a phenomenon that led people to believe they recognized words or objects in chaos. Since Karly showed no reaction, most likely she’d heard the heating system whistling through a vent. Karly was still studying the pictures. “Maybe it’s not so strange that I drove by the house and got that sense of recognition. I’ll bet Mom showed us the place when we were little. Don’t you think?” A rational explanation at last. “Absolutely.” Sharon supposed she ought to stop there, but her imagination wouldn’t let her. “Still, how odd that Susan and I have such a strong resemblance, considering how little DNA we share.” “Genes distribute themselves unpredictably.” Karly grinned. “I always knew AP biology would come in handy someday.” They skimmed through the rest of the album without finding any other pictures of Susan’s branch of the family. When the time came for the baby’s nap, Sharon could see despite Karly’s denials that her sister needed to rest, too. Besides, living so close, they could get together often. Driving home beneath lowering clouds, Sharon felt as if the house was waiting for them. Despite the excitement of discovering a hidden facet of their family, she wasn’t sure she liked the notion that it had a claim on her. She and Greg were individuals, not threads woven into some dark tapestry. She was still brooding as they pulled into the rear parking area. “Mom, look!” Greg’s frightened words snapped her reverie. “There’s a….a…” Unable to finish, he pointed wordlessly toward the second floor.

25 Touch Me In The Dark

Chapter Four Sharon followed his gesture to the window that marked her bedroom. It framed a dark shape that resembled a blurred face. “My God,” she said. “What is that?” The wind flung a branch at the windshield, and she blinked instinctively. When she looked back at the window, only a curved shadow remained. Slowly it faded, leaving a reflection of leaves and branches. “What was that, Mom?” Greg asked. Sharon wished she knew. Inside, Greg clung to her hand as they climbed the stairs. Late-afternoon half-light filtered through a high window, peopling the landing with ephemeral shapes. “I don’t like this place,” the boy muttered. “Especially that thing at the window. Mom?” “Consider this an adventure. Like a movie.” Sharon was certain they hadn’t really seen anything in the window. “The house comes with its own special effects, that’s all.” Greg squeezed her hand hard. “Maybe it’s a ghost.” “There’s no such thing.” Sharon kept her tone cheerful. “People are always seeing peculiar things that turn out to be a trick of the light. They report a UFO and then find they’ve seen an experimental aircraft.” “That’s right. Dad said so.” When Jim came across such items from the newspaper, he’d scoffed at people’s credulity. That her son remembered and took strength from his father pleased Sharon. A cold film brushed her cheek, startling her. From the corner of her eye, she watched a silvery shape float upwards. Sharon froze, struggling not to panic despite the alarm jolting through her. Greg spoke first, his voice free of fear. “Can I have that? Can I, please?” “Sure thing,” came a man’s voice from below. “Brought it back for you. Heard we had a youngster moving in.” Hovering on the brink of hysterical laughter, Sharon caught the Mylar balloon, which threatened to waft out of reach. It bore the words, “P.S., I Love You,” a slogan she’d heard in connection with Palm Springs. A balding man in aviator glasses caught up with them at the top of the steps. With his bouncy energy, he could be anywhere from his late fifties to early seventies. “I’m Pete Gaskell.” He pumped Sharon’s hand. “My wife Bella and I came back early from a trip. Can you believe this weather? They’ve issued flash flood warnings in the desert.” A woman, obviously Bella, followed him upstairs. She wore a Palm Springs sweatshirt, gold hoop earrings and eye shadow shaded pink to lavender. She grasped Sharon’s hand, turned it over and examined the palm. “You have a strong heart line.” What a clichéd opening. Sharon could picture Jim shaking his head in disbelief, although he’d have been too polite to do so in front of Bella. “Wow! You tell fortunes!” Greg squinted at his mother’s hand. “What’s a strong heart line?” “That means your mother is capable of loving deeply,” Bella said. Too deeply, Sharon thought. But that didn’t mean her new neighbor had any

26 Jacqueline Diamond

unusual insight. She suspected almost everyone believed himself or herself capable of deep emotions. “My wife used to read tea leaves, but who uses loose tea any more?” Pete’s Hawaiian shirt filled the hall with flowers, eclipsing the painting of the man half in shadow. “She prefers the Tarot, but some of the pictures frighten people, so she doesn’t do that much. Want to have your palm read, boy?” “Well...” “Not just now, thanks.” Sharon wasn’t in the mood for mumbo-jumbo, even from well-meaning neighbors. “Of course.” A smear of red lipstick on her teeth marred Bella’s smile. “We understand.” “Hang on a minute, will you? We’ve got something for your son.” Pete keyed open his door and dumped two suitcases inside. “Jody told us you were moving in. Bell spotted this yesterday and decided it would make a perfect welcome gift for our new young neighbor. “It spoke to me,” Bella said. From inside one of the suitcases, Pete retrieved a rectangular box labeled “Ouija.” “Oo-jah?” Greg mispronounced. “Gosh, I never played this before.” “It’s not a game,” Pete advised. “And the name is ‘Wee-ja.’ One of the ancient mysteries. Taps right into your subconscious mind. Or maybe the universal subconscious.” “It reaches beyond,” said Bella. Greg rattled the box. “Beyond what?” “Beyond the world we know,” said Bella. Oh, great, Sharon thought. That was all she needed—people putting scary ideas into her son’s head. What did these folks use for judgment? Still, she didn’t want to be rude, and she hated to disappoint Greg by refusing. “That’s kind of you,” Sharon said. “But do you think this is appropriate for a child?” “We’re all part of the everything,” Bella said with affected vagueness. “We are all cousins under the skin.” Her words raised unpleasant echoes in Sharon’s mind. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to realize that these two oddballs were probably related to her in some way also. “Jody did mention that you’re her cousins.” She stopped herself from blurting out that she, too, was akin to the Fannings. That was information she preferred to handle discreetly. “We’re not, exactly,” Pete said. “Not Jody’s cousins, anyway. My wife is related to Ian through his grandfather. In any case, after I retired, Bella and I decided to pursue our interest in the occult. That’s why we moved in here. There’s supposed to be a ghost, you know.” “There are matters yet to be brought into the light,” Bella murmured with a perfumed wave of her hand. “We seek to understand and therefore to heal.” Members of Bradley’s family had moved into this house. The scenario got more and more bizarre, Sharon thought. However, from the way Greg was hugging his gift, she decided against declining outright. “How kind of you to think of us,” she said, drawing him away. “Nice to meet you both.” “We’ll be seeing you soon,” Bella intoned as if revealing some profound truth. “I expect so,” Sharon returned dryly. “Since we live down the hall.” “They’re awesome!” Greg announced as they retreated toward their apartment.

27 Touch Me In The Dark

“Can she really tell the future?” “Nobody can tell the future,” Sharon said as they passed Ian’s door. “But it’s fun to pretend.” She unlocked their apartment and checked the rooms before letting Greg inside, just in case the face they’d seen had belonged to a real person. As far as she could tell, however, the place lay empty and undisturbed. The front room looked even smaller now that they’d placed their television set on the stand. Still, although she hadn’t had time to decorate properly, the apartment felt more like home with a few impromptu touches she’d added—a crocheted comforter tossed across the sofa and, directly above, a photograph of Greg and Jim at Niagara Falls. Right now, upstate New York felt very far away. Greg let the balloon float to the ceiling as he opened his box on the couch. With a few moments’ tugging, he pulled out a rectangular game board and a flat plastic heart set on three legs. “Where’s the rest? Do you think the other pieces fell out?” “I suspect that’s all there is.” Sharon examined the board. At the top lay the words Yes and No, and the alphabet curved across the center. Below that came the numbers 0 through 9, and the word Goodbye. Four drawings decorated the corners—the sun in the upper left, the moon at right, and, in the lower corners, identical but reversed images of a woman touching a plastic heart while a disembodied head floated above her. Sharon found the directions on the back of the box. “We’re supposed to rest our fingers on the heart-shaped thing—it’s called a planchette—and ask a question. Supposedly it will move to the letters and spell out the answer.” “Oh, yeah? How?” She shrugged. “Honey, I don’t know. The Gaskells are nice people but this does seem silly. Maybe we should give it back. I don’t think Daddy would have approved of this toy.” Greg considered the comment thoughtfully. Even at age seven, he liked to figure things out for himself. Although he solicited input, once he made up his mind he was difficult to dissuade, and Sharon saw from the determined set of his jaw that he’d made up his mind about the Ouija. “I’m tired of my other games. I played them in the car all the way here.” Greg lifted the board onto his lap. “Let’s try.” She yielded to the inevitable. “Why not?” Without the Gaskells around, she didn’t see how a sheet of hardboard and a few bits of plastic could do any harm. Sharon sat down and they balanced the board between them. As she draped her fingers onto the plastic, she felt a slight vibration. Probably from Greg, who wiggled on the couch impatiently. “What do you want to ask?” “I know!” He addressed the board. “Who did we see in Mom’s window?” Sharon caught her breath. She wished he hadn’t asked that. Not that she believed the Ouija would answer, but the question seemed ill-advised. Her gaze fell on her son’s hand, and she noticed the bandage had come off. Friday night’s wound appeared firmly knitted and she decided Ian had been right. It would leave little scar, if any. Seconds ticked by. In the quiet, Sharon heard the murmur of a recorded piano concerto across the hall. Ian must be home. A board creaked in the attic. Just the normal sounds of a house settling, she told herself, annoyed by her instinctive sense of apprehension. What about this house made it seem filled with menace?

28 Jacqueline Diamond

Her mind flicked over the events of the past two nights. Arriving in a rainstorm had set an ominous tone, which hadn’t been improved by Ian’s eerie paintings. The incident involving the widow’s walk had been genuinely frightening, although at least there was a down-to-earth explanation— structural weakness. The bizarre part was her startling resemblance to the murdered woman and her discovery of a connection between them. As she waited for the Ouija to do whatever it was going to do, Sharon realized she was gazing at the painting of the woman in a field, the woman with red hair and an earlobe like her own. It bore Ian’s signature. Why was he obsessed with his grandmother? Did his fascination have anything to do with the fact that he himself was a dead ringer for Bradley? Her son’s disgusted voice interrupted her musings. “Aw, it doesn’t work.” Greg glared at the plastic wedge. Sharon wanted to push the thing aside and return it to the Gaskells. But she knew Greg’s curiosity hadn’t really been satisfied and he would want to try again if they quit too soon. “Let’s sit here for a while,” she said. “I don’t think anything’s going to happen, but let’s make sure. Like a scientific experiment.” Greg left his fingers in place. Sharon felt a vibration again in her wrists, as if energy were pulsing from the wedge. She was about to tell Greg to keep still, when she saw that he wasn’t wiggling. He was peering intently at the planchette. It jerked an inch to the right. “You moved it!” Greg said. “No. At least, not that I’m aware of.” Sharon supposed her muscles might have given a twitch after remaining immobile for so long. He craned his neck, trying to see beneath the flat surface of the heart. “Maybe there’s a battery.” The wedge swung several inches further right, so sharply that Greg nearly lost touch with it. Muscles tightened at the base of Sharon’s skull. “Did you do that?” She heard the feigned note of lightness in her voice. He didn’t reply. In his excitement, Greg focused entirely on the board. “Come on, Ouija, answer my question! Who did we see in Mom’s window?” The heart veered to the left and stopped on the letter B. “It’s answering!” Greg started to give a bounce but stopped himself in time to avoid jolting the board. “B for—“ The word that popped into Sharon’s mind was bogeyman, and she didn’t want to say that. The heart eased down, pausing on the letter R. “The Ouija’s talking to us!” Greg couldn’t tear his eyes away. “How can it?” “Some kind of magnetism, I guess.” Sharon wondered what word began with BR. Brother. Brooding. Brainstorm. The next letter was an A. “Branch!” she said. “Honey, it’s spelling out the word ‘branch.’ What we saw was a reflection of the tree!” “But how does the Ouija know that?” Sharon searched for an explanation. “We must be moving the planchette subconsciously. I’ll close my eyes so I can’t see the letters and you do the same.” “Then how will we know what it spells?” “We’ll open them when it stops.” She closed her eyes and waited, only opening

29 Touch Me In The Dark

them after the planchette shifted slightly. D. “The word isn’t ‘branch,’ “ Greg said. Abruptly Sharon knew what the board was saying. She wanted to stop this game now. When she tried to move her fingers, however, energy radiated all the way to her elbows and she couldn’t pull away. The fifth letter was an L. She and Greg stared without speaking as the plastic table completed its rounds. An E. And a Y. It shifted to the word Goodbye. “That must mean we’re finished. What did it spell?” Greg hadn’t been able to put the letters together. “Mom?” She didn’t want to pronounce the name but her son was waiting. “Bradley.” “Who’s Bradley?” “Nobody.” Sharon thrust the board into its box. “Look, I don’t think this is a good game. If the Gaskells don’t want it back, maybe we can find a store that carries these things and exchange for something else.” “I guess so. I don’t know any Bradley. Except this boy who used to be in my class, but he wasn’t one of my friends.” Greg turned toward the TV. “I wonder what’s on Nickelodeon. Where’s the remote?” His small body stiffened. “M—M—Mom!” Across the gray screen flickered vague images that slowly coalesced into a pair of eyes. They bored across the room at Sharon. She felt locked into place as something dark and malevolent transferred itself from the screen into her mind with a rush of fury and a clench of sorrow. Her nostrils filled with smoke. “Mom!” Greg shouted. “Mom, the TV’s on fire!” She jumped up. “Go get Mrs. Fanning! No, get Ian, he’s closer!” She grabbed the crocheted comforter and beat at the flames. “Fire! Help! Fire!” A door slammed open across the hall. A moment later, Ian burst into the room with a fire extinguisher. He braced himself, yanked on the device and sent a spray of foam blanketing the TV, the shelves and the wall. “Are you all right?” The scar stood out on his cheek as he kicked at the stand, checking for sparks. “What the hell happened?” “I don’t know.” Sharon tried to put together the rapid sequence of events. “The TV must have blown a fuse. I thought I saw a face on the screen right before it happened.” Jody arrived a few minutes later, after Sharon phoned her. “My goodness, what is this?” Hands braced on hips, she surveyed the damage. “Was anybody hurt?” They all started explaining at once. By the time things got sorted out, Ian had carted the ruined TV to the trash. “Something must have broken inside the TV when you moved,” Jody said. “I’ll pay for the damage, of course.” Sharon thought unhappily of her dwindling savings. Her landlady waved away the offer. “I’m insured. Besides, the damage doesn’t look bad. I’m handy at touchups.” “We have an extra TV you can use,” Ian offered when he returned. “Belonged to a former tenant who left owing rent.” Greg had recovered his spirits. “That was exciting! There was a guy inside the TV set. Was that Bradley?” A peculiar look flashed across Jody’s face, so fast Sharon nearly missed it. A look of stark terror. “Bradley?” The landlady no longer appeared frightened, merely curious.

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“This is my fault.” Ian dusted his hands against his jeans. “I told them about my grandparents. Because of how much Sharon resembles the painting. I hope you don’t mind, Aunt Jody.” “That was a long time ago.” The older woman smiled reassuringly. “Of course, I noticed the resemblance. When I saw you the other night, dear, for a moment I almost felt like I had my sister back.” Sharon explained about the scrapbook. “We must be third or fourth cousins, something like that.” “Good. I like having family nearby.” Jody put one arm around Greg. “Why don’t I take my young cousin downstairs? Together we might get to the fourth level of Laser Space Attack. You’ll want to air out in here before dinner, anyway.” “Thanks.” Sharon yielded her son, grateful for the distraction. He seemed to have recovered from the incident, but a delayed reaction might set in. Once absorbed in a computer game, Greg would be oblivious to anything. “They hit it off, don’t they?” Ian said as his great-aunt departed. “Jody was always fond of kids. She used to spend hours helping me with my Legos. When I got interested in painting, she paid for my classes.” He knelt and turned over the shelf unit. The underside was streaked with black. Now that her first shock at seeing the damage had passed, Sharon felt relieved that the fire hadn’t spread. Then she noticed the painting above the TV stand. Flames had blackened the edges, licking at the woman as she ran toward the house. Scarlet splattered her cheek and ear. “The picture. Ian, it looks like she’s been stabbed.” He straightened. “What the hell…” “That’s me!” Sharon couldn’t catch her breath. Words seemed to rush out of her without conscious intent. “He meant that to be me! Bradley was in the TV set!” Ian caught her shoulders to steady her. “You’re upset, and no wonder. I should never have taken you upstairs Friday night.” “You said I should leave,” she reminded him. “I told you, I get carried away sometimes.” He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, his fingers warm and gentle. She felt the heat from his body envelop her. “Since my accident, I can’t always control my emotions. The first time I saw you, I got the feeling you were in danger. I was just trying to protect you.” There was nothing domineering about his concern. Unlike with the Gaskells, she didn’t feel as if he were trying to pressure her or rush her into becoming a friend. She simply felt safe. Grateful for Ian’s presence, Sharon reexamined the painting. Under close scrutiny, the red splatter looked auburn, the color of the woman’s hair. “It’s just melted paint. Because of the fire. I don’t know why I got so agitated. Honestly, this isn’t like me.” “You don’t need to make excuses. An experience like you just had can be traumatic.” Ian tugged her toward the hallway. “Why don’t you come to my place and get your mind off things? You can listen to my CDs and look at my etchings. If you really need a distraction, I’ll make a pass and you can slap my face. How does that sound?” “Promising.” Sharon laughed, trying not to show that the prospect of having Ian make a pass seemed unexpectedly pleasant. “Let me open the windows first.” “I’ll do it.” By creating a draft between the two bedrooms, he managed to pull some air through the stuffy middle chamber. Sharon left the door ajar. They entered his studio between a shabby couch and shelves jammed with books, compact discs and audiovisual equipment. The room was irregular and sprawling, as if

31 Touch Me In The Dark

several rooms had been patched into one. One sloped area of ceiling had been replaced by heavy glass at the exterior wall, forming a partial skylight and window overlooking the front of the house. On a sunny day, it must admit plenty of light, although she doubted brightness improved the faded beige paint or the thin, nondescript curtains. Anyone attempting to decorate this place, she decided, would do well to strip the walls and start over. Along one wall lay a counter, a small refrigerator and a microwave. A utilitarian desk housed a computer setup. To her right, in an alcove, rumpled sheets and an old comforter topped a narrow cot. On the bare wooden floor, a handful of socks formed a trail to the adjacent bathroom. Ian switched on the overhead lights, which were the one gleaming improvement to the old space. From an array of ceiling-mounted hoods, fluorescents bathed a pair of easels hidden beneath drop cloths that, until now, had loomed as dark silhouettes. A rough table bristled with jars, tubes and brushes. Underfoot, the canvas protecting the floor was so paint-splashed it resembled a modernistic carpet. Flecks of color even speckled the sound speakers mounted on the far wall. The most impressive thing in the room was the man beside her. Sharon breathed in his nearness, not even trying to resist the warm sensations drifting through her. “Not exactly Better Homes and Gardens,” Ian said, as if trying to see the place through her eyes. “I’m a great believer in form following function.” “May I see your work?” She indicated the veiled easels. Ian frowned. “That stuff is hardly worth looking at. I’ve been trying to prepare some pieces for a show, trying out new ideas, but they aren’t working.” He wasn’t being modest, Sharon could see. She doubted the man knew how to be either coy or boastful. “I can understand if having someone see your work in progress is uncomfortable,” she said. “Sometimes things don’t measure up to the way we imagine them.” He swung toward her, a spark of appreciation in his dark eyes. “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.” “Very limited experience,” she admitted. “I do some crafts and a little decorating, just to please myself, but I like to get things right. And I know what my sister goes through when she writes songs. I grew up hearing her curse at the piano as if it were personally scheming to frustrate her.” A short nod must have indicated that she’d won Ian’s approval, because he crossed the room and pulled the drape off one easel. The picture showed a woman and girl feeding a squirrel. All three figures seemed trapped in a series of dark, interlocking geometric shapes that suggested shadows. The piece was eye-catching but failed to come to life. “It seems…opaque,” Sharon said, wondering how he would react to even the most oblique criticism. There was no flare of ego or artistic temperament. “You’re right. I can’t get beneath the surface.” He replaced the cloth. “Jane—the gallery owner I work with—says I’m in a rut. I keep painting the same images, the same people, the same settings as if I need to work them out of my system. This theme is getting old, but when I try anything else, my work goes flat.” She gestured toward the other easel. “May I see this one?” Ian hesitated. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to generate any expectations.” “Excuse me?” Seeing that he wasn’t about to clarify his point, Sharon took a guess. “You mean you like it but you’re not sure anyone else will?”

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A smile flashed across his angular face. Sharon’s palm curved, and she realized she was fighting the impulse to touch him. “Bingo,” Ian said. “It sort of created itself. Well, here goes.” He unclothed a canvas roughed out with curving shapes that might have been muscled bodies locked in combat or a man and woman making savage love. “This just came to me. I mean, I was fully conscious—did Jody tell you I have seizures?—but at the same time, it simply flowed out of me.” “I knew you were disabled, but I didn’t know the specifics.” Sharon couldn’t absorb that information now. She was too caught up by the passion on the canvas. “This is wonderful. You put your soul into it.” There was a physicality to the work that drew her inside. She could feel the rough canvas beneath her bare skin and the pressure of Ian’s limbs as they tangled with hers. They were pulling and pushing each other at the same time. “I’m not sure I can finish,” he said. “Frankly, the damn thing intimidates me.” “Why?” Sharon asked. He began to pace. As he moved, he finger-combed his shaggy hair, which fell back even more disheveled than before. “I think that, in the past, I was trying to capture something that I’d never actually experienced. This is the next stage. I’ve made a connection with the figures in my subconscious. It’s because you’re here.” He stopped in front of her. ”I’d ask you to model for me, but something tells me that would pose too great a risk.” “I don’t think I’d make a very good model.” Or that I want to put myself that much in your power. “Oh, yes,” he said hoarsely. “You’d be perfect.” He was staring straight into her, through her clothing and skin to the heat and longing she’d kept under control for so many years. If she posed for him, if he removed her clothes and arranged her body, his hands shifting her hips and tilting her shoulders, she didn’t think she could deny him anything. He might display her any way he wished in an act of both creation and possession. Dangerous. Delirious. Ian cupped her chin with one hand and bent swiftly. His lips closed over hers with gentle command. Sharon could think of nothing but the firmness of his mouth and the fire raging through her body. She ran her fingers up his back beneath the shirt, feathering against the skin. He held her as fiercely as he did everything else, shaping her to him. Devouring her with his mouth. The sensation was more intimate than anything she’d experienced with Jim, even when he was deep inside her. The room throbbed around her. She felt herself sliding. It would be so easy to give away everything and ask for nothing back. To leap into life and not worry about where she landed. Ian’s hands lifted her hair free from its clip. “You should always wear it this way. Stop holding yourself back from who you are, who you can be. From the first moment I saw you, I felt as if I were reclaiming a lost part of my soul.” “I…” She swallowed, her mind whirling. Images. Memories. Jim and the weight of their years together. Greg, his little face full of trust as she loaded him into her van and hauled him across the country. “I have responsibilities. I’m thirty-one, not twenty-one.” Ian turned her to face a full-length mirror she hadn’t noticed before. With his arms wrapped around her from behind, he seemed to frame her. “See what I see. A beautiful woman, sensual and alive. You understand me instinctively, don’t you? I need you,

33 Touch Me In The Dark

Sharon.” What about her needs? This man hardly knew her. “Do you need me or some woman you’ve imagined? Ian, think. The other night you were warning me to leave and now you’re telling me I’m part of your soul. It’s too sudden. What…” The lights flickered and the room darkened, or perhaps a sheen of moisture was blocking her vision. The only thing she saw was the man in the mirror, his arms encircling her. He’d changed too. His face was Ian’s, and yet alien. She could still feel his powerful body and hear his even breathing, but he’d become blurred, like the image in her window. The room filled with a gray presence. As if hit by a gust of wind, the house swayed and groaned. Sharon had the disconcerting sense that they had stood this way before, that she had indeed come back to this place, and that she’d committed a terrible mistake. A sense of evil filled her, of an old hatred unslaked. But not from Ian, she told herself. He had no role in his family’s tragic history. Why should it involve him, or her? His misty features sharpened and the eyes locked with Sharon’s in the mirror. Heavy lids unveiled a gaze so filled with rage and disgust that she shrank back. She’d seen that look on the screen of her TV set. The eyes weren’t Ian’s. They were Bradley’s.

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Chapter Five With a cry, Sharon pulled free of Ian’s grasp. Turning away from the mirror, she saw his own shocked reaction. He looked like himself again, both in person and in the mirror. Had he transformed his expression or had that been a trick of Sharon’s imagination? Now that she’d snapped back to herself, she was startled to see how brightly illuminated the room was, although it had seemed dim only a moment before. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw something strange in the mirror. I hope I’m not coming down with the flu, just when I seemed to be getting over whatever I had.” Ian brushed his fingers across her forehead. His touch was affectionate and apologetic. “No temperature. What did you see?” “You stared at me as if you were angry. I thought you were Bradley.” He ducked his head. “Must have been a small seizure.” A seizure. That was a rational explanation. On the other hand, since Ian hadn’t been present while she and Greg were using the Ouija board, it didn’t explain that incident. “I saw the same face on my TV.” He clenched his fists. “Damn Bradley. I could almost believe his spirit refuses to leave this place. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not claiming there are ghosts, exactly. It’s something inside me, some link to him.” Needing to put space between them, Sharon wandered across the room and pretended an interest in Ian’s collection of CDs. He had eclectic taste in music, from classical to reggae to Broadway musicals. “When you had therapy, did you try hypnotism?” she asked. “We did,” Ian said. “Dr. Finley couldn’t hypnotize me. I guess I’m just hardheaded.” After a moment, he added, “I wish it had worked. I’ve always felt as if I were responsible for my parents’ death in that car crash, although I was five years old and wasn’t even with them. I’ve never been able to remember the day they died. There’s this block.” Perhaps she ought to share what she and Karly had learned, not that it was likely to shed any light on his parents’ deaths. Before she could broach the subject, however, a tap at the door drew him away. When he answered, a booming voice told Sharon that their neighbors had turned up. “Sorry to intrude.” Pete Gaskell didn’t appear sorry as he marched into the room. “Bella swore she smelled smoke. I told her someone must have burned something in the kitchen, didn’t I, Bella?”—he spoke over his shoulder as his wife followed him—“and then we came out and boy, what a stench from your apartment, Sharon! Are you all right?” “We had a small fire. No serious harm done.” She was grateful that Ian didn’t offer either of the pair a seat. “We should investigate all phenomena to get the true picture.” Bella had swapped her Palm Springs sweatshirt for a gold and blue kimono, which went oddly with her hoop earrings. Although she’d brushed back her unruly brownish-gray hair, it threatened to escape the restraining headband. “Perhaps this is the result of spirits.” “It was a malfunctioning TV, actually.” Sharon found herself reluctant to tell these people any more than necessary. She didn’t dislike them, but neither did she want to get sucked into their nonsense. “By the way, I’m afraid the Ouija is too grown-up for Greg. You know how kids are. If something doesn’t jump around on a computer screen, they’re

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not interested.” “He might have the gift,” Bella said. “You’ll never know unless you let him experiment.” “The fire didn’t occur for no reason,” her husband added. “If your son is channeling spirits, that might have set off a spark.” “Unless we’re talking about the Disney channel, I don’t want my son to have anything to do with such nonsense,” she retorted. “We believe you both came here for a reason,” Bella said. “We felt that way as soon as Jody mentioned you.” The way Bella’s and Pete’s eyes burned reminded Sharon of a pair of cats. “I don’t want to be insulting, but I don’t share your fascination with the occult. My son’s still recovering from his father’s death and as far as I’m concerned this kind of thing is unhealthy for him.” “She’s right,” Ian said. “You two lose your perspective sometimes. So do I.” “We should find the truth,” Pete insisted, “if only to relieve your mind.” “You mean your minds.” Ian turned to Sharon. “This unholy duo has been trying to persuade Jody and me to stage a séance ever since they moved in three years ago. We told them to go ahead on their own, but they keep insisting they need our help. Don’t let them talk you into it.” “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Sharon didn’t have to believe in ghosts to suspect there might exist forces that people couldn’t control. Forces of good and also forces of evil. Although she wasn’t religious in the conventional sense, she did believe there were powers in the universe that science hadn’t yet explained. The kind of activity that the Gaskells were proposing was exactly what she didn’t want. If evil forces focused on locales where terrible crimes had occurred, they might be unleashed even by people with the best of intentions. And she had no idea whether the Gaskells’ intentions were pure or not. “The fact is...” Pete stretched his shoulders as if shifting a burden. “The fact is that Bella’s and my lives have been subject to unexplained influences. What I mean by that is, tragedies.” “My father never recovered from the sudden onset of a mental disorder. And our only child, a little girl, died at birth,” Bella said. “The doctors could find no reason.” “Three months later, I was discovered to have testicular cancer on both sides, which is rare,” Pete went on. “That ended our chance to have more children. Because I’d had cancer, we couldn’t get approved to adopt.” “You might have gone overseas,” Sharon said. “If you’d wanted to.” Bella spread her hands. “After all we’d been through, we couldn’t subject a child to those risks.” “So you’re trying to exorcise your own ghosts by holding a séance?” Sharon said. “You’re quick.” Ian folded his arms and studied her admiringly. “You really nail people.” “I don’t mean to be harsh.” Sharon knew that some people considered her too frank. Jim had mentioned the matter more than once. “I like you’re directness,” he said. “You cut right through the crap.” “We know what we sound like when we discuss the occult,” Pete said mildly. “Sometimes I think it’s crap myself. But we didn’t make this stuff up.” “We see ourselves as psychic detectives,” Bella explained. “My mother was Bradley

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Johnson’s sister. After his death, she claimed he was innocent. She said the whole truth hadn’t come out and that until it did, his spirit couldn’t rest.” “My mother-in-law wished she had investigated the incident at the time, but she didn’t,” Pete said. “She always felt that she’d let her brother down. One séance and we could lay all our questions to rest.” “I doubt that,” Ian said. “And I’m uneasy about the possible effect on my seizures. It’s not worth the risk.” “We don’t mean to make trouble,” said Bella. “Anyway, we just dropped by to make sure Sharon doesn’t need any help, because of the fire. We’ve said our piece, and now we’re off.” Pete signaled to his wife. Forehead wrinkling, she left with him. When they’d gone, Sharon said, “I hope they’re not the type to go off the deep end.” “If they pester you or Greg, let me know,” Ian said. “I’ll ask Jody to turn them out.” “Does she know they want to call up ghosts?” Sharon asked. “I doubt she cares. She lives in the present, as you may have noticed.” Ian smiled fondly. “I think she sees them as comic relief. Or maybe as an educational example of what happens when people cling to the past instead of getting on with their lives.” “Isn’t that what you’re doing?” she couldn’t resist asking. “There you go, skewering me again,” Ian said lightly. “Maybe I am. Maybe you’re just the person to help me break free, Sharon.” She didn’t know how to answer. There was no denying the attraction between them, but his words implied more than she was ready to give. Greg saved her the need to respond when he came dashing into the room. “Jody’s cooking dinner and she wants you guys to join us.” “That’s kind of her.” Sharon had meant to go to the supermarket today, but she and Greg had slept late and then gone to visit Karly. “I’m glad she’s accepting you into the family,” Ian said. “You’re a bright spot, both of you.” Her son hopped up and down in excitement. “She’s making spaghetti, my favorite. She says you can cook tomorrow night if you want to.” “Sounds great.” Her mind busy trying to figure out what she should fix, Sharon followed him out the door, with Ian right behind. ***** Sharon waited until they’d finished the meal and were enjoying their ice cream sundaes to break the news about her and Karly’s discovery. “You weren’t wrong, Ian,” she said after explaining about the photo album. “There is a connection. I guess I got a largerthan-normal dose of Susan’s genes.” He sat regarding her with an unreadable expression, so she turned to his great-aunt. “Jody, I hope this isn’t distressing news.” “Quite the opposite.” The older woman handed Greg the chocolate topping. “Go ahead and take extra if you want. It’s all in the family.” To Sharon, she said, “I suspected something when I saw your sister. She reminds me of my father around the mouth and the eyebrows. You, of course, are a dead ringer for Susan. Amazing how things come full circle.” Ian leaned on one elbow, ignoring his dessert. The deep the hollows of his cheeks gave him an air of ferocity. “It’s eerie, that’s what it is.” “We speculated that we might have visited here as children or at least someone

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might have pointed out the house to us,” Sharon explained. “That would explain why Karly was drawn to the place.” “I hope Ian hasn’t brought up these ideas he has about his grandfather.” With a corner of her napkin, Jody wiped a smudge from Greg’s T-shirt. “There are no ghosts here, I can assure you.” Hoping she could safely raise the subject, Sharon said, “The subject seems to fascinate the Gaskells.” Jody waved a hand dismissively. “That Bella! She’s unstable, if you ask me. I wish I’d known what they were up to when they asked to rent from me. Bad enough that my sister was murdered without having people try to paint her killer as some kind of victim, but I try not to let them bother me. To them, it’s ancient history, like doing research into the Roman Empire. I can’t expect them to understand that sometimes my memories seem so fresh, I can almost hear my sister’s voice.” “So we’re cousins,” said Ian, who didn’t appear to have been listening to his greataunt’s comments. “That’s going to take some getting used to.” “I think it’s great!” Greg had been excited when Sharon explained the situation to him on the drive back from Karly’s house. “So do I.” Jody reached for the scoop. “Who wants another round of ice cream?” “Me!” he cried. While the elderly woman refilled his bowl, Ian’s gaze swept Sharon. She found, unexpectedly, that she was less wary of him than before. At least a little of the same DNA shaped them both. It was only natural that they should be drawn together. That didn’t mean they were destined to be lovers. But, she conceded, they weren’t related closely enough for their kinship to be an obstacle, either. ***** On Monday, Sharon took Greg with her to visit College Day School, since he’d be transferring into second grade there. The weather having cleared, their first glimpse of the campus came in sunshine. First impressions counted, she mused a she regarded the handful of low stucco buildings set around a courtyard lush with azaleas. She would probably always picture the Fanning House as windswept and rainy. She hoped she would always envision College Day School bathed in sunshine and afloat in lavender butterfly blossoms. “This doesn’t look like a school,” muttered Greg, who whose old school had been a three-story brick structure. “You have to go outside to get from one room to another. What about when it snows?” “It doesn’t.” Sharon steered him toward the office, the only door that stood open. Sometimes she forgot that, unlike her, Greg had never lived in a land where the sun shone most of the year and azaleas bloomed in January. The director came out of her inner office to greet Sharon as they entered. Ellen Lieber was a short woman in her mid-thirties, not much older than Sharon, with a brisk, pleasant manner. Sharon had liked her the first time they met, at an education conference in Buffalo, and was grateful that the woman had remembered her when a position opened up. After shaking hands with her and Greg, Mrs. Lieber said, “I’ve got a stack of papers for you to look through, fill out, all that bureaucratic junk. But I’ll bet you’d like to see your

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classroom first, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Mahoney?” The manner of address was deliberately formal, so they wouldn’t slip in front of the children. The school took a traditional approach to education, with an emphasis on good citizenship, the basics of learning, and the arts. “Absolutely,” Sharon said. “That is, if you don’t mind.” “Not at all.” When they entered her classroom, halfway around the quad, her heart swelled. Drawings taped to the wall, the lingering scent of chalk and sneakers, and a list of names on the wall brought home the reality of the children. Fifteen of them, fresh-faced and eager to learn, would return to these seats in one more week. As Sharon and the principal discussed lesson plans and upcoming special events, Greg wandered to a row of picture books. “Want to see where you’ll be studying?” the director asked him a few minutes later. Greg nodded. They adjourned to a second-grade classroom. It resembled Sharon’s except for a cluster of cages, empty because the teacher had taken the animals home for the holidays. “They’re studying dinosaurs!” Greg crowed, pointing to a series of shoebox dioramas filled with plastic dinosaurs and cutouts from magazines. “I wonder if they can read books yet all by themselves? I can!” he informed the director proudly. “Which are your favorites?” the principal asked. Greg rattled off a couple of titles. Sharon felt a tingle of pride as she watched her son converse with Mrs. Lieber. These past two years, since she’d returned to teaching, she’d rarely had a chance to observe him away from home. His independence and maturity startled her. She was glad they would be on the same campus, riding to and from school together. Every moment with Greg was precious. Since Jim’s death, she hadn’t taken anything for granted. After filling out the paperwork and collecting some material to study up on the curriculum, Sharon led Greg to the car. They made two stops on the way home, first at a teachers’ supply store for an array of materials, and then at McDonald’s. With a Happy Meal under his belt, Greg waxed eloquent about the computer game he and Jody were playing. Sharon couldn’t follow the details about the make-believe opponents, but she enjoyed the excitement in her son’s voice. At home, she deposited the materials in her bedroom. Greg vanished downstairs. He obviously enjoyed his time with Jody, but Sharon didn’t want him playing video games all afternoon. She ought to take him to a park while the weather was nice. Pausing outside Ian’s door, she wondered what he was doing. Well, there was no point in inviting him to go to the park with them. Watching a kid tear through a playground was hardly the kind of activity that would entertain a single male. Ian must have a life outside this house. Sharon wondered who his friends were and what activities kept him busy when he wasn’t painting, then scolded herself for playing with fire. She had to keep her distance. She knew her own weakness all too well. The summer she was seventeen, while working as a receptionist at a construction firm, she’d felt an edgy excitement whenever one of the company’s managers stopped to talk to her. Blond and blue-eyed, Ethan had looked nothing like Ian, but she’d responded to the same sharp vitality in him and the same hunger in his eyes. In his late twenties and separated from his wife, Ethan had been the first adult male who’d treated her like an equal. He’d taken her to lunch and confided his dream of

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traveling around the world with a backpack. By the time he’d finally taken her to a motel, Sharon had been aching for his touch so long that their lovemaking seemed inevitable. For a month, while the affair lasted, she’d allowed Ethan’s soul to supplant her own. She’d been ready to abandon her plans for college and her own hopes and aspirations. She’d been utterly unprepared for the news that he was reconciling with his wife. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for her, Ethan had said, averting his gaze, but he had to be realistic. He didn’t love her, she’d realized. She’d simply been a sop to his ego. All the while he’d been making love to her, he’d been trying to get back with his wife. The next week, still in a state of shock, Sharon had missed her period. Although she and Ethan had tried to use protection, they hadn’t been consistent. She’d kept her anxiety to herself, not wanting to burden her mother, who was battling breast cancer. Karly had been only thirteen, too young to confide in. So Sharon had borne her fears alone for three endless weeks until, mercifully, she learned it was a false alarm. For a long time afterward, she’d felt betrayed. After a while, she’d decided Ethan was simply weak. Over time, she’d come to understand that the kind of all-consuming passion she’d felt carried the seeds of its own destruction. No man could substitute for taking responsibility for her own needs, her own destiny. Years later, when she met Jim, she’d recognized that he was a man she could share her future with even though he didn’t excite her or consume her thoughts the way Ethan had. Sharon didn’t want to lose herself in a man ever again. Downstairs, the sound of the doorbell startled her from her memories. She heard Greg slam out of Jody’s apartment and race for the front. He loved opening doors; as a toddler, he’d defied her efforts to keep him from admitting salesmen, solicitors and missionaries until finally Jim had installed a sliding bolt too high for him to reach. By the time Sharon reached the hallway, her sister stood framed against the sunlight with Lisa in her arms. The baby wore a yellow-and-white checked dress and a yellow bonnet, a sunny contrast to Karly’s poppy-colored skirt and embroidered blouse. “Hi!” Sharon hurried toward her. “This is a pleasant surprise.” “I called earlier but you didn’t answer.” Karly shifted the baby onto her hip. “I was driving by and I thought I’d pop in just in case you were around.” Behind them, Jody’s door creaked as the landlady emerged. “Who is—oh! Hello, Mrs. Weeks.” “Just Karly, please.” Sharon’s sister smiled at the older woman. “You know, when we met before, I didn’t realize we were distantly related. I think that’s marvelous!” “It certainly is.” Jody folded her hands in front of her. “I do hope you’re not going to steal Greg away from me this afternoon. I was planning to take him for a walk to the hobby shop. They’ve got a collection of Lord of the Rings figures.” “I was going to suggest my sister and I take the kids for a drive,” Karly said. “I don’t suppose Greg has to go along.” “Lisa can stay with us,” Greg poked his finger at the baby, who wrapped her tiny hand around it. “Would that be okay, Jody? Couldn’t she come with us?” “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to baby-sit,” Karly assured Jody. “Nonsense. Greg obviously finds her amusing,” the landlady said, “If you have a stroller, Lisa will be no trouble at all. I like children and you two ladies deserve some time to visit undisturbed. I’m sure you’re still catching up on things.” Karly protested again, half-heartedly, but clearly she would relish an uninterrupted visit. Within minutes, Lisa was happily ensconced in her stroller, disappearing down the

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block with Jody and Greg. “I can’t believe it! We haven’t had a whole afternoon together in years!” Sharon told Karly. “What shall we do?” “There’s a place I want to show you. Do you mind coming for a drive?” her sister said. “It’s the real reason I stopped by.” “Actually, I’d love to get out of here.” Hanging around their tiny smoke-scented apartment held no appeal for Sharon. Karly unlocked her car by the curb. “The strangest thing has happened.” “Not too strange, I hope,” Sharon said. “Why? What’s up?” asked her sister. “We had a small fire last night.” As they drove through downtown Fullerton, Sharon explained about the scary events of Sunday evening. She omitted mentioning Ian’s seizure, however. His medical problems were a private matter. “I’m almost sorry I found the place,” Karly admitted. “I never meant to put you through all this.” “The first month we moved into our house in Williamsville, a pipe burst and flooded the basem*nt,” Sharon said. “While I was shutting off the water, Greg wandered outside in his diaper and got halfway down the block before I caught up with him. It seemed like a bad start, but nothing like that ever happened again.” “I’m glad you don’t panic easily.” Her sister steered onto a side street lined with bungalows from the 1920s and ‘30s, punctuated by the occasional older home. The city itself had been incorporated in 1904, Sharon remembered learning in school. Karly parked next to a small, Spanish-style church identified by a sign as the Heritage Free Church. Sharon guessed the modest stucco structure had been erected in the 1920s or perhaps a little later. It boasted a small bell tower and, as they discovered when they stepped inside the sanctuary, stained-glass windows along the side walls. “This is amazing.” Karly kept her voice low, although the only other person in the church was an old man dozing in a pew. “After you left yesterday, I was looking through the scrapbook and I saw a picture of this church. There was a notation that said our grandparents were married here.” The arched sanctuary was intimate but elegantly proportioned. “I don’t remember ever attending services here,” Sharon said dubiously. “We didn’t,” Karly told her. “Mom and Dad switched to the Crystal Cathedral in the 1960s. From what the minister told me, this place is kind of in transition. The congregation was aging, but recently they’ve been making an effort to bring in young families, too.” “You sound like you’ve taken more than a casual interest.” Sharon wasn’t sure how she felt about her sister’s sudden fascination with their family history. Still, the place had a friendly air, and she loved the way the stained-glass windows tinted the sunlight with rainbows. “I came by yesterday to look around,” Karly said. “The minister’s very nice, the Reverend Carl Arbizo. His father, Armand Arbizo, was pastor here, too. I think that’s him taking a nap over there.” She indicated the dozing man. A hat tipped over his face failed to muffle the soft sound of snoring. “You mentioned a favor?” Sharon asked. “Yes, uh….” Karly said as they strolled along one side, examining the windows. “Well, I’m involved with a musical project. I’m going to need your help, although I hate to ask when you’ve got so much going on.”

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“What kind of musical project?” she asked, prepared for anything. Since childhood, Karly could be counted on to audition for any production, participate in every talent night and experiment with whatever type of music offered a chance to advance her career. Her sister’s enthusiasm bubbled over. “Pastor Arbizo remembered hearing me sing in a production of Carousel at the Fullerton Light Opera. He asked if I would help him out of a bind.” They turned at the front of the church and paused to examine the hand-carved altar. The air seemed to Sharon to be scented with flowers, although she didn’t see any blooms. “What kind of bind?” “The choir is giving a concert Friday night,” Karly said. “They’re performing inspirational music from musicals and movies. Their soloist had to go out of town because her father’s very ill, and she won’t be back in time. He asked if I would handle a couple of songs.” “That’s a great idea.” This concert sounded like a good way for her sister to resume singing without having to make a long-term commitment. “That brings me to the favor,” Karly said. “I’ll need to practice by myself—they only have one more rehearsal, on Thursday night, and I want to be in shape before then. I just have two solos but I need an accompanist to practice with. There’s a piano here that we could use if you can spare a few hours. Is Wednesday night okay?” Sharon’s attention fixed on the upright instrument tucked into the corner. Her fingers itched to try the keys. She’d been planning to buy an electronic keyboard to use in her classroom and to satisfy her love of music, but this would be much more fun. “I’m not at your level,” she warned. “You know I just play for my own pleasure.” “You were always better than you thought you were,” Karly said. “You’d be perfect.” “Of course I’ll help,” Sharon said. “I’d love to.” She’d always enjoyed listening to her sister sing. “Is he all right?” Karly stared past her. “Who?” Turning, Sharon followed her gaze up the aisle to the sleeping man. Except that he wasn’t sleeping any more. A burst of fury had transformed his ancient face and his eyes blazed with hatred. “For shame!” He staggered to his feet. “You evil woman! How dare you come into this church?” His bony finger was pointing straight at Sharon.

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Chapter Six Sharon’s heart lurched into her throat. The reaction was instinctive, because she knew as soon as she heard the man’s outcry that either his mind was wandering or he’d confused her with Susan. If he were in his nineties, that meant he’d been the minister here at the time of her death. “Reverend Arbizo!” Karly said. “Please calm down. You’ll make yourself ill.” He turned to her, an expression of astonishment replacing his anger. “Jody? Can that be you?” “No.” Karly spoke in a loud, clear voice, perhaps to make sure the old man could hear. “I’m Karly Weeks and this is my sister, Sharon Mahoney.” Uncertainty quivered in his eyes. In the aftermath of his outburst, he appeared frail and his skin translucent. “You’re not—no, you can’t be. She’s dead, isn’t she? Susan Fanning is dead.” “A long time ago,” Sharon said. “Yes, I do know that,” said the minister. “I was dreaming. For a moment I forgot. Please forgive me.” “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve been told I look like her. We’re distantly related.” A door opened beyond the altar, admitting a man in his sixties. He had an open, square face and thick eyebrows. “Is something wrong? Oh, hello, Mrs. Weeks. I heard my father shouting.” Karly explained the situation and introduced Sharon. The elder Reverend Arbizo shook his head and repeated his apology several times before he subsided. “My sister has agreed to be my rehearsal pianist,” Karly told the younger minister. “That’s going to help a lot.” “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” he told Sharon They went to the piano. It was properly tuned and had a rich resonance, she discovered to her pleasure when she played a few scales. The minister produced the sheet music to I Don’t Know How to Love Him from Jesus Christ Superstar and Close Every Door from Joseph and his Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Sitting at the piano, Sharon played through the music, wincing inwardly at her mistakes. Although she’d accompanied musical productions in high school and given recitals, she cherished no illusions about her talent. Still, there was a pure joy to playing that had never left her. “Splendid!” said the minister after they’d run through the songs. “I hope, Mrs. Weeks, that you’ll consider joining our choir on a permanent basis. We can always use such a wonderful singer.” “I don’t know what my husband would say,” Karly admitted. “I haven’t told him about the concert yet. Or Thursday’s rehearsal, either. We have a three-month-old baby, you see.” “Normally, I’d suggest that my wife help, but she leads women’s groups on weeknights,” the minister said. “I’ll figure something out,” Karly said. “If there’s anything you need, just let me know,” the minister said. “If you’ll come with me, you can select a choir robe now. They’re a standard size but some are in better condition than others.”

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“Sure.” While Karly excused herself and adjourned with the minister to his office, Sharon sat down with the elder reverend. “How well did you know Susan?” she asked. “I mean, if you don’t mind talking about her.” “I don’t mind. I knew her a little too well for my taste.” His tone was gentle, nothing like his earlier fury. “Too well?” she repeated. “How do you mean?” The pastor shifted on the pew. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.” Sharon considering letting sleeping dogs lie. On the other hand, she mused, this dog wasn’t exactly sleeping. “Were you the minister here when Susan was alive?” “I was,” he confirmed. “Just barely. By that, I mean I wasn’t long out of the seminary.” He began to describe the church as it had looked all those years ago. As they sat in the daylight filtered through colored windows, the reverend’s dry voice carried Sharon back sixty years to when Susan and Jody and Bradley were young. From the emotion in his face, Sharon could tell that the scenes lay fresh in his mind. She could almost hear the rumble of 1940s cars on the street outside, and imagine the hardships of the war years as Armand Arbizo described the congregation. He recalled the Fannings clearly, although he had only a vague recollection of Sharon’s own grandparents. Jody had been active in the choir and in charity work, the minister told her. “Most people took her for granted. She wasn’t flashy like Susan. What an honest, dear girl. She adored her sister.” “Did you know Bradley Johnson?” Sharon asked. His body rocked back and forth in a kind of traveling nod. “Oh, yes. He came here a few times.” The pastor described one Sunday when, glancing down from the altar, he saw Jody studying Bradley Johnson with an air of dislike. “Why didn’t she like him?” “I don’t think she approved of him,” the minister said. “He was a newcomer in town, you know. The minute he saw Susan, he fell all over her. I don’t think Jody considered him good enough.” “She sounds awfully protective,” Sharon said. “I mean, for a younger sister.” “Jody might have been younger, but she was always more mature,” the man said. “I believe she saw into Bradley’s heart and knew he was a violent man. Susan was the flirty one, always surrounded by admirers. I think at first she just wanted to add him to her collection, and things spun out of control. As it turned out, she had no morals, did she?” His harshness disturbed Sharon. She supposed she wanted to picture her look-alike as noble and loving, not shallow and selfish. Besides, judgmental people like this old minister would probably say the same thing about Sharon for her teen-age affair with a man still legally married. Only by luck had she herself escaped becoming pregnant. “Maybe Susan was just young and foolish,” she said “I can’t speak for what was in her heart,” replied the minister. “But she was most certainly aware of her effect on men. All the girls envied her. The way she played one boy off against the other, no wonder Bradley had a fit of jealousy that night.” If Pastor Arbizo had been one of the young men drawn to Susan, that might be little more than his bruised ego speaking. “Susan must have been in love with Bradley,” Sharon insisted. “Back in those days, she took a big risk by sleeping with him, and she paid for it dearly.” “One could never be certain the child was his,” the reverend answered sharply. “She was a headstrong girl, I can tell you that. There were rumors that she was sneaking

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out with other boys after he went into the service. I don’t know how her parents found a man willing to marry her, but I was willing to perform the service. There’s always the hope that people can reform.” “Were the rumors the reason her parents locked her in the attic?” Sharon asked. “You can’t excuse that, surely.” The old man shrugged. “I believe they were trying to do what was best for her. Susan hurt a lot of innocent people, including her parents. My heart went out to Jody. She didn’t want to believe those ugly stories, you know. She never got over what happened. She sacrificed her own chances at marriage to raise her sister’s son.” Sharon wasn’t ready to give up on her look-alike’s defense, but the inner door opened and Karly and the young minister returned. “Thank you for answering my questions,” she said. “Been a long time since I thought about all that,” the old man said. “I didn’t expect I’d feel so strongly.” There was no way to sort out facts and motives after more than half a century, Sharon supposed. All these things had been over and done with long before she was born. Yet she hated to think of Susan having to face nasty, probably distorted rumors without being able to defend herself. And she wished the minister had displayed a more charitable attitude. The night Susan died, her family had come to this church without her. Now Karly and Sharon were being drawn here. Remembering Ian’s reference to an upcoming anniversary of the murders, she thought how easily one could read some cosmic significance into all the coincidences. Well, she preferred to leave that sort of thing to the Gaskells. “Do you know what?” Karly said as she rejoined Sharon. “Susan’s buried in the graveyard here. I’d like to pay our respects.” “It’s a small cemetery,” the younger minister told them. “Filled up a couple of decades ago. Hardly anyone visits there any more except young Ian Fanning.” “Ian comes here?” Sharon asked in surprise. “He comes by at least once a week to visit his parents’ graves. In fact, I saw him through the window a few minutes ago.” The pastor turned to his father. “Dad? I’m ready to go home now, if you are.” The old man nodded. To Sharon, he said, “I enjoy coming here. It’s full of memories, most of them happy ones, in spite of what I told you.” “I’ll have to lock up,” the pastor said apologetically. “We can’t leave the church open like we did in the old days. But I’ve given your sister a key, Mrs. Mahoney, so the two of you can practice. And we do appreciate your help.” “My pleasure,” she said. “Let’s go look at the graveyard.” Karly was already moving toward the exit. “I’m not in the mood to rehearse any more today. Are you?” Ian might still be there. “Sure, let’s go.” Sharon and Karly wandered past a Sunday school playground and into the cemetery. Although the churchyard covered less than an acre, thick trees and bushes shrouded it from the world. Headstones of an earlier era towered massive and somber, announcing the births and deaths of beloved mothers, devoted fathers and treasured children. She didn’t see Ian, but he might easily be obscured from view. Her own grandparents had been buried at a cemetery just north of Fullerton, in Brea, so Sharon knew she wouldn’t find their headstones here. As her sister exclaimed over a

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cherubic carving, she wondered what exactly she did expect to find. Susan’s and Bradley’s graves, perhaps. But what would she learn from those? She forced herself to admit the truth, that she hadn’t come here to solve a mystery but because she wanted to encounter Ian and learn something of his life outside the Fanning house. Sharon was too adult to dismiss the power of physical longing, but she knew that wasn’t the whole answer. Although Jim had been a kind-hearted and sometimes playful husband, she’d missed the intensity of her first love. In time, she’d come to believe she was no longer capable of that kind of absorption, but meeting Ian had taught her otherwise. She feared that depth of feeling and, at the same time, missed it keenly. Perhaps the only way to bring her response to him under control was to get to know Ian as he really was, not through the naive eyes of a teenager the way she’d seen Ethan. Yet she hesitated when, stepping from behind a massive headstone, she saw him a few dozen feet away. Down on one knee between two markers, he might not welcome the intrusion. The only motion came from a breeze rippling through his dark hair. Something in his stillness reminded Sharon of a figure from a 19th-century tragedy. Then Karly started toward him and he glanced up. Ian rose, welcoming them with a smile. “Sharon!” When she came closer, he said, “This must be your sister.” She made introductions, all the while drinking in his nearness. Outside the Fanning house, there was less darkness about Ian and more warmth. She would have been attracted to him no matter where they met or under what circ*mstances, Sharon thought. As he shook hands with Karly, Ian said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but somehow I knew your sister would have dark hair.” Sharon understood instantly. “Because we’re like Susan and Jody.” Karly gave an exaggerated shudder. “I think this stuff is interesting, but the two of you are positively obsessed! On the other hand, it is fascinating to have a link to the past.” They stood in the sunshine, admiring the twin bouquets of roses and daisies Ian had placed on the two graves. The stones, placed flat into the ground, acknowledged the final resting places of Martin and Diane Fanning, dead for thirty years. His mother, Sharon saw with a twist of sadness, had been thirty-one when she died, the same age that Sharon was now. “Where’s Susan’s grave?” Karly asked. “This way.” Ian led them toward an older part of the cemetery. Weeds tangled around the jutting headstones, too tall and close together for easy mowing with modern equipment. The massive stones seemed to testify to the significance of past lives. Flat markers might be more practical, but to Sharon the change reflected society’s tendency to pass over the dead as if they had never existed. The marker for Susan’s grave bore only her name and the dates of her birth and death. She had been twenty-six when she died. “What about Bradley?” she asked. “Did they bury him here, too?” “I’m not sure.” Distractedly, Ian thrust his hands into the pockets of his tweed jacket. “I’ve never found his gravestone and no one seems to know where it is.” “That’s understandable, I guess.” It would hardly be appropriate to bury a murderer near his victim. “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Ian asked. “I’m going over to the gallery where I exhibit. It’s not far from here. You’re both welcome to join me.” Karly declined. “I’m still nursing Lisa and, besides, I can’t presume on your great-

46 Jacqueline Diamond

aunt any longer. But Sharon, you could go if Ian doesn’t mind bringing you home.” “I should relieve Jody, too.” She hated to pass up the opportunity, though. “Jody loves having Greg around,” Ian said. “She told me he makes her feel like a kid again herself. I’m sure she won’t mind if you stay away a little longer.” “Then I’d love to.” Sharon felt as if she were playing hooky. But she deserved to play hooky. “I’ll call you about a time to rehearse.” Her sister bounced away, her step lively and vital among the headstones. Ian stood without speaking for a few minutes, staring down at the grave as if seeing it in a new way. Despite the distant sounds of traffic, Sharon slowly became aware that the cemetery had its own voice—the wind in the trees, the murmur of unseen chimes, and a low hum that might have been the blood pulsing through her own arteries. “I feel him here sometimes.” Ian’s voice startled her. “Bradley?” “Yes. My Dad never believed the whole story had been told. I doubt it ever will be.” He zipped his jacket against the breeze. “Well, let’s head out of here. I’m eager to show you the gallery.” He started to reach for Sharon’s hand. They both stopped and regarded each other uncertainly. “That’s all right,” she said. “In fact, I’d like it.” Ian offered her his arm, crooked at the elbow, and she accepted like an old-fashioned damsel. As they strolled toward the church parking lot, Sharon tilted up her face to enjoy the crisp January sunshine. Her spirits floated, free from the drag of everyday worries and unexplained mysteries. Ian, too, seemed different away from the house. Younger, less troubled and far more open. Even the scar across his temple looked less severe in daylight. She felt content with him, and hoped the feeling would last. ***** After parking in front of the Fanning House, Karly sat in the car sorting her thoughts. She supposed her interest in the story of Susan and Bradley must be a sign of how banal her life had become. On the other hand, bringing Pastor Arbizo and his church choir into her life had led her to a new outlet for her talent. The experience reinforced her belief that there was a pattern to human events. She doubted her husband would understand. As an engineer, Frank had difficulty appreciating anything that couldn’t be quantified. He even justified his enjoyment of music by pointing to its mathematic structure. When she’d met him, he’d seemed the perfect counterbalance to her impulsive nature. If only she’d considered that there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between an anchor and a stick-in-the-mud. They’d been married less than two years. She hadn’t expected to get pregnant so soon, although they’d both wanted children. These past three months had been rewarding for her but difficult, too. She hoped that at least Frank would be willing to watch Lisa while she rehearsed. He’d hardly spent any time alone with the baby. Thinking about Lisa, Karly began to feel anxious. She’d left her daughter with Jody

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rather cavalierly and had been gone nearly two hours, longer than she’d intended. She hurried up the walk and, since Sharon had told her not to bother ringing the front bell, went right in. Although Jody’s door stood ajar, no one answered when Karly called out. Inside, she saw the stroller sitting in the front room, reassuring in its familiarity. Since there was no sign of anyone around, she supposed they must have gone into the kitchen or the back yard. Curiosity teased at her. Ever since Sharon told her about the painting in the attic, Karly had wanted to see it, and here was her chance. Only that old couple, the Gaskells, might be about, and they surely wouldn’t object to her exploring if they happened to see her. With the delicious sense of a child prying into secret matters, Karly hurried up the stairs. On the second floor, Karly passed Sharon’s apartment and approached the narrow attic staircase Sharon had described. Her pulse sounded loud in her ears. Here was the path to the place where Susan had been locked away and where Bradley had murdered her. She would just peek in briefly. How many chances would she get to visit the scene of an infamous crime? At the top, the door stuck until she gave it a shove. The movement made Karly lose her footing and start to tip backwards. Gravity tugged as her hand scrabbled in vain along the wall, and then she managed to grasp the railing. A little shakily, she caught her breath and regained her balance. How stupid! She’d nearly broken her neck poking around where she had no business. On the other hand, as long as she was here, she might as well take a look. Inside the attic, light sifted through narrow, dusty windows, giving the scene a yellowish tone. The room was larger than she’d expected, reaching the length of the house beneath a steeply sloped ceiling. The cool air raised goosebumps on Karly’s arms. On both sides of a narrow pathway lay furniture and trunks covered in dust cloths. There was a scattering of toys as well. Where, she wondered, was the painting? From somewhere came a sigh, and was gone before she could track it. Just a hiss of air from the heating system, most likely. Moving along the path, she noticed a multi-paned glass door off to her right. The ceiling rose in that direction, providing easy access to what must be the balcony. An impulse seized her to go check out the view over Fullerton. Before she could head that way, Karly registered a rectangular object straight ahead, covered by a drop cloth and propped atop a stack of boxes. This might be the painting, she thought. The balcony could wait. Again she heard a faint noise from the far side of the attic, a rolling murmur that hushed almost at once. Karly hoped that was the heater switching on, because this place sure needed warming. She reached the rectangular object and pulled away the cloth. Two figures posed formally, the man sitting and the woman standing behind him. With her auburn hair, she bore a striking resemblance to Sharon, but Karly would never have mistaken the two. Susan was slightly thinner and more angular. And the man might have been Ian’s brother, with a rougher face and coarser bone structure. He stared out so intently that Karly felt as if he were demanding something of her. The painting bore no signature, only the initials BJ. “Bradley Johnson.”

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Karly wasn’t sure whether she’d spoken the name aloud or whether someone had muttered close to her ear. She couldn’t tear her gaze from the painting to look around. The couple’s emotions transfixed her. The close air trembled with love and hope, passion and possessiveness. The people were so real that she imagined she saw their lips move and heard them whispering to her to set them free. And to set herself free. When she and Frank first met, he’d been adventuresome in his lovemaking and excited about Karly’s career. She’d been certain she was entering a new, exciting stage of growth. But now, much as she adored her baby, she herself was getting lost, replaced by some nebulous figure known as Mother. And who had Frank turned into? How had she wandered into a life so different from what she’d chosen? From across the attic came a high-pitched cry. Karly sprang back, her throat tightening. Maybe she shouldn’t have come here, because she definitely wasn’t alone.

49 Touch Me In The Dark

Chapter Seven

After several seconds, she managed to squeak out the words, “Is someone there?” “Aunt Karly!” Greg’s voice bubbled through the air. “We’re over here!” Embarrassed at having been frightened by the sound of a child playing, Karly covered the painting and hurried toward the far end of the house. Soon Jody came into view, sitting in a rocking chair, and then Greg, hopping on one leg inside a cleared area where someone had painted a hopscotch board on the floor. Lisa lay sleeping on a blanket. Seeing her daughter on the floor bothered Karly, but Jody was right there in case of bugs or… whatever. “Well, hello.” The old woman tapped the arm of her chair. “I see you found us.” “Thanks so much for your help,” Karly said. “Sharon didn’t come back with me. We ran into Ian, and he’s showing her the art gallery.” “That’s fine.” There were pouches beneath the older woman’s eyes, and Karly realized guiltily that the children must have tired her. “This is a fabulous attic, the kind kids dream about,” she said. “There must be a great view off the balcony.” “Oh!” Jody clapped her hands together. “I’d forgotten! There’s some kind of problem, Ian mentioned. It’s not safe.” Karly was glad she hadn’t gone out there. “Thanks for the warning.” She was about to pick up Lisa when an open box caught her eye. Beneath a couple of wooden soldiers lay a rumpled length of ivory silk embroidered with pink and green rosebuds. “How lovely. May I touch it?” she asked. Jody followed her gaze. “Certainly.” Carefully, Karly lifted the garment, a lacy gown like babies used to wear for christenings. From the delicate stitching, Karly could see it had been made by hand. “This must be a family heirloom.” “Take it. Please.” Jody unfolded her tall frame from the rocker. “My mother made it for Susan. I was christened in that outfit too, and so was Martin, but by the time Ian came along, boys didn’t wear such things. How perfect for Lisa. There’s no point in leaving it here to rot.” “You’re very generous.” With dry cleaning the gown would be stunning. “Thank you. I’d love to have it.” Karly laid the dress over one shoulder and scooped up the sleeping Lisa, who nestled against her other shoulder. “I hope I’ll see you again soon.” “I’d like that,” Jody said. “We have a lot in common.” “Sisters under the skin.” As soon as the words were out, Karly wondered why she’d said such a foolish thing, but the older woman appeared pleased. She relished leaving the attic with this heirloom, as if possessing it made her truly a part of the people whose lives had been played out here. Maybe that was what the dead yearned for—a link to the living, a sense that the circle hadn’t been broken. Now all Karly had to do was face her husband tonight and see if she could loosen, just a little, the rigid pattern of their marriage. *****

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The Argyle Gallery stood on Harbor Boulevard, flanked on one side by a used bookstore and, on the other, by an Italian restaurant. After the solemnity of the graveyard, the scents of oregano and basil drifting from the restaurant lightened Sharon’s mood. “Have you been working with this gallery long?” she asked as they approached the entrance. “About a year,” Ian said. “I exhibited at a few shows here and there before that, but nothing consistent. Until Jane Argyle noticed me, I couldn’t figure out how to create a body of work and bring myself to the attention of the people who matter.” “You mean the public?” Sharon asked as they studied the paintings in the gallery window. The science fiction-inspired paintings were intriguing and expertly crafted, yet to her they lacked the depth of the raw piece Ian had shown her at his studio. “The public is important, but in the art world, it’s the critics and the collectors who count,” Ian said. “With the right kind of exhibit, the attention of a few key people can launch you into the ranks of up-and-coming artists. That translates into serious money.” “This sounds so commercial,” Sharon replied wistfully. “I suppose when I think of an artist, I visualize Vincent Van Gogh laboring in solitude, driven by his genius.” “Driven to insanity,” Ian pointed out. “I have my peculiarities but I’m not that far gone. My paintings have their own inner raison d’etre, but once they’re finished, they have to earn their own way in the world.” Discreet chimes ushered them inside. To Sharon, the paintings hanging at unexpected angles appeared like portals into eerily beautiful galaxies and alien worlds. “I feel as if I could step right through them.” “Until a few years ago, these pieces wouldn’t have been shown in a gallery,” Ian said. “Fortunately, the barriers between fine art, crafts, illustration and photography are breaking down. As far as I’m concerned, they never should have existed in the first place.” If not for her interest in decorating, Sharon might have missed the background, which had been designed to attract as little attention as possible. A soft shade of white, the walls were augmented by movable partitions and fitted with adjustable lighting canisters arranged to highlight each work. From a gap between partitions emerged a squarish woman in her forties. Stocky, with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, she surveyed Sharon warily. “Jane!” Ian said. “I’d like you to meet…” “Your new model?” The woman shook her head. “No offense, but I hope not.” “Excuse me?” Sharon hadn’t anticipated that kind of reaction. “Sharon isn’t a model,” Ian said. “She’s a newly discovered cousin of mine. Sharon, this is Jane Argyle, the gallery owner.” Jane shook hands firmly. “I’m sorry if I seem abrupt. I’ve been working rather hard to steer Ian in a new direction.” “I know I look like Susan Fanning,” Sharon said. The other woman moved past her to a desk tucked into one corner, where she set down some papers she’d been carrying. “You’re straight out of his fantasies. That’s not good. Wherever you live, I hope you’re going back there soon.” “I live here now.” Sharon had tolerated the elderly pastor’s reaction because of his age, but she wasn’t about to starting letting other people push her around. “She’s my neighbor down the hall. A definite improvement over the former tenants.” Ian didn’t seem concerned about the woman’s disapproval, even though he needed her cooperation. “I don’t think I’m finished with redheads and haunted houses.”

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Jane’s mouth twisted in disagreement. “You’ve tried that.” “Not with a real model.” “You’re going in circles,” she said. To Sharon, she said, “We’re planning a big show for August. I want Ian to be one of three featured artists, but he needs fresh work.” “Do you always tell your artists how to paint?” she asked. “Only when they need my advice,” Jane said. “I’m sure you know your business.” She didn’t add that she had no intention of redirecting her life or her place of residence to suit Jane’s theories. There was no point in engaging in a squabble. “Actually, I have been working on something a bit different,” Ian told Jane. “Kind of a natural extension of my oeuvre, if I may use such a pretentious word. It may involve Sharon.” “Fine,” the gallery owner said. “I’ll be happy to look at whatever you’re doing.” Beneath the words, Sharon perceived a warning, and she knew Ian had noticed, either. Jane had agreed to look at whatever he painted. She hadn’t promised to exhibit it. Chimes announced the arrival of a well-dressed couple in their forties or fifties. After greeting them and learning that they wanted to be left alone, Jane led Ian and Sharon to a sales gallery displaying works by a variety of artists. Two of them were by Ian. “You see what I mean,” she said, adding with a touch of irony, “He’s obsessed with the Fanning family phantasms.” On one canvas, two women danced in a swirl of merry colors, with flowers and gauze only partially obscuring their nudity. A third, auburn-haired figure had turned away and was fading into a gray mist. The other work depicted a row of tidy bungalows brightened by flowers. At the far right loomed the edge of a much taller, grimmer Gothic house. Its long shadow threatened to engulf the newer homes. “I like them,” Sharon said. “So do I, or I wouldn’t represent him,” Jane said. “The last couple of canvases I brought her weren’t as good as these,” Ian explained. “That’s the problem. I’m fixated on the same subjects but they’re losing their freshness.” “My point exactly,” Jane said. He indicated the painting of the houses. “You see how the past threatens to overwhelm the present? That’s where I’m heading. The past reemerging, old things returning. Before, I was unfocused. Now you’ll see a range of work, maybe broader than before, tying in some of the same themes. The ideas have been stewing in my subconscious but I only got a bead on them since I met Sharon.” Jane’s mouth formed a thin, stubborn line. “You should at least see what happens with a new model. I know the last one didn’t work out, but a couple of clients who’ve bought your work have mentioned that they’re tired of seeing the same woman, and I think they’re right.” Sharon forced herself to keep silent. There was no point in taking this discussion personally and, besides, she wasn’t a model. A muscle twitched in his cheek. At last he said, “Can’t hurt to try.” Jane handed him a business card. “I’ve been saving this for you. The girl’s name is Angela Ryder. She’s an art student at Cal State Fullerton and she works part-time as a model. She’s so unusual looking, I thought she might engage your interest.” Ian took the card. “I’ll call her.” “Do it soon,” Jane said.

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Sharon didn’t know why she wanted to object. This model wasn’t her rival. She had no claim on Ian and certainly none on his work. In the outer gallery, chimes rang again. Jane peered out, past the older couple who were still browsing. “Speak of the devil,” she said. The slender young woman who’d entered was striking, with raven-black hair and an exotic tilt to her green eyes. “That’s Angela?” Ian said. “I can see why you recommend her.” She didn’t want him to paint her, Sharon realized with an unexpected twist of jealousy. She didn’t want this gorgeous young woman, unmarred by the tolls of childbearing and widowhood, to shed her clothes and display her perfect body for Ian. A man who radiated such powerful sexuality could hardly be expected to resist. And there was no reason why he should. He didn’t owe Sharon any allegiance, she told herself sternly. “I came to drop off my portfolio.” The woman’s eyes widened as she caught sight of Ian. Apparently the attraction was mutual. Jane made introductions, then returned to her desk, leaving Ian and Angela in front. Out of their hearing, she said, “I don’t suppose there’s any point in suggesting you stay away from your cousin.” “My hope is that I might be able to help him with this fixation of his,” Sharon said. “I don’t mean by posing. There seems to be some kind of mystery involving his parents’ and grandparents’ deaths, or at least he thinks there is.” “You seem taken with the whole business as well,” Jane observed tartly. “Let me offer some advice.” She pulled a book from her desk and tossed it to Sharon. It was a paperback by Barbara Seranella. “If you like mysteries, forget Ian Fanning. Read a detective novel.” “Thanks for the tip.” Sharon replaced the book on the desk. But the suggestion started her thinking. Maybe she should do a little detective work, she mused, trying not to stare as Angela laughed at something Ian had said. Maybe that was the best way to free both him and her of this fascination with Susan. There must be some records of the murder, and even after all these years a few key people might be willing to talk about their memories of Bradley and that terrible night. Although she lacked experience, Sharon hoped her instinctive identification with her lookalike would enable her to pick up clues that someone else might miss. If she filled in the blanks to her own and Ian’s satisfaction, perhaps she could put this whole matter to rest. How that would affect their relationship, she had no idea, but Karly would certainly approve and it might encourage the Gaskells to move on. “Thank you,” she told Jane. “You’ve given me an idea.” The gallery owner’s sour expression eased when Ian joined them to say he and Angela had set a date for a session. Her triumphant expression was misplaced, Sharon thought. Anyone foolish enough to fight for control of Ian was bound to lose. She didn’t plan to make that mistake. ***** Frank paced across the small living room, gesturing choppily. “I don’t object to your singing in church, but this is a bad time to ask me to baby-sit.”

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“It’s always a bad time!” Karly hadn’t meant to argue; she’d intended to persuade her husband by sweet reasoning. But he’d arrived home late tonight, out of sorts from being trapped in a traffic jam. Busy nursing Lisa and putting the baby to bed, she’d left him to reheat his own dinner in the microwave. The chicken had come out dry and the green beans soggy, neither of which helped his mood. Honestly, shouldn’t an adult be able to transcend minor disappointments? He’d perked up at the suggestion of coffee in the living room, but only momentarily. When Karly announced that she’d agreed to sing in a church concert on Friday night, his glower had told her instantly that he wasn’t expecting this kind of news and wanted it to go away. “Business is finally improving,” he told her. “I can’t afford to miss the chance to make extra money. Karly, if things don’t change, we’ll never be able to buy a house, let alone save for Lisa’s education and our retirement.” Soon after their marriage, Frank had been laid off from his programming job with an Internet company. He’d gone into free-lance consulting, only to be hit by a succession of setbacks—a nationwide recession, then a deepening depression within California. However, as he’d said, things were looking up. “A few months ago, you had to work twice as hard because you were trying to drum up business,” she pointed out. “Now that you’ve got the business, you have to work harder to keep up. Frank, you hardly know your daughter.” “She’s only three months old. She sleeps all the time. When she’s bigger, we’ll spend time together, I promise.” Frank’s tone softened. “I value a family as much as you do, Karly, but we each have our roles to play, and neither of us wants you to have to work. If I don’t capitalize on earning extra income when I can, that might be necessary.” Karly tried to be fair. After all, she’d married Frank in part for his dependability, although she’d never imagined it restricting her so severely. They’d formed an unlikely couple when he took her out to dinner for the first time, her sporting a mane of unruly hair and the hippest clothes at the restaurant, him balding and conventional in a business suit. But Frank had the kindest eyes she’d ever seen, along with a steadiness that contrasted with the self-absorption of the other men she knew. And as they got to know each other, his passion for her had been exciting in its own way. Nevertheless, Karly wasn’t about to back down. “I’m only asking you to watch Lisa for a couple of evenings.” “Can’t your sister baby-sit?” “She’ll be accompanying me.” Karly supposed she could take the baby with her, at least on Wednesday. Other women carted their children along on all sorts of occasions. But she felt a fierce need to be free of the mothering role and concentrate on her music for a few hours. It seemed like so little to ask. “If I get free, I’ll be happy to help,” Frank said at last. “But don’t count on me. What about Mrs. Torres?” She was a neighbor who sometimes sat for other families in the building. “We can spring for the cost. As you said, there are only—how many rehearsals?” “Once with Sharon, and once with the choir.” Although Karly would have felt more secure with her husband watching Lisa, she was willing to compromise. “All right. But save Friday for the concert. You can bring Lisa along. Having her there would be nice, as long as I’m not the one responsible for her.” “Fine with me.” Frank sounded relieved. “Anything good on TV?” Karly tossed him the entertainment section of the newspaper and went to check on

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the baby. Watching the tiny figure doze in the near-darkness, she finally put a word to what she was feeling. Trapped. They both wanted at least two children. That meant a very long time before Karly could consider singing with a band. She’d be too old by then to have any chance at a big recording contract. At twentyseven, she was already past the age for the youth market. Still, she didn’t yearn for money or fame. She missed the music itself. Using her voice made Karly feel closer to God. She also loved to sing. She loved the feel of music in her throat and the rhythms coursing through her body and the thrilled silence of the audience. She loved the wild burst of applause at the end that meant she, the music and her listeners had, for a few enchanted minutes, touched something beyond themselves. Her hand resting on the crib rail, Karly fought down a wave of resentment. She wasn’t trapped. There were lots of possibilities. Her gaze fell on the christening gown lying draped across a chair. Through the window, moonlight picked out the embroidered rosebuds. As she lifted it, she relished the softness and the weight of memories. And the link to other mothers and their children, a reminder that Karly was connected to more than these four walls and an endless routine of changing diapers and fixing meals. She carried the gown to the crib and held it against her sleeping child. A bit long, but not by much, and babies grew so fast. She would get it cleaned so Lisa could wear the dress Friday night. A new baby, an antique gown, beautiful music filling Susan’s old church. Life was filled with new chances for happiness. Encouraged, Karly put the dress away and went to ask Mrs. Torres about babysitting. ***** Ian had never enjoyed dealing with models. Arranging props didn’t interfere with the images pressing into his mind, but a human being couldn’t be treated like an object. However, although taking a photograph might be easier than working directly from life, that hadn’t turned out well last time. Photography was no substitute for actually seeing the light playing across a vibrant human figure or listening to the vulnerable sound of breathing. Angela turned out to be an ideal collaborator, as an artist herself who understood the process. When she arrived at Ian’s studio Tuesday afternoon, she dispensed with all but the briefest of greetings before asking what he wanted her to do. Ian regarded the canvas on which he’d laid in the background. The setting was the interior of a modern home with jarring antique details—an ornate windowsill, old roseentwined wallpaper peering through the paint, and a couch with the upholstery worn away to reveal a buried, clawed arm. The effect was that of an ancient house breaking through the skin of the new one. That was the effect he also wanted to achieve with the central figure of a woman, perching on the arm of the couch as she awaited her lover. After explaining the concept to Angela, Ian showed her some outfits he’d gathered from a costume shop. She vanished behind a screen and came out wearing a contemporary tailored skirt and jacket over a Victorian bodice with its top laces undone, revealing the

55 Touch Me In The Dark

rounded tops of her breasts. “I had in mind something more primitive,” Ian said. “I can do primitive.” Angela ducked behind the screen again. Silently, Ian thanked Jane for finding this model. Maybe at last he’d found a woman he could work with, yet who didn’t resemble Susan. When she emerged, she’d removed the bodice, revealing bare breasts beneath the crisp linen jacket, with her torso naked down to the waistband of the skirt. On the arm of the couch, Angela struck a pose of calm indifference, as if unaware of her strange appearance. The effect of the partial nudity was to reveal something elemental beneath the veneer of civilization. “Perfect,” Ian said, and reached for his brushes. Angela’s natural sensuality infused his work and raised a hum through his body. At some level, he wanted to possess her, but he had no intention of acting on his desire, because impersonal sex no longer appealed to him. When he was younger, he’d have taken her if she were willing. Now, he needed far more from a woman. Ian thought of the unfinished picture of two figures grappling, now hidden beneath a cloth. He’d put the scene aside to wait until the urge to complete it overwhelmed him. Perhaps that would happen today, inspired by Angela. But for the moment, this new painting exerted its hold over him. Even as his conscious mind measured the angle of light and assessed the tints on his palette, the room on the canvas was becoming more real than this studio. The bones of the painted house struggled to cast off their modern skin and thrust to the surface, perhaps spewing out showers of paint and plaster in the process. Unseen forces ached to rend the woman’s prim clothing and thrust her naked into the ruins of a civilization built on lies. Ian shook off the sense of drifting into semi-consciousness. He worked furiously to capture the contrast between Angela’s partial nudity and her pristine garb, afraid that if he let this vision slip away, he might never find it again. The light outside dimmed beneath January clouds, casting the room into sepia tones. Ian’s rational mind noted that he should turn on his artificial lights, which were daylightbalanced. No, he couldn’t stop. Feverishly, he worked on. He saw beyond Angela’s small round breasts to the fat and tissue within, and suggested them with blurs of pigment on the canvas. The dizziness began in the center of his brain, swirling outward in waves. From far away, Ian heard Angela ask if he was all right. “Seizure,” he managed to say. He’d warned her about his condition when they made the appointment. Ian sank backward. He grabbed a corner of the scarred table to steady himself but his hand slipped. The room vanished, although he knew it must exist somewhere, and, lost in a deep pouch of fog, he imagined himself being guided onto the couch. He blinked. The dizziness eased. “How long was I out?” “A minute or two.” Angela laid a cool rag against his forehead. “I’m sorry to use a paint rag, but it looked clean.“ Ian pressed the cloth harder against his brow to soak up the heat. “You have a good head in a crisis.” “I’m glad you warned me,” Angela said. “That wasn’t too bad. I mean, you weren’t thrashing around on the floor or swallowing your tongue.”

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“Did I rearrange anything?” Ian’s temples were throbbing. He decided not to move until the pain receded. “Sometimes I do.” Angela glanced toward the center of the room. “That’s funny,” she said. “What is?” “You dropped your paintbrush on the floor. Now it’s on the palette.” She indicated the color board, which lay on the worktable beside the easel. “I don’t remember picking it up.” Either her or she must have moved the thing, Ian thought. At least, he’d always assumed he made the changes himself while he was in a seizure, because there was no other rational explanation. “Some people believe we have a ghost. Crazy stuff.” “Who knows?” Angela moved to where she could view the painting. “Gee, I didn’t expect you to take that approach.” “How bad is the damage?” Ian asked, before remembering that of course Angela hadn’t been able to see the canvas while he was working. “I’m not sure it is damaged,” she said. “I can’t tell.” Rising shakily and ignoring the pounding in his head, Ian approached. There were no slashes or smears, but the picture had changed. Instead of Angela sitting on the arm of the couch, Sharon waited there, gazing with feral eyes toward a blur along the edge of the canvas. Not really Sharon, however, despite the auburn hair and green eyes. Instead of softness he sensed in her, the bare breasts and stomach showed the tautness of a wild animal in human form, and there was a hint of sharpened teeth beneath the curl of her lip. “Isn’t this what you painted?” the model asked. “Not exactly.” A dryness in his mouth stopped him. He went to the sink for a glass of water before continuing. “I’m sorry to have involved you in this. It must seem very strange.” “I might think you were just trying to freak me out, but you don’t strike me as a practical joker,” Angela said. “Also...” She stopped, her lips pressed together. “What?” She nodded as if giving herself permission to trust him. “When I was helping you to the couch, I saw something go by. A whiteness, out of the corner of my eye. I think I felt something brush my arm, too, kind of like a spider web.” Ian let out a long breath. “No one’s reporting anything like that before as far as I know.” “I’m part Native American. I believe in a spirit world.” Cautiously, Angela added, “Does this ghost hurt people?” “I don’t think it poses any danger to you,” Ian said. “I wish I could be sure about Sharon.” At last he’d articulated the uneasiness shadowing his mind. In the past few days, in addition to the seizures, there’d been other worrisome phenomena. The face in the TV set, followed by a fire; his sketch, slashed while he was unconscious—everything focused on one person. On Sharon. As if Bradley weren’t content to have murdered his lover. As if he wanted to harm her look-alike, too. Apparently untroubled by her still-naked breasts and midriff, the model took another look at the painting. “You’re brilliant, Ian. I’d like to work with you again. While you were painting, I felt like you were capturing some essential part of me. But I think Jane is making a mistake. This woman you’re obsessed with, that’s who you should paint.”

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She was right. He had to paint Sharon in the flesh. And wasn’t sure he had the right to ask that of her.

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Chapter Eight

“I’m afraid that terrible business happened before my time. Before I arrived in Fullerton, at least.” Millie McKenzie, local historian and retired librarian, sat on a flowered couch in a modest living room crammed floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves. Additional volumes lay stacked around the floor. Only a slight accent hinted at Millie’s British origins. She sat straight but not stiffly in her linen slacks and peasant-style blouse. Beneath silver hair, her blue eyes were as lively as a girl’s. Even if it were possible to find the police report after so many years, the police department didn’t release records to the public, Sharon had learned when she called. Her next step, she’d decided, was to check historical records. At the library that morning, she’d flipped through books about political scandals and historical oddities, but none of them mentioned the Fannings. There was also microfilm of newspapers from World War II, but Sharon couldn’t locate any stories about the Fanning murder-suicide. The records might be incomplete, or perhaps the police and press, in that more discreet era, had hushed matters out of consideration for the family. Fortunately, the local historical society had provided her with a phone number for Millie. “You know, I never thought of being a historian in England, where things go back so far and the records are exhaustive,” she explained. “But in Orange County, I discovered, people don’t see themselves as having a history, or at least they didn’t fifty years ago when I started, and as a result they made little effort to preserve it.” “As I mentioned on the phone, I’m particularly interested in the Fannings,” Sharon said. “I came over when I got married in 1949, so the murder was before my time,” Millie noted. “Didn’t you hear anything about it?” Sharon pressed “People used to mention Susan Fanning as an example of what can happen to girls with loose morals,” Millie said. “But we were busy enjoying life in the postwar years. I suppose we all became a bit complacent, aside from perhaps worrying a bit about the bomb. Perhaps if there’d been an unsolved mystery, we’d have taken more interest.” “Bradley’s sister believed the whole truth never came out. I wish I knew what she meant by that,” Sharon said. “I was hoping you’d come across something in your research.” “After you called this morning, I flipped through several self-published books, the kind of personal histories the library doesn’t have,” Millie said. “I couldn’t find any mention of the Fannings. It might have caught the public’s imagination if there’d been a trial, but there wasn’t.” Sharon had been so certain she could turn up details that would help Ian. “How about ghosts?” she asked, grasping at straws. “The Fanning house is supposed to be haunted. Any tales about that?” “Orange County has a pathetic dearth of ghost tales,” Millie said wistfully. “We don’t have the large stock of them that you find in England. Oh, dear, I’m forgetting my manners! Would you care for a cup of tea?”

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“That sounds lovely.” Outside the picture window, a yellowish-gray cast turned the day murky. The weather report called for a storm to arrive tomorrow, Sharon remembered. She could use a hot drink. Leaning forward, Millie poured Earl Grey tea from a china pitcher into delicate cups and handed one to Sharon. The rose-ornamented porcelain teacup was so fragile she hesitated to take it. “Don’t worry,” Millie said, noting her reaction. “I’m getting on in years and I have no children. My husband died a few years past, so there’s no one to leave these things to. I prefer to enjoy them now.” “It’s beautiful.” Sipping her tea, Sharon sat back in her tall armchair and regarded the racks of books, many with faded leather bindings. They contained an unimaginable store of knowledge, yet none, apparently, could tell her what she needed to know. “You haven’t explained what this is all about,” Millie said. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’m curious why you’re so keen on digging up the past.” “The situation’s a complicated, but I’ll try.” Omitting a few personal details, Sharon sketched what had happened—her resemblance to the woman in the painting, Ian’s renewed seizures, the Ouija and the fire in the television. “I gather there’s something unresolved.” “Sounds like a lot of ‘mights’ and ‘maybes,’“ Millie observed tartly. “Although a fascinating bunch of them.” “I suppose so.” Sharon stretched her shoulders. They ached if she were carrying a heavy weight. “Oh, and then my sister and I visited the family’s old church and I met a retired pastor who knew Susan. He didn’t think much of her, I’m afraid. By coincidence Ian was there, and he showed us her grave. No one knows where Bradley’s buried.” A wrinkle formed on Millie’s forehead. “That does jog a memory. Hold on a moment.” She stood, skirted a pile of books and switched on a row of spotlights. From a shelf, she retrieved a notebook and flipped it open. “What’s that?” Sharon asked. “I’ve taken notes over the years, at lectures and so forth. A lot of local history hasn’t been written down, but people share their memories with the historical society.” Millie continued turning pages. “Most of this is rubbish, but... Oh, here we are.” She frowned at a page. “I attended a talk on graveyards.” Sharon tried not to hope for too much. “Yes?” Millie squinted at her handwriting. “There used to be a memorial park in Anaheim that was dug up to make way for some hotel or other. There always seems to be quite a lot of building going on.” She flipped a page. “Here! There was a dispute about a man named Bradley Johnson.” She scarcely dared breathe. “What about him?” “Let me see.” The historian mumbled to herself for a frustrating length of time before saying, “Oh, yes. The bodies were to be moved to a large municipal cemetery in Santa Ana, but a family member, his sister, objected. She wanted Mr. Johnson interred closer to home.” “What was the outcome?” Sharon doubted this could make any difference now, but at least she’d stumbled across a new piece of information. “She couldn’t find a place in Fullerton to put him,” Millie said. “Here’s the odd part. After the caskets were dug up, while they were waiting to be transferred, your Bradley disappeared.” “His body or the coffin?”

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“Both, apparently. The man’s sister denied knowing anything about the matter, and the casket was never found.” Millie shut the notebook, careful to avoid creasing the pages. “You’re quite right after all. There is a mystery.” Bradley’s sister was Bella Gaskell’s mother. Maybe she and Pete did know something, after all. “I’ll look into it. I know someone from the Johnson family.” “That isn’t all,” Millie murmured. “I’m remembering, now. What a fascinating talk that was.” Sharon waited. “A year after the hotel was built, it burned to the ground,” said the historian. “The guests claimed they heard hollow laughter, as if a madman were trapped inside the walls. The police looked into the possibility of an arsonist, but the problem appeared to be a short in the wiring. Just a coincidence about the laughter, I suppose.” “Yes,” said Sharon. “Thank you so much.” After a few more minutes of polite conversation yielded no further clues, she walked out into the gathering gloom. That was strange about Bradley’s body disappearing. Still, the most likely explanation was a prosaic one, that his sister had simply buried it in her backyard. He might not have been the only unstable member of the family. That possibility didn’t make her feel any more comfortable about living close to the Gaskells. ***** The rain held off, although Sharon felt the coming storm hanging oppressively in the air. Her uneasiness was intensified by the fact that Ian had gone out somewhere and missed dinner. Subconsciously, she’d been anticipating hearing him discuss his painting session with Angela, which had been scheduled for this afternoon Well, what happened between them was none of her business, Sharon told herself. She wasn’t involved with Ian. It might be best if he found someone else. But she didn’t really believe that. After dinner, Jody retreated to watch her favorite TV game shows. The Gaskells, who never ate with the others anyway, were at the movies. Sharon cleaned up the burritos she’d fixed while Greg wiped the table a bit too strenuously, leaving trails of water. The interview with Millie echoed through her mind. When she’d come up with the idea of investigating the house’s history, Sharon had pictured herself putting together clues like a character in an Agatha Christie novel. She’d never dreamed she would turn up such an unsavory twist as the puzzle of who had taken Bradley’s coffin, and where. So far, she hadn’t mentioned the subject to Jody and wasn’t sure she ought to “I miss my friends,” Greg said as he tossed the sponge into the sink. “What day is this?” “Tuesday,” Sharon said. “They’re back at school already.” He plopped onto a chair, the picture of childish distress. “I wish I was.” “College Day School goes back a week late,” Sharon said. “You don’t have long to wait.” “I’m bored sitting around here.” Sharon reflected guiltily that she’d spent so much time on this business about Susan that she’d neglected her son. “How about a few hands of Go Fish?” “Okay, I guess.”

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They spread the cards on the table. Their apartment upstairs felt cramped, and Sharon was glad to have the run of the house. Besides, she liked the kitchen’s warm, livedin feeling. The only interruption came when Karly phoned to set up a rehearsal for tomorrow evening at the church. “I tried to schedule it during the day, but they’re holding some kind of seminar until five o’clock,” she explained. “If you like, you can bring Greg here. Mrs. Torres is watching Lisa and she said she’d be glad to have him, too.” “I’ll take you up on that,” Sharon said. “He could use a change of scenery.” When he got sleepy, they went upstairs and Sharon read him a few chapters from a book. He could read for himself now, but he enjoyed hearing her voice. After prayers, Greg snuggled into bed with his teddy bear clutched under one arm. In the tiny living room, Sharon didn’t feel like watching TV, although Jody had loaned her one. She took out Karly’s piano music and began familiarizing herself with the rhythms and chords, tapping out the notes to Andrew Lloyd Webber’s music on her knee. She didn’t hear any sounds to indicate the Gaskells had returned. When they did, she supposed she ought to interview them, since that was the logical next step. As Bradley’s niece, Bella should know where he was buried if anyone did. Ian hadn’t come back from his evening’s outing, either. She wished she knew what had happened with Angela. The answer probably lay in his studio, in the form of whatever work he’d completed today. Although he never locked his door, she had no right to invade his privacy to satisfy her curiosity Sharon was thumbing through the current TV Guide when someone knocked. Curious, she went to the door. Angela stood there, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “Ian doesn’t seem to be home. While I was changing, I dropped a credit card out of my pocket. At least, I hope I left it here.” Sharon tamped down the suspicion that the card might have fallen out under more strenuous circ*mstances, such as making love. She was not going to torment herself with jealousy. “Just go on in.” Angela made a face, suddenly looking more like a teenager than a self-possessed young woman. “I don’t feel right about it.” “I don’t have any authority to go in there, either,” Sharon explained. “You’re his cousin, aren’t you?” “Several times removed.” She glanced toward Greg’s bedroom. He must have fallen asleep or he would have popped out by now to see what was going on. “I just want a witness,” Angela said. “In case anything turns up missing. One of my friends had that happen on a modeling job. She found the door open and went back in to get her pantyhose, and the next day the people accused of stealing a diamond brooch. Eventually they found it under the couch, but there was a nasty scene. They even called the police.” Sharon wouldn’t have hesitated if she hadn’t just gone a few rounds with temptation herself. On the other hand, she couldn’t in all fairness make Angela leave without her credit card. “Well, I don’t suppose Ian would mind.” Stepping into the hall, Sharon led the way to Ian’s studio. He’d left a lamp on low, bathing the room in an ethereal half-light. “This place is kind of creepy,” Angela observed as she hurried toward a freestanding screen. “You might say that.”

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Cloths covered both easels. Sharon felt both relieved and disappointed. “Here! Thank goodness.” Angela returned, displaying a card. “I stuck it in my pocket after I got gas.” Sharon couldn’t resist asking, “How did the painting session go today?” Angela pushed back her thick, dark hair. “It started out terrific, but then Ian had one of his seizures.” That was bad news. “Was he hurt?” “I don’t think so. But he altered the painting, or—“ Angela paused. “This is weird. I mean, I had the feeling someone else was in the room with us. I even glimpsed something white out of the corner of my eye. Isn’t that bizarre?” Sharon remembered how Ian’s face had seemed to morph into someone else’s, right in front of her. “Strange things seem to happen around here. I’m glad you were with him.” “I couldn’t do much.” Angela took a deep breath. “I like posing for him, but what he needs is you.” “Me?” She hadn’t expected to hear that. “Wait till you see what he…” Angela stopped in mid-sentence, gazing past Sharon. “I dropped my credit card.” She held it up. Sharon swung around to see Ian. She hadn’t heard him come in. “I hope you don’t mind. She didn’t want to come in here by herself.” “That’s fine.” He regarded them both with a hint of puzzlement. Angela edged around Ian toward the exit. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you guys.” “No problem,” Sharon said. “Want me to walk you down?” Ian asked, but the young woman shook her head and hurried out, almost skipping in her haste. “What were you two talking about?” Ian asked. “I’m sorry?” “You both had a guilty look when you spotted me,” he said. “She told me you had a seizure, and that she imagined some kind of presence,” Sharon said. “I guess I felt guilty because I was discussing you behind your back, not that we said anything you don’t already know.” Okay, that wasn’t quite the whole story. “And I was wondering what you’d painted during your session with her. But I didn’t peek.” Ian set down a package of fluorescent bulbs. “I’m flattered.” “By what?” “Your interest in my work.” He ran his fingers through his overgrown hair. Like him, it had abandoned all pretense of staying neatly within boundaries. “I’ll be happy to show you, although at this point I’m not sure how much of it is my work. “Why do you say that?” After turning on the overheads, Ian crossed to one of the easels. “Always before, during my seizures, I assumed I was the one who made the changes or damaged the canvas. This time, Angela denies I went anywhere near there. So either I was in some kind of daze while I painted this thing and messed up in the first place, or someone changed it while she was trying to rouse me.” “Changed it how?” He lifted the cloth. Sharon moved beside him and stood transfixed. She could feel the modern house peeling away and an older one emerging, dark and menacing. Something lustful and crude was breaking through the woman’s civilized façade, as well. The woman had auburn hair and no trace of innocence in her green eyes. This

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certainly wasn’t Angela. It wasn’t exactly Sharon either and yet it was a version of her, the bare breasts leaner and harder than her own, the eyes afire with unholy glee. How eerie to see herself in such raw sexual heat. Before she could put the question into words, Ian gave the answer. “I didn’t mean this to be you. I could have sworn I was painting Angela.” “Things don’t change themselves,” she said. “This is scaring me.” If he’d painted the wrong woman unintentionally, what else might Ian do blindly while appearing wideawake? Around her, the darkness flickered like a thing alive. It illuminated and then obscured Ian, so that he appeared half in shadow, like his father in the hall painting. “Sorry. A couple of the bulbs are dying. I just bought replacements.” He flicked off the brights and turned on another table lamp. The room settled into an easy glow. The image of Ian flashing between darkness and light stuck in Sharon’s mind, seeming to make tangible a real division within him. Had his head injury and the history of his family combined to turn Ian into two people at once? Might he identify so strongly with his grandfather that at times he almost became Bradley? She understood the duality better than she wanted to, because in the past few days she’d begun to feel that she was acting on Susan’s behalf. She worried that her attraction to Ian, this sense that at some level they had known each other all their lives, might spring from over identification with the woman Bradley had loved. And murdered. “You’ve got this stricken expression, Sharon,” Ian said. “What’s going on?” “I’m a little overwhelmed,” she admitted. He glanced again at the canvas. “I don’t blame you.” He covered it with one swift motion. Sharon stopped plucking at her sweater, and realized she’d been trying to cover herself more fully. “Despite what I said the night we met, I hope you won’t decide to leave. I think you’re a part of whatever was meant to happen to me and, besides, I like having you here. Seeing how real you are, after I’ve pictured you for years, makes me feel like I’m not so crazy after all.” “I might be making things worse,” she said. “No.” Ian spoke forcefully. “You might be a catalyst, but I think you’re a necessary one. I don’t mean to sound so clinical, Sharon. Hell, you remind me I’m a man, and you make me want things I haven’t dared to want for a long time.” If she yielded to impulse, she’d be in his arms in an instant. “Ian, we’ve only known each other for a few days.” “Seems like longer,” he said. “But not long enough.” Sharon searched for a way to change the subject. “I went to see a historian today,” she said. “To find out more about the house.” A flicker of his lids told her he understood what she was doing. “Did you learn anything interesting?” She told him about Millie and the relocated cemetery. “The problem is Bradley’s body. It’s missing.” “Missing?” “The casket was stolen during the move,” Sharon said. “The chief suspect seems to be Bradley’s sister, Bella Gaskell’s mother.” “That is truly bizarre.” Ian sat on the arm of the couch, like the woman in the painting, and stretched out his legs. “I have something to tell you as well. I went to see my doctor this afternoon, the psychiatrist who treated me after the accident.”

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That sounded like a positive development, Sharon thought. “What did he say?” “Dr. Finley’s a she. She thinks I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder,” he said. “She thinks I might have been especially susceptible because my accident came on top of the trauma of my parents’ accident. I fit a lot of the classic symptoms, including having problems with memory and cognition.” Here at least was a reasonable explanation for Ian’s problems. “Can they do anything for this condition?” He pulled a pharmacy vial from his pocket. “Drugs. Modern medicine’s answer to everything.” “Did you take them?” Sharon asked. He nodded. “Mellowed me out a bit. I don’t like relying on pills, though, and usually they have side effects.” “Maybe for a short time,” she suggested. “I plan to take them until Sunday. In fact, that’s why I went to see her,” Ian said. “What happens on Sunday?” “The anniversary I told you about,” Ian said. “Exactly sixty-five years since Bradley killed Susan.” She tried to remember what he’d told her last Friday, but the details escaped her. “Is there some particular significance?” “My accident happened on that date, five years ago,” he said. “And thirty years ago to the day, my parents were killed.” “It has to be a coincidence,” she said. “Possibly,” he said. “Dr. Finley believes some kind of subconscious suggestion might make us so self-destructive. With the medication, she thinks I’ll be all right.” “Have you considered moving out?” Sharon asked. “This is my home,” Ian said. “Besides, Jody lets me stay here for free and I’m not exactly rolling in money.” Sharon decided to let the matter go. “Are you going to leave the painting that way?” Ian shook his head. “I’m going to paint out your face and put Angela’s back in. You shouldn’t be shown this way without your consent.” The sight of herself in that painting had shocked Sharon, but that wasn’t her. It was another woman with an evil, calculating nature who happened to resemble her. And the work showed brilliance. “Leave it.” “You’re sure?” He was pleased, she could tell. “The work’s terrific. Go ahead and do whatever you want with it,” she said. “That’s Susan, not me.” Ian touched her shoulder lightly. “Thank you. You’re right, it isn’t you. The truth is, I want to paint you as you are. I can’t guarantee how things will come out, but I’m mining a new vein about the past showing through the present. You’re part of both.” “I can’t pose,” Sharon blurted without stopping to consider. She couldn’t make herself vulnerable that way, not to Ian of all people. “We can arrange to have other people present, if you’re afraid of me,” he said ruefully. She didn’t want other people present. She didn’t know what she wanted. “I’d be too embarrassed,” was the closest she could come. “I didn’t mean you have to pose nude,” Ian assured her. “You can keep your clothes on. Hell, let’s go outside, in the garden.” He rubbed her shoulders, massaging the tight muscles of her neck.

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Longing rippled through her body beneath his touch. Posing for him, even fully clad, meant submitting to his control. The experience would be almost unbearably sensual, Sharon thought. She wasn’t sure she dared risk letting her own wantonness rise to the surface. She turned toward him, meaning to say no, but something stopped her. Just once, she had to touch his shoulder, his collarbone, the rumpled swing of his hair. She had to stare up into eyes so dark they swallowed her. Ian must have read her mind. With a moan, his mouth came down to meet hers and he drew her close. Sharon tried to resist, and couldn’t. She yielded to the power in his grasp and the passion leaping like a flame through her body. She felt herself poised in the gateway to an unknown land, eager and yet hesitant to cross. His sharp edges defined the boundaries of this new world. Sharon lost herself in the roughness of his cheeks and the hungry probing of his hands. She was young again and unafraid. Wild, too, the way she crushed her breasts against him and enjoyed his hardness springing to life in response. She wanted to take Ian inside her and reshape him, to mold them both into one fiery being. Their movements must have knocked loose the cloth covering the second easel, because at that moment Sharon glimpsed the work over Ian’s shoulder. It was the rough sketch of two figures grappling. The details had changed since she’d seen it. One figure was larger now, the other definitely feminine. “That’s us,” she whispered. “Making love.” Confused, Ian glanced back. “Oh, hell,” he said. “What?” She felt him releasing her, and missed him. Her breath came quickly and the blood was still simmering through her arteries. Ready for more. Trying to remind herself that she couldn’t, shouldn’t have him. “I didn’t do that,” Ian said. “Or at least, not while I was conscious. But you’re right. Those are obviously us, or people who resemble us. You see? I don’t know what’s going on, but I do need to paint you. Maybe if I stop fighting my impulses and use the model I really want, things will come together.” His eyes held hers for a long time as they absorbed the double meanings in his words. Stop fighting my impulses… come together. They shared a wry smile, and by silent mutual consent moved apart. Sharon released a sigh. “You said we could work outside? I guess that’s a good idea.” He flipped the cloth back over the painting. “Let’s make a date for Thursday afternoon. I’ll behave myself, I promise.” “I hardly know who I am around you,” Sharon said. “That’s the problem.” His sympathetic tone gave her the sense that they were partners in some vital venture. “Until we figure that out…” “The garden.” He nodded. “I’ll find an Edwardian costume, the most buttoned-up thing they’ve got, from the era when this house was built. I’ll even get you a parasol to poke me with.” “You’ve got something specific in mind?” Exciting to think that he was already painting her in his mind. “Yes,” he said. “There’s a storm forecast for tomorrow, but by Thursday the weather should clear up. Pray for sunshine.” “Will do.”

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He held the door as she went out, smiling like a kid who’d just received the gift he wanted most for Christmas. There were so many layers to Ian, Sharon wondered if it was possible to know them all.

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Chapter Nine On Wednesday, a deep gloom hung over Southern California. Sharon decided this was a good day to take Greg to Disneyland, but Jody beat her to the punch. “I won two free passes at a bingo tournament last month. Didn’t think I’d have any use for them,” the older woman informed her at breakfast. “I’ve been wanting to visit the new attraction—California Adventure. It’s not exactly new anymore, but I haven’t been there.” Sharon didn’t want to be separated from her son for another day, or to continue taking advantage of her landlady. When she protested, however, Jody refused to yield. “You two were cooped up together all the way from Buffalo and you can’t tell me you don’t need some time to yourself,” she said. “I mean what I say, young lady, and when I extend an invitation, I don’t care to be talked out of it.” “We’ll have fun,” Greg assured her. “Aunt Jody lets me eat all the ice cream I want.” “Aunt Jody?” “I hope you don’t mind,” the older woman said. “His calling me that makes me feel good. We’ll have a great time today, don’t you worry.” To refuse would be rude, Sharon decided reluctantly. “He needs to be home early. I have to feed him and get him to my sister’s by seven-thirty.” “No problem,” Jody told her, and performed a complicated series of variations on high-five with Greg. Feeling restlessly and vaguely guilty, Sharon spent the day fixing up her first-grade classroom and buying school clothes for Greg. By the time she got home, the hour was nearly five and the rain had begun in earnest. When she reached her apartment, she was startled to see the door ajar. She’d locked it before she left, and she hadn’t seen Ian’s or Jody’s car in the parking turnaround. “Hello?” She stayed outside in the hall, calling out until Bella Gaskell appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing in my apartment?” The paisley scarf over her frizzy hair gave the woman a gypsy-like air. “He has been here.” “Who, exactly?” “The spirit.” Irritation drove Sharon past the point of diplomacy. “Could you skip the mumbojumbo and explain why you’ve broken into my place?” Pete appeared behind his wife and propelled her into the hall. “I’m sorry. We didn’t exactly break in. My wife heard a noise and feared a spirit might have entered your rooms again. After that fire you suffered, we thought we should check it out.” “How did you get in?” Sharon demanded. “Jody keeps a master key in the refrigerator for emergencies,” Pete said. “Since we’re relatives here, I’m sure we’re all trustworthy.” Apparently he and his wife had gotten the word about Sharon being a distant cousin, although she was related on Susan’s side, not theirs. “Next time you’re worried about a fire, check for smoke. That ought to give you a clue.” Sharon edged past them with her packages. “Please don’t come into my apartment again unless you’re invited or there really is an emergency.” “This was an emergency,” Bella said. “Strange things are happening on the eve of

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the anniversary, and you are at the center.” “The anniversary isn’t until Sunday,” Sharon said. “Forces are gathering. This is a time of preparation,” the woman murmured, fingering one of her hoop earrings as if it were an amulet. “We wish you’d reconsider attending a séance.” Pete’s matter-of-fact manner was better than his wife’s dramatic posing, but right now Sharon was in no mood to be charitable. “We believe Bradley has a message for you. It must be important, if he keeps appearing.” Sharon wished she knew how to get rid of these people. “I don’t think anyone’s appeared to me. Anyone supernatural, at least.” As long as they were here, however, she might as well mention the one real oddity she’d turned up. “If there were a ghost, he should be more concerned about his missing coffin than about anything I’m doing.” “His coffin?” Pete looked startled. “I don’t understand,” Bella said. “About forty years ago, his coffin disappeared with his body inside while in transit,” Sharon said. “A historian told me a cemetery in Anaheim was being relocated for construction. Your mother must have known. I figured she would have told you. In fact, she’s probably the one who took it.” Agitated, Bella twisted her hands together. “I can’t imagine… I don’t think she would have… well, if she did, I don’t blame her.” “You don’t object to grave-robbing?” “Let me show you something. Please.” Bella caught her wrist and pulled lightly. “What’s going on?” Sharon demanded. “You have to see to understand.” She considered resisting, but she had planned to talk to the Gaskells anyway. Whatever Bella wanted to show her might be important. “All right, but I’m afraid I’m pressed for time. I’m expecting Greg any minute.” “This won’t take long,” Pete said. Too much furniture and too many knickknacks crammed their large sitting room. Sharon had to maneuver between antique-style tables and chairs to reach the window, from which she surveyed the rain-shrouded street. There was no sign of Jody’s car. Outside, pansies and poppies crowded the window box, and when she moved away, Sharon got caught in one of the heavy brocade curtains tied back with gold cord. “This is like an obstacle course in here,” she said as she pushed it aside. Remembering her manners, she added, “But you certainly have beautiful things.” Pete beamed. “Bella does our decorating.” There were some nice pieces, Sharon decided, just too many of them. Dangling prisms refracted rainbow stripes across burnished Victorian couches and chests and a patterned carpet, while shepherdesses and porcelain-headed dolls overloaded the china cabinets. If the place had been hers, she’d have disposed of at least half the contents. “I found this among my mother’s letters not long ago. I’d gone through them before but I hadn’t read them all.” Bella dug through a pile of paper on one of the tables. Hard to imagine how she could find anything in this place. “Here.” She held out a sheet of yellowed paper. The thin handwriting was so faded that Sharon had to hold the letter under a lamp to read. The plain sheet, without letterhead, was dated April 12, 1965, and addressed to a Mrs. Lake. “Was Mrs. Lake your mother?” Sharon asked.

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Bella nodded. “Her maiden name was Johnson, of course. Read aloud, would you?” “Certainly,” Sharon said. “Dear Mrs. Lake, “I am writing to ask you to drop your attempt to have Bradley Johnson’s body moved to our church cemetery. He does not belong there, and Pastor Arbizo agrees with me. “While I respect your loyalty to your brother, he has done grievous injury to me and to my late fiancée. You cannot expect me to consent to this travesty. “Let the poor woman enjoy in death the peace she never found in this life, thanks to your brother. “Sincerely, Grayson Wright.” Sharon stopped at the unfamiliar name. “Who’s Grayson Wright?” “The man Susan’s parents arranged for her to marry,” Pete said. “We didn’t understand why my mother wanted to have Bradley re-interred, until you told us today about the cemetery,” Bella said. “We’d always wondered where he was buried,” noted her husband. “We wanted to take flowers and make sure the grave was cared for, but we couldn’t find any record of where it was.” “I wonder where he ended up,” Sharon said. “I assume Mother found another cemetery,” Bella said. “The caretakers must have collected the body and forgotten to notify the authorities.” At least now she had a name to put to the shadowy figure of the fiancé, Sharon thought. That might open up other possibilities for her inquiries. “I wonder if Grayson Wright is still alive.” “I told you matters were coming to a head,” Bella intoned, returning to her melodramatic posing. “What she means is, we came across a reference to him by chance.” Pete opened a drawer and handed Sharon a newspaper clipping dated shortly before Christmas. The photo featured a group of elderly people, most in wheelchairs, applauding three little girls in tutus. The caption read, “Young Dancers Make Holiday Friends.” The old folks, she saw when she read further, were residents of a convalescent home in Fullerton. One man, identified as Grayson Wright, had his head turned away so she couldn’t see his face. A chill ran up Sharon’s spine at the coincidence that the article had run so recently. She felt as if she were being guided to meet this man. Or pushed. She wasn’t in the mood for any more pressure. First Jody had insisted on taking Greg to Disneyland—well, it wasn’t her fault Sharon had felt compelled to agree, but then the Gaskells had invaded her apartment and lured her in here. Now someone or something seemed to be setting her up to talk to Grayson Wright. What was she going to do, walk into that old age home looking like his dead fiancée and give the poor man a heart attack? She had no business bothering him. “Bradley wants you to go.” Bella spoke in a flat tone. “That’s why he showed this to us.” “Oh, please!” Sharon objected. “This has gone too far.” The woman stared at the wall. “He’s here. He’s suffering. Why can’t you feel his pain?”

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The possibility that this woman might not merely be eccentric struck Sharon. If Bella saw things that weren’t there, she might suffer from mental illness. “If Bradley wants to tell me something, I’m sure he’d make an announcement on my TV screen.” She returned the clipping. “Thanks, but I think I’ll leave this poor old man alone.” Bella started to protest. Pete hushed her with a gesture. “If something’s meant to happen, it will,” he said. Sharon excused herself and walked out. With her delusions about possessing psychic powers, Bella might be able to function indefinitely in this protected setting, Sharon supposed. But she couldn’t help wondering how stable the woman’s mind was. Thunder rumbled as she went downstairs. This weather, this house and these peculiar neighbors were giving her the creeps. In the kitchen, Sharon set to work making tortilla pizzas in the microwave. The dish was one of Greg’s favorites, and easy to assemble in small quantities, with pizza sauce, mozzarella, pepperoni and Parmesan layered atop crisped tortillas. She also tossed a salad to share with Jody and anyone else who might drop by. Anyone else meaning Ian, she admitted silently. She checked her watch. After six. She hoped Jody wasn’t running late. With relief, she heard the front door open. “Greg?” she called, emerging into the living room. Ian blew in with a garment bag draped over his shoulder and some packages under one arm. Damp hair clung to his temples and droplets sparkled on his eyelashes. “He isn’t missing, is he?” “No.” Sharon switched on a lamp against the gathering gloom. “He and Jody went to Disneyland. I’ve got dinner almost ready. You’re welcome to join us.” “Thanks,” he said. “You sounded worried. Are you sure everything’s all right?” She did feel on edge. “It’s the Gaskells.” On the verge of sharing her discomfort about Bella’s weirdness, she realized he might think her comment applied to him as well. His seizures weren’t in the same category as Bella’s delusions, as far as Sharon was concerned, but she didn’t know how to explain the difference, even to herself. “The storm isn’t helping either,” she concluded lamely. “Although you’d think I’d be used to bad weather after living in Buffalo.” Among the delicate furniture of the living room, Ian’s brawny frame seemed larger than life. “Are you sure going out tonight with your sister is a good idea? If we get a downpour, driving might not be safe, particularly when you’re so nervous.” “I’ll be all right,” Sharon said, a little too quickly. “Karly has a rehearsal tomorrow with the choir. She has to go over the songs tonight.” “All right.” Ian tossed the garment bag on the sofa and unzipped it. “I picked up your costume. The forecast still calls for clearing tomorrow.” Sharon fingered the long Edwardian dress with an embellished jacket and slim skirt. “Where did you get this?” “From a costume shop I’ve used before. “Producing a box, he removed a flatcrowned hat and a parasol. “They’re probably not historically authentic, but they’re close enough.” In the lamplight, his smile flashed as Sharon held up the dress. “It suits you.” “I think it’ll fit,” she said. “How did you guess my size?” “I’m a good judge of dimensions,” Ian said. “Also, there’s adjustable Velcro in the back.” “Isn’t that cheating?”

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“Only if you’re a real Victorian.” He settled the hat atop her hair and fluffed out the long strands that fell to her shoulders. The brush of his fingers tingled across Sharon’s skin. “This painting sounds so sedate. It’s not like you,” she told him. “I’m sure there’ll be a surrealistic element in the work,” Ian said. “I just don’t know what it is yet. Well, enough about me. Tell me what you did today.” She’d missed the casual intimacy of sharing the day’s events with a man, Sharon realized as she removed the hat and perched on a chair. That was one of the appealing things about Ian, that when he wasn’t glowering or filling the room with his unrestrained sexual energy, he could also be a friend. Sharon detailed her visit to the school and discovery of the Gaskells in her apartment. That led to the revelation that Grayson Wright was alive. Ian agreed with her decision not to disturb the elderly man. “Sometimes it’s best to leave well enough alone,” he said. “Jody’s put the whole thing behind her, and she’s doing better than any of us.” They chatted for a few more minutes before they heard the front door creak open. Greg’s voice called, “Mom? Is dinner ready? What’re we having?” “Good heavens, child, didn’t you eat enough food today?” grumbled Jody, hoarse with weariness. “That was hours ago!” Greg led the way into the living room. “I’m starved.” “Tortilla pizzas, coming up.” Sharon rose to greet her landlady. “You must be exhausted.” “Oh, poo.” Jody unbuttoned her jacket and hung her umbrella on a hat rack. “Today was a delight, but I am worn to a frazzle, let me tell you.” They downed their dinner in a companionable buzz. Afterwards, Sharon insisted that Jody relax while she cleared the table. Ian joined her at the sink, running hot water and plunging into dishwashing. She never would have pictured him acting so domestic, with his almost sinister scar and sharp features. “You know,” he said, “this feels right, having you here.” “To me, too,” she said. “This house was too quiet without a child.” He glanced toward Greg. “Your husband must have been thrilled to have a son. Do you mind my mentioning him?” “Not at all.” “I know you’re widowed, but…” He let the words trail off. “He had a heart attack,” she said. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t kick the smoking habit, although he didn’t smoke in the house after I got pregnant with Greg.” Ian dried a dish and handed it to her to put in the cabinet. “What kind of work did he do?” “Civil engineering. He worked on projects for a large company.” He’d had to spend weeks or, in a few cases, months away from home. Although Sharon had offered to accompany him, he hadn’t wanted to uproot her and Greg, especially since the longer trips took him to sites in the Middle East and Africa. Every time he returned, there’d been a period of adjustment, mostly because Sharon and the little boy had changed. Jim stayed pretty much the same—down-to-earth, a bit impatient but kind-hearted. He was always working on his golf game and willing to accompany Sharon to the theater or the ballet, where he sometimes fell asleep. “Did you want more children?” Ian asked. She took a deep breath before tackling the painful subject. “I had trouble getting pregnant again. The doctor suggested Jim and I undergo testing, but we’d seen how

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fertility treatments took over some of our friends’ lives, strained their marriages and drained their finances. Jim said once we got hooked into the system, we’d never know when to quit. I agreed that wasn’t fair to Greg, so we decided to let nature take its course. Unfortunately, that course didn’t lead anywhere.” “I’m sorry.” He kept his voice low. “Being left alone with a school-age child was hard enough. I don’t know how I’d have coped if I’d had a baby,” Sharon admitted. Outside, rain gusted against the window. “I’d like to drive you and Greg tonight,” Ian said. “That isn’t necessary.” “Not just because of the rain,” he said. “The church is fairly isolated and you may come home late. There’s nothing like taking along your own policeman.” “I second the motion,” Jody said from where she sat. “Fullerton’s fairly safe but no place is perfect.” Months of shouldering all her responsibilities herself had conditioned Sharon to refuse. But she would enjoy Ian’s company, and appreciated the generous offer. “I’d like that,” she said. She sent Greg upstairs to fetch a jacket and some toys. “We’ll take my car,” Ian said. “I’ve got new tires and I just had some work done on my brakes.” He stopped, a puzzled expression flickering across his face. “What?” Sharon asked. “I don’t know.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “I caught a shred of memory, but now it’s gone. Nothing important, I’m sure.” “Sounds like something you dreamed,” Jody observed tartly. “Women dream about two things—men and children. Men dream about cars and sports.” “I’ve never been much of a sports fan,” Ian said. “I do like cars, though.” Greg raced in with an armload of toys, and Sharon had to help him narrow his choice to a few favorites. After collecting the sheet music and her coat, she said goodnight to Jody. “Don’t worry about waking me when you come in,” she said. “I’ll be safe in the arms of Morpheus.” “Who’s he?” Greg asked. “An old friend,” Jody replied. “The Roman god of dreams. He’s the only boyfriend I’ve got left.” The edge to her voice didn’t match the good-humored words. Hearing more thunder outside, Sharon wondered if her landlady was remembering a rainy night some thirty years ago, the night Ian’s parents went out and never came home. “Sleep well.” Ian kissed his great-aunt’s cheek. “You’re a dear, you really are.” Jody patted his shoulder. “Don’t try to butter me up. I see right through you.” “I’m sure you do,” he said, and hugged her gently. ***** Karly had been hoping Frank would come home early tonight, even though she knew he was working against a deadline. Also, since she’d made arrangements with Mrs. Torres to care for Lisa and Greg, why should he hurry? But she would feel safer with him at home, and she wanted him to bond more tightly with his daughter. Tossing her frozen dinner carton into the trash, Karly scooped Lisa from the crib and

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sat down to nurse her. She hated to leave this little doll with a sitter, even one as trustworthy as Mrs. Torres. Outside, thunder rumbled. Trying not to think about the rainy drive she and her sister faced, she unbuttoned her blouse and unsnapped the nursing bra. As the baby’s mouth closed over her breast, Karly gazed at the tiny fingers playing against her skin. A wave of tenderness seized her, an absolute love for this infant. Yet, by the time Lisa finished, Karly could feel excitement building for the evening ahead. She couldn’t wait to fill the church with her voice. As she checked the diaper bag, she decided she was glad Frank hadn’t come home yet. He would have complained about eating a frozen dinner, grumbled about the weather and done his best to make her feel guilty about going out. Just thinking about it made her angry. The doorbell rang, and she hurried to greet her sister. ***** The night was cold and the rain heavy by the time they set out, the three of them in Ian’s car. Sharon was glad he’d offered to drive. Even with Karly along, she felt as if they were charting their way across an unknown sea. To break the silence, she talked about her plan to model for Ian tomorrow. “I guess Greg will be all right in the house by himself. I think he’s spending too much time with Jody.” “I’ve got an idea,” Karly said. “I’m taking Lisa to a girlfriend’s house in the afternoon. She has a baby and a five-year-old who’s mature for his age. He’s got a new set of action figures I’ll bet Greg would enjoy. I don’t mind picking him up.” “He’d love that, if it’s not too much trouble.” “Not at all. I’d like to get to know my nephew better, and I’d like to show my thanks for your helping me out tonight.” Sharon felt better as they reached the church. One new friend, coming up. No doubt Greg would have a busy social schedule before long. They parked, alone in the lot, and ran across the blacktop under umbrellas. Karly unlocked a side door with a key the minister had provided. When they entered, the sanctuary lay in gloom accentuated by a couple of safety lights low on the walls. Darkness pooled across the pews. Sharon could hear the wind whistling through an unseen space overhead. In the car, with the noise of the engine, she hadn’t been so aware of the storm, but now she heard branches smacking the roof. “I can’t find the light switch,” Karly called from across the chamber. “You know, that’s one thing I forgot to notice.” “I’ll get a flashlight from the car,” Ian called. The prospect of being left alone here, just the two women, somehow frightened Sharon. On the point of asking him not to go, she clamped her mouth shut. She was getting as bad as the Gaskells, letting her imagination run away with her. She’d better get a grip before she ended up as crazy as Bella. ***** A blast of rain against Ian’s face brought him sharply alive. He loved the night in all

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its raw vigor. When he was alone like this, the darkness flowed through him like an electric current. He’d first had this sensation while on patrol as a police officer, prowling through the deep silences while people slept, driving down dimly lighted streets past dozing houses. The stillness hadn’t depressed him; it had exhilarated him. As he unlocked the car and took the flashlight from the glove compartment, Ian acknowledged a feeling else stirring inside him. An awareness of something approaching, as if the storm held special meaning. Only a few days remained until the anniversary. His medication couldn’t entirely dull him to that fact. There was, he conceded, something that dwelled within him or could enter his body that did not belong to Ian Fanning. At least, not to the Ian Fanning he knew, although surely it must be part of him at some level. Even now, he felt his mind venturing beyond his body. He wasn’t having a seizure, and yet for this moment he lived in a world heightened by special perceptions. There were details about his seizures that he hadn’t mentioned to the doctor. Ian had deliberately withheld anything that hinted at the supernatural. An instinct for selfprotection had made him portray the episodes as mere physical manifestations. He didn’t want to be classified as delusional. Something real was affecting his paintings and touching his mind, and had led him to this spot tonight, although for what, he didn’t know. That had been part of his motivation for coming, along with a desire to protect Sharon. As he started back toward the church, colored light filled the stained-glass windows. The women had found the light switch. They didn’t need him and probably would appreciate not being interrupted. . Thunder murmured again. The graveyard was calling. Its insistent voice teased through Ian. Tilting back his umbrella, he let the cold moisture wash off his warm coziness. He was being summoned on a quest. Cheerfully raising the shield again, he headed toward the graves and whatever or whoever was waiting for him.

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Chapter Ten Moments after Ian went out to get a flashlight, Karly located the switch near the door from the minister’s office. She should have looked there first, she reflected ruefully, instead of at the back where the congregation entered. With a flick of her finger, flat white lighting dispelled the blackness. Across the sanctuary, Sharon gave her a shaky smile. “Spooky, isn’t it?” Karly didn’t like to admit she’d enjoyed fumbling around in the dark, not when Sharon was obviously uncomfortable. But she’d enjoyed the deliciously eerie echoes when the lights were out, as if this were some ancient cathedral instead of merely a small church. She’d felt as if she were visiting the haunts of one of the great composers like Handel or Bach. She supposed she ought to be more considerate of her sister, who seemed to be identifying with Susan. After all, the family had come to this church the night of the murder. Sharon sat at the piano and switched on a reading lamp. Standing the sheet music before her, she studied it thoughtfully. Karly moved toward her, working through scales to warm her voice. When Sharon glanced up, her eyes revealed green depths even more unusual than Karly remembered. She’d always had stunning looks, with her rich auburn hair. For a time when she was singing with a band, Karly had tried to dye her dull brown locks that color, but the effect had never been as lustrous or as natural. “Ready?” Sharon asked. “Sure.” Soon the lyrics to “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” were rolling off her tongue. At first, she had to push the high notes, a reminder to warm up more thoroughly next time. After a while, the strain eased and her soprano licked the highest and farthest corners of the room. Outside, lightning flashed colors through the stained glass, haloing a small painting of a Madonna and child that hung above the piano. The cherubic baby reminded Karly of Lisa and the daubs of paint on the infant’s gown suggested the embroidered flowers on the heirloom dress. When lightning flared again, the Madonna appeared to shift her eyes until she returned Karly’s stare. After one startling moment, the illusion vanished. Sharon stopped playing. “Lose your place?” “Did you—?” No, of course she hadn’t noticed anything. It was only a trick of the light and not worth mentioning, Karly thought. “Sorry. Let’s start over, shall we?” she said, and they did. ***** In the graveyard, Ian hardly noticed the rain that slanted beneath his umbrella, soaking his pants and socks. He found the lightning exhilarating as it played over the gravestones, picking out fragments of names and carved symbols—a cross here, a rose there. The thunder followed, low and insistent. Ian had never been superstitious about cemeteries or dead bodies. As far as he was concerned, the spirit departed upon death, and what was left belonged to the earth.

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Until his accident, he’d never taken much interest in life after death, either. Yet on two different occasions, he’d been surprised to hear other men describe supernatural experiences. One beefy fellow cop had admitted that, while technically dead after being shot by a robbery suspect, he’d watched from overhead as the paramedics worked on him. “I heard every word they said,” he’d confided over beer after a shift. “I haven’t been afraid of dying since then. I figure you just kind of go on to the next place.” Another time, a paramedic had volunteered, during a workout at the gym, that he’d seen a formless white mist float out of the body of a severely injured traffic victim. “I swear, it looked like Casper the Ghost,” he’d said. “I checked his vitals and he’d died, right at that moment.” Now, playing the flashlight over a headstone, Ian wondered where those spirits went and whether there was such a thing as heaven and hell. And, above all, why he’d been summoned tonight. With quiet determination, he started at one corner of the graveyard and began systematically walking the rows, giving each headstone its moment of revelation in a circle of light. If he’d come here for a reason, he intended to find out what it was. ***** Frank Weeks was on his way home when he remembered that Karly had scheduled a rehearsal tonight. He stopped at a hamburger stand, drove through the line and wolfed down dinner in his car. Rain spattered against the windshield, distorting the glare from the restaurant’s sign. His wife’s absence from home annoyed him. After an exhausting day, he wanted to come home and eat dinner without any hassles. Frank missed Karly, even though he hadn’t been apart from her any longer than usual. He missed the quick-witted, dark-haired lady who had enchanted him the first time he met her. Thinking about the empty apartment ahead, he found himself resenting having to struggle all day with nothing to look forward to. At some time that Frank couldn’t pinpoint, he had resigned himself to compensating for the lack of a dependable job by earning as much as possible when work was available. Like his father before him, he believed a man’s responsibility was to make his family financially secure. His wife needed to appreciate how tough things were for him. She needed to understand that it wasn’t a lot to ask that she should be home when he returned. They would discuss the matter tonight. With a grimace, Frank threw the hamburger box and leftover fries out the window into a trashcan. This was supposed to be a partnership, after all. ***** “I wish they’d given me at least one upbeat song,” Karly admitted as they finished Close Every Door. “These are both so wistful.” “They show off the beauty of your voice.” Sharon had enjoyed hearing her sister sing so much that she’d nearly lost track of her playing. “People with so-so voices can hide their shortcomings in a fast number. They can’t fake a ballad.” Karly sighed. “I miss the applause, the excitement when a number builds and everyone jumps to their feet at the end. I get a burst of adrenaline.”

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“These songs will do that, you’ll see.” Sharon closed the sheet music. “You always have that effect on people.” “I hope I never lose that ability,” Karly admitted. “Something magical comes over me when I’m singing. Without it, I don’t feel fully alive.” “I’d love you whether you sang or not.” Sharon had always admired her sister’s talent without reservation. “But I’m glad you’re singing again.” Rain pattered against the roof. “What do you suppose happened to Ian?” Karly asked. “I thought he was going to fetch a flashlight.” “He must have seen the lights come on and gone for a walk.” “In this weather?” “Maybe he didn’t want to intrude on our rehearsal.” Ian was sensitive about things like that, Sharon reflected. Glancing up, she noticed a painting of a Madonna and child hanging over the piano. The super-real quality gave the impression one could touch the velvet of their skin. “That looks like an original. It’s beautifully done.” “I was studying it earlier. It seemed almost alive.” Karly walked over to investigate. “Do you get the feeling she’s watching us? Oh, here are the initials of the painter—BJ!” The sisters stared at each other. “Surely not,” Sharon said. “That might be him,” Karly said. “Bradley Johnson. Was he an artist, too?” “Yes. He painted the portrait of him and Susan,” she said. “But surely they wouldn’t have kept his painting here at the church after what he did.” “Why not? Something so lovely.” Karly regarded the image steadily. “I suppose he could have donated the piece before he left for the war, and by the time he returned, people forgot who’d painted it,” Sharon said. “I guess that’s where Ian gets his talent.” As well as his looks, she thought. The lights flickered and the wind rose to a howl, like a wolf on a snowy night. Abruptly, the lights died. The faint hum of the church’s heating system faded as well, leaving them in darkness punctuated by bursts of rain. “Great,” Karly said. “We’re blacked out.” “Talk about spooky.” As soon as she said the words, Sharon wished she hadn’t. The air felt colder, and she began noticing little creaking sounds overhead, reminding her of their proximity to the graveyard. “Uh oh,” Karly said. “If Frank’s home, he just lost his TV. That’ll really make him crabby. Just what I need.” “I wish I were home.” Around her, Sharon could feel the darkness thickening as if hidden realms nested within. “This place gives me the willies.” Karly sat on the bench beside her. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s pretend.” They’d played that game as children, imagining themselves into stories and films and favorite TV shows. “Pretend what?” Sharon asked. “You’re Susan,” said her sister. “I’m Jody.” “I don’t find that in the least reassuring,” she said. “I don’t want to be Susan. What a tragic life!” “But it’s our family history,” Karly reminded her. “I’m amazed at how much they were like us.” “Maybe in appearance,” Sharon said. “Susan certainly was beautiful.” Karly’s voice echoed in the darkened church. “The old minister didn’t like her,” Sharon pointed out. “I wonder if he’s a rejected suitor who carried a grudge.”

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“He said Jody adored her sister,” Karly recalled. “I’ll bet she hated what her parents did to Susan. If I’d been there, I’d have tried to help.” Here was a possibility. “Do you think she got in contact with Bradley, about Susan being forced to marry?” Someone must have notified him, after all. “Maybe she arranged for him to come to the house that night, thinking he’d rescue her sister. So Jody went with the family to church and Susan stayed home because she knew Bradley was coming.” “And then he killed her,” Karly said. “How awful. Think how Jody must have felt!” “Guilty enough that she devoted her life to raising Susan’s son,” Sharon murmured. “No wonder she never married, if that’s true. Oh, dear, we’ve created quite a scenario, haven’t we? I would never dream of asking her if it’s true, though.” A bolt of lightning turned the air white, and then came an explosion that rocked the church. “What was that?” Karly gasped. Sharon’s heart thudded in her throat. “Not thunder.“ Another thought struck her. “Ian’s out there!” Had something happened to him? “We’d better go check,” Karly said. ***** The blackout hit as Frank was pulling into the carport. His first thought was, Terrific, now I can’t even watch TV. Then he wondered if Lisa would be frightened. Her mother ought to be home with her, he grumbled to himself. With the help of a penlight, he groped his way to the entrance, only to find the interior of the building hopelessly inky. The penlight gave no sense of depth, and Frank stumbled twice on his way up the steps. As he neared the Torres apartment, lightning and thunder struck almost at the same time. The corridor flared into surrealistic clarity, and over the rumbling he caught a boom from far off, as if the lightning had struck something. Mrs. Torres’s doorbell didn’t work, so he knocked loudly. Frank wished he’d insisted the sitter come to their place. He didn’t relish staggering down the hall in the dark with a baby. “Yes?” A familiar olive-skinned face regarded him by the light of an upheld candle, and the door swung wider. “Mr. Weeks! Come in!” The Torres apartment, although about the same size as Frank and Karly’s, appeared smaller due to the jumble of furniture, toys and religious icons. Above the couch, a painted Jesus regarded Frank with gloomy piety. No wonder he looked grim, Frank reflected irreverently, with so many crosses nailed to the wall around him as a reminder of his terrible experience. A circle of candles in mismatched holders decorated the tables and floor, where Greg sat playing with a Monopoly board. Frank hadn’t seen his nephew in nearly a year, since Jim’s funeral, and the boy had grown considerably. They greeted each other with a hug, rather diffident on both sides. “I was prepared for a storm, as you see.” Mrs. Torres indicated the candles. “The children think this is fun, like a game.” Frank nodded, only half-listening. The cradle lay in shadow. Moving toward it, he felt a moment’s apprehension. He’d been expecting to see Lisa awake and alert in Mrs. Torres’ arms. Swooping past him, the sitter lifted the tiny figure from the cradle. “You hold her and I’ll get the diaper bag.”

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Frank accepted the bundle stiffly. The baby was small and wiggly and, irrationally, he feared losing his grip. Tiny eyes popped open and Lisa began to wail. Oh, great. “What do I do now?” “You’ve got her tilted too much,” Greg said. “I do?” Frank adjusted his arms, and the baby stopped fussing. The discovery that his daughter behaved logically reassured him. This wasn’t so baffling, after all. “Do you want to play with us?” asked the boy. He had a pleasant, freckled face and an expression of open curiosity. Judging by the amount of houses and hotels on the board, he played a mean game of Monopoly Jr. “Sorry,” Frank said. “I’m too tired. And I’d better get Lisa to bed. Maybe another time.” The boy shrugged. “Okay.” “Here you go.” Mrs. Torres handed Frank the bag. He had to balance Lisa against one hip as he shouldered the thing. “Do you want to take Greg with you, also?” Two kids at one fell swoop seemed a bit much. “I suspect he’d like to stay here and finish the game,” Frank said. “You bet,” said the boy, to his uncle’s satisfaction. Almost immediately, however, he thought of another detail. “I suppose I should pay you. I don’t have much cash on me.” Mrs. Torres waved away the offer. “Your wife can take care of that later. Besides, you’ve got your hands full.” Frank thanked her and went out. He liked when people behaved reasonably. The lights came on just as he reached his door, which was good, except that he didn’t have a spare hand to retrieve the key. He balanced Lisa again, dropped the diaper bag, and got the door open. After using his elbow to hit the interior switch, he made his way into the baby’s bedroom. He’d made it. They were home. As he laid Lisa in her crib, Frank began to smile. She didn’t smile back, but at least she wasn’t crying. “I guess you’re not used to Daddy toting you around, are you?” She watched him, wide awake. He had intended to leave her and go see what was on TV, but Frank didn’t want to, just yet. He poked a finger into the crib, and her tiny hand closed around it. He could see from her absorption that, in this moment, he filled her entire world. What a trusting little thing! Since Lisa’s birth, there’d almost always been someone around whenever Frank was with her, or else the baby was asleep. Now, with the rain swirling outside and the thunder rumbling, he stood tall as her guardian. Her father. What immense importance that word carried. Frank hadn’t been close to his own father and had lost him before they could come together as adults, but even so, his dad had stood as the foundation to his childhood. Now his turn had come to carry the torch. Frank tapped his daughter’s nose. She giggled and waved her arms. There was no harm in standing here a while longer. There probably wasn’t anything decent on television tonight, anyway. ***** By the time Sharon and Karly reached the side door, the booming had stopped but an eerie glow flickered over the graveyard, making the headstones appear to perform a

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danse macabre. “Ian?” Sharon pressed through the rain, scarcely noticing the dampness on her face and hair. She and Karly only had one umbrella between them and she couldn’t stop herself from hurrying ahead. “Where’s that light coming from?” “Something’s on fire.” Her sister sounded worried. A quick glance reassured Sharon that the lightning hadn’t struck the church, but rather something on the other side of the cemetery. The downpour formed a blurry screen, so that at one moment she thought she saw flames licking from a nearby house, and then the graves themselves appeared to be burning. “Do you have your cell phone?” Sharon asked. “Call the fire department.” “What about you?” Karly stopped and reached into her purse. “I’m going to look for Ian.” She hadn’t been able to do anything to help Jim. He’d already been dead when she discovered him in the morning. She couldn’t bear to think it might be too late for Ian as well. “If he’s hurt, he needs me.” “Of course.” Karly pulled out the phone. Sharon stumbled onward, calling Ian’s name. The ground rose in a gradual swell toward a low rise from which jutted a number of old monuments. It didn’t appear very high to her, particularly compared to the hills that arose a few miles to the north, but she didn’t know much about lightning strikes. Maybe they were unpredictable. Like Ian and like her feelings for him. Unable to see clearly, Sharon followed the path by the hardness of the sidewalk beneath her feet. Ahead, the flames didn’t appear to be spreading, probably because of the rain. They reminded her of the biblical bush that burned but was not consumed. The shimmering light created a sense of movement all around, as if Sharon hurried through undulating gravestones. Fear propelled her. Ian seemed so strong, yet he’d been injured once and could be again. Especially if there’s a force that wants to hurt him. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would wish Ian harm, and she didn’t believe in evil spirits. But if they existed anywhere, a graveyard seemed the most likely site. Ahead, a black figure appeared, silhouetted against scarlet flares. Moving, it clarified into a man, his raincoat open and head thrown back. After a moment, she realized he was laughing. She stopped, shocked. There was something grotesque about Ian’s behavior. Flames flared above him, but instead of fleeing, he whirled like a madman. In the distance, she heard sirens wailing through the hollow streets, sounding impossibly far off. The dark figure stopped spinning and called, “Sharon! Come look at this!” She slogged up the slope. Behind a looming gravestone, flames sizzled and hissed like angry snakes. As she drew closer, Sharon saw that what had caught fire was a huge old tree, split and twisted by the lightning. Its heat formed a shimmering wall that kept them at bay. “I’ve found something.” His face crimson in the billowing light, Ian pointed toward the tree. “What are you doing?” she shouted. “Did you hit your head?” He grinned. “You should have seen the power. Magnificent! God’s hand brushed right by me. I smelled fire and brimstone!” “Fire and brimstone? I have news for you—that wasn’t God!” “Whoever it was, he led me right here. You won’t believe what I stumbled across!” His excitement was catching, Sharon discovered as she came closer. How could she be

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afraid when she was with such a man? The sweep of wind and rain and the exhilaration of the flames caught her up, too. “I want to see!” she cried. “Show me!” He waved toward the tree. In front, she made out the burnt skeleton of a bush whose blackened branches that would never again show a leaf. “Look what this little guy’s been hiding.” Near its roots, Sharon saw something flat and rectangular buried in the dirt. A stone plaque. “Is that a grave marker?” “I’ll bet it’s been sitting there for forty years, only nobody knew,” Ian said. “Must be Bradley’s grave, hidden away like that.” “We won’t know until we can get close enough to read the inscription.” Sharon wouldn’t be surprised if he was right, though. “I wouldn’t have seen it myself if he hadn’t led me here, the old bastard,” Ian told her. “He led you?” she said. “You’re beginning to sound like Bella Gaskell.” “Heaven forbid! I just felt an urge to come up here the way I sometimes feel a painting taking shape.” His eyes glowed in the dying flames. Behind the bush, the fire flickered low. Moving forward, Ian aimed his flashlight onto the marker. “What a mess.” He kicked away some dirt with his shoe. “I can make out the start of a name, possibly B-r, and the end of a name, o-n. It’s Bradley, all right.” “What a lonely place for a grave.” Sharon hugged herself, feeling a chill as the breeze penetrated her wet coat. “It’s halfway across the cemetery from Susan’s.” “But a hell of a lot closer than Santa Ana.” Ian stood as Karly approached. “Are you both all right?” She had to shout over the noise of approaching sirens. “We’re fine,” Sharon answered. “He found Bradley’s grave.” She pointed. Karly drew back as a spark shot out of the tree. “You’re too close!” “It’s nearly out.” Transfixed by the sight of the newly revealed marker at his feet, Ian made no attempt to move back. A fire truck screamed into the parking lot. Moments later, firefighters ran toward them. “Stand back!” ordered one of the men. Reluctantly, Ian joined the two women on the sidelines. In the confusion, they had to wait quite a while before they were allowed back onto the hill. The firefighters did a thorough job of blasting the fiery tendrils with a hose, chopping the gnarled remains of the tree and making sure the last scarlet wisps had been extinguished. They’d received several calls about a possible lightning strike, the battalion chief informed the trio, but not until they heard from Karly were they able to pinpoint the location. He watched with interest as Ian showed him the plaque that had been revealed. “That’s strange, that they planted a bush on top,” the battalion chief said as his men gathered their equipment. “I don’t see how that could happen.” “It was intentional,” Ian said. “That’s my grandfather’s grave. Apparently someone buried him here in secret.” “That sounds like an interesting story.” The man squinted at Ian with eyes irritated by the smoke. “You look familiar. Didn’t you used to be with the P.D.?” Ian introduced himself, and the pair shook hands. “My cousins were rehearsing at the church for a concert,” he explained. “I was taking a walk out here when the lightning struck.” “Kind of strange,” the battalion chief said, wiping off rain that streamed down his

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forehead. “Lightning striking a tree down here in the flatlands, I mean. But electricity’s a funny thing. Sometimes has a mind of its own.” The rain was easing and the lights in the church had come back on by the time the fire crew left. Karly went indoors to turn everything off and lock up. Standing beneath the eaves while Ian lit Karly’s way, Sharon got a cold feeling, as if all the heat had been drained from the universe. Her earlier excitement had faded, leaving doubts in its wake. She longed for a familiar world in which coincidence didn’t pile upon coincidence until you almost believed there had to be some unnatural force at work. Most of all, she wished Sunday had come and gone, and the spirit of Ian’s ancestor could be buried along with his body in this lonely and unlamented grave.

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Chapter Eleven Karly said goodbye to her sister and Greg at the door to her apartment building. Tonight had been an emotional rollercoaster that left her physically tired but mentally stimulated. She supposed she should have stayed upstairs after they retrieved Greg, but she wasn’t ready to get shut away yet. Instead, she stood watching them hurry through the drizzle and bundle into Ian’s car. Tonight, she’d witnessed things she could never share with Frank. There was the sense of the painted Madonna watching her, and something more. As the fire leaped with unnatural beauty, she’d felt a presence and seen a white film separate from Ian and vanish. Maybe that had been the effect of condensation on her contact lenses. Maybe not. Her pace slowed as she went inside. She wasn’t looking forward to tiptoeing around Frank’s ill temper. Why did he always expect her to accommodate his moods? What about him accommodating hers once in a while? As soon as she opened the door to the apartment, she heard the television set. The program sounded like an old movie, and since Frank rarely watched old movies, she assumed he was channel switching. Sure enough, the news came on while she was taking off her coat. A team of reporters was covering a car accident on one of the freeways. She caught the phrase ‘rainslicked roads.’ Frank glanced up, his forehead creased. “Isn’t it kind of late?” “Lightning hit a tree outside the church.” Karly hung her jacket in the closet and slid her feet from her wet shoes. “Then we discovered a lost grave under a burning bush.” “Sounds like an evening of biblical proportions,” Frank observed dryly. She smiled, pleased at this reminder of the wit he’d shown while they were dating. The warm air felt good on her wet skin. “How did things go with the baby? Mrs. Torres told me you collected her early.” “No problem,” Frank said. He looked older than when they’d met, she noticed with a start. His hair was thinner and his face settling into harsh lines. She hadn’t realized what a toll his new business was taking on him. After checking on the baby, Karly padded into the kitchen and retrieved a can of diet soda. When she came out, Frank clicked off the TV. She paused, soft drink in hand, to see what he would do next. “Please sit down,” said her husband. “We need to talk.” Karly edged onto the arm of an upholstered chair. “What about?” “Priorities.” He ran a hand through what was left of his hair. “You’ve promised to perform on Friday, and that’s fine. But I don’t think it’s fair to the baby for you to do any more of this.” Anger surged, and Karly had to fight to speak levelly. “I’m not your junior partner,” she forced out. “I’m your equal. I get to make the rules, too.” “Nobody’s making rules,” Frank said. “We’re talking about fairness here. I’m working myself ragged while you get up when you want, play with the baby, go for walks, and meet your friends and your sister.” “Is that how you see my life?” Karly asked. “It isn’t that simple. These past three

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months have felt like living in a high-class jail cell. I’m stifling” “You’re spoiled, that’s the problem!” Without waiting for a response, he stalked into the bedroom. When had they agreed that the most important thing in their marriage was to make as much money as possible? she wondered. He’d said he wanted to talk about priorities, but he’d left before they got the chance. Distressed, Karly sank onto the couch. She didn’t want to sleep apart from her husband, but she didn’t want to go into the bedroom and risk an argument that might escalate to the point of no return. She would go in later, when he was asleep. But sometime soon they had to resolve this issue. Otherwise, the rage that she’d seen in his face and the answering anger in her would consume whatever might be left of their marriage. ***** Beside Ian in the car, Sharon sat quietly, a shadow against the passing headlights. Earlier, she’d been transformed by the flames on the hill dancing in her eyes. She was as complicated and unpredictable in her own way as he was, he thought. No wonder she was the only woman who had ever understood him. Tonight, for the first time, he felt as if things might be coming together instead of falling apart. His glee at discovering the grave hadn’t come only from within himself. It reflected his grandfather too. How much of his identification with Bradley came from their similarities of appearance and ability, and how much had seeped into him from living in the Fanning house? Ian had no idea and, in his present mood, wasn’t sure he cared. He knew one thing, though. If Sharon were his lover and he learned she was marrying someone else, his heart might break but he’d never, ever harm her. With a start, he recalled that Bradley had been shot in the war. A leg injury, so he’d heard, but what if it were more complicated than that? If the man had suffered from posttraumatic stress disorder, that might explain why he’d flown into a murderous rage. If he and Bradley had so much in common, was it possible that under certain circ*mstances Ian, too, might be a danger to people he loved? Even to Sharon? His elation faded. He turned up the heater against the cold penetrating his damp clothes and hair. Although Sharon leaned back in her seat with her eyes closed, he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Just trying to absorb everything that had happened, as he was. When they got home, he said a quiet goodnight and stayed behind in the downstairs hallway to lock up. Turning, Ian watched a tired little boy trudge upstairs alongside his mother. He must have walked that way beside his mom many a time, although he hardly remembered her. He’d been younger than Greg when she died. Sharon reached down and took her son’s hand. His little face tilted up toward hers in profile and then, without a word being spoken, she swung him up onto her hip. The two of them molded to each other as they went up. A longing welled within Ian for what he’d missed. He’d never known this instinctive level of closeness with his gruffly tender great-aunt. When he reached his studio, Ian left his door open to the hallway. Once Greg was asleep, he hoped Sharon would feel free to come and talk. Or to come and say nothing. Alone, he flung his wet garments into a corner and pulled on jeans and a sweater. Then he stripped the drop cloths from his paintings.

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After tonight’s dramatic events, he’d expected them to be changed somehow. What a relief to find that they weren’t. The two bodies locked in either combat or lovemaking still had a half-formed protean quality that invited development. Then there was Sharon, being overtaken by a force from the past. He was drawn to her feral anticipation. As an artist, Ian knew he was on the verge of something. Like his paintings, his talents hadn’t yet found their mature shape but this was better than anything he’d done before. Jane had been wrong and his gut had been right. He needed this woman to inspire him. A change of air pressure told him when Sharon came in, but there seemed no need to speak. He waited until she reached his side and regarded the paintings. Her only reaction was an approving nod, but that was enough. “Is Greg asleep?” he asked. “The minute his head hit the pillow.” “You were thinking about something on the way home,” he said. “I’m not sure what got into me,” she admitted. “Out there on the hill, I had all this energy bubbling up. I’m not usually the kind of woman who runs around in the rain laughing at lightning strikes.” “Why not?” The space between them defined itself into curves and possibilities. Ian leaned closer. Her clothes smelled like fresh sheets, ready for him to nestle into. “What do you mean, why not?” Her lips quirked and her pupils darkened. “It’s inside you.” Ian came so close her hair tickled his nose. “The same craziness I have in me. You try to hold back, but what you really want is to race forward and embrace life.” “Are you sure you don’t mean I should race forward and embrace you?” She arched an eyebrow. “Do you consider yourself synonymous with life, Ian Fanning?” “With yours, yes,” he said. “Egotist!” “Hold me.” He drew her close. She eased into the niche of his shoulder as naturally as she’d lifted Greg earlier. Layers of emotion revealed themselves in her green eyes, wavering between anxiety and passion. When her mouth tilted toward his, he claimed her at once. Their kiss deepened slowly, licking flames inside him until he grew hard and ready for her. Sharon touched his neck and brushed back his hair before winding her arms around him. Their legs wrapped together as they melted into each other. Ian wanted to possess this woman, to take everything until they were both spent, and then to take her again. He drew her hips to his heat and lowered his head to kiss her again. Her hands stopped him, lightly pressing his forearms. Hoarsely, she murmured, “We’re playing with fire.” “I love fire,” he said. “We’re both pumped up from what happened tonight.” Sharon breathed hard. “All this adrenaline is driving us. I don’t want it to happen this way.” “But you do want it to happen.” Not a question. “Not tonight.” She slipped from his grasp. “We’re not ready.” She walked past him to the window and stared out at the rain-washed street. “Susan must have seen this same view from the widow’s walk, one story up.” He joined her, observing the usual quiet row of houses. “The rain brings back memories. Not about Bradley and Susan. About my parents’ deaths, I mean.” “Was there rain that night too?” she asked.

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He nodded. “They skidded right into a wall. The car was such a burned-out wreck, I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure what caused the crash.” “Surely the police drew some kind of conclusion.” “I don’t know,” Ian said. “Jody says Dad had a temper, and he and Mom used to fight sometimes. I don’t want to think he hit the wall on purpose and left me alone.” “Of course not,” Sharon said. “I saw a lot of accident scenes when I was a cop. They always made me wonder,” Ian said. “I supposed he might have lost his temper and driven too fast, and skidded in the rain.” “Maybe you should go back and read the report.” “I can’t,” he said. “They only keep reports for seven years except in major crimes, and this wasn’t a crime, as far as we know.” “Why can’t you accept that it was simply an accident?” Sharon asked. “I suppose because that night was the thirty-fifth anniversary of my grandparents deaths.” The timing had never sat well with Ian. “When I’m in a dark mood, I think maybe Dad was right and something didn’t want them to escape this house.” “I wish you wouldn’t talk that way.” Sharon shivered. “I’m sorry.” He searched for a more pleasant subject. “Let’s hope I can summon clear weather for our painting session tomorrow. Tonight, I felt like a wizard of fire and lightning.” “You’re a wizard all right.” She shook her head. “Why else did I come in here tonight when I should have known better?” He tipped up her chin with his thumb. “Because you’re like me. Wild with the night and with being alive.” Lamplight made her skin glitter. “This from the man who practically threw me out the door the night I arrived?” “That’s because I saw the dangers more clearly than the possibilities.” “And now?” “Now I’ve completely taken leave of my senses.” She brushed a kiss across his hand, light as a whisper. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Fully clothed.” Turning away, she slipped out the door. Ian didn’t try to stop her. He knew that, in time, she would belong to him. Like his need to paint her and like the mysterious cycles playing themselves out in this house, it was inevitable. ***** Sharon changed into her nightgown in the bathroom. After seeing Bradley’s face in the bedroom window and on the TV screen, she felt too exposed to undress anywhere else in the apartment. Ian’s studio, on the other hand, existed in a different dimension where she was once again impulsive and ablaze with sensations. She supposed his agreement to paint her outdoors tomorrow was a good thing, yet she couldn’t help wondering if there might not be some special influence on him when he worked inside the house. Buttoning her gown and sitting on the edge of the bed, Sharon forced herself to review tonight’s events. Despite the temptation to put some supernatural interpretation on the discovery of the grave, in the cold light of logic she came up with a better idea. Just as Karly must have been stirred by some buried memory when she turned

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down this street and found the Fanning house, so Ian might in childhood have been told about or shown his grandfather’s hidden grave. Bradley’s sister, his great-aunt, could have taken him there. Or perhaps he’d stumbled upon it while visiting his parents’ graves and noted the unusual location without reading the marker. Recent events might have awakened a subconscious awareness. Lying down, she soon fell into a troubled sleep. Sharon awoke once with the impression of having posed for Ian and become trapped in the canvas of two figures struggling. At last the dream faded and she fell back to sleep. In the morning, she awakened to a wash of weak sunlight and the sound of a Bugs Bunny cartoon from the TV set. The silly voices banished the echoes of her dreams. Back to normal. Today was Thursday, and she planned to spend the morning taking Greg to the La Habra Children’s Museum. She wasn’t going to think about this house, or last night, or what had happened sixty-five years ago. No more historical interviews and no more listening to the Gaskells’ weird ideas. When her cell phone rang, Sharon answered with a sleepy, “Hello?” She expected to hear Karly’s familiar greeting, since few people had this number. Instead, the reedy but firm voice of an elderly man said, “Mrs. Mahoney?” “Yes?” “My name is Grayson Wright. You don’t know me, but I was engaged to a relative of yours named Susan Fanning.” She took a moment to realize who she was talking to. The man in the newspaper clipping. Had the Gaskells put him up to this? “I know who you are,” she admitted. “What can I do for you?” “I need to talk to you,” he said. “This morning, please.” When she hesitated, he added, “It’s urgent.” “I’m confused,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to someone more closely related to Susan?” “No, I want to talk to you,” he said. “How did you get my number?” “Please, won’t you just come and talk to me?” he said. “I can answer all your questions better in person.” For the elderly man to call a total stranger and beg for her attention must have taken courage. She could hardly refuse his plea, Sharon decided. Not even if it required taking one more step in a direction she wasn’t sure she wanted to go. “Of course,” she heard herself say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

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Chapter Twelve The previous day at Disneyland hadn’t exhausted Jody. The woman might be in her mid-eighties, but her soul was young, Sharon decided while watching her and Greg battle each other for the last helping of Fruit Loops at breakfast. “I’ll be gone this afternoon,” Jody announced after ceding victory. “I’ve scheduled my annual checkups—doctor, lawyer, dentist. Get it over in one big gulp. Makes me feel like one of those snakes swallowing a cow.” “What snakes swallowing a cow?” Greg asked. “You need a nature lesson, young man.” Jody consoled herself on the dearth of Fruit Loops with a blueberry muffin that Sharon had baked. “I’m taking you to the Santa Ana Zoo this morning, if your mother has no objections. I like to go there once in a while myself just to see what’s new.” “That’s very kind of you. Are you sure it’s all right?” Sharon had planned to take Greg with her and let him sit in a lobby playing on his Game Boy. She still believed her son was spending too much time with Jody, but at least, with all those appointments, the woman couldn’t take off with him for the entire day. “If not, I wouldn’t have suggested it,” her landlady said. Sharon decided not to mention her appointment with Grayson Wright until she learned why he wanted to see her. Calm as Jody seemed to be whenever her sister was mentioned, that didn’t mean she would be thrilled about Sharon’s prying. She wondered if Ian had told her of finding Bradley’s grave. If so, Jody made no mention of it. The Gaskells were either hibernating or had gone out. Although she was curious whether they were the ones who’d called Grayson, Sharon didn’t intend to knock on their door and ask. The less they knew about her business, the better. The morning had dawned overcast, but the sun’s glare was already dissolving the cloud cover. After her son and Jody left, she followed Grayson Wright’s directions to the convalescent home located in a sprawl of shops and restaurants near a medical center. Sand-colored and modern, the place resembled an apartment complex more than a rest home and smelled pleasantly of flowers and vanilla. While visiting Jim’s uncle in Buffalo during the early years of their marriage, before the elderly man passed away, she had been distressed by the scents of antiseptic and stale urine. There was none of that here. A receptionist directed her to Room 105. “I’m glad someone’s here to see Grayson,” the woman added. “He doesn’t get many visitors.” “No family?” Sharon asked. “I haven’t heard of any,” the young woman said. “He’s ninety-five, so I suppose he’s outlived everyone. He never married, you know.” Although simple, the statement implied a great deal. Susan’s death had cast a shadow over Grayson’s life, as over Jody’s and her son’s. Even so, she couldn’t feel gloomy amid these cheery lemon walls accented with orange and tan racing stripes. The door to 105 stood ajar. As she approached, Sharon glimpsed an interior furnished with a patterned carpet, a Tiffany lamp and an antique desk, as if the room had been lifted from another era. She tapped lightly. “Mr. Wright?” “No relation to Wilbur or Orville, I’m afraid, but here I am,” announced the reedy

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voice she’d heard on the phone. The man who approached the door leaned on the arms of a walker. Liver spots peeked through his thin, pale hair, and even allowing for his slightly bent position, he had never been above average height. Grayson Wright wore his embroidered smoking jacket and neatly pressed taupe slacks with a courtly air, and behind thick lenses his eyes were bright, until they fixed on Sharon. Then everything froze, except the dark pupils shifting from her face to her hair and down the length of her body. “Susan.” The word shuddered from his mouth. “No. I’m Sharon,” she said. He shook his head apologetically. “Forgive me. Carl Arbizo told me you favored her. I just wasn’t prepared for such a close resemblance.” “It startles a lot of people,” she said. So that was where Grayson had learned about her. Karly must have given the pastor Sharon’s cell phone number in case of emergency. Grayson slid aside to let her in. “Please excuse the humble surroundings. I couldn’t bring many of my things. I suffer from congestive heart failure, you see, and can’t live by myself any more. But I’m not complaining.” As she settled on a chair that was probably older than she was, Sharon decided that she liked the man’s self-deprecating manner. What a shame he’d never married. “What kind of work did you do, Mr. Wright?” “Owned an insurance company,” he announced, shuffling his way to an armchair. “Not very exciting, I suppose. What I really liked to do was travel. Used to go everywhere, unless people were fighting. Always regretted I didn’t visit Afghanistan or Iran while I could have. Who knew?” Sharon smiled. “I’m glad you called me.” She was in no hurry to pelt him with questions. If he had a motive other than curiosity, he would get around to it in his own time. “You’re a beautiful young woman.” Grayson pulled a monogrammed handkerchief from his jacket and wiped his forehead. “Like Susan. I promised to show her Rome once the war ended. Everyone promises to take women to Paris, but I prefer Rome. Have you seen Europe?” “I’m afraid not.” “Well, I would take you, but they shoot old coots like me who run off with young women,” said Grayson. “Have you got a boyfriend?” “I’m a widow.” For some reason, she didn’t mind confiding in this man, so she added, “I’ve become friendly with Ian Fanning. We’re distant cousins.” “Looks like his grandfather, doesn’t he?” Grayson cleared his throat. “I saw the boy when he was younger. Damn shame, he gets the girl all over again.” “He hasn’t got me yet,” Sharon blurted. “Good for you. Keep him guessing,” Grayson said. “Not that I’ve got anything against Ian. He could have been my grandson, you know.” “What do you mean?” “His father should have been my stepson. If I’d agreed to take the baby, Susan would have married me sooner. But no, I was too proud to take in another man’s child. So we had to wait until the baby was born, and then she was so sad about giving him up. Before we could get married, well, you’ve heard what happened.” “You weren’t in the service?” She hoped this wasn’t a sore subject. “4F,” Grayson said. “Terrible eyesight. I can see a pretty woman, though.”

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She leaned over and patted his hand. “You have quite a sense of humor.” “I’m whistling past the graveyard,” Grayson said, but he sat up a little straighter. “Which brings me to my point. Pastor Arbizo called to tell me Bradley Johnson’s grave turned up last night.” “Did you know Bradley? I mean, did you actually meet him?” The wrinkles deepened around Grayson’s eyes. “Sold him life insurance once. A bad bet, wasn’t it?” The answer startled a laugh from her. “That’s a funny thing to say.” “Not everyone appreciates my sense of humor,” the elderly man told her. “In any case, the pastor wanted to know if, as Susan’s fiancé, I objected to leaving Bradley’s body there, and of course I do. They’ll have to move it as soon as they can find somewhere else to put that villain. Anyway, while we were chatting, the minister mentioned you. I had to indulge myself and take a gander at you.” “So there isn’t really anything urgent?” Sharon didn’t mind, now that she’d met this engaging oldster. “Oh, everything’s urgent at my age,” said Grayson. “Tomorrow I might not be here. Might be dead, might go to Australia, who knows? First thing, I wanted to see you, of course. It’s a real treat.” “Had you known Susan a long time?” Sharon had believed from Ian’s account that the Fannings had forced Grayson on their daughter. Now that she saw what a charmer he was, she wondered if Susan hadn’t at least liked him, after all. “We used to keep company before she met Bradley.” Her host picked up a pipe, which he tapped against his thigh. There was no tobacco scent in the air, and Sharon recalled seeing a No Smoking sign when she’d entered the facility. “Once she met him, she didn’t have eyes for anyone else. My stumbling around like Mr. Magoo couldn’t compare to that dashing young fellow, I suppose.” “Did Bradley have a sense of humor?” she asked impulsively. “Not so you’d notice,” Grayson said. “Can’t understand why women find moodiness romantic. When it came to moods, Bradley was quite the Lord Byron. A wonderful painter, though.” “I’ll bet Susan would have been happy married to you.” He looked pleased. “I made her laugh. That surprised her, just as it surprises you. You thought I’d be a grim old piece of business. Tell me I’m right.” “You’re right.” Sharon grinned. “Well, she lives again.” Grayson let this remark ride while he sipped from a glass of water. “In you, that is. Same way of tilting your head, and that gorgeous hair. Ian Fanning is a lucky man. I hope he treats you right.” She debated whether to say more. Dragging the man into the murky goings-on that surrounded the Fannings didn’t seem right, yet he obviously still nursed an attachment to Susan. And she disliked patronizing him. Despite being in his nineties, he was as sharp as anyone. “Mr. Wright, since I arrived last week, some strange things have happened,” Sharon said. “Ian’s finding this grave, for instance. Also, I saw a face in the window when there was no one there. Bradley’s niece and her husband keep insisting there’s a ghost. I wondered if you had any insight into the family.” “The one you want to talk to is the sister.” She wondered if he knew that Bradley’s sister had died. “Which sister do you mean? The one who moved the grave?”

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“I don’t know anything about that one,” Grayson said. “I meant Jody. She’s the one who found the bodies.” “Jody found them?” No one had mentioned this before. That wasn’t surprising, Sharon supposed, since Jody didn’t seem to discuss the past much. “That must have been horrible.” “She came home early from church, before her parents. I always wondered if Susan was alive when she got there, if she confided something but begged Jody not to tell. Just a hunch.” “That’s a nerve-wracking hunch.” Until now, Sharon had assumed the whole family had come home from church together and discovered the tragedy. Another thought occurred to her. “Were you at the church that night?” “I was,” he confirmed. “Why wasn’t Susan there?” “That was her choice,” he said. “She wouldn’t leave little Martin with a sitter. She was going to give up the baby in a day or so, before the wedding, and she wouldn’t be parted from him until then.” “I thought her parents kept her locked up,” Sharon said. “They did, while she was pregnant, because of the scandal and the rumors that she was running around seeing other men,” Grayson said. “Of course, even after she had the baby, she couldn’t go out for several weeks while she was recovering. Susan had those blues women get after childbirth.” Sharon remembered the old minister mentioning the rumors about Susan’s supposed flirtations. Perhaps that had been the spur to Bradley’s fury, as much as the impending marriage. “How old was the baby when … when Susan died?” “A couple of weeks,” he said. “Her parents wanted the adoption people to take him right away, but Jody insisted that Susan should get to keep him as long as possible. She kept trying to talk her folks into raising the baby themselves or letting her do so. She said Susan wouldn’t be so sad that way. The folks wouldn’t consider such a thing, of course.” “Do you know why Jody left church early?” Although she assumed Jody had gone home to warn her sister and Bradley to leave quickly, Sharon wanted to hear Grayson’s take on the subject. “She didn’t like leaving her sister alone, knowing how sad she was.” He gave his pipe one last, fond pat before setting it down. “Jody must have been distraught about finding her sister murdered.” That terrible scene would have rocked anyone, not matter how strong. “Got hysterical,” Grayson confirmed. “The family found her cradling the baby and sobbing. There was talk she might lose her mind. If you ask me, what pulled her through was her devotion to the child. I believe that’s why they let her keep him.” Years later, Jody had lost him, too, in a car crash. How could a woman survive such losses? The second time, Ian must have been what kept her going, but this upcoming anniversary might hit Jody harder than either of them had anticipated. Perhaps that was why she was so eager to keep busy, taking Greg places. Grayson was speaking again. “You mentioned odd goings-on. If you ask me, that painting of the two of them is somehow to blame. Bradley’s work, you know. I always thought it wrong to keep the bloody thing after he got her pregnant.” “Did you know they burned his letters?” she asked. Grayson frowned. “What letters?” “Ian told me his grandfather wrote to Susan while he was in the Army but her

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parents burned the letters so she didn’t know,” she said. “I suppose Jody must have told him.” The furrows remained in his forehead. “I didn’t know that. I thought he abandoned her. So did she.” “Would that have changed anything?” she asked. “She’d never have agreed to marry me,” Grayson said. “Maybe it would have been a good thing if she hadn’t.” “Why?” “I loved her, but I’d have recovered. What tore me apart was losing her that way, that horrible murder. I always felt I should have protected her.” “Her parents did you an injury too, then, by not letting her and Bradley try to resolve things their own way,” Sharon said. “People can’t always foresee the outcome of their actions,” he told her. “They weren’t harsh people but they held to high standards. Society was different back then. Today anything goes, I guess.” “Thanks for helping me understand my relatives better,” Sharon said. “What you’ve said might help Ian. He’s been troubled lately, about this anniversary business.” “Anniversary? Coming around again so soon?” He obviously knew which anniversary she meant. “Every year, the date upsets me. This year won’t be so bad, though, after meeting you. Thank you for visiting me, Mrs. Mahoney.” The man was drooping, and Sharon needed to hurry home, fix lunch and take Greg to Karly’s house for his play date. She stood and shook hands with Grayson. “It’s been a pleasure.” “Not as much as for me,” he said. She felt his eyes follow her out the door and down the hallway until she passed from sight. ***** Ian took his easel to the garden several hours early. He wanted to set up and rough in the background before Sharon arrived. She’d gone out this morning, so he’d left her costume on a chair beside her apartment door where she couldn’t miss it when she returned. Although the ground was mushy, he found a wide section of the brick path large enough to accommodate his equipment, near a pink and white oleander hedge. The unevenness of the bricks made his easel tilt until he wedged one of the legs with a piece of cardboard from the garage. Mentally, he registered the glare of the post-storm light and the subtle menace of lingering clouds. A eucalyptus tree filled the air with its sharp fragrance. Ian had prepared the canvas, working in a batter-like substance called gesso with a putty knife. He liked the texture and absorbency that gesso added, although, since he used acrylics, he could work on raw canvas if he preferred. Unlike oils, acrylics, which were essentially pigment mixed with liquid plastic, wouldn’t deteriorate the canvas if applied directly. Neither would they crack, darken or fade over time, and they dried quickly to a tough surface. Best of all, from Ian’s perspective, acrylics could be thickened or thinned to mimic the effects of oils, watercolors or tempera paints without the drawbacks of those older media. Acrylics could even be piled thickly, adding depth and texture. He began by sketching the oleander from an angle, capturing the geometric shapes

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formed by the hedge against the sky. Today, he was going to paint a scene that might have existed at the onset of the twentieth century, during the era in which this house was built. Instead of showing old things emerging into the twenty-first century, he intended to go back in time completely and see what resulted. Vaguely, he heard people moving around in the house next door, but he was absorbed in blocking out his composition. At the back of his mind, he knew when Sharon’s car pulled into the rear parking area, but he didn’t look up and she went into the house without disturbing him. Nothing beyond his work existed for him at this moment, other than peripherally. When he painted, Ian came as close as was humanly possible to entering another world. His mind functioned on multiple levels, skipping back and forth so rapidly that he remained unaware of the shifts between impulse and calculation as he planned and developed his work. Perhaps that was why he became vulnerable to seizures while painting. It might be due to his state of altered consciousness and not a sensitivity to his artistic grandfather’s spirit. Today, with the sun shining and a gentle wind teasing his hair, the house towering behind him offered inspiration rather than threats. He heard the rustle of Sharon’s long skirt as she crossed the lawn. Had enough time passed for her to change? Apparently so. Without preamble, he directed her to stand at the head of the brick path, her parasol furled and her face uplifted. “You’re waiting for your lover,” he said. “Any minute, you expect him to come around the hedge.” She gave a nod and settled into place. Surveying her more fully, he saw that the lilac dress suited her perfectly. The angle of the hat wasn’t right, though. Setting down his brush, Ian strode over to make an adjustment. She’d left her auburn hair loose, and he fluffed out the strands until they floated beneath the small brim. As he’d expected, the locks felt like spun silk in his hands. When he returned to the easel, his mind snapped back into the world of the canvas. A century paused, slowed and vanished. The fresh but deadly blossoms of the oleander and the expectation on Sharon’s face were his only reality. As the minutes passed, he became aware that she had entered his mental frame instinctively. She held herself differently in the starchy costume, and there was a sweet innocence to the curve of her mouth that modern women had lost, even the young girls he saw at the mall, no doubt from a barrage of half-naked music videos and sexually explicit films. Emotions fleeted across Sharon’s face. She was waiting and hoping, he saw. Detecting a footfall and preparing herself to meet a man she loved, for whom she was ready to sacrifice her precious innocence. It’s their first time. The first time they’re going to make love. He catches sight of her from across the garden, before she spots him. The sun shines behind her, turning her dress almost transparent. Seeing the rise and fall of her bosom, he knows that when he takes her to his room, she’s going to be his. Even in his most inspired moments, Ian usually retained a subjective awareness of technique—the blending of pigments, the angle of the light, the selection of a wider or narrower brush, the way he applied the strokes to the canvas. But now he was lost in inspiration. He couldn’t lay the paint down fast enough to capture the way Sharon’s lips parted and her hair rippled in the breeze. His own stance altered to accommodate slim trousers and a cutaway jacket. He held

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his head with unaccustomed stiffness to keep his hat in place, although he wasn’t actually wearing one. He became the man just out of sight, hurrying toward his lover. “What’s that?” Sharon stared toward the hedge. “Did you see him?” “Who?” Ian could hardly rouse himself enough to respond. “A man in a top hat,” she said. “Where?” He dragged his head around to look. Nothing there. “Behind the hedge,” she said. “I saw his hat bobbing along and I thought he was going to turn the corner any minute, but he’s gone. Did you hire someone else to pose?” “There’s no path behind the hedge,” Ian said. “Only Jody’s winter vegetable garden. Lettuce and onions and broccoli.” “I saw a top hat,” Sharon repeated. Ian glanced down at his clothing, and was surprised to find that he still wore his jeans and work shirt. He’d expected to see an Edwardian vest and coat, with a watch chain dangling from the pocket. “Must have been my alter ego.” He ran one hand through his hair to make sure there was no hat. “I kind of think it was me. I imagined… Damn, I hope I didn’t suffer a seizure.” “Well, it wasn’t Bradley,” Sharon said. “They didn’t dress like that in the 1940s.” “Maybe the past really is intruding into the present.” Ian started to wave one hand to dispel the nonsensical remark, and barely stopped himself in time to keep from flicking paint in Sharon’s direction. “Sorry about that.” “May I see?” she asked. Since they seemed to be taking a break anyway, he said, “Of course.” Only when she came around did he step back to see what he’d painted. This time, the woman wasn’t that element that had changed. He’d caught Sharon’s high color accurately, as well as her innocence trembling on the brink of yielding. Her clothes were different, though, the Edward propriety turned gossamer, revealing the hidden limbs and tight pink nipples. “So much for wearing a costume,” she said. “Don’t be offended,” Ian said. “I didn’t mean to paint that.” “Well, you should have.” He examined the canvas again. Something was emerging here, not old versus new but sexuality cracking the shell of propriety. “You’re right. This is what the painting’s about.” “We’re being silly,” she said. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair. “Are we?” “You don’t want to paint me with clothes on.” Sharon made a wry face. “If Angela can pose that way, so can I.” “Nude?” “Isn’t that what you want?” Her green eyes regarded him frankly. “It’s what every artist wants.” Ian began packing his paints. He didn’t want to delay for a single instant. “I’ll set up in the studio.” “I’ll meet you there,” said Sharon, and crossed the lawn with quick, neat steps. ***** She fumbled as she hurried to remove her dress. Off came her undergarments as well, flung across the bed. She resisted the impulse to examine herself in the mirror. No

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woman past thirty could avoid finding faults, and Sharon didn’t want to become selfconscious. With a robe wrapped around her, she dashed down the hall in a pair of rubber-soled slip-ons. Nothing stirred, and she heard only the faintest of traffic noises from outside. The house felt suspended between moments. When she entered the studio, Sharon found Ian ready with a fresh canvas on which he’d already begun sketching a background. She caught a glimpse of the stark lightningsplit tree before standing where he directed her. He’d left off the fluorescents, instead setting up dramatic backlighting using adjustable fixtures. Grateful for the warmth of a space heater, she removed her robe. “I’m painting the scene from last night,” Ian told her. “You’re standing in front of the flames, throwing out your arms to the storm.” For a moment, self-conscious about her nudity, Sharon wasn’t sure she could do this. She closed her eyes and remembered the demonic energy of the fire and the keenness of the wind. Her head lifted, her shoulders drew back and, her spirit filling with glee, she spread her arms in welcome. “Close, but not quite.” Ian came around and raised her chin. His hands moved down to angle her shoulders. “Put your weight on your right leg. Bend your knee.” He shifted her thigh. The flames from last night were inside Sharon now, heat and fire and smoke. She laughed, and enjoyed the way the sound rippled through the room. Her nipples tightened instinctively. “Perfect.” Ian strode to the easel. He worked with fevered intensity. Sharon could scarcely hold still. Tingling with silvery excitement, she arched her back in invitation. To the storm or to Ian? They were the same, she thought, facing him boldly. Through the skylight, winter brightness condensed in a column around Ian. Sharon watched dust motes swirl. She had the impression that he was surrounded by a kind of shimmering mist. Her breath caught. There was someone here, a spirit merging with Ian, yet he seemed unaware of it in his absorption with his painting. Perhaps she should have been frightened. Instead, the sense of danger filled her with joy. This is who I am, Sharon thought. Not some timid girl afraid of life, but a woman who dares to seize it. “Ian,” she said. He looked up. In the quiet room, his breathing grew ragged. She could feel him seeing her as a woman now instead of a model. She no longer wished to fight the inevitable. “Come here.” Appreciation warming his face, Ian put down the paintbrush. A spark blazed suddenly and vibrantly between them. The swirl of misty light moved with him as he approached. Strong hands ran across Sharon’s shoulders and swept down to her breasts. His tongue explored her mouth with endless yearning. She undid the buttons on Ian’s shirt and slipped his belt from its buckle. It seemed imperative that their bodies meet without hindrance. Sharon breathed in the earthy scents of paint and masculine desire. The bristly contours of his jaw and cheeks when she stroked them made her hands ache to touch the hollows of his hips. She lowered his zipper, and together they peeled away his jeans.

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Her marriage had never brought her this scorching need to take a man inside her. How had she lived without this? They moved toward the couch with one impulse. Ian lowered her, rubbing his body lightly over hers. Fire surrounded them—they were the fire—they were lost in blazing light. Braced above her on one arm, Ian smoothed Sharon’s thighs apart and penetrated her, his shaft large and powerful. With a gasp, she pulled him harder into her. This was what she’d sensed the first time she imagined posing for Ian, that inhibitions would fall away and she would give herself freely. He stirred her with thrust after thrust like waves of a storm. Sharon urged him on with an eagerness that bordered on compulsion. They poised on the edge of a volcano, touched by fire and fury. Ian poured into her like molten lava and pleasure exploded through her. They slid onto the floor, panting and crying and laughing. A glow surrounded them. The presence was still here. It had been with them, all along, Sharon thought. Lying against Ian’s shoulder, she understood at last. “This is how it happened,” she whispered. “How what happened?” his voice rumbled close to her ear. “Bradley and Susan,” she said. “What do you mean?” “They made love here,” she said, “when he was painting her. Painting them both.” A little frightened of what she was saying, she added, “He’s here now.”

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Chapter Thirteen Ian wanted to deny what Sharon was telling him. But he too had felt someone else sharing his passion and intensifying it. He had been himself, and, at the same time, he had been another. He reverberated with the completeness of their climax. It was an experience a man would take with him beyond the grave, if the spirit really did transcend death. “What did you see?” he said. “There was this brilliance around you.” Scooting into a sitting position, Sharon put her back to the couch. They’d landed on bare floor, but the space heater vanquished the chill. “I felt someone else here, and that he was happy for us. Doesn’t make sense, does it? Before, when I thought I saw Bradley, he terrified me.” Ian ran his hand along the auburn hair that draped over her shoulder. The contrast between the bright hair and the pale skin made him want to paint her again. “This room used to be Susan’s sitting room, although things were configured differently. There was a bay window, which must have provided the best light in the house.” Jody had converted her family’s home after selling the toy store, which was when she began renting out the second floor. Before Ian lived here, the unit had been divided into three cramped rooms like Sharon’s unit. For a while, he’d had his own apartment elsewhere. After the accident, living on disability pay, he’d moved into this flat at Jody’s invitation. Ian hadn’t wanted to complain even though he found the place claustrophobic, and then, during one of his early seizures, he’d smashed a hole in one wall. Inspired, he’d suggested opening up the whole place. Jody had pointed out what a great studio it would make with the addition of a skylight. “The baby.” Sharon rested her head against a cushion. Ian loved the way she didn’t bother to cover her nudity. She had the long, slender body of a model except for those full breasts still rosy with excitement. “I don’t think they planned to take that kind of risk. I think he was painting the portrait of them and they got turned on and made love, the way we did.” “I feel as if we’re caught in some kind of pattern.” Ian reached for her hand. “Not that I’m objecting. What happened today was special.” “For me, too,” she said. The warmth was draining from his skin, and he saw that the space heater had shut off. Outside the window, the daylight faded. Darkness writhed inside Ian. What the hell had he done? He knew he needed to keep away from Sharon, and then he’d gone and repeated the old cycle. How could he? His head felt too heavy for his neck. He was sliding away, losing his grip. This shouldn’t happen. I’m taking the damn medication, aren’t I? But he was sinking anyway. A low growl vibrated through his brain, blurred and echoing so he couldn’t make out the words. The threat, however, was unmistakable. In its depths, he heard the screech of car tires and the scream of crunching metal. A woman screamed—his mother, crying for the baby she didn’t want to leave. Sharon’s hand on his temple brought him back. The noises dulled into silence. His temples throbbed. “I should have known I’d have a seizure,” he said. “Something in this house doesn’t want us to be happy.” “Did you see anything?”

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“No, I heard a voice.” Ian stretched his legs. How could a man fall from exuberance into a pit with such speed? “Remember what I told you about my parents, about the curse this house seems to lay on people who love each other? I’ve been indulging myself because I want you here, but I should have stuck by my guns and sent you away.” “No, you shouldn’t,” Sharon said. “I wouldn’t have gone anyway.” “Are you going to deny that we’re becoming just like Bradley and Susan?” Ian demanded. “And we both know how that story ends.” She reached for her robe. “Don’t discount the power of suggestion,” she said. “You’re bound to be susceptible right now.” “Maybe.” He didn’t believe this was all in his head, though. And neither, he was sure, did Sharon. “We’re in danger. You certainly are, and possibly me as well. My father didn’t listen and look what happened to him.” She squared her shoulders. She wasn’t easily intimidated, he noted with admiration. “If there’s a warning, it might not necessarily be for us.” “Then for whom?” “I found out Jody was alone when she found Susan’s and Bradley’s bodies.” Sharon explained about Grayson Wright and his objections to letting the grave remain. “Think how traumatized Jody must have been. This anniversary could be hard on her. Even though she seems strong, she’s very old.” “She holds things inside. People used to believe that was healthy.” The only time he recalled seeing her cry had been when he was in the hospital, drifting in and out of a coma. If she’d broken down when his parents died, she hadn’t done so in front of him. “I told her this morning about finding Bradley’s grave. The news didn’t seem to faze her.” “The more I learn, the more I think she must be dragging around a heavy load of guilt or grief or both.” Sharon’s fingers traced the vee of Ian’s collarbone. They kissed lightly, but the passion was gone for now. “Possibly she was trying to reunite her sister and Bradley, and then he ended up killing her.” “What makes you think she could be the one in danger?” Ian asked. Sharon’s hand closed over her heart in a spontaneous gesture of concern. “She had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. She glossed over it, saying it was part of her annual tune-up, seeing her doctor, lawyer and dentist. I wonder if she might be ill. At her age, she’s bound to be vulnerable if she gets any sort of shock.” Ian’s great-aunt was rarely ill, and refused to stop volunteering at service clubs for more than a few days even with a bad cold. “She’d hate if we made a fuss over her.” “I could drop a few hints about the doctor’s appointment and see if she mentions anything.” Sharon tied the robe snugly. “If there is something wrong, maybe we can help.” “Having you and Greg here has already helped.” Ian couldn’t imagine losing his great-aunt. She’d always been the rock he depended on, at least until he met Sharon. “She’s enjoying a second childhood. Or a third, maybe.” “I’m glad. She’s wonderful.” Sharon edged toward the door. “Ian, about what happened today. There’s a part of me that wants to throw caution aside and go for broke. But…” When she hesitated, he finished for her. “But there’s another part of you that insists on exercising mature judgment.” “Exactly. I think we need to slow things down.” “To a standstill?” “At least until after this anniversary. Hopefully things will settle down and we can

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get to know each other without having these… let’s call them premonitions.” They studied each other, only a few feet apart yet already in separate worlds. “I hate being practical,” Ian said. “Me, too.” Her gaze held his for a long moment. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, at least acknowledge that they were lovers, but she eased back. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything from Jody.” “Thanks,” he said, and watched her go. When he was alone, Ian returned to the canvas. Sharon’s naked figure, arms flung out and head thrown back, was dwarfed by the burning tree behind her and the cemetery hill beneath her feet, yet everything centered on her. That, he decided, was precisely as things should be. ***** Angry with herself, Sharon undressed in her bathroom and stepped into the shower. Making love to Ian had been foolish and risky. They hadn’t even used protection, although since she hadn’t gotten pregnant again in years of trying with Jim, she wasn’t likely to now. She’d promised Ian to question Jody about her health, Sharon recalled as hot water sluiced down her back. She also wished she could find out whether the upcoming anniversary was troubling his great-aunt. Maybe she ought to mention her impromptu investigation, after all. It might be better to bring the subject out in the open. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, Sharon resolved, and rubbed a dollop of shampoo into her hair. ***** Karly felt the tension the moment she walked into the church. This place that she had known as a quiet, mostly private environment now belonged to several dozen unfamiliar men and women. Chairs had been moved onto the proscenium, turning the church into a theater. As Karly entered, the chorus members were taking their places. A plump woman surveyed them from her post at the piano. This must be the choir director, Lynda Varella. She’d been out of town for a few days, and this would be the first time they met. Karly hoped that the pastor’s spontaneous decision to choose a replacement soloist hadn’t raised anyone’s hackles. She could feel all eyes on her as she crossed to greet Mrs. Varella. Karly had worn a tailored pantsuit with a scarf-collared blouse. Everyone else was in jeans and sweatshirts. A blonde woman in the front row pressed her lips together irritably as she observed Karly. Most likely, she’d been hoping for promotion to soloist herself. “Hi, I’m Karly,” she told the plump woman. “Are you Mrs. Varella?” “Call me Lynda,” said the choir director, who shook her hand with a firm grip. “Carl Arbizo praises you to the skies. I’m anxious to hear you sing.” From her cool tone, one could assume she had deliberately chosen the word ‘anxious,’ where another person might have said ‘eager.’ “I hope his invitation didn’t ruffle any feathers,” Karly said. Other than Frank’s, of course. He’d come home to baby-sit, even saying he looked forward to spending time with Lisa, but he’d scowled when she served him canned soup and packaged muffins. The other woman smiled. She had dark eyes and a brisk manner. “Oh, that comes

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with the territory, I suppose.” Translation—Not everyone was happy with the pastor’s decision. Did that include the choir director, or just the blonde in the front row? There were no empty seats on the stage, Karly noticed. She glanced at Lynda, who explained, “Since you’re not familiar with our other arrangements, I thought it would be best if you sat in the audience until your turn.” “Of course,” Karly said. Although there was nothing wrong with being seated in the audience, she felt as if she’d been demoted. As she sat down, she caught a smirk on the blonde woman’s face. Lynda stepped to the front and thanked everyone for coming. “We’ve got a lot to brush up on, in a short time,” she said. “I’d like to introduce you all to Karly Weeks, who’s filling in for Annie. The good news is that Annie’s father has taken a turn for the better, and she’ll be rejoining us next week.” From Lynda’s phrasing, it sounded as if Karly were the bad news. But surely she was being hypersensitive. “Is Mrs. Weeks going to be joining us on a regular basis?” asked the blonde woman. “That remains to be seen,” said Lynda. “Don’t worry, Candy—no one can take your place.” There it was, out in the open. Lynda would have promoted Candy to soloist had the pastor not intervened. Well, Karly’s position here was strictly temporary, Frank had made that clear. Candy was the least of her worries. Lynda returned to the piano and played the opening notes of Circle of Life from The Lion King. Karly relaxed as she listened. The voices blended well, making up in feeling for what they lacked in the higher registers. The next song was Day By Day, followed by Climb Every Mountain.” In this one, Candy had been permitted a brief solo. When her turn came, the soprano stepped forward confidently and launched into the Rodgers & Hammerstein song. Karly couldn’t help listening critically, although she tried not to be influenced by her negative impression of Candy. The woman had an adequate voice in the lower register but she struggled with transitions and the high notes came out strident. For the sake of the congregation, Karly was glad the unseen Annie would be returning. Just because a voice like Candy’s worked well in a choir didn’t make it suited to solos. Still, Karly didn’t gloat, even to herself. Although she’d invested considerable effort in training, her voice had been a gift. She wasn’t proud of being superior to Candy. She was simply registering the fact that Pastor Arbizo knew what he was doing. Catching Lynda’s nod, Karly strode up the steps to center stage. In this small space, no microphone was necessary, yet after years of stage work she felt naked without one. The chorus had rehearsed an intro to I Don’t Know How to Love Him, which Karly hadn’t expected. Twice she came in at the wrong place. Behind her, Candy cleared her throat as if stifling a laugh. Karly shrugged off the pettiness. She’d come here to do a job. She was a professional and she intended to behave like one. The third time around, she didn’t hesitate. By now she knew exactly when to start. Right on cue, out rolled the heartfelt cry of Mary Magdalene as she gazed down at Jesus, for the first time doubting her own headstrong course through life. Karly felt her voice fill the church, but she was too lost in the emotions to register anyone’s reaction. She let the last note linger, breaking off just as the piano accompaniment ended. There was a moment of utter silence, followed by furious applause from behind her. At the

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piano, Lynda Varella was clapping, too. Karly turned with a reticent smile, giving the chorus members a nod of thanks. Even Candy was cheering her on, resentment forgotten. That was one thing Karly understood from her own experience—when she heard a musician or singer perform in a way that brought tears to her eyes, she could forgive almost anything. The highest honor came when one of the men darted behind a curtain and returned with a folding chair. He set it up for Karly at the side of the stage, so she wouldn’t have to go back down the steps to wait for her second solo. She’d been accepted into the group. Karly went home that night with the eager voices of new friends echoing in her ears. They had appreciated Close Every Door as much as the first solo, and had encouraged her to join the choir on a regular basis. Candy had volunteered that she, too, had a baby, and suggested they get together one afternoon. Karly was happy to agree. The sense of exhilaration faded as she drove through the crisp winter night. Something about that church troubled her, as if old sorrows lay beneath its boards. She just hoped the concert went smoothly. ***** When Sharon came downstairs Friday at midmorning looking for Greg, she found Jody having coffee in the kitchen. The older woman looked rested and her beige hair was freshly puffed as if she’d been to the beauty shop, which perhaps she had. “Please join me,” Jody said. “Don’t worry about your son. He’s tackling the fifth level of Laser Space Attack. I doubt he’ll come up for air for another hour.” “Thank you.” Sharon poured a cup of fresh-brewed coffee into a mug bearing a reproduction of an orange crate “I understand he had a good time yesterday afternoon with your sister. I’ve been hearing all about his new friend.” Sharon took a chair across from her. “How did things go for you? You mentioned a checkup.” Her landlady shrugged. “When you get to my age, it’s a wonder the system functions at all.” “Ian was worried,” Sharon admitted. “He loves you very much.” A glitter came into the older woman’s eye. Clearly her great-nephew’s concern touched her. “Oh, there’s a bit of this and that. Cholesterol and blood pressure are high, but whose aren’t? The bones are strong, and all the lumps seem to minding their own business.” Jody’s humorous way of dismissing what might be a serious problem reminded Sharon of Grayson. She decided to lay the rest of her cards on the table. “I met someone you used to know. Grayson Wright.” The landlady’s manner became watchful. “Oh? How did this come about?” “Ian told you about discovering Bradley’s grave. Apparently the minister decided he should inform Mr. Wright, and he also mentioned how much I resemble Susan. He called and I agreed to pay him a visit. He seems like a courtly gentleman.” Jody stared at her without responding. Sharon wondered if she’d overstepped the bounds of politeness.

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The older woman spoke at last. “I try not to dwell on those times, but I must admit that since you came here, I’ve been thinking a lot about my sister. The day after tomorrow’s the anniversary of her death, you know. Sixty-five years. You’d think the emotions would fade, but they don’t.” Long, slightly crooked fingers stroked the coffee mug. Despite the brown spots and blue veins, Jody’s hands retained a sturdy squareness. That made their agitation all the more pronounced. “I didn’t mean to stir things up,” Sharon said. “Before I came here, I had no idea I resembled your sister or even that you had one.” “She was younger than you are now,” Jody said. “Not so well educated, either. But there’s a thread that runs true.” “I guess that’s why I’m so interested in her.” “If there’s anything you want to know about Susan, go ahead and ask me,” Jody said. “I don’t believe in beating about the bush.” Despite the way television reporters intruded into people’s lives as if private pain existed primarily to entertain the masses, Sharon respected the old-fashioned grace of drawn curtains. But Jody had offered. “Mr. Wright said you were the one who found the bodies. I can’t help worrying about how that experience must have affected you. And then losing Ian’s father, too. Doesn’t it overwhelm you sometimes?” “If you think this anniversary is going to send me screaming in the Santa Ana River, you can forget that nonsense,” Jody replied without a flicker of hesitation. “In my day, no one whined about being a victim. You simply carried on.” “That doesn’t mean you didn’t suffer,” Sharon pointed out. “Thank you for your concern,” Jody said. “Let me tell you how it was and you’ll understand. You’re part of the family now, after all.” She paused, staring out the window at nothing in particular. Sharon waited, almost afraid to sip her coffee for fear of breaking the spell. “That night after church, my family planned to visit friends,” Jody said. “I had a cold and wasn’t in the mood to socialize. I excused myself and got a ride back with some neighbors.” When she first arrived, she said, she didn’t realize anything was amiss. Calling upstairs and hearing no response, Jody believed her sister and the baby must be asleep. “You didn’t know Bradley was coming?” “Certainly not!” The old woman regarded her sharply. “I didn’t trust that man. I would never have allowed him here.” Well, that killed one theory. “So you didn’t go upstairs?” “Not right away,” Jody said. “I felt miserable, so I fixed myself a cup of hot tea. Of course, I didn’t want little Martin to catch my cold either. Not until I went upstairs for bed a few minutes later did I notice something was wrong.” “What?” Sharon asked. “Since she had the baby, my parents had let Susan move down into her old room. The door was open and there was no sign of her. The attic door was open too. I couldn’t imagine why she’d have gone up there. I still don’t know. Maybe Bradley forced her up there to look at the painting he’d made of the two of them. He could be cruel. Well, that’s obvious, I guess.” There must have been long shadows in the hall and the swish of rain against the windows, Sharon thought. Climbing those stairs in the gloom had taken courage. “The worst was the blood. That’s what I saw first, Susan’s blood everywhere, and I

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smelled it too,” Jody said. “Later, I started to wonder if she might have been alive when I got home. Maybe if I’d gone straight up, I would have found her in time. That seems unlikely, with such grievous injuries,” Sharon pointed out. “That’s what I tell myself, that no one could have saved her,” Jody said. “That’s how I go on.” Hearing the simple statement of despair, Sharon suddenly understood why petty problems never bothered Jody, and why the older woman had dedicated her life to Susan’s son and grandson. “You must hate Bradley,” Sharon said. “I’m surprised you aren’t more bitter.” “Bitter? That would hurt me, not him.” Setting the cup aside, Jody knitted her fingers together. “I hate him most of all for dying. I hate him for not having to live with what he did, the way I’ve had to live with it for sixty-five years.” “One thing I don’t understand,” Sharon said. “Surely Susan wanted to run away with Bradley and keep their son. I don’t see why he killed her.” “My parents had burned his letters. She was angry with him for abandoning her,” Jody said. “And she’d developed a fondness for Grayson. In the end, she’d have chosen Bradley, but she had spirit. She’d have stood up to him when he first arrived and given him what-for.” “You don’t think she sent for him?” “I don’t think she knew where he was.” Her dry voice threatened to crack. The older woman took another sip of coffee before continuing. “We never did find out how he learned that she was to be married. One of his friends must have written him.” “I’m so sorry. About everything.” Sharon almost wished she’d never brought the subject up. At least she was reassured about Jody’s stability. Despite her obvious dismay, the woman was far from falling apart. “I’m glad I had a chance to talk,” came the response. “Everyone tiptoes around the subject. The police were the only ones who dared to ask me about what I saw, and they didn’t ask much. The scene pretty much spoke for itself.” Reaching for her cup, Sharon discovered it was empty. She was about to get a refill when Jody’s voice stopped her. “I do have a request,” the landlady said. “I hope you won’t mind.” “Just ask,” Sharon said. “Yesterday, when I met with my lawyer, I changed my will.” “Your will?” She couldn’t imagine what this had to do with her. “I’ve been concerned about Ian ever since his accident, and now he’s been obsessing about the anniversary,” Jody explained “I keep worrying that he might put himself in danger, although not intentionally, of course. It’s just a mother’s fears, because I do feel like his mother.” “Of course.” “I told the lawyer that if anything happens to Ian, I want to leave the house to Greg,” Jody said. “Really? I mean, are you sure?” “Absolutely.” The old woman smiled. “After all, we are related, and I’d like it to stay in the family.” Sharon didn’t know how to respond. Ian wasn’t in any real peril, surely. Did this mean Jody was ill? Otherwise, why would she be thinking about what might happen to the house after she died? “The lawyer did make one suggestion,” the older woman added. “He pointed out

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that I have a number of cousins, rather distant ones, but more closely related than Greg. They might challenge the will—you know how people can be. He suggested it would look better if I were Greg’s godmother. Or does he already have one?” “Not formally.” After Jim’s death, Karly had agreed that if anything happened to Sharon, she would take care of Greg. But a godmother-godson relationship was purely ceremonial these days. “I don’t see the harm.” “Here’s the paper he drew up a paper for us both to sign.” Jody handed her two copies of a legal-looking document. “He said he’ll keep it with the will, as a form of insurance. Of course, I don’t plan to die any time soon. And I certainly hope Ian doesn’t, either.” If making Greg her godson would relieve Jody’s mind, that might take some strain off her. Sharon glanced over the form and signed. “It’s no problem. I know Greg will be delighted that you feel so close to him.” “Like his aunt, or maybe a grandmother,” Jody said. “I hope that’s all right.” “Better than all right. Wonderful.” She rested one hand on the older woman’s shoulder. Jody’s premonition about Ian still troubled her, though. Sharon would be glad when the anniversary was over. Just a few more days.

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Chapter Fourteen

On Friday afternoon, Bella moved every stick of furniture in the living room and vacuumed underneath. Then she polished the wood and took a Dust Buster to several years’ worth of crumbs beneath the cushions. Pete had never seen his wife so restless. Or so tidy. “It’s only a concert,” he offered as he helped remove the draperies to take to the cleaners. “This isn’t even the anniversary yet.” “The spirits have warned me. They will be there.” Bella began unhooking the fabric from the rod. “Everyone will be there, even the old minister. I have arranged to bring Grayson Wright, to make the circle complete. It will be as on the night of the murders. They cannot stay away.” She ran out of breath, which gave Pete a chance to interject, “What do you expect the spirits to do?” “To give us a sign,” Bella said. “They will tell us what we are meant to do.” “We’re supposed to do something?” he asked uneasily. “We are not merely in this house as observers.” Bella gave him a knowing smile that lasted a shade too long. He didn’t like her self-satisfied expression or the deliberate way she gestured, as if she were carving shapes in the air. Her father had suffered from mental illness. But after nearly forty years of marriage, it was a bit late for something like that to manifest itself. “Bring on the spirits,” Pete said. “We could use a little excitement around here.” ***** Ian couldn’t stop thinking about Sharon. He added to his sketches, drawing her from memory, and was amazed at the detail with which he recalled every twist of her muscles and ripple of her skin. She seemed to exist in three dimensions inside his mind, where he could turn her and view her at any angle. Over the next few hours, he worked in a fever on three canvases. The scenes sprang from deep in his subconscious as if they had been taking shape for weeks. On one easel, a bush was changing into a menacing creature. Its thorny talons reached to grasp a naked woman who sat with her arms around her knees and eyelids halfshut, unaware of her impending capture. The woman was Sharon. On the next canvas, a little girl in ribbons and bows played, oblivious to the toys that loomed over her. A hobbyhorse bared sharp yellow teeth; a stuffed bear unsheathed its claws; a wooden soldier hefted its sword. Across one corner of the foreground lay a nude woman, red hair pooled around her as if she had been felled in the act of protecting her child. That, too, was Sharon. He also added detail to the picture of a man and woman struggling. As he refined it, they no longer appeared to be making love. He could see that they balanced on the edge of an abyss toward which the larger figure was shoving the smaller. As she fought back, her face reflected both terror and determination.

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Again, Sharon. Over the course of the afternoon, Ian built up the washes of color and brought out the contours. Although the canvases were far from finished, satisfaction grew inside him. With their raw emotions, the subjects recaptured the passion he’d been seeking. By the time he cleaned his brushes, hours had passed without his realizing. Weary but exhilarated, Ian wondered if it was always possible to distinguish between a seizure and the heightened state known as inspiration. The pictures all contained at least the threat of violence. Ian abhorred the thought of any harm coming to Sharon, yet the theme dominated his work. Something came over him when he was painting that had its own mind. He would never hurt Sharon, of course, Ian told himself. He would never cross the line between fantasy and reality. Even during his seizures, he’d never harmed anyone. Then he thought of the slashed drawing in the drawer. ***** Frank packed the diaper bag himself. He kept wanting to ask Karly questions. How many toys should he take? Would he need to walk the baby during the concert? But he held back. He could figure out how to handle this himself. Of course, it would be simpler to leave the baby with Mrs. Torres, but Karly seemed to want the baby along, and he agreed. Even at this young age, he wanted their daughter to hear her sing in public. Lisa wouldn’t get many opportunities in the future. His wife was moving about in the kitchen, fixing dinner with the radio tuned to a pop station. She usually hummed along with the singers, but tonight she was saving her voice. In fact, she hadn’t sung around the house for several days, and he missed the lovely sound. Frank paused, a receiving blanket in one hand. What the hell was he doing? Why was he trying to deny Karly something so essential to her being? Sure, he wanted dinner on the table. And their daughter needed her mom around. But he’d fallen in love with Karly the way she was. The way she used to be. Did he really want to turn her into something else? The problem was that marriage had turned him into something else. He scarcely remembered the aerospace engineer he’d been a few years ago, with a respectable, steady salary and a smorgasbord of benefits. He’d never dreamed he would enter his thirties as a prematurely aging competitor in the rat race, struggling to support a family in a cramped apartment. Karly didn’t understand. She looked at him and saw a failure, that was the problem. They had to work together or it was no good. He couldn’t go on shouldering the burden alone. ***** Sharon didn’t understand why she felt so tense about going to the concert tonight, until the truth dawned while she waited for Greg to tie his shoes. Although two nights remained before the anniversary, they would all be at the church, just as the Fannings had been on the night of the murders. “Ready?” Ian appeared in the open doorway. Against the severity of a navy jacket, his features had a hawk-like cast. Sharon frowned at a smudge on his forehead. Ian always seemed to wear a touch of

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paint somewhere on his face or clothing. This smear was auburn. He’d been painting her again. “Ready!” called Greg from the couch where he’d sat torturing his shoelace into a knot. “Last one to the front door is a weasel!” He raced toward the stairs. Ian gestured for Sharon to precede him. First, she reached up and scraped away the speck with a fingernail. “Paint,” she said. “I’m thinking of having a total-body tattoo,” he murmured. “That way the mess won’t be as noticeable.” “I like you just the way you are.” Standing close, Sharon inhaled soap, paint and memories. Her body tightened with a longing to go back to the moment when the two of them had created their own work of art. Then she heard her son calling from below, and turned toward the stairs. ***** Last night, Karly had taken a while to become accustomed to the church with the chorus present. Now, full of rustling people, the arched space had changed yet again. Even the acoustics would be different, although, with her experience, she shouldn’t have a problem adjusting. Backstage, she warmed up and donned her maroon robe. Her fellow singers greeted her warmly. When they filed onto the stage, her gaze picked out Frank near the end of the second row, close to the piano and the painting of the Madonna. In the row behind him, Sharon gave Karly an encouraging smile. She looked happier tonight than she had in a long time, with Ian on one side of her and Greg, then Jody, on the other. Ian was a handsome man, almost larger than life. Karly had never trusted fellows who turned heads wherever they went, but he seemed to be good for her sister. Some elderly people, late arrivals, stopped to greet Jody. From her sister’s description, there was no mistaking the flashy Bella Gaskell, and that must be Pete beside her. Accompanied by an old man using a walker, they took the empty seats next to Frank. Everyone’s here. Karly frowned at the unexpected thought. Her father and stepmother weren’t here, so what did she mean by everyone? Lynda sat at the piano, clicked on the reading lamp and opened her music. When a draft ruffled the pages, she slapped them back in annoyance. Sharon scooted from her seat and went to the rescue, standing by the piano and holding the pages. That was so like Sharon, always attuned to other people’s needs. The buzz of the audience began to fade. Folding her hands in her lap, Karly found they were clammy. Like most performers, she suffered a little from stage fright, but that usually went away once she began performing. As they awaited Lynda’s nod, the other chorus members seemed to take a deep breath with one impulse. Candy, her blonde hair upswept and anchored by a jeweled comb, gave Sharon a conspiratorial wink. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. ***** As the church swelled with the lyrics of Circle of Life, Sharon felt her heart expand.

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Standing by the piano, she had a clear view of Ian, Greg and Jody. Her family looked enraptured by the music. She thought about the unexpected offer of a job near her old hometown and about Karly’s accidental discovery of the rental at the Fanning house. Gazing at Ian, watching his taut expression gentle as he listened to the singers, Sharon could almost believe she had been brought here on purpose to help guide this man out of his darkness. Also to make a better home for Greg, who was resting his cheek on Jody’s shoulder. This evening felt right and inevitable. ***** Pete Gaskell nodded appreciatively while his wife clapped in time to the music of Day By Day. He wished he had her sense of rhythm. Grayson Wright was clapping too, a bit off the beat. Pete liked the guy’s low-key wit and self-deprecating manner. He didn’t see what Bella had been so worked up about. Her mother had gone to her grave feeling guilty that she hadn’t done more for her brother, as if stealing and secretly reburying his casket weren’t enough. Now Bella felt duty-bound to resolve some sort of problem, although Pete didn’t see what she could possibly accomplish. After this weekend, he hoped they could put this business behind them. The song ended to warm applause and Karly stepped forward. Sharon’s sister was a pretty woman with long thick hair and natural stage presence. Even wearing the same maroon robe as the rest of the chorus, she stood out. Bella laid one hand on her husband’s wrist. “Soon,” she whispered. “Soon what?” “Soon the sign will come to me.” He sighed. The only signs he expected to see were the ones that said ‘No Smoking’ and ‘Exit.’ ***** Lisa had fallen asleep in Frank’s arms by the time her mother began to sing I Don’t Know How to Love Him. He was relieved that he didn’t have to worry about her fussing. As his wife’s voice soared to the rafters, he forgot all about his daughter. Up on the stage, Frank saw the vulnerability that had touched him the first time he heard Karly perform. This was what he’d fallen in love with, this mixture of confidence and hesitation, this willingness to open her soul to an audience. He wished she would go on singing and never stop. ***** The applause surged through Karly with a jolt of adrenaline. Even Frank, although he couldn’t clap without waking the baby, was beaming ear to ear. She took a brief bow, slightly embarrassed by the crowd’s enthusiasm. It wasn’t her intention to distract from the rest of the program. As she stepped back, she saw Lisa stir and yawn. Frank plied the baby with a bottle but the angle was wrong, and the baby squirmed. A moment later, she began to fuss audibly.

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Although most of the audience hadn’t noticed anything yet, Karly knew that crying was sure to follow. The noise would upset her husband and annoy everyone else, and there was nothing she could do about it without disrupting the concert even more. This was what she’d been afraid of. She was up here singing instead of down there playing mommy. No doubt she’d hear complaints from Frank afterwards. Greg leaned forward from the row behind and wiggled his fingers at his little cousin. Lisa stopped fidgeting and tried to grab them. Shifting into Sharon’s empty chair, Ian reached forward and, after receiving a hesitant nod from Frank, lifted Lisa onto his lap. The tall man cradled the baby while Greg made funny faces, to the baby’s obvious delight. Karly relaxed. Given Lisa’s cheerful disposition, they just might make it through the concert. The baby was still playing quietly in Ian’s arms when the choir finished You’ll Never Walk Alone and she got ready for her second solo. At the piano, Sharon turned the page for Lynda. Her sister must have brushed the lamp, because the shade tipped slightly, casting light up toward the painting and throwing odd shadows over nearby members of the audience. Neither Sharon nor Lynda appeared to notice. The oval of light defined a new work of art, in which the Madonna became a painting within a painting and a small section of audience was the main focus. There were only a handful of people sitting in that section, and they were all involved with the Fanning family. The scene looked as if someone posed them deliberately. Karly didn’t have time to think about the strangeness of was happening. The time had come for her to sing. ***** Karly was halfway through Close Every Door when Sharon noticed the lamp casting an eerie light on the faces nearest her. Frank, Ian, Jody and the Gaskells sat in skeletal indifference as the stark interplay of bright and dark turned them to bony caricatures. From this angle, they were hardly recognizable as human. The room became steeped in the cold dampness of a grave. In the odd light, all Sharon could see were a half-dozen or so uplifted faces. She picked out Grayson Wright, sitting with the Gaskells, and the elder Pastor Arbizo beside him. When she looked for her son, her vision became distorted. Greg and Lisa were no longer a boy and a baby girl but wizened, gnarled creatures. Evil had touched them. Evil was transforming them. Fear froze Sharon in place. ***** Pete Gaskell turned at his wife’s excited gasp. That was when he saw the children, or the things that had taken their places, beastlings with hollow eye sockets and pointed teeth. “My God,” he whispered. “What is that?” “A sign,” his wife hissed back, squeezing his hand. “A sign that we must rescue them. Tonight, Pete.” He rubbed his old eyes twice, and finally the pair looked like children again. But he’d seen them misshapen and so had Bella. Until this, he’d feared his wife might be deluding herself with the notion that her uncle’s death had left some evil loose in their

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midst. Now he was beginning to fear she might be right. ***** Karly noticed the strange transformation of the children as she finished her song. Startled, she could barely hold the last note as she tried to make sense of what she was seeing. The bizarre shadows turned the children’s tiny features into death’s heads. She didn’t see how lamplight could create such an effect, yet it didn’t go away when she blinked. She wanted to shout out a warning or to kneel in prayer. Then a figure from the row ahead lifted Lisa from Ian’s lap. At the same moment, the stage lights softened, and Lynda adjusted the lamp. The ghastly visages took ordinary human form. Lisa gurgled happily in her father’s arms. She was safe. Frank had kept their little girl safe. Applause swept through the church. In a daze, Karly bowed and moved back to join the others. What on earth had she seen? Yet what counted most was her tremendous relief at the sight of her rock-solid husband sheltering their daughter. That was why she’d married him, because he was the kind of man who would always be there for his family. She needed that, Karly thought. She needed Frank to bring her home. ***** Even after the lights returned to normal, Sharon’s knees trembled. She knew there must be a rational explanation for what she’d seen, but her instincts told her this had been a vision. Her family’s history overshadowed the present and threatened the future. That was the significance of what she’d seen, and the implications couldn’t be avoided. She and Ian had to confront it while they had the chance. Bella Gaskell had suggested a séance. Once beneath consideration, the idea now struck Sharon as a godsend. They needed to find out how to protect the little ones while there was still time.

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Chapter Fifteen People surrounded Karly, praising her and the other singers. Sharon waited beside the stage, glad to see her sister enjoying this well-deserved glory. Although she hoped to find out whether Karly had observed the bizarre change in the children’s appearances, finally Sharon could wait no longer. Greg was drooping against Ian, and not even the formidable Jody, who had ridden with them, could hide her weariness. Waving to her sister and mouthing, “Call you tomorrow,” Sharon went outside with the others. The parking lot was half-empty by now. Two spaces from Ian’s car, the Gaskells were helping Grayson Wright into their car “Mr. Wright.” Sharon crossed to him. “I’m glad you could come.” The old man renewed his grip on his walker. “Your sister,” he said, “is the kind of singer who makes a man want to drink champagne from her slipper. I’m too old for champagne and the only slippers under my bed these days are my own, but she sure made me feel young again.” “Thank you. I’ll tell her.” Determined to go ahead now that she’d made up her mind, she shifted her attention to the Gaskells. “Bella, I’ve been thinking about your suggestion of a séance. I was wondering…” “You saw the children.” The simple statement of fact contrasted with her usual posturing. “Yes,” she said. “I saw them.” “We’ll proceed tonight.“ The woman’s hoop earrings jangled as she nodded. “Tonight?” Sharon hadn’t been prepared for that. “It’s late, and I’ve got to put my son to bed.” “Meet us in the attic at midnight,” said Bella. “To delay would be unwise. The spirit is restless, and restless spirits get into mischief.” Without waiting for an answer, she helped Grayson into the car. Sharon withdrew, already questioning her decision to go ahead with the session. She neither liked nor trusted Bella Gaskell, and she certainly didn’t believe in communing with the dead. But whatever might be stirring, it was no longer confined to the attic. She and Bella and perhaps others had seen something at work in the church tonight. She needed to confront the issue, and this was the only avenue that came to mind. “What’s going on?” Ian asked as they got in his sedan. Sharon glanced at Greg and Jody in the back seat. Her son lolled sleepily, not paying attention to grownup conversation, but she knew he had big ears. “I’ve decided to take Bella up on the séance idea,” she murmured, keeping her voice as low as possible. “Tonight at midnight.” Ian backed out and headed for the street. “Why? You were so dead set against it.” “You didn’t notice anything strange tonight?” Sharon asked. His face kept appearing and disappearing as they drove through the darkness between streetlights. “Strange in what way?” “Some weird shadows.” She didn’t want to be more explicit within Greg’s hearing. Ian shrugged. “I was too absorbed in the music. Your sister is amazing.” Sharon felt a glow of pride. If anything, Karly’s voice had strengthened in the past

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few years. She was glad she’d been able to share its beauty with Ian. Behind them, Jody said, “I’ll second that. If she cuts a CD, I’m first in line to buy one.” “Would you mind going with me tonight?” she asked Ian. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of leaving you alone with that pair,” he said. “You’re right on that point,” Jody chimed in. “I can’t say that I approve of this séance business, but maybe it’s just as well. Bella can do her thumping and pontificate in a deep voice and get the whole thing out of her system.” Put that way, the business sounded more amusing than frightening, Sharon thought gratefully. With traffic sparse, they arrived home in minutes. As Ian lifted the dozing boy from the car, Jody said, “Since you two are going to be busy, why don’t you let Greg sleep over in my apartment? Ian can set up my guest cot.” Sharon considered the offer. “That’s very generous of you...” “We’ll enjoy a leisurely breakfast and let you sleep late,” Jody added. “I expect you’ll be worn out.” The offer was too good to decline. Even with the front door locked, Sharon didn’t like the idea of leaving her son unsupervised in her apartment during the séance. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure he’d enjoy that, and I’d be grateful.” “Besides,” Jody added as they went inside, “this way I can keep him as far as possible from that dotty Gaskell pair. Ian, you watch over Sharon.” “Will do,” he replied. Thinking about the séance made Sharon feel the way she had once on a roller coaster, after the safety bar snapped into place and the motor started to hum. She’d realized that she’d been crazy to get on this thing in the first place but it was too late to get off. ***** Frank didn’t say much on the ride home, beyond congratulating Karly in a subdued voice. She wondered if he was tired or simply distracted. She was worn out, herself. In retrospect, the peculiar image she’d seen at the church seemed like a waking dream, the kind that used to intrude occasionally when she’d pulled an all-nighter in college. What stayed with her was the security of knowing Frank was protecting their daughter. After laying the baby in the crib, she found her husband sitting on the foot of their bed, one sock on and one sock off. He looked as if he had started to undress and run out of steam in the middle. “I’m sorry,” he said. Karly unhooked an earring. “For what?” “I guess I blew it,” he said. What had he done? “Blew what?” “I’ve been trying to lock you in a cage.” Frank’s mouth quivered. “You don’t belong with me. You’re too special to live cooped up this way.” Karly stood beside her dressing table, wondering how the two of them had managed to switch positions. She’d had the same thought herself until tonight, when she’d finally grasped how much she depended on this honest, caring man. Frank knitted his fingers together. He had the sturdy hands of an engineer. “I fell in love with you on the stage. I can’t imagine what attracted you to me. Maybe you saw

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something that isn’t there.” “Or maybe I didn’t see something that is there.” Realizing she was still holding her earrings, Karly placed them in a velvet case. “I realized something tonight,” her husband confided. “I realized that I’d forgotten who I fell in love with. It also occurred to me, well, that I’m afraid of being like my father.” “But he died when you were twelve,” Karly said. “And you practically idolized him.” “I’m not afraid of being the kind of person he was,” Frank explained. “The point is, when you were pregnant, this idea kind of grew in the back of my mind that I was going to die young too. That I would leave you and Lisa with no means of support. I wasn’t consciously aware of that. I just took it for granted until I stopped and took stock of myself tonight.” “You’re afraid of dying?” Karly didn’t know what to say. At the age of twentyseven, she’d never given the matter much thought. “Not for my sake. For yours.” Frank said. “That’s why I was working so hard to fortify my family against fate. The problem is, because I was tired all the time, I resented your joy and your sense of fun. But those are the things I love about you. I’m sorry, Karly.” She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her nose into his neck. “You weren’t just in the right place at the right time for me, you know. You were also the right man.” “Am I?” Frank said. “Absolutely. I want you around for as long as I can have you. I don’t want you to die, either, regardless of how much money we do or don’t have.” He pulled her onto his lap. “Let’s go away this weekend, just the three of us.” “Where?” she asked. “Anywhere,” he said. “We’ll leave early tomorrow and drive up the coast, like we used to when we were dating. Maybe we’ll go as far as Malibu, or Santa Monica would be all right. I just want to feel free again. I want to be with the woman I love and spend time with our daughter.” The doubts were gone. Karly was amazed how quickly a painful twist in a marriage could straighten itself and the path ahead look straight and true again. “Sounds good to me,” she said, and unbuttoned his shirt all the way down. Suddenly she didn’t feel tired any more. ***** Ian shrugged off his jacket in front of the mirror. He ripped away the shirt too, and the navy slacks. A churning energy had been growing within him all evening. At moments he’d felt too keyed up to sit still, and then Karly’s voice would capture him and he would forget his restlessness. Ian wished it were daylight so he could work out at the gym or go for a jog. Even that didn’t seem like enough. He wanted to swim in the ocean, so far out he could barely see the shore. He clenched his fists and watched the muscles ripple across his chest. Tonight he wasn’t Ian Fanning, disabled policeman, but a giant of a man, a laborer with sweat gleaming on his sinewy body, Paul Bunyan felling trees and scooping out lakes with his

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hands. Ian laughed. His voice rang out, startling him. Of course he was Ian Fanning. Who else could he be? Wondering what had gotten into him, he drew on his jeans and an oversized sweatshirt and turned on the TV to watch the late news before going upstairs. ***** Staring at the attic steps, Sharon wished she knew what had drawn her to this point. A few weeks ago, she’d been an ordinary widow in Buffalo, N.Y. for whom the occult existed only on the Science Fiction Channel and in Stephen King novels. She hadn’t had the least interest in attending a séance and if she’d seen something weird in a church, she would have wondered if someone had drugged her. She couldn’t possibly be taking this situation seriously, but she was. She’d felt threatened ever since she arrived at this house, and tonight she’d seen the threat extend to the next generation. Running away wasn’t going to help. The discovery that she and the Fannings were related and the way the circle kept coming together had convinced her of that. Down the hall, Ian strode out of his apartment, showing no sign of weariness. He must get a second wind late at night. When he spotted her, his face came alive. Instinctively, they reached for each other as he approached and their bodies slid together, his arm encircling her shoulder, her hand touching his waist. Their mouths met in a promise. She missed him, had been missing him since they parted after making love yesterday. She loved the texture of him against her skin and his masculine aroma. “This business of keeping apart,” he murmured. “We won’t succeed for long.” “We have to. For a few days, at least.” She heard the lack of conviction in her tone. “Don’t tell me you’re sleeping well.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I know I’m not.” “Who needs sleep?” She kissed his eyebrow, registering the formation of bone beneath it and the strong plane of his temple. So much to explore. From the top of the stairs, Pete Gaskell called, “Hey, down there! Time to start!” “Okay,” Sharon said, and reluctantly parted from Ian. “Why won’t these people just go away?” he teased in a low voice. “Let’s hope they will,” she murmured. “Soon.” Catching his hand, she led the way up the stairs. Entering the attic, they found themselves in a space defined by a small circle of candlelight. Beyond, the pitched roof stretched into darkness. Although Sharon had seen the attic in daylight and knew its parameters, tonight she felt as if she were entering an unfamiliar world. But the only things living here, she reminded herself, were spiders and their prey. Pete and Bella, who wore a paisley headscarf and a floor-length caftan, had pushed aside some of the trunks and toys that jutted into the central pathway to clear room for a card table and four chairs. Atop the table blazed an array of stubby candles set on mismatched saucers. Behind her, Sharon felt the heat from Ian’s body as he leaned down to whisper, “I don’t see any trick wires. Do you?” She shook her head and wondered if their hosts had overheard. If they did, they

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gave no sign. Bella seemed absorbed in staring into the gloomy recesses beyond the table, while Pete puttered about nursing a sputtering candle. Sharon had expected to see some form of equipment on the table, a crystal ball or a Ouija board or at least a deck of cards, but there was nothing. “What are we supposed to do?” Bella gestured toward the chairs. “Please be seated.” Despite her solemn expression, her eyes betrayed her excitement. Tonight she was clearly in her element. Sharon just wished they could get it over with. Seeing that the others waited for her to go first, she chose the chair closest to the exit. That placed her facing the length of the attic, with the door to the widow’s walk off to her right outlined faintly by moonlight. Bella sat across from her, Ian on her right and Pete facing him. Following Bella’s example, they clasped hands around the table. “Let the circle be unbroken,” said the woman in the scarf. “Do not let go, whatever happens, or we will release the power.” Sharon uttered a low cough, partly to cover a surge of irreverence and partly because the air of the attic had made her throat dry. She wished Bella would refrain from hamming it up, but apparently that came with the territory. Head bowed, the medium muttered something low that Sharon didn’t catch. “She’s calling on her spirit guide, Geraint. He’s the ghost of an 18th century British lord,” Pete told them quietly. The chanting resumed and amplified, reverberating off the rafters and filling Sharon’s ears. Her skin prickled as a cold draft blew across her arm. The noise clarified into a deep voice issuing from Bella. “I, Geraint, have come to guide you. What is it that you seek?” The accent sounded upper class British and the timbre startled Sharon, an arrogant baritone utterly uncharacteristic of her neighbor. “We seek the restless spirit that dwells here,” Bella said in a normal voice, her eyes half-closed. “We want him to tell us what he seeks and why he threatens the children of this family.” In the pause that followed, Sharon listened to the soft breathing of the people around her. Ian squeezed her hand for reassurance. The deep voice rang out again. “The spirit is angry. Terribly angry. He has ordered this woman to go away, and she has not done so.” The air crackled with hostility. A chill ran up Sharon’s spine. She wondered whether it was the spirit or Bella who wanted to get rid of her. “A great evil has been done here,” said the voice of Geraint. “Evil that folds upon itself and returns.” “May we speak to him?” Pete asked. “This spirit—who is it?” “He says his name is Bradley.” Hearing the name spoken aloud shocked Sharon like a wave of electricity. With a visible jolt, the current passed to Ian. Bella gasped and her head rolled back. Ian began to speak in a harsh tone utterly unlike his own voice. “Why won’t you listen?” His fury blazed at Sharon and his hand tightened on hers, not comfortingly this time but painfully. “Why do you insist on bringing tragedy back to this house?” There was no trace of self-consciousness about the man. Only a brilliant actor could

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have pulled off such a stunt without giving himself away. Sharon sat riveted to her seat, paralyzed by the certainty that someone other than Ian was speaking. “Someone has to stop her!” he cried to the room at large. “Why do you all keep sitting around like damn fools?” That couldn’t be him, Sharon thought furiously. This was not the man who’d made tender love to her and who had carried her sleeping son into Jody’s room earlier tonight. Someone was manipulating him, and she didn’t believe it was a ghost. Across the table, Bella lifted her head weakly. She watched Ian with confusion that gradually shaded into grim recognition. “I should have foreseen this.” “Foreseen it?” Sharon snapped. “You created it! How dare you play on his seizures this way? I don’t know how you managed to hypnotize him, but this is inexcusable!” She jerked her hand from Ian’s. As a tingling weakness ran up her arm, he slumped in his chair. “You fool!” shrieked Bella. “You may have killed him!” Although she didn’t believe that, Sharon wished she hadn’t acted so abruptly. “Ian?” She touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?” He sagged, motionless, for too many heartbeats. She was about to reach into her pocket for her cell phone when at last he stirred and blinked. “What the hell?” “Your grandfather spoke through you,” Pete said. “You had a seizure.” Sharon brushed a matted strand from his temple. “Not like any seizure I’ve suffered before.” Ian straightened gingerly. “I was awake the whole time. I heard what he said and I felt this great rage. But it wasn’t mine.” “He wants you to leave,” Bella told Sharon. “How can you doubt the evidence of your own ears?” “Why did you set this up?” she asked. “What could you possibly have against me?” Ian’s smoldering gaze swept Bella and Pete. He shook his head as if tossing away the last traces of his stupor. “I agree. I certainly don’t want Sharon to leave.” “We aren’t behind this, I swear.” Pete’s pupils had dilated behind his glasses. “I never saw a spirit take over someone else’s body, other than the medium’s.” Bella pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Bradley’s angry with us. With me.” “He should be angry. I’m angry, that’s for sure.” Ian stood up, holding the edge of the table for an uncertain moment before letting go. “However you made this happen, you should both be ashamed.” “We are not the engineers.” Speaking in a flat tone, Bella stared beyond them. What was wrong with this woman? Sharon wondered. “This session is over,” she said. “You got what you wanted, both of you. I don’t expect to hear another word about séances ever again.” When Ian caught her elbow, she went with him down the stairs, her body shaky and feverish. Despite her skepticism, she didn’t see how Bella could have made Ian speak as he had. And she doubted the woman had created the electricity she’d felt passing through her. If anything, the whole business had only made matters worse. “I’m sorry,” she told Ian as they reached the second floor. “I wish I hadn’t requested this.” He shrugged. “It’s nearly one a.m. Let’s turn in. Things will look clearer in the morning.” “I suppose you’re right.”

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He didn’t release her arm. “Stay with me tonight.” Sharon longed for the comfort of his body against hers and the protection of his arms. But she kept thinking about that deep voice pouring out of Ian, filled with rage and disgust. What the possession or whatever it was returned while they were alone? She wanted to trust him. The problem was that the danger around them had repeatedly expressed itself through Ian. “I don’t think that would be wise,” she said. “The medication doesn’t seem to be working against the seizures. Until things are calmer, I’m better off alone. I hope you understand.” Uncertainty softened his expression. “Yes. I wish things were different, though.” “So do I.” “Lock your door,” he said. Sharon went in. Only after the lock clicked did she hear his footsteps moving off. With a sense of utter weariness, she dragged herself to the bathroom, grateful that Greg was downstairs at Jody’s place. Too much had happened tonight. She couldn’t begin to sort it out. This wasn’t what she’d bargained for when she left Buffalo, Sharon reflected as she undressed for bed. She had hoped to settle into her job and establish a home where she and Greg would feel comfortable. She hadn’t asked for a passionate romance or a great adventure. Certainly not for an angry spirit ordering her to get out. Nothing had gone right since Jim died. Sinking into the well of sleep, Sharon wondered when things would get back to normal. ***** She awoke in raw darkness. The stinging in her eyes told her she’d slept an hour or two at most. Then she realized what had awakened her—the scrape of a key turning in the lock. In the deep silence, she heard the hinges whispering open. Someone was in her apartment.

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Chapter Sixteen Sharon’s first thought was that Ian must be coming to check on her. She almost called out, but some instinct halted her. As her mind cleared, she acknowledged there was no way he would have gone downstairs for the key and sneaked into her apartment. Dispelling the sense of disbelief was hard. She felt almost paralyzed, as she did sometimes right before falling asleep. But she had to get up. Had to force her muscles to work. Making as little noise as possible, she slid out of bed. Over the painful thrum of her heartbeat, she could hear something breathing shallowly and rapidly in the living room. Maybe if she closed her eyes and reopened them, she would discover that this was a dream. But she knew it wasn’t. Could the intruder be Greg? Her son sometimes got up to use the bathroom and, half-asleep, got lost on his way back to bed. Possibly, he’d climbed the stairs from Jody’s apartment—but unlikely he could have located the spare key without coming fully awake. Sharon edged toward the living room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the intruder. She’d left the door ajar, an old habit in case her son called out in the night. Unfortunately, at this angle the panel blocked her view. She scanned the room for a weapon. From the bathroom, the faint glow of the nightlight fell across the objects on her bureau. The hairbrush was too lightweight. The hand mirror, although not very lethal, at least might be swung as a club. Seizing it, Sharon flattened herself against the wall out of the intruder’s line of sight. With a faint creak, her door eased back. She could see the figure now, about her own height but heavier, with unruly hair tangling around the neck. Back toward her, the intruder surveyed the bed. With a jolt, she recognized the shape as Bella. Her hand gripped the sturdy cook’s knife that Sharon had used to slice pepperoni for tortilla pizzas. The woman had gone over the edge. After tonight’s violent session, she’d taken it on herself to get rid of Sharon. I have one chance before she turns on me. Grasping the mirror in her right hand, Sharon raised her arm and smashed it onto Bella’s face with her full strength. The mirror went flying, hitting the wall with a thud. The woman uttered a high-pitched, unearthly scream, staggered, braced herself against the bed and twisted around. Despite what appeared to be a line of blood on Bella’s forehead, the blow had barely stunned her. The knife flashed. Unable to retreat, Sharon lunged forward and grabbed Bella’s wrist to stay the blow. With her free hand, she yanked the older woman’s hair, trying to pull her off-balance. At the same time, she tried to scream, but what emerged was little more than a rasp. They seesawed across the room, slammed against the bed and crashed into to the bureau. The knife pressed relentlessly forward, forcing Sharon’s arm back. The more she fought, the more violently the woman threw her strength into the attack. Suddenly her own wrist gave out and the knife plunged down. Sharon writhed away, and felt a puff of air as the weapon passed within inches of her. She collided with the wall. There was nowhere to retreat. “Bella, stop!” she cried. “What’s wrong with you?”

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The only answer was a feral growl as the heavier woman shifted her grip on the haft. From somewhere came thumps and a door banged open, but all she could see was the madness distorting Bella’s face. Light flooded the room. Blinded, she heard someone grapple with her opponent. Squinting painfully, Sharon saw Ian wrest the knife from Bella’s hand and loop his arm around her throat, tightening his grip until she sagged onto the desk chair. Into the room lumbered Pete Gaskell, fastening his bathrobe around his tubby midsection. “I heard someone scream.” He halted. “Bella? My God! What happened?” “She tried to stab Sharon.” Ian looked around. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any cord, have you?” “I can hold her,” Pete said. “I’d better do it.” Although Bella had gone limp, Ian kept a tight grip on her.” Sharon, are you all right? Did she hurt you?” “I… no,” she managed to say. Her knees had turned to pudding. She didn’t even try to get up. “She had a key.” “It’s in the door,” Pete said. “Do we have to report this? I’ll take her away somewhere.” Ian’s tone was hard. “She tried to kill Sharon. This is way beyond anything you can keep under wraps, Pete.” “I’ll call the police.” Sharon found her cell phone on the desk. Her voice shook as she explained to the 9-1-1 operator what had happened, and finally she had to stop and collect herself. Whatever fury had animated Bella seemed to have left her. Her face took on a waxy pallor and her eyes stared at nothing. Releasing her cautiously onto the bed, Ian took the phone and spoke to the dispatcher. When he hung up, he said, “They’re sending a patrol car and paramedics. Bella needs to be treated for shock and you should be examined too, Sharon. Sometimes people don’t even realize they’re injured.” He reached down and took her pulse. “Steady.” “I’m sorry,” Pete said. “Her father had mental problems when she was a child and he never recovered. She’s become more eccentric recently but she’s never lost touch with reality before.” That depended on how you defined reality, Sharon thought, remembering the séance. “Let’s take her downstairs,” Ian said. “We don’t want to contaminate the crime scene any more than necessary.” On the way out the door, he took the spare key and dropped it in his pocket. The police arrived without sirens, honoring Ian’s request to handle the matter discreetly. Jody came out of her apartment to learn what was going on, informed the police distractedly that she hadn’t heard anything except their own thundering feet in her hallway, and went back to bed. Greg didn’t awaken, thank goodness. One of the policemen, who introduced himself as Officer Romero, took a report while the other checked out the apartment. Sharon declined treatment for her minor bruises. Bella remained stunned and speechless, although she appeared to have sustained no serious injuries either. “We can book her for assault,” Romero said while his partner was upstairs. “Or we could commit her to a locked mental facility for seventy-two hours for observation.” “I just want her away from here.” Sharon hated to think of Bella in jail, disheveled and confused. Mental illness was a disease, not a crime.

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“She’s never done anything like this before,” Pete put in. “No criminal history? Good,” the policeman said. “We do have a certain amount of discretion in these cases. How would you like us to proceed, Mrs. Mahoney?” Pete gazed pleadingly at Sharon. “I’ll be forever grateful if you let her get the treatment she needs.” Something else concerned Sharon even more. If she pressed charges, there might be publicity. Learning the ugly details of the incident would terrify Greg. He might never feel safe again. “Just take her away,” she said. “She won’t automatically be released in seventy-two hours if she’s dangerous, will she?” “No,” the officer said. “And you could press charges later. I’ve taken a report, so everything’s here in black and white.” Sharon nodded. “All right.” Pete touched her hand. “Thank you. I promise I won’t let her back in this house, ever.” He followed Romero to the front porch. Outside, blue lights flashed in the darkness. The paramedics had already left, and only the police car remained. The whole time, Bella hadn’t said a word. The fight had gone out of her, along with her usual air of self-importance. It was as if she herself had departed, leaving an empty shell. When the police took her away, Pete promised to follow in his car. “She’s been obsessed with this whole business, but I never imagined she’d try to harm anyone,” he told Sharon. “I’ll stay at a motel tonight, once Bella’s settled. Do you mind if I drop in to collect our things tomorrow?” “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be leaving in the morning,” she said wearily. “Greg and I will find somewhere to go.” She’d had enough of tempting fate. “No.” The word burst from Ian. “I don’t want them to drive you out. Besides, Bella’s gone.” “But whatever wants me to leave here isn’t,” Sharon said. “You’re actually starting to believe in ghosts?” Ian pressed. “I thought you were the original skeptic.” “I don’t know what’s going on,” Sharon admitted. The mantel clock showed four a.m. No wonder she couldn’t get her brain to function rationally. “I just don’t think I could sleep here another night.” “I want you to know that we’re going to move out permanently,” Pete said. “Bella should never live in this place again.” “Do what you like.” Sharon couldn’t spare any sympathy, although she knew the man was sincere in his regrets. After the Pete departed, Ian repeated his invitation to stay in his studio. Sharon was considering accepting when Jody came out. “I couldn’t get back to sleep, what with all the commotion,” she grumbled. “You might as well stay on my couch. I should have known those idiot Gaskells would be trouble. Please let me help.” “Thank you.” Sharon would be glad to stay in the same apartment as Greg. “Good night, then,” Ian said. “Thanks, Jody.” “It’s the least I can do.” His great-aunt gave him a hug. Inside the flat, Sharon curled up on the couch, wrapped in a comforter. She lay there for a long time, trying to tell herself that the worst was over, then fell asleep and

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dreamed that she was still awake. ***** Ian heard people stirring downstairs shortly after nine a.m. Edgy until the adrenaline drained from his system, he had spent the last few hours jotting down his impressions of the past week, trying to make sense of them. One thing he knew. Despite the dramatic events of last night, Bella Gaskell hadn’t been the instigator nor was she the source of the problems. He only wished he knew how she fitted in and what had tipped her over the edge. He began with Sharon’s arrival and worked his way through the past week, trying to find a pattern. They were all involved—him, the Gaskells, Sharon, possibly even Jody in a way he didn’t understand. If he searched hard enough, maybe he could find a solution that would enable Sharon to stay. By nine-thirty, he had to quit. Blearily, he splashed his face with cold water, took his medication for whatever slight value it might retain and descended to the kitchen. His great-aunt shot him a warning glance as she removed mini-waffles from the toaster and doused them in syrup for Greg. Clearly she didn’t want last night’s activities mentioned in front of the boy, which was fine with Ian. He wished he had Jody’s degree of self-possession. She didn’t seem troubled by emotional ups and downs and was rarely flustered. A good thing she hadn’t inherited the family tendency toward moodiness or she’d never have survived all she’d been through. “Sharon went upstairs to shower and change,” Jody said. “What’ll you have?” What Ian wanted was coffee, and then, he discovered, some waffles, and then more. Between him and Greg, they finished two packages. “You eat even more than me,” the boy observed with admiration. “When I grow up, I’m going to eat as much as you do.” Ian laughed. He’d never thought about growing up in terms of trying to achieve maximum food consumption. “That’s quite an ambition.” “And I’m going to paint like you.” Greg paused before adding, “I mean, if you can paint with a computer. Can you?” “In a way,” Ian said. “Computer Assisted Design is a popular field.” He’d enjoyed a couple of classes he’d taken in the subject but found it no substitute for working on canvas. “That’s what I’m going to do, then,” Greg said. Jody refilled Ian’s cup. “Remember that new computer program I bought the other day?” she asked the boy. “You can design your own greeting cards.” “Can I go try it?” Greg asked. Receiving a nod and instructions on which icon to click for the program, he raced from the room. Jody studied Ian across the table. “You might as well tell me what happened last night. I’d like to hear the details from you before I read them in the newspaper.” “They won’t be in the newspaper,” he said. “At least not today, because the incident happened too late. I’m hoping we can avoid publicity altogether.” Jody shrugged. “In any case, give me your version.” He explained about the séance and the attack in Sharon’s apartment. “Even though the Gaskells are moving out, she’s determined to leave today.” “I know. She told me,” Jody said. “I suppose she’ll go to her sister’s, although they’ll be cramped in a small apartment with a baby. Perhaps I could find them a place.”

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“In the neighborhood?” Ian wondered if his great-aunt knew how much he wanted to keep Sharon nearby, and then realized that of course she did. “A lady in the next block came to ask advice last year when she converted her house to apartments,” Jody said. “I’ve still got her card. I’ll see if there’s a vacancy.” “I’d be grateful,” Ian said. “You don’t mind about her breaking the lease?” She made a face. “I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t sue me. You know how people are these days.” “Not Sharon.” “I’m sure she won’t,” his great-aunt agreed. They sipped their coffee peacefully for a while. “This place is only a block away?” Ian said. “That’s close enough so Greg could visit you after school.” “Never crossed my mind,” his great-aunt said with an almost-straight face. ***** While getting dressed, Sharon basked in the sunshine flooding through the bathroom window. After the violent storm last Wednesday and the changeable skies ever since, the contrast soothed her. Maybe the worst really was over. She dialed Karly’s phone number. Ordinarily, she didn’t like to call people on Saturday mornings, but parents of babies didn’t get the luxury of sleeping in. The answering machine picked up. She left a message, hoping her sister would interrupt halfway through, and stayed on the line until the machine hung up. Maybe Karly and Frank had gone out for breakfast. Sharon didn’t feel like herself this morning. A shaky awareness of how easily she could have been killed intruded on her thoughts as she showered and dressed. She’d never known this kind of fear before, an anxiety that refused to dispel even though Pete had called to say Bella, still in a daze, was confined to a locked ward. Shadows moved in odd ways. The normal creaking sounds of the house rattled Sharon. She wondered if she would feel safe even at Karly’s place. The one bright spot was the memory of Ian coming to her rescue. At the critical moment, he hadn’t suffered a seizure or acted bizarre. He’d been there when she needed him. The worst thing about leaving here was putting distance between the two of them, Sharon thought. She wondered if their relationship, still so new, would survive the move. But she had to consider Greg’s safety first, along with her own peace of mind. Staying was out of the question, especially with tomorrow being the anniversary of the tragedy. Until last night, she had considered the date’s significance to lie in its power to stimulate Ian’s seizures and possibly to reawaken old fears and sorrows in others. Now she wasn’t so sure there might not be nastier surprises in store. She didn’t know the explanation for what had happened at the séance. She was no longer sure she wanted to know. Half an hour later, Sharon called her sister again, in case Karly had been in the shower and hadn’t noticed there was a message. Again, she got the machine. If she couldn’t reach her sister, they would have to go to a motel. That didn’t suit Sharon’s budget and wouldn’t please Greg, but she saw no alternative. To her surprise, when she passed Jody’s apartment, she heard Greg’s and Ian’s voices overlapping. The two must be manipulating some kind of designs on a computer,

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because they were talking about clicking a picture into the upper right corner, and something else about fronts. Greg sounded excited, while Ian seemed amused. Sharon didn’t think she could face anyone right now, not even her son. She continued on to the kitchen and sat down to read the newspaper. While she was chuckling over a humor column, Jody appeared from the back yard. “I can never keep up with those weeds,” the landlady complained as she washed her hands. “After the rain, they’re easy to pull out, though.” “I’m sorry to leave,” Sharon said. “We’ve enjoyed being here.” “I’ve enjoyed having you. By chance, I know of another place that’s available in the neighborhood. If you’re interested, I’ll make arrangements for you.” “That would be perfect!” For her and for Greg both, Sharon thought. Jody explained that a two-bedroom apartment in the next block was scheduled to be vacated that afternoon. The rent was only slightly more than they were already paying. “The owner tells me her tenants closed escrow on a house and promised to remove the last of their things by five p.m. If you can wait until tomorrow, she’ll have the place cleaned.” Sharon shook her head. “No, I can’t sleep here again. I don’t mind the dirt.” “I’ll tell her,” Jody advised. “Sharon, listen a minute.” Her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “You know that I’ve lived through a lot in my time. What I’ve learned is not to dwell on the bad things. You have to go forward, for your boy’s sake as well as your own. Take the good that each day brings and let that be enough.” “I’ll try,” Sharon said. “I’ll feel better when Greg and I are settled. Please don’t take this personally. We want to stay close to you.” “I understand.” Jody nodded briskly. “After the anniversary, you may want to consider returning. But if not, at least you can visit often.” “We certainly will.” Setting aside the paper, she excused herself to go see her son. The sight of her son and Ian sitting side by side at the computer cheered her. Eagerly, Greg showed her a funny birthday card he and Ian had designed. After praising it to her son’s satisfaction, Sharon suggested they visit the park. “That’s baby stuff,” Greg sniffed. “I want to stay here. Ian’s teaching me how to be an artist.” A smile sprawled across the man’s face. “Your son’s enthusiasm is contagious.” “Nevertheless, getting out of doors will be good for him.” Sharon decided not to mention their move until later that afternoon. Otherwise, Greg would ruin his day. “We’re not used to weather like this in January, and I think we should take advantage of it.” As Greg started to protest, Ian cut him off. “I’ve got an idea. We can continue our art lessons and enjoy the sunshine at the same time. How about a trip to the beach?” Greg gave a whoop of joy. “I don’t think we’ll want to go in the water,” Sharon warned. “I’m sure it’s too cold.” “Doesn’t matter,” Ian said. “I’ll take a couple of sketch pads. A shovel, too. If I remember right, I used to enjoy digging to see if I could reach China.” “That’s an old story.” Greg thought for a moment. “But maybe we could dig up a geyser.” “Now, there’s a good idea,” Ian said. “Let’s get moving.” ***** Traffic was light heading toward the beach this time of year, and they had no trouble finding a parking place near the Newport Pier. A crisp wind whipped off the water, biting

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into Ian’s skin the minute he stepped from the car. He pulled on his jacket while Sharon made sure Greg did the same. The beach was populated solely by surfers in wet suits and fishermen on the pier. Although the sun hadn’t penetrated the low-lying fog along the shoreline, a yellow haze indicated that the skies would clear within an hour or two. “Wow.” Greg peered across the smooth strand in both directions. “The beach goes on forever, huh?” “Seems that way,” Ian agreed. “We’re on a peninsula. That’s like an island, only connected to the mainland at one end. There’s a lot of beach.” Greg didn’t stop to listen. As soon as Ian popped open the trunk, the boy grabbed the light shovel and raced onto the sand. The grownups followed more slowly, Sharon carrying towels, sunscreen and reading material. Ian toted two beach chairs, a box of supplies and a couple of sketchpads. From Greg’s absorption in digging, he gathered that the spare pad wouldn’t get much use. They chose a site above the waterline and dropped their gear. While Ian set up the chairs, Sharon stood with hands on hips, inhaling the salty air. The breeze whipped her hair into a russet cloud and the rumble of the ocean blotted out the rest of the world. By the time they finished establishing their outpost in the sand, Ian could hardly remember that any other place existed. He didn’t have to look far for a subject to sketch, with Greg underfoot. The boy threw himself into his work, and after a couple of warnings was careful not to fling sand. Ian made quick renderings of the boy’s active figure. “You still planning to dig up a geyser?” “No. I decided I’d rather find buried treasure,” Greg answered. “Good thinking.” When he’d sketched the boy from a dozen angles, Ian hesitated only briefly before turning his attention to Sharon. She sat angled in her chair, legs thrust out and bare feet poking the sand. From beneath a scarf, the wind sent tendrils of hair cavorting around her face. The sun wasn’t yet strong enough to require sunglasses, and from time to time when she looked up from her magazine, Ian glimpsed the bright green of her eyes. He feared at first that some demon would grip him, as in the past, and force his sketch into something he didn’t intend. Nothing happened. Maybe they had come under the protection of the sea god Poseidon. Or perhaps, last night, the house’s latent violence had finally been exorcized. Ian loved sketching Sharon. Layers of grief mingled with contentment emerged from the charcoal lines, suggested by the subtle tension in her jaw and neck. Her slim hips and legs, outlined by blue jeans, hinted at sensuality. As the day warmed, she removed her jacket and unfastened the top button on her blouse. Pale green fabric fell open to reveal the tops of her breasts, rising and falling gently. Desire swept Ian, as intense as if their first time were yet to be. He wanted it slower and more deliberate. He wanted to explore and arouse her inch by inch. Time passed without reckoning, until Greg announced that he was hungry. Ian shut the sketchbook. “I didn’t think to pack a picnic,” Sharon said, setting down the magazine. “Are the take-out places open this time of year?” “There’s always Charlie’s Chili.” Ian pointed across the parking lot to the restaurant. “I think that place pre-dates the arrival of the missionaries in California.” “Really?” Greg dropped his shovel beside the chairs.

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“Just a manner of speaking.” Impulsively, Ian invited the boy to accompany him in search of food. “You relax,” he told Sharon. “Thanks.” She went back to reading. With Greg loping beside him, peppering Ian with questions and comments, he realized he was enjoying the boy’s company. As an only child and an unmarried man, Ian had little experience with youngsters. The way Greg spotted details that adults took for granted fascinated him. A flash far out in the water that might have been a discarded beer can was, to the boy, unquestionably a dolphin. A yacht on the horizon must be sailing to Hawaii, and Greg was going to buy a boat like that by saving his allowance. Today, Ian wanted to be a child again and forget that past and future existed. He’d definitely save his pennies if that would buy a yacht. They returned with a non-dietetically-correct assortment of fried foods, which Sharon greeted with glee. “All my favorites,” she said, and plucked an onion ring from the sack. After they’d eaten, Greg wandered off to help several other children build a sandcastle. Sharon laid aside her magazine. “Thank you for bringing us,” she said. “This was exactly the right thing.” “For me, too.” Ian trailed one finger along her arm. “I’m not planning to let you go, even after you move.” “Good.” Sharon studied the ocean, dotted now with sailboats and surfers. “This is so peaceful. It’s the kind of childhood experience I imagined for Greg.” “Now that you’re back in California, he can have plenty of days like this,” Ian said. “I’m reminded of a photograph Karly and I found in a scrapbook,” Sharon told him. “A shot of my great-grandparents at the beach. Leila and Joseph, aren’t those pretty names? They were with your great-grandparents, Annamarie and Samuel Fanning.” “Annamarie and Samuel,” Ian repeated. He couldn’t recall Jody ever mentioning her parents’ given names. “And the children,” Sharon said. “They looked like little dolls. There were my grandmother and my great-uncle, and your grandmother Susan. Jody was there too, a baby in a carriage. I wonder if the picture was taken here.” She sighed. “In those old pictures, everyone looks so innocent and hopeful. They had no idea how difficult the twentieth century was going to turn out.” “Every century is difficult,” Ian said. “We have to enjoy the moments.” The sadness eased from her face. “Sometimes I forget that,” Sharon murmured. “Thanks for reminding me.” “I plan to do so often,” Ian said. ***** Pete visited his wife early and found her lying flat on her back, staring into space. He had higher hopes when he returned after breakfast, believing that full daylight might restore her to normalcy. Although someone had helped her dress, Bella sat in bed gazing at the wall and didn’t respond when he called her by name. Her room in the private hospital was circled at shoulder height by stenciled flowers, a forced cheerfulness belied by the severity of the stripped-down furnishings, the grate over the window, and by the thick door with its mesh-encased viewing glass. Pete sat on the edge of the bed for a while, then contacted a nurse and learned that Bella hadn’t been evaluated. Evaluated? he wondered as he trudged out with no particular

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destination in mind. How much could a doctor learn from a woman so unresponsive that she didn’t greet her own husband? Today there were better medications than when Bella’s father had gotten sick. Surely one of them would work. Near lunchtime, Pete returned from sitting mindlessly on a park bench. As he entered, a harassed-looking woman psychiatrist was bustling out of the ward. She stopped when he identified himself. Flipping open a notepad, she admitted she couldn’t make a diagnosis yet, and asked a few questions about Bella. Nothing he said inspired her to make any more notes, so Pete assumed he wasn’t able to be very helpful. “We’ll keep her under observation until we have a clearer idea of what’s going on,” the doctor said. “I hope that won’t take too long,” he said. “I hope not, either.” A nurse admitted Pete to the locked room, and he sat beside his wife again, wondering how she could have changed so completely in such a short time. His hand stroked hers on the bed. Over the years, blue veins and brown spots had overlaid the supple skin, but Pete still visualized the smooth young hand he had clasped when they were courting. Old age seemed like a trick someone had played on them. Bella stirred shortly after two o’clock. Her eyes, dimmer than usual without the customary makeup, blinked a few times and then, to his relief, a look of alertness returned. She didn’t ask where she was or what had happened. She spoke distinctly, in a normal tone. “Last night things weren’t what they seemed. It’s important that you understand.” He waited, but she said nothing more. After a while, Bella’s eyelids drifted shut, and Pete knew her mind had wandered away. He hoped she’d regain awareness soon. Then she could tell him what had really happened last night and exactly what he needed to understand.

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Chapter Seventeen

The sense of safety that had grown within Sharon at the beach lasted even after they returned to the Fanning house. She found additional reassurance in a message on her machine explaining Karly’s absence, which wasn’t so mysterious after all. “I thought you might get worried, so I’m calling to say that we’re in Redondo Beach,” Karly’s voice bounced at her. In the background, Sharon could hear Lisa gurgling. “Frank and I are having kind of a second honeymoon. I don’t know where we’ll stay tonight. Maybe Santa Monica or Malibu. We’ll be back Sunday night. Hope you’re having a good weekend!” Sharon deleted the message, glad that Karly and Frank had resolved whatever had been troubling them. Since Jody had found another apartment in the next block, the timing of her sister’s trip no longer mattered. While Greg was downstairs eating a snack, Sharon dragged the suitcases out of the closet. Only a week ago, she’d been glad to unpack at last, and now she was leaving. So many clothes to be folded. So many toiletry items to tuck into plastic bags. Sharon’s fingers fumbled through the tedious work. Even the plastic zipper locks seemed to conspire against her, and every now and then, a nasty glimmer of memory brought back last night’s assault in this same room. She would be glad to leave. After half an hour, she decided to take a break and went downstairs. In the living room, the landlady was listening raptly as Greg described the huge hole he’d dug in the sand. In youthful hyperbole, it grew to such staggering dimensions that the entire town of Newport Beach might have collapsed and disappeared inside. Sharon was grateful when Ian popped in a moment later and lured her son away to play Uno. She hadn’t wanted to broach the question on her mind with Greg present. “You’re wondering if the apartment’s vacant,” Jody volunteered as soon as the pair was out of earshot. “I called my friend and she said the tenants haven’t returned to pick up their furniture. Her best guess is that sometime after dinner.” Sharon sighed. The late afternoon sunshine was already dying, and an ache deep in her muscles reminded her that she hadn’t slept much last night. She wanted to be out of the house and into their new home without delay. “I’ll finish packing and we’ll go as soon as we get the word.” Jody nodded. “Whatever you think best. We’re going to miss you. You’re welcome to come back later, you know, as long as there’s a vacancy.” “Thanks.” Sharon wanted to express how much Jody’s kindness meant, but the woman’s brisk manner discouraged sentimentality. Instead, she said, “If you like Chinese food, I’m providing dinner.” “You’ll get no argument from me.” “I’ll run out now if you’d like.” Taking action, even something as simple as running an errand, felt good. “Don’t forget the sweet and sour pork,” Jody said. In the early dusk as Sharon drove, the sidewalks rumbled with shiny new skates and scooters. From back yards drifted the scent of grilling charcoal. The restaurant she’d noticed a few blocks away filled her order quickly, and she headed home with spicy aromas percolating through her senses. She was carrying the

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sacks toward the kitchen when Greg raced down from upstairs. “Why are you packing?” he demanded. “You didn’t tell me we were going back to Buffalo!” Sharon reproached herself for not telling him sooner. She’d been avoiding the subject all day because it brought back the horror of last night’s attack, but she should have realized he might find out accidentally. “We’re not. We’re only moving a block away. You can still visit Jody.” “No!” Tears streaked the boy’s angry face. “I’m not leaving! We live here now!” “We have to go.” Sharon wished she could find a way to make him understand without frightening him. “Greg—there’s something strange about this house. Something that could hurt us.” “How?” he demanded. I wish I knew. “Last night Mrs. Gaskell got very sick.” “Like you did last weekend?” Greg said. “Not exactly.” Sharon set the table as she talked. “You know I’ve never believed in ghosts, but last night, the Gaskells and Ian and I saw something very strange. Mrs. Gaskell believed it was telling her to hurt me.” “Well, there aren’t any ghosts,” he said. “And she didn’t hurt you, did she?” “She tried,” Sharon said. He stared at her in confusion. “Is she still here?” “No, she’s in the hospital.” “Then I’m not leaving. And you can’t make me go!” He turned and ran out. Sharon followed him, stopping when Jody came out of her apartment. “I couldn’t help overhearing,” the older woman said. “I’ll talk to him.” “All right. Thank you,” Sharon said reluctantly. “Please assure him that he can see you as much as he wants.” She didn’t like leaving the matter in Jody’s hands, but she knew from experience that when Greg got this upset, he resisted anything his mother might say. He was much more likely to listen to a friend. “Don’t worry,” Jody said. “He and I understand each other.” Sharon barely noticed what she was doing as she finished setting their places for dinner. She stuck a fork instead of a spoon into the rice and dropped the fortune cookies on the floor, smashing one into fragments. A few minutes later, Jody and Greg came down. The boy wore a tight, determined look, but he wasn’t crying. “We’ve come to an agreement,” Jody said. “I think he understands now.” “Greg?” Sharon asked. “I’m okay, Mom,” he said. “Honest.” He didn’t look happy, but Sharon supposed that was too much to expect. Even after Ian joined them, no one felt like conversing. Sharon tried to concentrate on her aromatic shrimp, while Jody needed no encouragement in enjoying her pork. Greg ate a few mouthfuls of rice and poked glumly at his egg rolls. Ian wore a preoccupied air, although he downed a respectable portion of beef with broccoli. After dinner, Sharon finished packing Greg’s possessions. Her son sat on his couch, glaring. “If Dad were here, he wouldn’t make us move,” he said as she tucked books into a duffel bag. “If Dad were alive, we wouldn’t have come to Fullerton in the first place,” Sharon pointed out. “Greg, I don’t like this myself. Grownups don’t always get what we want, either.” “Yes, you do,” he protested. “Oh, never mind.” He wandered into the next room

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and turned on the TV. Sharon continued packing and wondered exactly what Jody had said to him. At least he was no longer openly rebelling. By eight o’clock, Jody reported that the tenants still hadn’t returned to claim their goods. Sharon began to weigh the possibility of going to a hotel. Greg balked, even when she pointed out that a hotel would get the Disney Channel on TV. He didn’t want to be dragged around town, he complained. He didn’t want to leave at all, and he’d only agreed because they were going a block away. Soon he was stamping one foot, on the verge of a full-blown tantrum. Ian peered in. “Hey, sport, I had a late night and I’m turning in early. I can hear you howling all the way down the hall. How about giving a guy a break?” “I won’t go!” Exhaustion had overcome Greg’s earlier self-control. Sharon’s eyes met Ian’s over her son’s head. Both the males in her life were worn out, she realized, and so was she. They’d had a very long day. She didn’t want to drag her screaming son to a hotel. At this point, she wasn’t even sure she could face hauling him a block and trying to get him to sleep in a strange bed. With the Gaskells gone, the house no longer felt so threatening. Although she doubted she would ever again feel comfortable here, she could tolerate the place for one night. Tomorrow, whether or not their new apartment was vacant, Sharon would remove the two of them first thing. “All right, we’ll stay,” she said. “But we’re leaving directly after breakfast. No ifs, ands, or buts.” Greg subsided long enough to retrieve his pajamas from the luggage and brush his teeth, while Ian retreated down the hall. But as Sharon finished reading her son a book, he began to grumble again. “I want the soldiers.” “What soldiers?” “Ian said I could have the soldiers in the attic,” he told her. “I forgot about them. I want to take them with me.” “Fine. We’ll get them in the morning, okay?” “Promise?” he demanded. “I promise.” The boy began his nightly ritual of nuzzling his teddy bear. As he snuggled into his pillow, his gaze shifted to a distant spot and at last his eyelids drifted shut. Sharon’s muscles complained when she stood up. Ian had the right idea. She was going to lock the door and go to bed early. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. ***** Eating dinner alone in a fast-food restaurant, Pete downed his hamburger untasted. Bella hadn’t roused since that one cryptic comment in the morning and he was worried about her. Although the incident had happened before they met, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that her father had never recovered from his initial breakdown. The nurses and orderlies had moved through their duties with a crisp professional manner he found irritating. To them, Belle was just another mental patient. To Pete, she was the special person he had loved for half a century. He returned to the hospital. After checking his name against a list, the nurse let him into the locked room. His wife lay staring into space. “Bella?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

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No answer. Afraid to shake her for fear she might become violent again, Pete sat down with his newspaper. He’d read the whole thing already but he hadn’t worked the crossword puzzle yet. The only writing instrument he found in his pocket was a pen. Working the thing in ink seemed like an act of arrogance. He was debating whether to go out when an aide, a woman in her sixties with a round and sympathetic face, wheeled in a cart. Her name tag read Martha. “Excuse me, could I borrow a pencil?” he asked. “I’m sorry. We’re not allowed to bring sharp instruments in here.” She took out a towel and a damp cloth. “I thought your wife might feel better if we gave her a sponge bath. Just her face and hands.” “That’s kind of you.” The gentle contact might rouse Bella. “I don’t suppose you know how long people usually take to snap out of something like this.” “I’m not a doctor.” Martha talked soothingly to Bella as she wiped her. After a moment, she addressed Pete again. “I’d say there’s no way to predict.” At least she was willing to venture an opinion. He decided to push his luck. “They haven’t given me a diagnosis. Have you heard anything?” “I’m not supposed to give out medical information.” She stroked Bella’s hair back from her temples. “I’m not asking you to make a diagnosis,” Pete said quickly. “Maybe they don’t have one yet. But I missed seeing the doctor this afternoon and I thought maybe there was something she meant to tell me.” Martha’s mouth worked as if she were trying to make up her mind. Finally, she said, “Well, I did hear one of the doctors suggest that a séance might trigger some latent tendency toward schizophrenia. But that was only one possibility.” “Schizophrenia. That scares me,” Pete admitted. “I’ve heard people never recover from that.” “Sometimes they do,” Martha said. “You never can tell. There are some new medications that work fairly well, too.” “What causes something like that? Is it hereditary?” “The illness does run in families, I guess.” The aide patted Martha’s cheeks with a towel. “I’ve worked in this field for nearly forty years, and theories about schizophrenia change about as often as hemlines. I’ll tell you one thing, though.” “What’s that?” Pete asked. “I don’t remember seeing anyone your wife’s age develop it for the first time,” she said. “Usually it’s young people, anywhere from early adolescence up through their twenties.” “Well, this can’t be senility. That doesn’t come on all of a sudden,” Pete said. “And she wasn’t taking any drugs. The doctor asked about that.” “Maybe she had a shock.” The woman washed Bella’s hands, careful to clean between the fingers. His wife would have appreciated that, Pete thought, and then caught himself up short. He had no business thinking about her in the past tense. She was right here. “You never know how people will react to a shock.” After the aide left, Pete started wondering whether the doctors knew what they were doing. Could something be physically wrong with Bella? The séance and the attack on Sharon might have triggered a stroke. No, the stroke would have had to come first, to explain why his wife went berserk. On the other hand, he’d never heard of a stroke

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affecting anyone that way. If she wasn’t better by morning, he was going to insist on one of those tests that used initials. An MRI or a CT scan. Feeling better for his resolve, Pete angled his chair against the wall and settled in to take a nap. ***** Ian awoke at eleven-thirty. Although his body protested a need for more rest, his mind came fully alert. He wanted to examine the paintings he’d begun on Friday. Today, he hadn’t even lifted the dust cloths. Clicking on a gooseneck lamp, he uncovered the first easel. The clawed bush snatching at Sharon’s naked body resembled a hungry predator. Why had he painted a scene with such menace? Ian wished he knew whether there was any difference between the subconscious impulses that drove every artist and the ones that had triggered this work. He couldn’t stop thinking about the séance and the way someone else had taken him over. Had the same spirit inhabited Bella when she attacked Sharon? If so, could it manipulate him the same way? He uncovered the second painting. Another Sharon, another threat, this time from savage toys springing to life. There was a little girl in danger, too. Did she represent Greg? What was going on here? Grimly, Ian unveiled the canvas with the struggling figures. A large man partly turned away from the viewer was forcing Sharon toward a cliff. As he studied the scene, the attacker’s muscles seemed to ripple and the head to tilt. This had to be an illusion bred of fatigue. He rubbed his eyes and took another look. The figure had twisted toward him. Even though the face still wasn’t fully visible, Ian recognized the man with a start. He knew this spirit well. It had been his unseen companion in one way or another all his life, although for a long time he’d believed the presence was benevolent. In recent months, though, Bradley had taken him over during his seizures and, last night, in the middle of the séance. The face leered at him malevolently. Impressions poured through Ian’s brain so fast he couldn’t longer sort out what belonged to him and what was his grandfather’s. He knew he had to fight, but how could he? Bradley wanted to come back, all the way back, and Ian didn’t know how to stop him. Just as abruptly, he felt the presence leave. What a tremendous relief. Safe. He was safe. Then Ian saw by the clock on a side table that only minutes remained before midnight. The anniversary was about to begin. Where the hell had Bradley gone? ***** Bella awoke soon after midnight. Hearing his name spoken aloud, Pete rose through clouds of sleep to find himself sitting in a chair beside her bed. His neck ached.

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“Peter,” his wife said. “The anniversary has begun.” She sat so straight that her back formed an almost perfect right angle to her legs. “Let’s not dwell on that.” He wished his wife would forget this damn business about ghosts and murders. “The important thing is for you to get well.” “The important thing is for me to get out of here,” Bella corrected. The gaze she dropped on him was imperious. He shook his head. “Not tonight. You’ve been committed by the police.” “There’s nothing wrong with me,” she said. “You tried to stab Sharon Mahoney.” That gave her pause. “I’d forgotten,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, I’m sorry. There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?” Her helplessness tugged at Pete. “Please tell me what’s going on. You said earlier that I needed to understand.” Bella caught his arm. “Listen, he’s here with us right now. The spirit. He has to make us understand because no one else will listen.” Pete drew back in dismay. “The same spirit that ordered you to kill Sharon?” “No, no!” Bella’s voice rose to a near shriek. “I misunderstood him. Listen to me! This is vital. If I can’t go back tonight, you have to!” “To the Fanning house?” he asked. “Absolute not.” The only thing that would accomplish was to get him arrested, too. “You must!” Irritably, she brushed a strand of ropy hair from her forehead. He wished Martha had washed Bella’s hair was well as her face, because she’d always been fastidious, even at her most eccentric. “Quickly!” “To do what?” Pete asked. “To kill the beast.” Bella’s jaw jutted forward until she looked almost masculine. All sign of weakness had vanished. “The evil woman must be stopped.” She sounded harsh, not like Geraint but like the voice that had issued from Ian last night. No use trying to reason with her, Pete saw. The police and the medical staff were right. Even Bella had admitted there was something wrong with her mind. “You know I can’t.” The hand squeezed his arm so hard Pete thought the bone might snap. “Yes, you can,” said a cruel voice that belonged both to his wife and to someone else. “You must.” He found himself staring into the relentless eyes of a being he knew instinctively was Bradley Johnson. ***** In her dream, Sharon was visiting Niagara Falls with Jim and Greg. She lost sight of them at the lookout point and was searching through a crowd of tourists when a massive figure caught her arm. Mist from the falls obscured his face, but she knew he was going to push her over the edge. Trying to struggle, Sharon couldn’t make her arms and legs move. The wind carried away her screams, and the crowd vanished. She was going backwards, backwards toward the roaring water and a sheer drop. Once, as a child, she had fallen backwards into a large bird of paradise plant. That was the way the railing broke, crumpling like vegetation, with a sharp edge of resistance. Down, going down. She awoke in the middle of a scream. Moonlight fell in patches, intensifying the

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darkness of the room. The blackest place was right over her, in the shape of a man. Her throat clamped shut. She couldn’t make a sound. “It’s me.” Ian’s voice. Thank God. “I heard you screaming.” “I had a nightmare.” Sharon sat up and turned on the lamp. She blinked into the painful brightness. “It was awful.” As her wits returned, she said, “How did you get in?” “I still had the spare key,” he said. She made him out more clearly now. Although the bedside clock read 12:05, he was dressed in jeans and a paint-smeared shirt. The glare from the lamp didn’t seem to bother his eyes, so he must have been awake. “Were you painting?” she asked. He nodded. “I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I guess going to bed early wasn’t such a good idea after all.” Ian favored her with a crooked smile. “I’m glad you’re all right.” “Me, too.” All Sharon remembered was falling. She felt better now, though, with Ian here. When he leaned down, she raised her face to meet his kiss. She knew this man had the power to make her forget everything else, and she wanted to. As their mouths met, his hands slid down her peignoir, smoothing the thin material back from her shoulders. Life pulsed through Sharon as she inhaled the blend of masculine scents that emanated from Ian. The unshaven contours of his jaw and cheeks made her hungry to touch the unseen hollows inside his hips. Eagerly, she helped him lower his jeans and work open his shirt so she could run her hands across his skin. Wonderful tingles of hot awareness transfixed her as his lips moved down to her nipples. His dark hair, almost unbearably intimate in its softness, brushed her chest and his tongue traced her cleavage. He moved down to explore her stomach and traced the sensitive curve of her thighs until Sharon could no longer hold back. Her fingers found his shaft, large and ready. When his strokes completed their connection, turning them into a single creature, nothing else existed, nothing in the world. The rhythm intensified, desire oiling his passage in and out of her body. Arching deliriously against him, Sharon exulted in the play of skin on skin. She wanted this to last forever, and when he removed himself to poise over her, breathing hard, she missed him beyond measure. “More,” she whispered. “Are you sure?” he teased. “I mean now!” she commanded. Ian clasped her buttocks and fired a path deep into her. They were floating, soaring, twisting, melting until he crested with an exultant shout and org*smic waves lifted Sharon outside herself. “Oh, God,” Ian murmured when the peak had passed. “You were created for me, did you know that?” “I think I have a clue,” she murmured, lying against him so that her length took the measure of his size and strength. Tonight, her emotions whispered of love, and yet still she knew him so little. She wondered briefly if they might have awakened Greg, but there was no stirring from the boy’s room. Thank goodness for her son’s habit of sleeping soundly. They must have dozed, but a nagging worry brought Sharon back to the surface. The clock showed 12:48.

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Sharon thought she heard a noise in the hall, like slippered feet passing by. There shouldn’t be anyone walking around upstairs with the Gaskells gone, she thought uneasily. Troubled, she donned a robe and a pair of canvas slip-ons and went out. Her front door stood ajar. Had Ian left it that way? In Greg’s room, moonlight fell short of his bed. When she felt the covers, she found him missing. There was no sign of him in the bathroom, either. The noise she’d heard must have been Greg, wandering in a sleepy daze. He did that sometimes under stress. In Williamsville, soon after Jim died, she had discovered her son in the basem*nt, sound asleep on the cement. Sharon hurried into the hall. There was no movement and no response when she called his name. She was about to wake Ian and launch a search when she noticed the studio door wide open. Maybe Greg had wandered in there. She stepped into Ian’s apartment. “Greg?” No response. Calling again, she moved through the large room. A gooseneck lamp illuminated an easel to one side. From the corner of her eye, Sharon glimpsed someone staring at her, and swung around sharply. It wasn’t a man, only a painting, but the face seemed to track her as she approached. This was the face she’d come to know from the painting in the attic and from her TV screen and from Ian’s transformation in the mirror—Bradley Johnson, lip curled, anger gleaming. Sharon recognized the scene with a start—two figures fighting beside an abyss. The woman was her, naked and terrified, on the brink of falling. The dream rushed back. Although she couldn’t recall the details, her instincts told her that this had been the scene and this was the man who’d tried to kill her. Now that she inspected more closely, however, she could see that it wasn’t quite Bradley. The nose was narrower, the cheekbones higher, the eyebrows straighter. Sharon knew that muscular body, and not from any painting. She could almost touch the tapering waist and the sharpness of those hips. She knew how his mouth would feel on her breasts and how he would thrust into her as if he had been waiting for this moment across the decades. Who exactly had she slept with tonight? ***** Pete had to resist. Whatever demon had taken possession of his wife must not be allowed to influence him. Wrenching her fingers from his arm took all his strength. He hated being old. Although he’d never been an athlete, in his younger days there’d been an undercurrent of vigor that had ebbed over the years. He’d thought from time to time that he should exercise, but he never had. Now it was too late. “I’m going to call an orderly,” he said. “You should be sedated.” “Wait!” Bella sat up and reached for him, but he jerked away. “I’m not asking you to do anything wrong.” “I’m not sure you can tell the difference,” Pete said bitterly. “I’m not even sure who you are.” He tried the knob on the thick door, but of course it was locked. Hearing his wife get to her feet, he rapped hard, then noticed the red emergency buzzer in the wall. “There are no more chances,” intoned the creature behind him. “She must be stopped or there will be no future.”

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“Go back to bed!” To his dismay, Pete heard a note of fear in his voice. His finger trembled as he jabbed the button. The distance was greater than he’d realized, and his arm muscles went into a spasm, stopping him short. Bella laid her hand on his shoulder, and Pete felt energy surge through him. Or perhaps something else was entering him from his wife. In an instant, his mind cleared, his body grew powerful and the masquerade of old age fell away. Now he understood what he had to do. He had to go back to the house. And he must hurry. With a grunt, Pete shoved the door with an unnatural strength. He could feel the metal yielding and was about to apply his full weight when an orderly pulled from the other side and set him free. Pete spared a last glance at his wife’s body, collapsed on the floor. “Take care of her,” he told the confused man, and strode into the corridor and away.

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Chapter Eighteen Sharon had to find Greg and get him out of the house. Thinking she could stay for one more night had been a terrible mistake. The anniversary had begun at the stroke of twelve, and she could feel a pent-up fury being unleashed around her. In the hallway, her breathing echoed off the walls. Where could Greg have gone? Maybe he hadn’t simply been sleepwalking. Maybe he’d awakened and gone in search of entertainment. Greg still had a childish grasp of time, and he might have mistaken the bright moonlight for dawn. Sharon reached the head of the stairs at the same time as Jody, coming up. “Oh, my!” The older woman clasped one hand to her chest. “You startled me. I heard someone moving around up here but I didn’t know who.” “I’m sorry.” Her landlady’s arrival eased Sharon’s anxiety. “Did Greg wake you? Is he downstairs?” A shake of the head killed her hopes. “He’s missing, then?” Jody pointed past Sharon, toward the far end of the corridor. “Have you checked the attic?” “I don’t think he would go up there by himself.” She stopped, remembering Greg’s tantrum at bedtime. “The toy soldiers. He was asking for them.” “He shouldn’t be up there alone,” Jody reproved. “It’s a frightening place for a child. He must be terrified.” From the moment her son entered the world, Sharon had been amazed that she experienced his pain even more strongly than her own. Now she could feel his panic mounting up there in the dark, surrounded by looming shapes. All along, Ian had focused on the threat to Sharon because of her resemblance to Susan. She’d feared for Jody because of her age and possible health problems. What if they’d both been wrong? What if Greg was the one in danger? “I’ll go get him,” she said. Jody pulled her kimono-style wrapper tight. “Is there anything I can do?” Sharon couldn’t ask Jody to call the police and report some vague suspicion about a ghost. She didn’t even know for sure that her son was upstairs. “Just wait here.” She touched the landlady’s arm gratefully. “In case he shows up, I know he’ll feel safe with you.” “Of course,” Jody said. Sharon hurried down the hall and took the attic stairs so fast she hardly noticed them. She didn’t want to think about the cool draft coming from overhead, the draft that told her the door stood open. She didn’t want to notice the dusty smell or the prickle on the back of her neck. She just had to find Greg and get him out of there. At the top, she called her son again. Receiving no answer, she stepped onto the passageway that ran the length of the attic. Despite the glass door of the balcony on her right and several small windows to the left, moonlight barely disturbed the shadows. She flicked the light switch, but they didn’t come on. The problem must be the old wiring, Sharon told herself. There was nothing supernatural at work. She reproved herself for not bringing a flashlight. If Greg had brought his own small one, she didn’t see any evidence. She hadn’t thought to bring her cell phone, either, but there was no way she would leave to fetch it now that she was here.

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In the dimness, she saw that the Gaskells had removed the circle of chairs after the séance. Sharon tried to spot the box with the soldiers but either she’d misremembered the location or someone had moved it. Greg must have gone farther. She pressed forward, calling out and watching for a thin beam of light that might signal his presence. A movement off to her left startled her, and Sharon jerked around. A patch of moonlight was dimming and brightening as something nebulous moved rhythmically across a window. After a moment, she realized she was staring at a thick spider web that wavered in a draft. She had to stop scaring herself, she thought, and moved cautiously onward. ***** Ian awoke with a deep sense of satisfaction and reached for Sharon. The bed beside him was cold and empty. As he sat up, he noticed that the hour was just past one o’clock. He’d been asleep less than an hour. “Sharon?” No response, and he found the bathroom empty. Still sleep-drugged, Ian wondered where she could have gone this time of night. He remembered that this was the anniversary. But how could anything have touched her here, in her apartment, sleeping beside him? Any noise or struggle would have awakened him. Pulling on his clothes and sliding his feet into his loafers, Ian went to investigate Greg’s bedroom. The boy was gone, too. Sharon wouldn’t have sneaked her son off to a hotel in the middle of the night. They must be in the house. Ian made a quick check of his studio. His gaze fell on the painting, and the face startled him. He had thought it belonged to Bradley but now he could see that it was his own. Something evil walked this house tonight. Viewing the image of himself attacking Sharon, Ian feared that whatever was on the move would be coming for him, entering him, using him. His turn had arrived, but his turn to die or his turn to kill? He must have possessed some primitive instinct, because the hair on his arms began to bristle an instant before he heard the door shift on its hinges. “I’ve been looking for you,” said the flat, cold voice. ***** This late at night, the signals had switched over to blinking yellow on the main streets. Pete raced through them, too riveted to care how fast he was driving. He had a mission. As he turned onto Harbor Boulevard, a battered pickup pulled out of a restaurant parking lot and veered erratically across two lanes of traffic. Pete flashed by, not swerving, although his bumper missed the side of the truck by inches. Nothing could hurt him tonight. The spirit was with him. You have to stop her or there will be no future. How could they have missed the truth all along? How could they have allowed that woman to go on living in the house? Pete patted the tire jack on the seat beside him, his hand curling at the memory of

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the heft. He wasn’t sure whether he would need it when he arrived. He knew only that when he got home, he would receive another message. And he would obey. ***** Icy minutes ticked by with no sign of Greg. Sharon began to consider the possibility that he hadn’t come up here. Could he be downstairs in the kitchen? Perhaps he’d been hungry. She seized on this possibility. There was nothing she wanted more than to leave the attic, except to find her son. Maybe she could do both. Near the end of the pathway, Sharon tried his name again. Her eyes adapting to the dimness, she noticed an open box. There were the soldiers, spilling out. A week ago, the box had been on the other side of the attic, near the staircase, but someone might easily have shifted such a small thing. She recalled Greg telling her that he and Lisa had played here while Jody was watching them. If Greg had come upstairs tonight, he wouldn’t have left without the soldiers. Maybe he was here, and she’d just missed him. “Honey?” Sharon noticed a dark shape on the floor, half-hidden behind an armchair. “Are you asleep?” She knelt and touched the rumpled form. A piece of rough cloth yielded to the pressure. With a twitch, the heap stirred, and something small and rat-like scurried away. Sharon cried out and jumped back. Her calf scraped painfully against the edge of the box. Gulping in the musty air, Sharon wished her heart would quit pounding so fast she could barely think. She’d allowed an old dust cover and some kind of rodent to panic her. A chipmunk that had climbed here via the tree branches. Nothing more than a chipmunk. Obviously, Greg wasn’t here or he’d have reacted to her scream. He must have gone downstairs. Maybe he’d already come across Jody and was safely tucked away in her rooms. Sharon could go downstairs now. The ordeal was over. A board creaked behind her. She was about to attribute the noise to the house settling when she caught the unmistakable shuffle of a stealthy footstep. From the way the floor yielded, the intruder was too heavy to be her son. And the sound was between her and the stairs. Sharon pivoted. Silhouetted in dim moonlight, a large black shape moved toward her cautiously from about twenty feet away. Judging by its groping movements, she realized the man’s eyes hadn’t adjusted. “You won’t get away,” he growled. “Come out here where I can see you!” The harsh voice sounded like the one that had issued from Ian at the séance. As the figure passed through a patch of relative lightness, she saw something metallic in his hand. A large kitchen knife. Disbelief froze Sharon as images collided in her brain. Bella last night, sneaking into the bedroom. The attacker in the dream and Ian in the painting, thrusting her toward the cliff. They had come together right here. Warning after warning had pointed in the same direction, and at every step Sharon had thought she could circumvent the danger. Yet here she was, her efforts come to nothing. She wasn’t sure how, but someone or something had

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manipulated her with the skill of a master. She couldn’t stand here replaying the past while there was still a chance for escape. Sharon grabbed one of the eight-inch toy soldiers. Too light to use as a club but with the bayonet pointed upward, it might be able to inflict some pain or at least block a blow. The intruder stood with head co*cked, listening. Blinded by the dark, he couldn’t see her. Sharon fought to control the raggedness of her breathing to keep him from hearing, but sooner or later the man’s eyes would adjust and he would spot her. Trying to move without noise, she edged off the path between the welter of furniture and boxes. Each step raised dust, nearly choking her, and spider webs broke across her arms. She had to circle him and reach the stairs. Had to sneak past Debris crunched beneath her slipper. The tall figure reacted instantly. He lurched toward her, banged against a chest and cursed hoarsely. Too close for comfort, he slashed out wildly into the darkness. Sharon ducked behind a clothesline hung with clothes bags. When she dared to peek out, the intruder was standing motionless, no doubt listening. He waited with the air of a man who owned the darkness. There had been something vulnerable about his clumsiness, but now Sharon felt only stark dread. She crouched only a dozen feet away, her hands damp with fear. “Come out,” he barked. “Let’s get this over with.” Abruptly, she saw the man’s gaze sharpen and fixed on her. She couldn’t read his expression, despite the moonlight behind her. But she could see the way his muscles tensed as he lunged forward. The panic came in a wave. Sharon fled, not caring how badly she bruised herself. A high, shrill noise filled her ears as she shouldered through the mass of shrouded garments. Not until she felt cold air against the inside of her throat did she realize that she was screaming. Every gap between looming shapes steered her not toward escape but to the side, toward the glass door. On the balcony, someone might hear her screams for help. She had to get the door open. She had to get out there. No one in this house would help her. Certainly not the man she had come to love, the man she had taken into her bed tonight. She could see him now, struggling to push aside the cluster of garment bags. The moonlight from the doorway reached far enough to show her the features she knew so well, even if her disbelieving brain had not already recognized his voice. The man pursuing her was Ian. ***** Pete turned off the main road four blocks from the Fanning house and gunned the engine, roaring through the residential streets. Another turn, and flashing lights hit his eyes. Only a quick slam of the brakes prevented him from smashing into the rear of a police car. The street ahead lay blocked. People spilled out of a brightly lit house, some heading for their cars, others fleeing on foot. Officers had corralled a group of young men on the sidewalk. Pete cursed under his breath. Apparently a party gone out of control, which would not be unusual in Fullerton on a Saturday night.

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He was about to back up when another cop car arrived in his wake, blocking him. Apparently the driver had noted his screeching near miss, because the officer got out and headed toward him. Pete debated trying to run. From here, he could reach the Fanning house on foot. On the other hand, he could also get shot. At worst, the policeman would give him a ticket. He just hoped the process didn’t take long. Pete pulled out his wallet. Rolling down his window, he extended the driver’s license toward the officer. They recognized each other at the same instant. It was the man who’d taken Bella into custody the previous night. Romero, that was his name. “You in some kind of hurry, sir?” asked the officer. “You could have hit somebody.” He glanced at the license and waved dismissively. “Trying to get home,” Pete said. “I’ve been at the hospital with my wife all day. I guess I’m tired and upset and not paying attention.” “That’s how a lot of accidents happen, people driving when they’re not in good shape.” The policeman leaned close, probably to get a whiff of Pete’s breath and make sure he hadn’t been drinking. “You’re right.” Pete felt pressure start to build in the back of his head. He knew, without any rational explanation, that if he started the car, the pressure would ease. But he couldn’t leave until the officer gave him permission. “You live around the corner, right?” Romero straightened, apparently satisfied that Pete wasn’t drunk. “You know these people?” He indicated the party house. Pete shook his head. “Afraid not.” “Too bad. We could use some help ID-ing the residents.” Another officer strode toward them, and the pair put their heads together. The dull ache spread from Pete’s crown toward his temples. He needed to get going, but he was wedged between cop cars. The only way out would be to turn sharply toward the two men, who stood chatting as if he didn’t exist. He decided that speaking up couldn’t hurt. After all, the officer hadn’t pulled out a ticket book. “Excuse me,” Pete called. “I need to get home.” “Just a minute, sir.” Romero gave him a distracted nod and returned his attention to the newcomer. The pain began to throb. Pete gripped the wheel and wondered how much more he could endure. ***** The glass door was locked. Sharon wrenched so hard the panes rattled, but the thing didn’t budge. She’d made quicker time between the obstacles than Ian, with his greater bulk, but only seconds separated them. Desperately, she lifted the toy soldier and battered the glass. Despite the shock waves rolling through her arm, the thing thudded uselessly. Nearby, she heard Ian trip and land hard. The impact shook the floor. A groan told her he’d hurt himself, but surely that couldn’t be enough to delay him for long. Sharon poised on one leg and kicked as high as she could with the rubber heel of her slip-on. The shock of the impact sent pain pulsing to her hip. She heard a cracking noise and feared for a moment that one of her bones had given way.

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Then she saw the pane dislodge. Not shattered, but she’d managed to break the aging seal that held it in place. Furiously, she kicked again until the glass toppled to the floor with a hollow clunk. Reaching through the yellow warning tape Jody had attached, she tried to open the door from the outside. The handle didn’t budge. Forcing herself to think clearly, Sharon brought her hand back in and felt the inside surface of the lock. Her fingers revealed what she hadn’t been able to see, a small key left conveniently in place. Such carelessness wasn’t like Jody. Greg could have unlocked this door and gone out on the balcony. But Sharon didn’t care why the key was there, only that it turned, and the deadbolt snicked open and she could at last push the door out of her way. The widow’s walk moaned as she stepped out. Her stomach twisted with fear, but although the thing swayed, it held her weight. Hanging on to the door pull, she shouted for help with all her might. The unearthly pitch of her voice rang across the neighborhood and echoed back to her. ***** “Did you hear something?” Officer Romero frowned at Pete. He struggled to make out the policeman’s voice over the thrumming in his temples. “Not really.” “Don’t tell me they turned on the damn stereo again.” The second cop shook his head. “Naw, the party’s breaking up. There’ll be hell to pay when Mommy and Daddy get back from out of town.” Ahead of them, officers stuffed a couple of teenagers into patrol cars. The other partygoers had vanished. “Okay if I leave?” Pete asked. “You sure you’re all right?” Romero fixed him with a searching gaze. “Just worn out,” Pete said. “And I’ve got a killer headache.” The second cop left. Romero stood rooted in the street. “Tell me something.” He indicated the jack lying on the seat. “What’s that for?” The pain in Pete’s head made thinking almost impossible. “It’s late. I’m not as young as I used to be. I figured I could use a little protection.” The policeman considered for a moment. “You know, there’s something been bothering me since last night.” “Yeah?” said Pete. “You were involved in this occult stuff with your wife,” the man said. “Right?” “I went along with her interest.” Pete rubbed his temple. Useless. “Sometimes the person who breaks down, they’re just the obvious sign of something being wrong.” Romero planted his hands on his hips. “Sometimes the whole family is affected. We took a teen-ager into custody one night for beating up his sister, and two hours later his father murdered his mother. The kid was the safety valve for everybody else.” “Look, my head’s splitting in two,” Pete snapped. “Can I go?” “Sounds like you should see a doctor.” “Yeah. I’ll do that.” Would the guy never leave? There was no more room for his questions in Pete’s brain, only twisting, stabbing pain. Go now!

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He had to get relief. He had to obey. Without any conscious intent, Pete yanked the car into gear, twisted the wheel and stepped on the gas.

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Chapter Nineteen No one responded to Sharon’s shrieks. Along the street, the houses stayed dark. On a cool winter night, windows were shut and everyone was probably sound asleep. Ian’s body blocked the doorway. Feeling the balcony shudder, Sharon edged away from him, toward the railing. He wouldn’t dare come out here, knowing the extra pressure would send them both plunging to the street three stories below. At least, not unless he’d gone mad. “Sharon! For God’s sake, you’ll fall!” Ian sounded like his normal self, but she knew better than to trust him. “Go away!” “All right! Just come in from there!” She shook her head. What kind of idiot did he think she was? She knew the answer, of course. An idiot who had fallen in love with him. An idiot who had refused to believe he was part of any wrongdoing even after she’d seen his transition during the séance. Damn it, she still couldn’t believe he wanted to kill her. She didn’t know what to believe. “Take this!” He tossed something that slithered by Sharon, stopping near her foot. The knife. “I’m not going to hurt you. Will you come back here now?” Clutching the rail to keep her balance, she picked it up. The haft felt firm and reassuring in her grip. Why had he disarmed himself? Maybe he was hiding another weapon. Yet if she didn’t go soon, the balcony would cave in. “Jody said she heard an intruder in the attic,” Ian called. “She handed me the knife and I came running up here. I couldn’t find my damn flashlight and I couldn’t see who I was chasing. Sharon, I would never hurt you.” His explanation made sense. But everything about Ian had made sense to her, until tonight. “Go downstairs!” she called. “When I see you down on the sidewalk, I’ll come in.” He spread his hands placatingly. “Fine. No, wait. I saw a clothesline in the attic. I need to rig something for you to hold onto in case this whole mess gives way.” “All right. But hurry.” At a slight movement, the balcony groaned. Every breath Sharon took seemed to disturb the rotting wood. When Ian’s frame vanished from the doorway, she almost called him back. But why should she believe his story? Jody wouldn’t have claimed she heard an intruder when she knew Sharon was in the attic. Ian must have planned this whole scenario from the beginning. He’d brought her upstairs and shown her the balcony that first night, and he’d certainly pursued her tonight. Thank goodness Greg wasn’t here. If only she could be sure her son were safe, Sharon wouldn’t worry so much for herself. Long moments later, Ian returned. He leaned out and tied one end of the clothesline to the flagpole jutting from the house. He seemed to take forever working on the knot, leaning and testing its strength. “Here.” He tossed the end of the line toward her. Not daring to loosen her grip on the railing, Sharon held on with one hand while she seized hold. But she couldn’t pull herself in, not with Ian standing there.

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“I’m going now,” he said. “Wrap the cord around your waist. Sharon, the damn thing won’t hold much longer—“ The words ended in a cough, as if something had rammed into him. Ian staggered and tried to catch hold of the door, but another blow from behind sent him plunging onto the balcony. Wood cracked and the platform raked sharply. Sharon began screaming again, but the wind snatched away the sound. ***** Pete couldn’t clear the car in front of him, so he screeched into reverse. He seesawed frantically, trying to get out, not caring that he was banging into the bumpers of two patrol vehicles. “Hold it!” Romero drew his gun. From the edge of his vision, Pete saw other officers turning to look. Finally, his bumper cleared the vehicle ahead. He was about to hit the gas when, dead ahead, he spotted a crouching officer with his gun aimed at the windshield. Stop her or there will be no future. Gritting his teeth, Pete stomped the gas. The car jumped forward. At the last moment, the man rolled aside and the windshield shattered. Cracks spiderwebbed from a bullet-sized hole. Pete floored the gas and shot down the street. Behind him, policemen scrambled for their cars. He was going to arrive at the head of a parade. The only thing that mattered was that they didn’t stop him before he reached the Fanning house. With a screech, he turned the corner, two blocks from home. ***** Ian’s weight was almost more than the balcony could bear, even with his grip tight on the flagpole. He must be insane to have lunged out here. Another tall figure replaced him in the doorway. After one shocked moment, Sharon’s spirits leaped. Jody! Surely she would see that Ian’s madness threatened both their lives. “Help us!” Sharon shouted. From where he hung onto the flagpole, Ian was shaking his head. “Don’t you understand? She sent me up here hoping I’d mistake you for an intruder and kill you. Now she’s going to do the job herself.” “Jody?” she repeated numbly. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Think about it!” he said. “Don’t trust her, Sharon. She’s been using us all along.” “But why?” “She wants your son.” Ian shivered as he spoke. “That doesn’t make sense!” “Just like she wanted my father,” he said. “And me.” Greg had spent almost every waking moment all week with Jody. She’d made him her heir if anything happened to Ian. And she’d obtained a signed document appointing her as his godmother. It would appear that Sharon had wanted her to have custody if she died. None of this explained the weird goings-on at the séance or with the paintings. Yet

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Sharon couldn’t deny the gleam of triumph she saw on the old woman’s face. “Where’s Greg?” she cried. “What have you done with my son?” Jody’s lip curled. “He’s not your son,” she announced. “Not any more.” Her foot stamped onto the balcony, sending shock waves. “You wouldn’t!” she cried. “You wouldn’t kill innocent people!” “Yes, she would,” Ian said. “She’s done it before, Sharon. She’s done it twice.” ***** The memory had come back an instant before his great-aunt shoved him out the door. Ian heard her labored breathing behind him and smelled her perspiration, and in a flash, he remembered. He was five years old. Mommy and Daddy had gone upstairs, all laughter and hugs, not quarreling any more. They’d told him they needed some private time and he was to stay with Aunt Jody. He could even spend the night downstairs with her later when they went out, they’d said. He should enjoy his time with his grandmother because the three of them were going to be moving out soon and he wouldn’t get to see her as often. Ian couldn’t find Aunt Jody in the house. She was in the garage working on Daddy’s car, grease smearing her smock. She looked up when he came in, breathing hard, startled to see him. Then she smiled and said she was tuning up Daddy’s car as a surprise and he was to keep the secret. Afterwards, she took him out for ice cream. Ian remembered awakening that night, hearing a policeman at the door speaking with Jody. He’d known at once that something was wrong because the hour was so late and Mommy and Daddy hadn’t come home. He heard the officer say their car had hit a wall. There was a possibility the brakes had failed but because of the fire the authorities might never know for sure. Ian had pretended to be asleep. Terrified, he’d wondered if the tragedy could be his fault. Maybe when he’d interrupted his great-aunt while she was fixing the car, he’d made her mess something up. Maybe he’d caused this awful accident. What if Jody got mad and put him up for adoption? He’d shoved the whole thing to the back of his mind as too terrible to contemplate. All these years it had festered there, hidden from conscious thought. That must be why, at some level, his own accident had struck him as a judgment, although he’d never understood the feeling. Now a shock had brought the whole mess back. Now, as an adult, he finally understood what he’d seen in the garage. If only he’d realized that his great-aunt was fixating on Greg. Another boy, another son. And another anniversary of the night that she’d killed her sister, or manipulated Bradley into killing her. Ian didn’t know the details, but he felt certain Jody was responsible. For some sick reason, she’d coveted that baby and she’d made sure she got him. He assessed his chances of knocking her aside and getting into the attic. The struggle would almost certainly send the balcony smashing to the sidewalk, and even though Sharon had wrapped the clothesline around her waist, it might not hold. On one side of the balcony lay an outthrust section of roof one floor below, where the skylight topped his studio. He might be able to jump that far, but there would be no way to break inside and summon help. He might save himself, but not Sharon.

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On the other side, one story down and half a dozen feet away lay a heavy flowerbox that protruded from the Gaskells’ window. Ian wouldn’t have taken very good odds on its ability to hold him, but he knew Bella usually left the window ajar. At least he was in decent physical shape. He had to try. Blotting everything from his mind except the task ahead, he released his hold on the flagpole. Sharon watched, wordless. He wished he could reassure her or at least tell her how much he’d come to love her, but any minute this damn widow’s walk was going to snap loose. Angling across the dangerously sloping balcony, he climbed onto the railing and made a mental gauge of the distance. Then he launched himself into space. ***** Bradley had escaped. Furious, Jody watched him cling to the window box, his body dangling over the street, and then pull himself to safety. He would come back. But by then, she would have disposed of Susan. Susan had always been the pretty one, the popular one, the flirt, but that hadn’t been enough for her. She’d stolen everything from Jody. As for Bradley, there were no words vile enough to describe the traitor who had taken Jody’s virginity and then abandoned her. The first time she’d seen him, she knew he was meant to be hers. Everyone thought she, like Susan, had met him for the first time at church, but that wasn’t true. Bradley had been working as a foreman at the orange packing plant by the railroad tracks. Jody had seen him from the train one day as she returned from visiting a girlfriend in Pasadena. The sweat stood out on his muscular back, and when he turned she felt a chill go through her at his powerful features and intelligent eyes. She had done something no decent woman would do. From the station, she’d taken a cab to the packing plant instead of going home on the bus. Arriving by good luck right at quitting time, she’d boldly asked him out to dinner. She could still remember the bemused look on the man’s face when he accepted. After he washed up, they’d dined nearby at a little cafe, and then gone up to Bradley’s room and made love. Jody had never thought clearly about what she expected from Bradley. She’d only known that he awoke sensations that had changed her forever. In her sheltered world, the obvious next step was for the man to ask her to marry him. But he didn’t. He walked her to the bus stop and said good-bye. That’s when she told him where she went to church. She knew enough about men, or thought she did, to expect that after a while he would want more of what he’d enjoyed and would come looking for her. He showed up, all right. He favored her with a half-smile when he entered the sanctuary, and then he blinked as if not quite believing what he saw. His eyes got bright and he came over and asked her to introduce him to Susan. She’d believed he was coming to see her. Her heart had leaped with joy, and he’d made a fool of her. Later, when Jody threatened to tell her sister the truth, he’d retorted that if she did, he would tell the world she was a whor*. Even so, she’d hinted to Susan that she’d met the man first, to which the mocking reply had been, “Love isn’t a game of finders keepers, you know.” At first, she thought he’d soon tire of Susan and throw her aside. Weeks later, when

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Jody discovered she was pregnant, she’d known with a rock-solid certainty that Bradley would finally do the decent thing and marry her. If she lived another eighty years, she would never forget the expression of revulsion on his face when she told him. “It isn’t mine,” he’d said. “God knows how many men you’ve been with.” No matter how often she bathed, Jody would never wash away the grime from that abortionist’s apartment. She could still smell the slime and muck on the tarp-covered table after the woman did her work. The next days had gone by in a haze of pain. Jody couldn’t let her parents see that she was ill. She had to hide the cramping and pretend the blood was a normal period. Certainly she would never have revealed to her sister the depth of her shame. She couldn’t bear to hear Susan mock that. Rage filled the void inside her. Everything about Susan and Bradley stirred her fury—their loving glances, the way they held hands, their surreptitious kisses. And that little sneer that played around Bradley’s mouth whenever he glanced at Jody. When he got drafted into the Army, she knew that was God’s will. When she learned of Susan’s pregnancy, she’d vowed that her sister should share her grief. Jody made sure no letters were posted or received. And Bradley did write, even without knowing of Susan’s condition. Jody burned each letter as soon as it came. Pretending to carry her sister’s outgoing mail for her, she burned that as well. She also spread rumors about her sister and invented gossip for her parents’ ears, hardening their hearts against Susan. But one of Susan’s letters had gone out, heaven knows how, and Bradley must have found a way to respond. Fortunately, still believing Jody to be her ally, Susan confided in her. She begged Jody to get the family out of the house one night so she and Bradley could elope and take the baby with them. Jody got there first. She hadn’t known what she was going to do until she saw the knife in her hand and her sister’s body crumpled on the floor. She barely had time to hide herself when she heard Bradley running up the stairs. As he stood in shock, staring at Susan, Jody pulled off her stocking and strangled him from behind. She didn’t know where the strength came from. Surely from God. Then she found a rope in the garden and, with the strength of her pent-up rage, hung Bradley from a beam so his death would appear to be suicide. In those days, there were no crime laboratories to show that he’d died from the wrong kind of strangulation, and no nosy police investigators to question the spatter of blood on her dress. Nowadays a person had to be a lot more careful. At first, Jody had intended to kill the baby too. But when she gazed into his sweet little eyes, she’d known he was meant to replace the child she’d lost. Things had been made right at last. No one would ever take him away from her. Not then, not thirty-five years later, and not now. Susan never learned. There was still time, before Bradley got here, to knock the balcony loose and kill her sister. If he tried to turn Jody in, she would tell the police that he was the one who’d killed Susan. They would believe her. She was just an old woman, and he was a big strong man. Now he would see how wrong he’d been. Now he would suffer the way he’d made her suffer. First Jody had to get rid of the clothesline, while staying beyond the range of the

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blade in Susan’s hand. From her pocket, she retrieved a folding knife small enough to hide in her hand but very sharp. Sharp enough to cut a thin nylon line. A voice stopped Jody. Faint, it came from far below. “Mommy?” She’d left Greg asleep in her apartment after fetching him from his room earlier. What was he doing outside? “He’s under the widow’s walk!” Panic filled Susan’s voice. “It’ll fall right on top of him!” “Jump,” said Jody. “Jump away from him. Then I won’t have to knock it down.” Seeing the torment in Susan’s eyes, Jody almost felt sorry for her. But not for long. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I’ll take good care of him.” ***** Pete didn’t understand how he and Bella could have been so blind all these years. No wonder Bradley’s spirit walked the house, unable to rest, while his murderer lived on in peace and comfort. Now Jody had fixed her sights on another child and found another victim, a near twin to Susan. Bella had misunderstood the message and become obsessed with the idea that the woman Bradley hated was Sharon. He supposed the ghost must have been struggling to communicate with them all along, but its messages hadn’t come through clearly until Bradley seized control of him tonight. Or perhaps dozens of small clues had simply fallen into place in Pete’s subconscious. He would never know, but that didn’t matter. He only knew that he had some vital task to accomplish, and that time was passing much too rapidly. He could hear sirens screaming behind him, and ahead, too. They must be circling around the block to cut him off. Romero had surely figured out where he was going. If only the man could figure out the reason, they’d leave him alone and go after Jody. Pete wished he weren’t so old. He didn’t see how he could save Sharon if Ian couldn’t. Or was Ian already dead? A moment later, rounding the corner onto his own block, he stared in dismay. The widow’s walk listed at a horrifying angle, with a woman’s slim figure clinging to it. Directly beneath stood Greg. The balcony would crush him when it fell. The woman was shouting the child’s name, trying to get him to move out of danger. He stood frozen with fear or with a childish lack of comprehension. Pete had been sent to save the boy. That was what Bradley meant. Greg was the future. But as Pete screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and leaped out, a cracking noise tore through the air and the balcony sagged, hung frozen for one instant and collapsed. He had arrived too late.

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Chapter Twenty The only possible way to save Greg was to jump. Once Sharon left the balcony, Jody would have no reason to knock it down. She still hoped Ian would manage to make his way through the house in time to help, but she couldn’t count on that. And if she went now, before that madwoman could cut through the clothesline, she might be able to push her way over to the skylight. Sharon climbed gingerly onto the first rung of the railing, but the balcony’s support was so fragile that the mere shifting of her weight added to the strain. It creaked and sagged, shaking so precariously that she was afraid to make another move. She couldn’t climb over the railing without sending the platform on a death plunge. Yet it was likely to fall even if she stayed here. Sharon closed her eyes and prayed. Below on the street, sirens raced toward the house. Someone must have heard her screams and called the police, but unless they’d brought a ladder truck, there wasn’t much they could do. “It’s going to break under my weight,” she called to Jody. “Help me in or it’ll hit Greg.” “He’s mine!” The old woman’s face creased with rage. “You man-stealer! You slu*t!” “I’m not Susan!” If only there were a way to shatter the woman’s delusion. “I’m Sharon Mahoney. I just look like your sister. Please help me!” “You can’t have him,” Jody snarled. “The boy’s mine.” There was no point in pleading, Sharon realized. You couldn’t reason with madness any more than you could reason with the laws of physics. “You took my baby away and now I’m getting him back.” Her teeth bared with pure malice, the old woman leaned out and stamped on the balcony With a shriek of splintering wood and a sigh like lost hope, the balcony gave way. ***** Time slowed and the air thickened as Ian struggled through the attic. Wrenching open the Gaskells’ half-shut window had been a battle against rusted hardware and a warped frame, and now his legs felt like stumps. From ahead of him came the unearthly wail of old wood tearing loose. He had to reach Sharon before the balcony snapped off entirely. The clothesline might be a blessing or a curse—Even if it broke her fall, the initial jolt might snap her spine. He had to save her. The sight of his great-aunt’s figure in the balcony doorway filled Ian with pain. Even now, after all she’d done, he didn’t want to harm her, but he couldn’t let her kill Sharon. “Out of my way!” Grabbing her shoulder, he tried to engulf her in a blanket he’d brought. With a crazy kind of agility, she dodged away. The balcony sagged at a crazy angle. Sharon half-dangled, half-clung to the line, bracing against the tilted railing to reduce the pressure on her waist. “Greg’s down there! Ian, help him!”

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“I can’t—“ From the corner of his eye, Ian saw a figure fly at him. Instinct and training sent him ducking and rolling so that Jody’s own weight carried her over and past him. She scrabbled to hang onto the door, ancient hands dropping the knife she had produced from nowhere. Ian caught an instant of disbelief in her eyes, and then she tumbled outside. Beneath this final insult, the balcony cracked and fell. ***** The distance from Pete’s car to the little boy could be measured in jarring strides. One to get clear of the car, a second to reach the curb, a third onto the sidewalk, and then Jody and the platform came hurtling down—too soon and too far away. Pete couldn’t reach him Greg stood motionless, face turned up, watching his mother dangle at the end of a rope. He was directly beneath hundreds of pounds of falling wood and metal. Above him, Jody uttered a high, thin wail like the death cry of some exotic bird Pete’s vision blurred. He could have sworn he saw a whitish mist surround the boy and ease him aside an instant before the ground shook. After the shock of the crash came an eerie silence. Coughing, Pete hurried forward, not sure what he would find until he rounded a pile of wreckage. The child stood unharmed, inches from the jagged ruins. Resting one hand on the boy’s shoulder, Pete guided him away. He tried to shelter him from the sight of Jody’s crumpled body amid the mess. “It’s all right,” he murmured over and over. “It’s all right.” “I know,” Greg said. “Bradley helped me.” Above, Pete heard Ian calling encouragement, and saw that Sharon had managed to swing onto a bit of second-story roof near the skylight. “The fire department’s on its way. They’ll get you down!” Officer Romero called before kneeling next to Greg. “You okay, little fella?” Other officers were pulling away the splintered wood, trying to reach Jody. “The ghost helped me,” Greg said. “Ghost?” Romero didn’t seem to know what to make of that response. “Bradley. He told me he’s my great-grandpa.” The boy wrapped his arms around himself. “Is Mom okay?” Pete looked up. Sharon was sitting on a solid jut of roof.” She’s fine.” “What’s this about a ghost?” asked the officer. “He lives in the house,” Greg said. “Family legend,” Pete explained. “Officer Romero, I’m sorry I drove off like that. I knew people were in danger and I couldn’t stay to explain. It’s a very long story.” “You’ll have plenty of time to make a statement,” said the policeman. “I’ll be interested to hear this one.” ***** Paramedics treated Ian’s and Sharon’s bruises and pronounced Jody dead at the scene. A detective drove up a short time later and took first her and then Ian aside. Throughout his questions and the answers that sounded strange to her own ears, Sharon’s

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thoughts remained focused on her son. How devastated he must be at seeing yet another loved one die, this time in front of his eyes. She wondered what childish interpretation he would put on what had happened. She also wondered how he would describe the events to the officers, who were regarding her and Ian with guarded skepticism. In the end, Greg helped convince the police that the key points of the story were true. He told them that Jody had awakened him in the night and taken him downstairs, promising that he could stay with her and not leave in the morning. “She was trying to take you away from your mother?” the detective asked, jotting in his notebook. “She acted nice but she was mean,” Greg said, sitting in the back seat of a parked police cruiser. Although the detective had asked to interview him alone, the boy refused to let his mother out of his sight, and Sharon could hear her son’s voice through the open door. “Bradley told me so.” “Bradley? That would be this so-called ghost?” said the policeman. Greg nodded. “He told me Jody killed her sister and Bradley, and then she killed Ian’s parents, too. She wanted to kill Mommy.” “Who really told you this?” the detective asked. “Bradley. He talked inside my head.” Greg spoke calmly, as if recounting the plot of a movie to one of his friends. “He made me get out of the way. You know, when the beckonly fell down.” “The balcony?” “Yeah, the balcony.” Romero, who had emerged from the house in time to hear this last exchange, stuck his head into the patrol car. His voice drifted back to Sharon. “I saw the damn thing,” he told the detective. “Like a white cloud around the little boy. It pulled him back in the nick of time, if you can believe that.” “I don’t know what to believe,” said the detective, and shut his notebook. “Bradley kept me safe,” said Greg. “Like my Daddy used to do. I thought when people died they were gone, but they’re not. I guess if they love you, they can stick around.” ***** Sharon hadn’t believed she would be able to fall asleep again, especially since, by the time the investigators left, broad daylight had displaced the darkness. But somehow she did, wrapped in a comforter on her couch with Greg dozing in his bed. She dreamed about Jim, but she couldn’t see his face any more. She kept visualizing Ian the way he’d appeared in the attic doorway, his face tight with concern as he helped swing her onto the recessed roof. The transition from sleep to wakefulness came gradually, so that she seemed to have been thinking about last night’s events rather than dreaming. Sharon sat up, wondering at the changed angle of the light, certain she couldn’t have dozed for more a few minutes. Yet they’d reached mid-afternoon, she discovered. After checking that Greg was asleep in his room, Sharon showered and dressed. She felt shaken but not frightened any more. Whatever had haunted this house had left. From down the hall she heard footsteps and men’s voices, talking quietly. She went out and found Ian helping Pete Gaskell carry out suitcases. Pete had come back last night,

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she remembered. He’d been standing beside Greg after the widow’s walk fell. “I’ve taken a room at a residential motel near the hospital,” he told her. “Bella seemed almost her old self this morning, and then she started spouting nonsense. The doctor says she suffers from something called paranoid personality disorder. This ghost business pushed her over the edge.” “Pete’s decided to rent a condo in Palm Springs,” Ian added, going down the steps with two large valises. “And move her to a facility there.” “I hope you don’t mind us leaving our things here until I can find a place.” Pete shifted from one foot to the other as if there were many things he wanted to say, and didn’t quite dare. “Not more than a week or so.” “It isn’t up to me,” Sharon said. “The house belongs to Ian now, I guess.” The older man cleared his throat. “I never expected anything like this to happen. Bella and I were toying with something dangerous, like children playing with matches. I should have seen this coming.” “What about me?” Sharon asked. “I didn’t leave even after my TV set caught fire and I saw weird visions in the church. I didn’t expect anything really bad to happen either.” “Things will be all right now.” Pete pressed her hand. “You deserve a break.” After he left, Sharon became aware of a residual weariness lurking behind her eyelids. There was no question of sleep, however. Her mind was busy picking over thoughts and trying to organize them. Tomorrow school would start, and she had to be ready. If she were going to move into that nearby apartment, she needed to take care of the matter today. Except, she realized with a start, the place probably didn’t exist. Most likely Jody had invented it to keep Sharon around for another day. There’d been so many lies and machinations, she couldn’t sort them all out. She sank onto the top step. She didn’t feel competent to deal with much of anything at the moment, let alone finding a new home. Ian came back and sat beside her. His presence was infinitely welcome. “You won’t leave now, will you?” he asked. “I don’t know,” Sharon said. “I wish you’d to stay.” He slipped one arm around her. “This is your house, too. Yours and Greg’s.” Her head sank onto his shoulder. “I can’t think straight.” Except I know I belong with you. He’d endangered her last night, but she understood that he too had been caught up in an ancient pattern of misplaced trust and blind passion. Nothing could ever take away the wildness inside him, nor would she wish for that. It was part of what she loved about him. “I’m not in such good shape myself.” Ian’s voice tingled through her. “There is one thing I’d like you to help me with today, if you don’t mind. Would you and Greg come with me to church? I’d like to put flowers on the graves.” Today was still the anniversary of Bradley’s and Susan’s deaths, Sharon recalled. “Do you think they’ll insist on moving Bradley’s grave now, even though he didn’t kill her?” “The pastor might be there,” Ian said. “Let’s find out.” *****

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The day was bright and spring-like. Ian seemed less moody, as if the sunlight bathing his face reflected a new clarity within. Greg kept breaking into a trot as they crossed the nearly empty parking lot, and once Sharon feared he would drop the spray of roses he carried, a twin to the bouquet in her own arms. But the flowers arrived intact at the side door of the church, just as the two pastors Arbizo exited. The son, Carl, no longer young himself, supported his slow-moving father. Their heads came up at the same time, startled by the boy, and then two pairs of brown eyes focused on the approaching couple. The elder minister spoke first. “We heard on the radio that Jodie Fanning died last night. What on earth happened?” Sharon was grateful that Ian took the initiative of filling them in. The men listened solemnly, asking a few questions and trying to make sense of the answers. There were still gaps missing. No one knew, and perhaps they never would, why Jodie had nursed such a vicious hatred for her sister and Bradley. Sharon saw no point in mentioning the accusation against Susan of being a man-stealer, since that had probably been a figment of Jody’s tormented imagination. “I’ve been wrong,” Armand Arbizo said. “All these years, I was wrong to think so badly of Susan Fanning. And of Bradley, of course.” “Everyone was certain he’d murdered her,” his son pointed out. “And that in some way or other she’d led him on.” “There were ugly rumors, but I should have given them both the benefit of the doubt.” The old man’s shoulders sagged. “I was in love with Susan. That’s the problem. I was a jealous fool. More than half a century I’ve called her names, and told myself she was an evil woman, but I was the one who lacked charity. Maybe if I hadn’t, I’d have seen the truth in time to save Martin and his wife.” Ian took the old man’s hand. “What about me?” he said. “I saw my great-aunt tinkering with my parents’ car when I was five, but I misinterpreted the whole thing and then I repressed the memory. I’m trying to accept the fact that I’m not to blame for any of this, and you should do the same.” “I think I’m going to sneeze,” Greg announced. The bustle to relieve him of his flowers broke the tension. Carl Arbizo went to fetch two vases, and the elder pastor insisted on accompanying them into the cemetery. “Can the grave stay here?” Sharon asked. “I think Bradley deserves to lie near Susan.” “He wasn’t blameless,” the elder man said. “He got the girl pregnant, even if he did mean to do the right thing by her in the end.” “He saved my son’s life last night, and I think all week he was trying to save mine by frightening me away.” Understanding had grown gradually that the unsettling events of the past week had been Bradley’s attempt to chase Sharon out, not to harm her. He had tried to protect her in the only way he could. “I’ll have to leave that decision to the congregation,” Carl said, returning with the vases. “Some of the older members might object.” One in particular, she thought. Susan’s former fiancé. After leaving a bouquet on Susan’s grave, they came around a weeping tree into sight of the charred mound where Bradley’s gravestone lay. To Sharon’s surprise, there was someone already there. A dapper suit draped the wizened frame leaning against a walker. On the ground

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sat a bucket of baseballs. “I heard Bradley liked to play ball on the weekends, when he wasn’t painting,” Grayson Wright announced to no one in particular. “Thought this would be a better tribute than some kind of sissy flowers.” “They’re not sissy.” Greg, who had relinquished his bouquet to Ian, ran over to the bucket. “Can I have one?” “I don’t suppose Bradley Johnson would mind.” Grayson gave Sharon a sad smile. “Pete Gaskell called this morning and told me the whole story. I hope this business isn’t going to drive you out of that house, Sharon. I think it’s right and proper that you should live there.” “I agree,” Ian said. “You’d better make a more romantic proposal than that,” said Grayson Wright. “If you don’t watch out, I’ll steal this woman away from you.” A bemused expression crossed Ian’s face. “I’d like to handle that in my own good time, thank you very much.” Sharon’s heart leaped. After the traumatic memories Ian had recovered, she’d wondered if they could ever take their relationship to the next stage. His words seemed to indicate that they had a chance. Carl Arbizo indicated the bucket of baseballs. “Do I understand you’ve withdrawn your objection to leaving Bradley’s grave in this location?” The old man nodded. “Damn right. Move his grave next to Susan’s if you want. Build a mausoleum. Erect a blooming Taj Mahal for all I care.” “I think these flowers will do for a start,” said the young minister, and set them by the gravestone. “I’d like for you to conduct the funeral for my great-aunt,” Ian told him. “I think she should be buried in the family plot here, although not close to her sister. If no one objects, of course.” “She must have led a sad, twisted inner life,” the pastor told him. “The irony is that she did a lot of good in the community through her volunteer work.” “I’m going to try to forgive her,” Sharon said. “I don’t want to harbor bitterness.” “We all have to learn to forgive,” Ian said. “Otherwise we risk ending up like her.” After the others left, he and Sharon stayed for a while, strolling and listening to Greg read headstones aloud. From the way he stayed close by her side, she knew the tragic events of the previous night had left their mark. The old circle had closed at last, Sharon thought. Amazingly, it had brought her and Ian together. When they headed back to the car, she held hands with him and with Greg, and the sunshine warmed her shoulders.

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Epilogue The amount of junk that had accumulated in the attic was phenomenal. Sharon marked a large red X on a box of outdated textbooks to notify Ian to discard it, then stretched her aching back. Gazing over the marked and unmarked boxes and crates, she realized she would be keeping more than she’d expected. Once the place was remodeled, the old clothes and toys would turn the playroom into a child’s delight. She’d already picked out a cheerful, up-todate color palette. The past year had brought remarkable changes. The biggest had been her marriage to Ian three months ago at the old church. Karly, the matron of honor, had also sung, something she did often these days as a member of the choir. In addition, she was performing with a small group and had made some demonstration tapes to send to record producers. The show at Jane’s gallery had been a huge success. Ian’s works had sold out, with the painting of a man and woman struggling on the edge of an abyss bought by a major collector. In a variation on his theme, Ian had begun portraying new life bursting the tentacles of the past, and had already been offered a one-man show at a notable gallery in Scottsdale, Arizona. Sharon massaged her shoulders to get the stiffness out. She was glad she’d nearly finished sorting through the attic during Christmas vacation, before school started again. Running her hands across her smock, she traced the solid thrust of her belly where the baby lay sleeping. At fourth months along, she could still bend and angle between the rows of clutter. Another month or so, and she wasn’t looking forward to climbing the attic stairs. She would have preferred to delay the baby’s birth until summer, but she’d become pregnant more quickly than expected. Fortunately, College Day School had agreed to hire a substitute for the last couple of months this spring. She’d be returning next fall. Not only would she and Ian need her income for the foreseeable future, but she also felt genuinely at home with the students and faculty there. As she started forward, Sharon paused to admire the bay window that had replaced the balcony. She still trembled when she thought about that January night when the three of them had nearly died, but peace had reigned in the house for a year now. Slowly, she and Ian together had transformed it into a place of happiness. Although Ian had grieved for a while after Jody’s death, he remained free from seizures. He’d finally opened up with his counselor, and no longer took medication. He clearly enjoyed being a father and was looking forward to the birth of their baby. On weekends, he often took Greg to the park and spent hours with him in the evenings, working jigsaw puzzles and playing computer games. Although she didn’t want Greg to forget Jim, Sharon was pleased to see him developing a new sense of security. She’d taken her son to a psychologist several times as a precaution, but the boy had showed no long-term ill effects from everything he’d gone through. The three of them currently occupied the Gaskells’ former suite. They’d made plans to tear out the apartments and restore the house to a floor plan suitable for a single family, but they had to proceed one step at a time, as finances allowed. The first phase, already

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accomplished, had involved turning Jody’s place into an office and family room. In Palm Springs, Bella Gaskell was reported to be doing much better. Pete had decided to keep her far from the Fanning house, and Sharon agreed. Emerging on the second floor, she was on her way down the hall when she was surprised to see Ian removing the painting of his father. Although the grim visage had startled her more than once, she’d never asked to remove it. “What are you going to do with that?” she asked as she approached. “I’m tired of the gloomy thing and Jane says she can get a good price.” His voice rang with satisfaction. The growing demand for his work was a personal validation after Ian’s struggle. “In fact, her assistant is coming by any minute with the van. I’ll paint another one of Mom and Dad from a photograph I have of their wedding day.” It could join the portrait of Susan and Bradley, which they’d moved into the living room. Jane had sold the eerie painting from above the mantel. Sharon took another look at the picture of Martin. “It’s you, too, though, as well as your father,” she said. “The way you used to be.” Ian regarded her admiringly. He smiled more openly these days and looked healthier. Even the scar across his cheekbone seemed less vivid. “You saw that, did you? My guilt and my doubts got poured into my work because I couldn’t express them directly. But I’m not living half in darkness anymore.” “Thank goodness.” She helped him angle the painting and lower it along the stairs. From the family room came the delightful sound of childish voices. Greg and a friend were building with Legos. “Everything seems so normal.” “Isn’t it great?” Ian remarked. “Us and this house, normal.” “Who’d have believed it?” Sharon said lightly, and helped him carry the sorrowful painting through the front hall and out the door, to be taken away forever.

The End