Autumn Thorns (9 page)

“Who is that, Kerris?” His voice was so soft I could barely hear it.

Horrified, I watched the cowering ghost. “My mother. That's my mother, Tamil. And that means . . . that she never ran away. She's dead, and I think the blood on this jacket is hers.” I turned to him, stammering out the words. “I think my mother was murdered.”

M
y breath caught in my chest as I leaned close to my mother's spirit, surprised that Bryan could see her, too. I wasn't sure what to do—was she a Haunt? Or a Mournful? I reached for the pentacle around my neck and ran my fingers over the crystal skull. I didn't have an itch to punch through her like I had with Betty's spirit, nor did I get a sense of danger. Instead, I let instinct guide me.

I approached Tamil's spirit cautiously, praying that she wasn't affecting her sorrow. Haunts also could do that—get you feeling sorry for them and then when you let down your guard, they'd move in and either try to scare you, possess you, or just fuck with your mind. I didn't know enough about my mother to be able to place her, yet.

Tamil suddenly jerked her head toward me and her eyes grew wide. She looked at the jacket in my hands and a confused expression slid across her face. Then, once again, she turned as if seeing someone behind her and cowered down. At that moment, I saw the blood covering her chest, right over her heart. I caught what looked like a bullet wound before she vanished.

Bryan cleared his throat. “Did she say anything? I could see her but not hear her.”

I shook my head. “No, I couldn't hear her, either. I think . . . she's a Mournful. And I think she may have only now realized she's dead, though I can't be sure about that. The look on her face when she saw me holding the jacket was one of recognition, but also . . . realization.”

I froze, abruptly sitting down in the nearest chair. It suddenly hit me—I had just seen my mother's
ghost
. That meant Tamil was really, truly, never coming back. It also meant she hadn't run away, hadn't deliberately abandoned me. It meant that she hadn't met up with Avery. The world began to spin as all of the jigsaw puzzle pieces went flying and tried to rearrange themselves into a new picture.

After a moment, I looked around, hoping Lila would be there, but she was nowhere in sight and I couldn't feel her around. I didn't want to take a chance on summoning her, in case I screwed things up from being so startled. It was quite one thing to reach out to talk to ghosts when you were prepared, quite another to do so right after a shock.

Bryan handed me a glass of water. I hadn't even noticed him pouring it. Gratefully, I accepted it. He pulled a chair over to my side. “Are you okay? Should I call someone?”

I took a long drink of the water, trying to clear my head. After a moment, I shrugged. “I have no one to call, really. Peggin will be here for dinner, but otherwise . . . I'm pretty much alone.” Then I thought of Ivy, but Peggin's warning stuck in my head. I didn't know Ivy well enough yet. Given it had been fifteen years since I'd been in Whisper Hollow, truth was I didn't know
anybody
here that well.

“What about the police? Your mother vanished what . . . how many years ago?”

“Thirty.”

“There are no statutes of limitations on murder.”

I stared at the jacket in my hands, realizing I was probably holding the last thing my mother had worn. Then it hit me—if it was in the trunk and my grandfather had the key, he had to have known Tamil was dead. And that led to some
very unsettling thoughts. Very slowly, I set the jacket on the table, unable to take my eyes off it.

“Kerris? You've just turned a scary shade of green. Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”

I was moderating my breath, trying not to spin into a dark place. After all, as much as I hated my grandfather, maybe he hadn't found out about her death till after I left. But what about the secret he wanted to talk about? Could it have had anything to do with the jacket? With my mother being dead? Maybe . . . maybe . . . there were a hundred maybes.

“I don't know what's worse,” I finally said. “Not knowing if she'll ever come home, or knowing she never will. Not knowing why she left, or knowing that she was murdered.”

Bryan let out a long sigh and leaned back. “I know what you're going through. My father was murdered. Except . . .” He paused, looking as though he was trying to figure out just how much to say. After a moment, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, resting his chin on his hands. “I saw my father die. I was . . . very young, but I still remember every detail of that night. Not the day, not even the general time around that period. I don't remember much of anything except every single detail of those moments.”

Startled out of my thoughts, I stared at him. That could go a long way toward explaining his reclusive nature. I started to say
I'm sorry
but it seemed far too little, far too late. I wanted to ask him more about what had happened, but
that
seemed too intrusive. Finally, deciding he'd tell me more when he felt comfortable talking about it, I just nodded.

Bryan pushed the plate of cookies my way, but I shook my head. My appetite had vanished.

I debated what to do. Ellia and the others had said Duvall had been furious when Tamil showed up pregnant, and then Avery had disappeared. Now I wondered about my father's disappearance. If Duvall was so angry at Tamil that he might have killed his own daughter, what would he do to the man who'd impregnated her? And why would my grandfather even think of killing Tamil, instead of turning her out?

I tried to compose myself. If I was on the right track, there might be other people involved. Whoever they were, they could still be living in Whisper Hollow. Another thought occurred to me. If there were, did they know my grandfather had Tamil's jacket with the bloodstains? Was that somehow tied into the Lady of the Lake taking him down before he could reveal his secrets to Ivy, Oriel, and Ellia?

A thousand questions whirled in my head as I realized that I had been staring at the water glass for over five minutes. Bryan hadn't interrupted, and by now Gabby had meandered into the kitchen to nose around. She jumped up on the table and, ignoring the cookies, wound her way through the cups and saucers till she was standing in front of me. With a loud mew, she rubbed her head against my face and I brushed the soft black fur with my lips, kissing her gently. She began to purr and flopped down in front of me.

I snuggled her, looking over at Bryan. “I suppose I should examine what's in the rest of the trunk.”

He shrugged. “It might help. Here, let me get a bag for that jacket, though. In case you give it to the police to examine, you don't want it contaminated any more than it already has been. Where do you keep your garbage sacks? Plastic would be best, I imagine.”

I pointed him to the cupboard the trash bags were in, and he brought me one, unfolding it and holding it open while I eased the jacket in. I was lost in thought. Why wasn't I crying? I had just found out my mother was dead. If that didn't warrant tears, I wanted to know what did. I examined my feelings, but mostly, I just felt at a loss for words and a little numb.

Bryan gently set the bag aside and then squatted down beside me, bracing himself on the table. “Kerris . . . I know this is a big shock. Even though you haven't seen your mother in so many years, I can tell this has really shaken you. Are you
sure
you don't want me to call someone?”

All of a sudden, I didn't want to be alone. My grandfather had known my mother was dead and he never told me. And Grandma Lila, she was a spirit shaman—how could she not
know? And if she had known, she had kept quiet about it. If she hadn't known, then she knew now. My entire childhood felt on shaky ground.

I reached for Bryan's hand without thinking. “Please, don't go. Not till Peggin gets here, at least. I don't really want to sit here thinking about this alone. My mind can be a scary place and I'm not so sure I want to listen to what's going on up there right now. We can . . . I should go through the rest of the trunk, I guess.”

Bryan stared at my fingers, then flashed me a gentle smile. “Only if you let me make you some more coffee. And only if you promise to eat a few of those cookies. Shock drains energy and the food will do you good.”

I nodded, and he headed over to the espresso machine. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

“I've got a similar setup at home, only it's a little more . . . advanced.” By the tone of his voice I knew he meant
expensive
, but he laughed and pulled out the beans, starting to grind them.

Meanwhile, I forced my attention back to the trunk. Beneath the jacket were several journals—including a leather one like my grandmother's. I gently lifted it out of the trunk and opened it. Sure enough, it had been the Shadow Journal belonging to my mother. I realized I needed one of these for myself. I flipped through the pages and saw that it had several entries, but nothing much. Setting the journal aside, I began to dig through the pile of papers and trinkets below it. There was a small jewelry box with a few items in it, which I put to one side. I gave a quick glance through it but saw no sign of Avery's ring.

My mother's high school yearbook was in there from her junior year. I also found a few pictures. I recognized my mother as one of the girls in a group photo of four teenagers standing on the lakeshore. They were laughing, arms around each other's shoulders, and in the background I saw the sign for the Katega Campground, near the swimming hole. I had no clue who the others were, but flipped over the picture to find the names: Caroline, Tamil, Eversong, and Tracy. None
of the others looked familiar to me, so I set it aside for the moment.

The rest of the items were odds and ends—a porcelain cat, a flower-pressing book with pressed rose petals in it, and lastly, I picked up what looked like a very small X-ray. As I held it up to the light, I realized it was a sonogram.
Me . . . that had to be me.
Feeling unaccountably sad, I stared at the debris of my mother's life. So little. She had been so young, and had so little time in which to figure out her life before it was snatched away.

“Here you go.” Bryan sat a piping hot cup in front of me, complete with foam, which he'd managed to shape into the form of a cat's face, whiskers and all.

I laughed. “Really? You can do coffee art? I never could master it, but so cool!”

“Did you eat any of those cookies or do I need to force-feed them to you?” He cocked his head to one side, hands on his hips.

I was struck with a sudden urge to reach and take one of those hands again, only this time I wanted to rub it against my face. Blushing, I quickly turned my head before he could catch on to the direction my thoughts had taken. I didn't need distractions, and I certainly didn't need any more complications in my life right now. Instead, I nibbled on a cookie. Bryan was right—the sugar began to revive me a little.

“You know, when I was little, I used to dream that my mother would come rushing back with some story about being kidnapped by aliens or foreign spies or something . . . anything that would prove she hadn't just run off and abandoned me. I even thought she ran away to meet my father and to protect me, they had to keep hidden. Now that all seems so terribly sad.” I decided to chance a question. “You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but . . . how . . . why was your father killed? And how is it that you were there?”

Bryan's face clouded over, but then he let out a soft sigh. “I don't talk about this much, but . . . for you, I will. My father had enemies—rivals who didn't appreciate him. One night, we were at home, alone. My mother had gone out for the
evening—to some women's meeting or something. We lived out in the forest, away from the center of town. Three men showed up at the door. They broke in and went after him. Father pushed me into the closet before they could see me—we were in his bedroom. He had been reading to me. He ordered me to keep quiet—to not breathe a word or make a sound. I was brought up to obey his orders, and so I huddled there. But I lay down and peeked under the crack at the bottom of the door.”

Without thinking, I asked, “What was he reading to you?”

“
Around the World in Eighty Days
, by Jules Verne.”

I didn't know why but his answer surprised me. I just nodded, though, and he continued, his voice oddly calm.

“I watched as the men cornered my father. He didn't have . . . well, he wasn't armed and he couldn't reach the gun rack. I wasn't sure what they wanted, but he couldn't reason with them, and so they fought—he fought tooth and nail, but they overpowered him. At the end, they decapitated him. But I obeyed his last order. I didn't make a sound. They left after that. I suppose they figured that my mother had taken me with her when she went out. I stayed in the closet till she got home. I watched her find him . . . saw her walk in the room all cheerful and happy and then . . . she saw his body. They took his head with them.”

Bryan leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. He cocked his head, his expression unreadable. “I'm a private person. I seldom talk about my past. Maybe you'll understand why I was so . . . abrupt, earlier. I still apologize. I was rude, but I do have my reasons.”