Deadly Decision (14 page)

“Trina!” I bent over her stressed body.

She rolled onto her back and smiled up at me. “Hi, Dad. Ready for breakfast?”

I ran my eyes up and down her body. “Are you all right?” I stammered, my heart still trying to fly out of my chest.

As I helped her up, she dusted off her shorts and propped the broom against the hutch. “There was dirt in the kitchen again this morning,” she explained. “I thought if I beat on the wall, the bugs would fall out and I could trap them.”

No spider bite, no seizure. I noticed the empty jelly jar sitting on the floor, ready to scoop up the unsuspecting creatures.

I collapsed into a chair. “Why the walls?”

“I hear scratching at night sometimes, and it seems like it comes from down here somewhere. Probably the bugs.”

I stared at her. No wonder she looked tired. She never slept.

“How about some breakfast?” she asked.

Trina scrambled eggs, shifted them onto a plate, and placed the steaming food in front of me. I scooped a bite of egg into my mouth, unsure if my heart had slowed enough to allow me to swallow.

“You look tired,” Trina mumbled. “Maybe you should take a day off.”

“No day off for me,” I said, forcing cheerfulness and nodding toward the ‘to do list' on the refrigerator. I woke every morning feeling as though my body had been the main course in a vampire feast, but thought I had hidden my exhaustion from her.

She poured herself a glass of juice and sat at the table across from me.

“I've been praying for you, Dad.” Her soulful eyes reminded me of other times she had been worried: like when her pet cat had been missing for a week, and before Nancy died. Although Trina's concern touched me, I bristled at her words.

God didn't need to mess with
my
life, but I had been praying for Trina—for strength and stamina. She could use God's help.

Trina continued, “Ted and I talked about how different you seem lately. We think you need to get out more. You've been either hanging around us, or you've been alone up in your room ever since you came back. You haven't had any time with older people.”

“So I'm old now?”

“You know what I mean. I've been praying for a friend for you, someone special you can talk to.”

Did she notice my attraction to Sandra?
“I talk to you and Ted.”

“That's different.”

She focused on a spot on the wall. I waited, knowing from years of experience that there was something else on her mind.

“Ted's already been praying for you for a couple of weeks.” The words spilled out, as thought they had been held captive too long to allow a controlled escape. “God put a burden on his heart to pray…for you…specifically.”

Egg churned in my stomach. Ted had a deep and personal faith, but I had trouble believing God
told
Ted to pray for me. I didn't
need
Ted's prayer. Ted needed to focus on his own life, and let me deal with mine.

“Dad, are you sure you feel good?”

“Ted has some nerve. Look at you. You used to be my ivory-skinned goddess. Now you look like the homeless woman that hangs around the IGA.”

Her face expressed pain. I did not want to hurt her, but she needed to know what her husband was doing to her.

“Look at you, your clothes are two sizes too big, you've lost weight. You're working too hard on this house, with no help from your husband, who stays outside in his shop rather than helping you in here.”

“It's not like you think…”

“Oh, and then what is it?” I glared at her, challenging her to find another reason for her haggard appearance.

I couldn't tell from her expression if she was trying not to cry, or trying not to rip my head off. “Ted's a good husband, Dad.” Her voice was barely audible. “He loves me. And he supported me when I told him I wanted to start a bed and breakfast. It was my idea to move here, not Ted's.”

We stared at each other, Trina with her sorrowful eyes, and me full of righteous anger.

“You've changed,” Trina whispered. “You spend too much time in the house. You end up in your room alone every evening. I don't think you have done anything fun since you came here. The church has a Sunday school class for your age. There are a lot of nice people in it.”

Is Sandra in it?
The thought flashed into my head, and was blotted out as quickly. What did it matter? “I'm fine. That's not my kind of fun.” I slid my unfinished breakfast to the middle of the table and stumbled toward the door.

“Dad…your dishes.” Trina scowled. “I fixed breakfast; the least you can do is put your dirty dishes in the sink.”

“I have to fix your house
and
wash my own dishes?”

She pushed past me and stomped up the stairs.

Her attitude confused me.
What's with her this morning?

A shadow moved across the kitchen wall. Chills went up my back. I had seen this dark shadow too often, flitting from room to room, sometimes just outside of Ted's workshop; never inside. Never in my room, not since the ghost boys took up residence there.

I focused on the spot on the wall, but the shadow was gone. Could this be the missing demon?

A wave of nausea swept over me. Could the presence of the demon be affecting Trina? The helplessness was overwhelming. It was my fault. I needed to do something.

With sagging shoulders, I collected my dishes, washed them and put them away.

I had to find the demon—if it was still in the house, if all of this was not simply my imagination.

As eager as I was to locate the demon, I had absolutely no plan should I find it.

I sat on the porch, contemplating what to do about the rogue demon. A plan started to form in my mind. I couldn't tell anyone what I was doing, because then I would have to explain Barbara and what had happened in the attic the night she passed out. The less Trina and Ted knew the better.

I headed to the entryway. On the surface, the open space gleamed with its new coat of pale yellow paint. I had replaced the half-missing plaster molding with decorative wood, and stained it dark like the floor. Trina had found a rug for the center, and she had placed a small oval table and a vase of flowers from the yard on top of the stand. The exposed hardwood flooring shined from my hours of sanding, staining and waxing. The morning sun was on the opposite side of the house, but later in the day, the entry would be dancing with light.

Shutting my eyes, I attempted to clear my mind, to ‘feel' any strange presence. Breath moved in and out of my lungs, the warmth of my exhale strong on my lip. With focused quiet, I became almost one with the house, as though I melted into the fabric of the building itself.

There was no ghost.

I turned to the parlors next, one at a time. I had painted them both for Trina, and she had decorated one to feel more masculine and the other more feminine. Closing my eyes in each room, I stood quietly. The feeling was peaceful.

Trina had chosen a warm terracotta color for the dining room. Plantation shutters covered the tall windows. Opposite from the cabinets stood an old oak buffet, original to the house.

In the center of the dining room, Trina's table was flanked by ten chairs, four per side and one at each end. A cloth of navy silk ran the length of the table, while a large white pitcher graced the center. For a brief instant, I imagined grabbing it as a weapon and throwing it at the spirit, but realized how stupid that would be. Anyway, I didn't sense the presence of the demon in the dining room. The allusive shadow refused to appear. It was not downstairs.

The floor creaked above me.

Trina! Was the demon upstairs with my precious daughter?

Taking the steps two at a time, I raced to Trina's bedroom door. I closed my eyes and pressed my hand to the door, willing my heart to slow, pushing tension out through my feet, just as I had been taught in some stress management workshop years ago. I tried to let my surroundings pervade my being, to allow myself to sense the demon's closeness.

If it was inside the room with her, I couldn't feel it. Trina was safe for now. But for how long?

I needed to think.

Other than my bedroom, the kitchen was my favorite place. As I re-entered the room, sun streamed in the wide windows and reminded me of my grandma's house. I had always been welcome there; fresh cookies would magically appear if I stayed more than an hour.

Something felt wrong.

Just my imagination. I stood in the middle of the kitchen holding the cup of hot coffee I had just poured. My hands grew cold. My skin tingled. The air grew thick and electric, woven with silent anger.

Was it because Trina and I had argued? That's what it felt like—that miserable, uncomfortable feeling that lingered after people argued. But not exactly.

As I stood there contemplating, the anger transformed into fear. Bone chilling, life or death tension.

Sweat dripped down my face. I needed to escape the house.

 

 

 

 

16

 

Fear, deep and intense, pressed around me. My pounding heart sent blood roaring through my ears. Nothing was unusual in the kitchen. There was no explanation for this intense feeling. With a final glance around the kitchen, I fled to the outside.

Once out of the house, the sensation faded. Too much had happened lately for me to believe I had imagined the anger and fear, but I couldn't explain it any more than I could explain why I had seen ghosts.

I wanted to work where I could see Trina's bedroom window, which faced the street. So I decided to tackle the weeds growing around the front of the house. High above, Trina's bedroom window was shrouded in gauzy curtains. What was she doing? Maybe she'd fallen asleep and would awaken in a better mood. I hoped so.

Suspicious, as I trimmed the overgrown bushes that lined the front of the house, I scanned for young marijuana plants. Stopping for lunch, I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By mid-afternoon, the flower beds flanking the foundation were well on their way to being ready for plants.

I lifted my head when I heard Trina's voice: time for the usual afternoon iced tea break. I stomped the sand off my shoes, headed to the front porch, and took my usual seat on the swing. Ted and Trina sat in the wicker chairs.

Trina looked better now; the angry scowl gone as she set out a tray of iced tea and cookies. She looked at me over the top of her glass. “Dad, Sandra's having a few people over to her house tonight for a get together. She wants you to come.”

“Kind of a last minute invite, isn't it?”

“Actually I've known awhile.”

“Sandra tried to ask you at church last Sunday,” Ted added, “but couldn't find you.”

“So if you both knew, why didn't one of you tell me?”

“We were afraid you wouldn't go,” Trina replied.

“I'm not going.”

Trina nibbled her cookie. “But I told her you would.”

I was angry at Trina for accepting an invitation from the woman I was avoiding. I had feelings for Sandra, and that upset me. I didn't want to like her. I didn't want to like kissing her. I didn't want to like the sound of her voice or the feel of her hand when she touched my arm.

For that matter, I didn't want to like sitting on this porch, or watching the birds peck at seeds in the sand. I didn't want to like the south. I didn't know what I did want, but it didn't matter. I didn't want this.

“I'm worried about you,” Trina added. “You don't seem yourself.”

Likewise
. “So is this party an answer to your prayer?” The sarcasm escaped before I knew I was going to say it.

Ted rubbed his jaw, like he does when he has something on his mind.

“I'll go if it's that important to you.”

My mood sagged even further.

 



 

After our break, I followed Ted to his workshop. I knew if I went back to the front yard and started on the flowers, I would plant all the cheerful-looking pansies roots up, just for spite.

“Doesn't it seem strange that there aren't any new leads on Jimmy? How many green blankets can there be in Darlington? Someone in this town has got to suspect somebody.”

Ted scratched his leg with the end of his paintbrush. “If I were the police I would keep any new leads quiet until I had it all worked out.”

“Maybe they should try harder to find Jimmy's body.”

“They sent out dogs when he was first missing.”

“So do it again.” The lack of activity frustrated me.

“It's hard on Sandra, not knowing.”

“Not knowing what? The kid's dead.”

Ted glanced my way. “I don't think Sandra really believes Jimmy's dead.”

“But the ghost…I thought…”

“Maybe she has a different explanation for what you saw.”

Ted dabbed blue paint on the canvas, then reached for brown. As his arm flicked the brush across the board, sun reflected off his wedding ring, creating shorts burst of light. I thought of Trina.

“There's something I want to talk to you about,” I said. “Trina's not been herself lately.”

“How so?”

“She's been moody. Jumped all over me this morning for not putting my dishes in the sink.”

“Don't worry about it. She's been working hard on the house.”

“You think that's it?”

“Hmmm.”

“Maybe she shouldn't work so hard.”

“You know Trina. She's not one to sit still.”

“She needs help.”

Ted stared at me, the coldness in his eyes felt like a challenge. “What are you trying to say?”

“She doesn't look good. She hasn't looked good since you moved her here.”

“She's tired, that's all.”

“Why's she so tired all of a sudden, Ted? Answer me that?”