The Departed (15 page)

* * *

THE rental house was a far right turn from what she’d been expecting. Quaint and quiet, it looked like a little storybook house built of stone, complete with a sloping roof and a door made of gleaming oak, and when she let herself inside, the scent of herbs and potpourri danced lightly in the air.

Hell.

Why couldn’t the place smell of mold and cat urine and dog shit?

It would have been a lot easier on her mental balance if she could have found a reason to be mad at him about finding her a place. A lousy place, a miserable place, a dirty place…any of those things would have given her a reason to be irritated.

But he’d found her a fairy-tale cottage.

Her heart melted a little and she pushed off the doorjamb, pausing long enough to lock it and check the security system. He’d made notes about the password and she set it before moving inside and studying the little place.

He’d been right about the furniture—there wasn’t much. But what there was—if she wasn’t mistaken, it was new. The couch and the chair in the living room were new. The two-seater table in the kitchen looked pretty damn new. Up the narrow, twisty little staircase, she inspected the bed and it looked new as well.

Sighing, she sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed her hands over her face. “You make it so damn hard to be irritated with you, Taylor,” she groused.

At least he made it hard for
her
to be irritated with him.

Everybody else didn’t seem to have a problem at all getting irritated, staying irritated. Everybody else could tell the bastard to take a flying leap. Dez, though, she wanted to be the one to take the flying leap—right square at him. Take a leap and never let him go. Unless it was to strangle him when he did stupid shit that involved pushing her away.

He cared about her. She knew he did. Hell, if he
didn’t
, he wouldn’t be so intent on pushing her away. He’d probably be just fine with fucking her until he was bored with her. “At least I’d have something then,” she muttered. Brooding, she lay on the bed and snagged the edge of the quilt, pulling it up over her body.

She knew she should go downstairs and eat, knew she should get undressed and shower.

But she was so tired, she ached. And the exhaustion pulled at her, dragging her under. Even as she slipped closer to dreams, she was dimly aware of how cold the room had gotten.

By then, though, she was already too far gone.

And when she opened her eyes, she was no longer alone.

She’d connected with the departed in her dreams before. It wasn’t often. But sometimes it seemed they could reach her better when she slept. Maybe her shields were just too solid when she was awake.

Maybe she was more receptive in her dreams.

She didn’t know.

She just knew she was dreaming…and she knew the girl in front of her was no longer alive. Something about the style of her clothes, the cut of her hair made her think it had been a few years since this girl’s death.

Forcing herself to smile, she sat up and met the girl’s blue eyes.

She looked like she would have in life—not the pale, washed-out reflection of most ghosts, but normal. Blonde hair, so pale it was almost silvery. Big blue eyes. And when she smiled, Dez imagined she’d have dimples. She stared at Dez solemnly, her face sad.

“Hi, there,” Dez said quietly.

The girl just stared.

Dez sighed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Jeez, if she was going to show up in her dreams, couldn’t the girl at least talk to her? If not, then she’d rather have hot and nasty dreams about Taylor. At least then she could get off. But she kept the frustration hidden and just gave the girl another reassuring smile. “You can talk to me, you know. I can hear you. And I’ll try to help. But I can’t until you start talking to me.”

The girl looked down. “I…I’m not supposed to talk to people I don’t know.”

“Well, then. I guess we should fix that. I’m Dez. What’s your name?”

“Dez…” The girl frowned. “I’m…” Her frown deepened and she shook her head. “I don’t remember.”

She started to cry. Dez came off the bed and, instinctively, she went to hug the girl, but even as she drew close, the girl’s seemingly solid form wavered and fell apart. She wasn’t solid enough to touch. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. You’ll remember sooner or later.”

She hoped. How awful it was not to remember even
that
.

The girl just shook her head and continued to cry. And as Dez watched, she faded away completely.

In the very next breath, Dez woke up. But the lingering cold told her she wasn’t entirely alone. Drawing her knees to her chest, she grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around herself, staring into the room. She hadn’t turned off the lights, but she wished she had.

Ghosts might not care about light or the lack of it, but a dim room would have made it easier to tell if there was somebody trying to manifest. This one was weak. Very weak.

Closing her eyes, Dez lowered her shields. That faint echo—just a prickle along her senses—remained. The ghost was either
there
or trying to be.

Dez didn’t know for sure which one it was.

She closed her eyes and eased her shields down, careful not to do anything else, not yet.

“Hello?” she called out, keeping her voice easy and soft.

There was no answer. Huffing out a breath, she slid out from under the blanket and stood up, glancing around. She looked down and realized she hadn’t even taken her coat off. She slipped out of it and draped it over the foot of the bed.

“You know, I can tell you want to talk. You wouldn’t be coming around me if you didn’t,” she said conversationally. She unzipped one boot, then the other, slipping out of them and leaving them on the floor. “So why don’t we talk?”

There was a warbling little breath of a sound. Almost a sigh. Almost a whisper. But nothing else.

“What is it you want to tell me, sweetie? I can’t do much for you until I know what you need.” Staring into nothing, she waited. Still nothing.

And that lingering echo faded, leaving her alone.

“Damn it.” Dez rubbed a hand over the back of her neck, staring at the floor. That hadn’t exactly gone as planned.

But then again,
nothing
here had gone as planned. Tristan hadn’t been what she’d expected, discovering Ivy hadn’t been what she’d expected…and she didn’t even want to
think
about the complications with Taylor. Now she was dealing with a shy little ghost who only seemed to creep out while she slept.

“Hell, this is going to be a pain in the ass.”

IT was time…

The flowers were gathered. Yellow flowers for the lovely angel. Pretty and perfect.

The tears threatened. But there was time for tears later. Tears mustn’t mar their day together, after all. Later. After their special day. They’d be together all day—a day of joy. After that, there would be time for tears.

* * *

“HI, sweetheart.”

Taylor’s phone had been silent that morning. So far. Still, he woke early and made his sojourn to the cemetery where Anna rested along with his parents. The daisies, bright and cheerful, wouldn’t last long, but they were her favorite. She’d get nothing else from him.

Sitting by her monument, he stared down at the ground.

He’d spent too many days like this. Holding vigil at the foot of the marble angel and wondering. Wondering, yet dreading what would happen if he ever found out. Would it break him, knowing what happened?

She was gone, he knew. He knew it in his soul.

Maybe that was why he’d never brought anybody out here. Wasn’t like he couldn’t. Wasn’t like he didn’t have the resources. Hell, he had somebody here now…

His gut wrenched. No. Just—no.

Still, with a hand that shook, he reached into his pocket and pulled out that golden chain. Stared at it.

There was a reason Dez was here. Why she was
still
here—in this town. Deep inside, in a place he didn’t want to look at, he was starting to suspect those connections were a lot more complicated than he wanted to think about.

But he wasn’t going to look at any of that just yet. Not today. Definitely not today.

* * *

“WHERE in the hell are all the kids coming from?” Dez stared grouchily at the crowded Denny’s and wished she’d thought to stock up on coffee for the house. Although she wasn’t quite sure where to buy groceries. Would she be here long enough?

“No school today.” The waitress smiled, but it looked strained. “Fall break. They were off Friday and today. Plus”—she grimaced—
“they’ll be off tomorrow, too, it looks like. The school board thought it would be good to have a day off, but offer counseling for those who needed it.” She sighed and glanced around, her eyes lingering on one table where a couple of teenage girls leaned against each other. “They’ve had a rough few months, these kids. Rough few months.”

Dez was silent as the lady wandered off. Bending over her coffee, she brooded. Canceling school—was that the smartest thing? Letting those responsible for this out for more trouble, it seemed like. At least in her opinion.

But maybe they’d be smart, maybe they’d realize how obvious they were getting. Maybe they’d stop and nobody else would get hurt. And maybe pigs would fly, she thought. Too much arrogance here. Arrogant people rarely thought they’d get caught.

Which meant she had more work to do—she had to do whatever she needed to do to make all of this stop. She had to do it for Tristan. For Ivy. And now for Mark, as well.

* * *

“HAVE another drink, man.” It was finally getting late enough to make this work. All fucking
day
, Brendan had waited. At least out here they didn’t have to worry about trick-or-treaters.
Nobody
lived on this stretch of road but Beau and his folks.

Careful to keep the other guy from touching him, he pushed the bottle into Beau’s hand. The gloves were as thin and close to flesh-colored as he could find, but they didn’t feel like skin.

“Shit, already gonna be sick,” Beau grumbled. “What the fuck went wrong, man?” He grabbed the bottle and lifted it to his lips, missed, and spilled half of it down the front of his shirt, adding to the stink in the car.

They were in the garage with the door closed, the engine off, although it wouldn’t stay that way, not if Brendan got Beau drunk enough. The bastard was just too fucking erratic. You couldn’t trust somebody who went and did that kind of crazy shit. Hell, if Mark died, they were all screwed.
All
of them, because everybody who knew Mark would be looked at closely.

That was why Brendan was taking steps now. Kyle would back him up, he knew. And Kyle could lie with the best of them, could do it under stress, too. He’d head over to Kyle’s in a little while, crash there. He already had the groundwork laid. His eye throbbed like a bitch and Beau’s right fist was swollen. It had taken some doing to get the drunken idiot pissed off enough to take a swing, but he’d managed. They’d had a good day, though, hanging out in town, messing with each other, flirting—Brendan knew how to make sure Beau stayed in a good mood, and that was what he’d done.

Right up until it was time to get Beau in a bad mood, in a scared one—a worried one. The kind of mood that would make the boy want to grab a bottle.

And that was just what he was doing now.

When he was asked, Brendan would say Beau had been in one of his moods—they’d both been worried about Mark and, besides, they’d gotten into fights before. He’d say he’d gotten out halfway between their houses and hoofed it over to Kyle’s. Nobody would ever know.

Everything would be cool. Whether Mark died or not. Because Beau wasn’t going to be around to screw things up. And even if Mark lived—once he realized the shit he could be in, he’d straighten the hell up. Otherwise, Brendan would find a way to finish the job Beau had fucking failed to.

“Who the fuck is that crazy bitch, anyway?” Beau asked, his voice slurred and heavy. He looked at Brendan, his eyes glazed. “How’d she fucking know? She did
know
, right? How did she know?”

“Beats me.” Brendan studied the bottle of Jack Daniel’s he held—it was only about a little over a third empty and he hadn’t had much more than a mouthful. Beau was a big guy, though, and he liked to party. He could drink. All Brendan needed was for him to drink himself unconscious, though. That was all he needed. “Hey. Quit bitching and just have a drink. We’re supposed to be forgetting about all this shit, right?” He pretended to take a swig and passed the bottle back to Beau yet again, watched as Beau eyed the bottle and sighed morosely.

“Maybe somebody told her…”

Narrowing his eyes, Brendan shrugged mentally. “Maybe so. Shit, then we’re
fucked
. What in the hell is going to happen? Man, you…your scholarship. Could you lose it?”

Beau’s face paled and he upended the bottle, drinking long and hard. “Fuck that pansy Mark—had to be him. Should have just ran his ass clear over.”

“Yeah. You know it was him.”

Another drink. And this time, if Brendan hadn’t caught the bottle, Beau would have dropped it.

“Fuck. What do we do, man? Don’t wanna go t’jail,” Beau mumbled. Then he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the headrest. “Shoulda listened to Tristan, y’know. Shoulda. He said this was fuckin’ nuts. Was right…”

As Beau slipped into unconsciousness, Brendan narrowed his eyes, resisted the urge to brain the bastard with the bottle. Fucking Tristan—all these assholes, still talking about him.

But he didn’t do what he wanted—he just watched. He just waited.

And once he was certain Beau wasn’t going to wake up, he lodged the bottle between Beau’s legs then turned the keys in the ignition, left the window cracked. He hadn’t been the one to swipe the bottle earlier—that had been Beau’s handiwork. It had come from Beau’s daddy’s liquor cabinet and he’d even probably admit that…later.

He didn’t wipe the car down, either. Didn’t want it
too
clean. The rest of them thought he didn’t pay attention, but he did. He was in and out of Beau’s Mustang too often and knew if it was
too
clean, well, that would look weird, right?

So he left it. And he took his clothes. He’d slip out the back. Shutting the door tight, with the Mustang running, he left the house. Beau’s folks were out—they’d be out at the casino partying for hours. Or out with their “friends.” Shit. Friends. Beau’s parents were into swinging—everybody knew it, they just pretended not to.

By the time they got home, Beau would be dead. Carbon monoxide poisoning—it was a bitch, and classic cars still weren’t quite as good at eliminating that carbon monoxide—a handy little fact Brendan had researched a while back. It would all look like an accident. Wasn’t like Beau hadn’t gotten in trouble for drinking before. He’d even passed out in his car before. A fact that was known by more than a few people, since he’d done it in the school parking lot—fucking moron.

He could already hear all the crap. Everybody would talk about what a shame it was, such a terrible waste, a horrible accident. And if only his folks had been home. Brendan smirked, pleased with himself. He’d wait about fifteen minutes, make sure.

Out on the side, in the shadows, of course. Beau, like Brendan, lived outside of town on one of the bigger pieces of land. There was some privacy out here, so he could hide himself just fine. Well enough to make sure nobody showed up in time to save Beau.

* * *

TIFFANY Haler didn’t know why in the hell she was there. Wasn’t like she
gave
a fucking crap about Beau Donnelly.

Fucking asshole. Maybe
that
was why she was here. She’d heard about what happened to Mark Danvers and it made her belly hurt. She liked Mark, even if he did hang around with these losers. She’d always liked him. She wouldn’t be surprised at all if Beau had something to do with what happened to Mark. He was mean enough. Mean as a snake. Mean as a dog who’d been trained to do nothing but rip out another dog’s throat.

Nibbling on her nail, leaning against her moped, she tried to decide if she wanted to go to the door of the house. Big, brightly lit, so pretty in the night. Not like her house…not anymore. Her mom stayed in her room and either cried or read. Her dad locked himself in his garage. And they both forgot about her. It was always dark, always cold.

At
her
house, the lights were rarely on.

Her mom rarely spoke. Her dad looked like he’d aged twenty years. Everybody was sad. Everybody was broken. All because of…

Unable to look at that brightly lit house, a place that looked like it
screamed
welcome, she looked away, staring into the darkness.

Something shifted in the dark. If she hadn’t been staring
just there
, she never would have seen it. Never. But she was looking, and she saw the boy walking away—saw him stop and wait in the darkness. Like her. Staring at the house.

Just like her.

She reached for her phone, not daring to do anything until she saw the shadowy figure turn away and disappear into the night. Each minute seemed to be a lifetime, but she figured it was probably only five or ten minutes. She should wait longer, make sure he didn’t come back.

But somehow, she didn’t think she could. Somehow, she suspected there wasn’t any more time to wait.

Swallowing, she fished out the card Desiree Lincoln had given her and punched in the number as she started across the street. As she drew closer, she thought she heard a faint roar. Faint…but pretty damn familiar, and as she got closer, she knew exactly what that sound was.

“Oh, shit…” Her gut clenched. Curled.

As a sleepy voice came on the line, she started to run.

* * *

PLEASED with himself, Brendan cut across Meyer’s Field.

There wasn’t a Meyer around, hadn’t been for years. But the field was still called Meyer’s Field. He kept to the fence, along the line of the side where the trees ran thick, not wanting to risk being seen, although shit, who the fuck was out—

He saw the outline of somebody out there, then. If the moon hadn’t been full, shining down in just the right way, he might not have seen it. It
was
a person, right? He didn’t think there was a scarecrow or anything out there. What the hell? Standing so still, staring down. Staring at what?

No. It was a person.

In the middle of the field, so fucking late—

What the hell?

Hissing out a breath, Brendan went still and continued to stare, creeping along, barely daring to move, barely daring to breathe. He was quiet—couldn’t be seen now.

Damn it, what the hell was it with people fucking up his plans?

* * *

“IF the boy interrupts us, I’ll be so unhappy.”

There was just the faintest crunch of twigs breaking. Fainter, getting fainter. Leaving them, the boy was leaving. Good.

Their time together shouldn’t be interrupted.

“We don’t have much time together, do we? My pretty little angel.” The flowers were already spread out, an offering. “I hope you like them. It wasn’t as easy to get them as I’d hoped. Not the perfect ones I wanted for you, at least.”

Perfect, everything for the angel must be perfect. Perfect for their day together. The only time they had together, every year. The day was almost done and then it would be a year—
no
.

It shouldn’t have happened this way. “My angel…my one and only. Damn it.”

There was a sob, harsh and ugly. She’d threatened to tell.
Why
had she done that? Didn’t she know? Hadn’t she understood?

It shouldn’t have happened this way. It hadn’t been meant to happen this way. Anger, guilt, grief, and longing—they were a poisonous mix. “You were so sweet and lovely. I want you back.”

Tears fell and were ignored.

“I miss my angel.”