A Gift of Thought (27 page)

As she pulled into a parking place on the main street of Tassamara, the sight of the Christmas decorations—garlands wrapped around the lamp posts, tiny lights draped across the street—made her realize that she should call her mom. She needed to tell her she wasn’t going to make it home for Christmas.

And Lucas.

She needed to call him, too.

She needed to tell him . . . but she couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. Thinking of Lucas, thinking of what she’d want to say, thinking of how bright their future had seemed just a few hours ago—her mind veered away and she latched on to the thought of Ty instead.

She should call him first. Last night, he’d told her to take care of Chesney. He was not going to be happy about how she’d interpreted that order. She stepped out of the car, automatically locking it behind her. Florida was a death penalty state, though, and for a double murder, she was going to want a good lawyer. Ty would send Jeremy.

And then there was Rachel. She needed to tell him she’d found Rachel.

If, that is, she had. She looked up and down the street. Despite the holiday décor, the small town looked much as it had twenty years earlier. Some of the shops had changed: the old drugstore was gone, replaced by an antique shop, and the store next to it with all the dangling crystals in the window had to be new. Mostly, though, it had the same quiet, dusty feel that she remembered.

Where would Rachel be?

“Oh, my.” The voice came from right behind her and Sylvie whirled, the black layers of chiffon in her skirt floating up around her. The tiny woman standing on the sidewalk shook her head, saying, “Your aura, my dear.” She tsked with disapproval. “You should drink some tea. Lavender, perhaps. Very good for anxiety and nervous exhaustion.”

Sylvie’s smile in response was more of a crooked twist of the mouth as she answered politely, “Hello, Mrs. Swanson. If I get a chance, I’ll give it a try.”

“Maggie will have some for you.” The woman gestured to a storefront a few doors up the street, then cocked her head to one side and narrowed her gaze, staring intently at the air next to Sylvie’s head. “She’s new since you were last in town, but she fits right in. Sylvie, isn’t it? Does Max know you’re visiting?”

Sylvie held back her sigh. Within twenty minutes, half the long-time residents of Tassamara would know she was in town; within an hour, it’d be all of them. But it was genuine worry she felt from the old woman, with not even a hint of malicious interest. Still, Sylvie needed to find Rachel and get her to safety and quickly. Maybe the restaurant would be a good place to start.

“I’m sure he will,” she responded as she backed away, nodding and smiling. “Good to see you again. Take care now.”

She opened the door to the restaurant and stepped inside. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the change in light. By the time they did, Max was already moving toward her.

Sylvie froze.

The last time she’d seen this man, she’d been leaving her baby behind.

Forever.

A rush of grief—for Dillon, for Lucas, for the life she could have had, for all that might have been—swept over her. She would have stepped back and away, but Max was taking her hands in his and saying, his voice warm, “Hello, Sylvie. Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

She frowned. He looked so much like Lucas—older, of course, with his hair touched with gray and the laugh lines around his intense blue eyes more deeply engraved—that instinctively she wanted to trust him. But what a ridiculous thing to say. Nothing was going to be okay.

She opened her mouth to snap at him, but he forestalled her, raising a hand and saying, “I know you don’t believe me right now, but that doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. But Sylvie, please—I beg of you—please don’t hit the sheriff. I promise I’ll take good care of Rachel.”

She blinked at him, and then looked around the restaurant. It was half-full of people, many of them watching in fascination, but no one who looked like a sheriff. She looked back at Max.

“He’s not here yet.”

Sylvie sighed. Twenty years and despite the gray hair Lucas’s father hadn’t changed. “Is Rachel here?”

He stepped back, indicating a booth in the corner, where a dark-haired head peeking around the edge of the seat ducked back immediately.

Sylvie took a deep breath, bracing herself. She should have planned this conversation during her drive, she realized, but she hadn’t. She felt curious eyes on her as she made her way to the corner booth and slid into the seat across from Rachel.

The girl was staring at the table, a slight flush on her cheeks and her chin set stubbornly. “I don’t want to go home,” she muttered without looking up at Sylvie. “It’s not fair.”

Sylvie stared at her blankly. What was Rachel talking about? And then she shook her head at her own stupidity—of course that’s why Rachel thought she had come—and said, voice gentle, “I’m not here to take you home.”

Startled, Rachel looked at her directly, eyes wide. And then her eyes grew even wider. “Sylvie? Is that blood on you?”

Sylvie looked down. She hadn’t realized it before but she’d been hit by spatter. Little tiny flecks of red-brown dotted the leather of her dress and the pale skin of her cleavage. “Oh, God.”

She shuddered, feeling nausea rise. Was it Chesney’s blood or Mateo’s? Had she come to Rachel wearing her father’s blood? She was horrified at the thought.

“Are you hurt?” Rachel stood up, her emotions an immediate churn of worry and fear, glancing around the room for help.

“No, no,” Sylvie reached for her, putting a hand on Rachel’s arm and then quickly pulling away. She shouldn’t touch Rachel, not when she’d just murdered her father. She tried to smile reassuringly. “It’s not my blood.”

Slowly, Rachel sat back down. “Whose blood is it?”

“I—” Sylvie swallowed and then admitted the truth. “It might be your father’s.”

The silence felt as if it lasted forever, but it was only a few seconds before Sylvie found the courage to continue. “I wanted to be the one to tell you this. I wanted to—”

“Is he dead?” Rachel interrupted her.

Sylvie stared.

“Because the way you’re talking, that’s not right. That’s not how it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to say, he’s fine, don’t worry, but you’re not saying that.” Rachel’s eyes were bright. “And if what you want to say is something that you wanted to tell me, you specifically, then it’s because you thought I’d be upset. So you ought to be telling me he’s going to be okay even if he’s not right now, but you’re not saying that either. So is he dead?”

Rachel had been talking so quickly that Sylvie wasn’t entirely sure what she’d heard. But she’d gotten the gist of it. She said flatly. “Yes.”

“Yes, he’s dead?” Rachel asked.

Sylvie nodded.

Rachel didn’t say anything. She picked up her fork and poked at the dissolving whipped cream on the pancakes in front of her.

Sylvie waited.

Rachel traced a pattern in the white with a tine.

Sylvie stayed silent. She knew she needed to tell Rachel the rest, but she could feel Rachel’s distraction. Maybe the girl needed a little time to come to terms with her loss first, she told herself.

Finally, Rachel asked, voice tiny, “Is it my fault?”

“No! Absolutely not.” Sylvie hesitated. Was Rachel ready to hear all of it?

“He didn’t die because I ran away?”

“No,” Sylvie said firmly. Okay, Chesney wouldn’t be dead if Rachel hadn’t run away but she wasn’t going to expend any energy analyzing cause-and-effect. “But . . .”

“I’m not sad,” Rachel interrupted her. She looked up and her eyes met Sylvie’s. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Sylvie paused. She wasn’t sad, either. Not about Chesney, anyway. But then he wasn’t her father. Picking her words carefully, she said, “I think sometimes it takes a little time to understand your own feelings when you lose someone. And that you shouldn’t worry about how you feel right now. It’s okay to not feel sad.”

Suddenly, a photograph on the wall next to them slid down and landed on the table with a crack. Both Sylvie and Rachel startled, and then Sylvie shook off the surprise with a little laugh. “I have to tell you, though, Rachel—” Sylvie started as Rachel set down the fork that she’d been playing with and picked up the photograph. She leaned it against the wall.

Her fork slid across the table and onto the floor.

Both Sylvie and Rachel glanced at the fork and then Sylvie, shaking her head, slid out of the booth and bent to pick up the fork. She set it on the table and turned back to Rachel.

“I’m really not sad,” Rachel announced. She picked up her fork and eyed it critically. “I think I’m happy. May I have a clean fork, please? I want to finish my pancakes.”

Sylvie paused. Okay, that was unexpected.

Rachel smiled at her. “Can we stay here for a while? Dillon wants to talk to you but the girl with the funny name who talks to ghosts isn’t here right now. Dillon’s grandpa was telling the ghosts about it. Except I think he was just confused.”

Sylvie stared. And then, “Ow,” she yelped as something hit her in the back of the head. What the hell? She turned around. A spoon was on the floor by her feet. She bent to pick it up as the door to the café opened and a man in uniform walked in.

“Rachel,” Max called from across the restaurant by the counter. “Remember what I told you? Now’s the time.”

Rachel looked puzzled and then she yelped as her plate skidded across the table, away from her and toward Sylvie. Sylvie felt a burst of fear from the girl and quickly straightened, turning in time to catch the plate before it flew off the table and onto her.

“Rachel?” she asked.

Rachel was staring at the table. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said under her breath. “It’s okay. Nothing bad will happen. Dillon’s grandpa said so.”

People were starting to notice what was happening and move, craning to see, standing up, beginning to talk and point.

“Colin,” Max called out cheerfully to the man at the door. “Lovely to see you, how’s the family? Let me introduce you to Sylvie.”

“Max,” the man drawled, his voice low Southern honey. “I’m taking a pretty big chance here. Lucas swore on Maggie’s apple pie that the SWAT team could stand down.”

SWAT team. Lucas. Ah, hell. And she still hadn’t told Rachel. The worry and tension and fear coming from the man at the door, Max, and Rachel were like a pounding beat under a pop song of curiosity and confusion created by the other restaurant patrons.

Sylvie laid her hands flat on the table in front of her but didn’t otherwise move. Two more minutes, that was all she needed. Enough time to admit the truth to Rachel and then to reassure her and make sure she knew she’d be okay. She felt her muscles tightening as Max and the other man approached.

The light over the booth crackled, popped, and with a burst of sparks, broke. Bits of shattered glass from the light bulb fell to the tabletop.

Sylvie’s jaw dropped. Rachel’s eyes widened. Their eyes met and Sylvie knew that they were both thinking the same thing.

“Rachel, get under the table,” Sylvie ordered.

Rachel shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t have said that about not being sad, huh?” she said faintly. And then she set her lips and crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. “But I’m not.”

“Rachel!”

Rachel shook her head. “Dillon’s grandpa said not to be scared.”

Dillon’s grandpa was insane, as far as Sylvie was concerned. Always had been. But behind her she felt Max and the sheriff approaching and inside her she felt the rising urge to strike out and she knew that at least this time Max had foreseen a possible future correctly. She took a deep breath.

“Ma’am?” The word was gentle and Southern and Sylvie gritted her teeth. This wasn’t the same man who’d been sheriff twenty years ago but she hated him anyway, just on general principles. “Will you come quietly?”

She sighed. “Yes.” She turned to face him, feeling the relief from Max as another light bulb, slightly farther away, exploded.

“Wait, what?” Rachel stood, sliding out of the booth.

“Stay with Max,” Sylvie ordered. “He’ll take care of you until Ty gets here.” She glanced at Max, knowing that he recognized the order in her voice, and he nodded slightly, putting a hand on Rachel’s shoulder and then ducking as a spoon came flying at his head.

“What the hell?” muttered the sheriff, putting a firm hand under Sylvie’s elbow.

“Just a little ghost problem,” Max told him. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Where are you taking Sylvie?” Rachel demanded. “What’s going on?”

Sylvie opened her mouth, then glanced at the sheriff and closed it again. She’d heard Jeremy rant about his idiotic clients far too many times to tell Rachel the truth in front of law enforcement. She was going to accept responsibility for what she’d done, but she wasn’t going to be stupid about it.

“She’s gonna come answer a few questions, that’s all,” the sheriff replied.

“Sylvie?” Rachel might have claimed that she wasn’t scared but her panic was close to the surface.

“You stay here with Max, Rachel.” Sylvie glanced around the room, at the lights, at the scattered silverware, at the people watching them. And then she grinned at Rachel. “And Dillon. And don’t worry. If there’s someone else here, he’s probably pretty pissed off, but it’s not at you.”

Chapter Fifteen

His mom slid into the booth, passing through Rose, her gaze intent on Rachel. Rachel didn’t look at her, just muttered something sulky.

“Is this your mom? She’s so pretty. Younger than I would have expected. And I love her hair.” Rose frowned. “Can’t say as I think much of her accessorizing, though.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon asked. He couldn’t contain his smile as he looked at Sylvie. They’d done it. They’d gotten her here. He wished she hadn’t brought Chesney, who was standing at the edge of the table glaring at Sylvie and his daughter, but maybe Max could help distract him. Or maybe even teach him something about how to be a father.

“The blood,” Rose said, her voice matter-of-fact. She tipped her head to one side as if to get a better look, leaning closer to Sylvie and examining her dress.