Truly, Madly (16 page)

On the left side, there was a picture of me in my wraparound dress and heels, with an inset showing they were the same heels found at Wompatuck State Park.

Preston Bailey had gotten her byline.

EIGHTEEN

Somehow I managed not to drop my coffee. I slowly set it on the table and picked up the paper. Preston Bailey had written the whole article with little to go on but assumptions and circumstantial evidence.

She had, in fact, overheard my conversation with Raphael at the Porcupine—she'd referenced what she heard in the article, with my words about having a vision in quotes.

Once the composite of the person who'd found Max came out, she'd put two and two together, using the snapshots of me leaving work as further proof.

The way the article was written cast doubt on whether my abilities were real while also hailing me as some kind of hero. The juxtaposition was confusing to say the least.

''You could have told me you were psychic. I've worked with people like you before. It would have saved a lot of trouble.''

People like you.
As if I were some kind of mutant. I dropped my head into my hands, stared at the words in the article, the print blurring. ''The point was no one was supposed to know I found Max. I didn't want people to know it was me.''

Turmoil churned in my stomach.

''I figured that out on my own, Cinderella. That's why I'm here. I came as soon as I saw the headline to warn you. Why not just acknowledge you found him?''

I wrapped my arms around my stomach, trying to hold the pain at bay. ''Not many people know I have psychic abilities.''

''Why? Why not tell? Think of all the good you could do. You found Max.''

I jumped up, paced, trying not to wince at the pain in my feet. ''It's not that easy! I wish it were; really I do. The reasons are complicated. And contrary to what this article leads people to believe, I don't have random visions. My gift is very specific.''

''How so?''

''I can only find lost objects. Inanimate objects. Not people. Not pets. And there are rules,'' I fairly cried. ''The object has to belong to the person who lost it, and only that person can ask me to find it.''

He set down his coffee. ''But you found Max—''

''No. I found his father's sweatshirt.''

''Ah. That's why you asked John O'Brien to think about his shirt.''

''Exactly. I feel the objects' energy through people's palms. I can't explain it. I don't know why it happens. It just is. I hate shaking hands, because I don't ever know what I'm going to see. Like the other night when I met Butch and saw his car keys in his couch.''

''Wow.''

Tears welled in my eyes. The phone rang. I answered without thinking. It was a reporter from the
Globe
wanting a comment.

''I have none,'' I said, hanging up.

Not a second later, the phone rang again. I disconnected it from the wall; no doubt about it, I'd need a new phone number.

''Lucy?'' Em came out from the bedroom dressed in a light blue sweater and gray trousers. Her hair had been towel-dried and her curls left loose and wild. Her blue eyes widened when she took a good look at me. ''What's wrong?''

What could I say? Do? Em had known me for almost my whole life and I'd kept this from her. Would she ever forgive me? Would Marisol?

''I don't know where to begin,'' I said softly, my emotions thickening my words.

She turned on Holliday. ''Does this have to do with you?''

''No, Em. It's not him. It's me. I . . . I'm—''

''What?'' she asked.

Holliday rose. ''Here,'' he said, handing her the paper.

Em sank onto the couch.

''The media are gathering at the bottom of the drive,'' Holliday said, peeking out the window. ''And there's an older woman running across the lawn from the main house.''

A second later, the front door flew open. Dovie rushed in, arms wide. I went into them willingly.

''There, there,'' she said, stroking my hair. ''It'll be okay. We'll get through it.''

''Mom and Dad are going to have a fit.''

''Let them,'' Dovie said.

Em finally looked up from the paper. ''Is this true, Lucy?''

''A lot of it is hogwash,'' Dovie said, letting me go.

''But most of it is true,'' I said. Once again I went through what had happened when I was fourteen, how I could only find lost objects. By the time I was done, I was sick of hearing myself talk. ''Are you mad at me?'' I asked Em, my heart in my throat.

''Mad? No!'' Em said, hugging me. ''How could I be?''

''I never told you. Or Marisol.''

''Or anyone,'' Dovie added, scooping up Grendel, who finally had decided to leave the warmth of the bed to see what the ruckus was about.

''Oh, Lucy. Didn't we just talk about this yesterday? We all have secrets. Yours, though, is a cool one. I always wondered how you knew where I left my driver's license that one time. . . .''

I was so relieved I couldn't speak.

''I warned the reporters not to trespass or they'll be charged,'' Dovie said. ''But I don't think they're going anywhere any time soon. I've called the Cohasset police—perhaps they can do some crowd control.''

Em looked out the window. ''There's a car coming up the drive.''

Two doors slammed in tandem. I looked out and groaned. Could this day get any worse?

*  *  *

I plastered myself against the door. ''We are not opening this door.''

''Who is it?'' Dovie asked.

''No one I want to talk to.''

One of the Weymouth detectives pounded on the front door, the knock vibrating against my back.

''Do you want me to get rid of them?'' Holliday asked.

''More than anything,'' I whispered.

''Ms. Valentine,'' one of them shouted, ''it's Detective Kolchowski. We'd like to speak with you.''

''A detective?'' Holliday glanced out the window. ''With which department?''

''Weymouth,'' I answered, my back vibrating again with the force of the detective's knock.

''What do they want with you?'' Dovie asked.

''It might have something to do with a dead body I found.''

''What!'' Em screeched.

''We know you're in there, Ms. Valentine! Let us in or we'll come back with a warrant.''

I reluctantly pulled open the door. The two men stood on my wraparound porch, peering into my living room. ''Are we interrupting?'' the detective with glasses asked.

''If I said yes, would you go away?''

''No.''

''Then come on in.''

''I'll be right back,'' Em said, grabbing her purse and heading toward my bedroom. ''I have to make a phone call.''

''Detectives, this is my grandmother, Dovie Valentine, and this is Detective Lieutenant Holliday, Massachusetts State Police.''

''Plymouth County,'' he said.

''A little out of your jurisdiction,'' the tall one said.

''I'm not here on business,'' Holliday said tightly. ''What's this about a dead body? You working with the Norfolk County detectives?''

The Norfolk County State Police detectives. Weymouth, like Cohasset, was situated in Norfolk County, while Hingham, sandwiched in the middle, was in Plymouth County. Massachusetts was known for roads and boundaries that didn't make any sense—it extended to counties as well.

''Yeah. I'm Curt Kolchowski,'' the balding one with the chipped tooth said.

''I'm Patrick Chapman.'' The chubby one with the mustache and glasses shifted his weight.

''I'm sure you're here about the
Herald
article, Detectives.''

''We saw it. But we've been trying to reach you since yesterday. Didn't you get our messages?''

''No,'' I said truthfully.

''What is this about?'' Holliday asked.

''She didn't tell you?'' Kolchowski raised his eyebrows.

''Tell me what?''

''She and her boyfriend dug up a body in Great Esker.''

''That was you?'' he asked.

I sank into the couch. My feet were killing me. I put them up on the table. Grendel hopped in my lap.

''Boyfriend?'' Dovie asked hopefully.

Yes. Yes, this day could, in fact, get worse.

''Seems awfully coincidental you're suddenly psychic after becoming a person of interest in a murder case.''

''A person of interest! I found the body, if you haven't forgotten. I didn't put it there.''

''Is it just coincidence you found your client's dead ex-girlfriend?''

''Client?'' Dovie squeaked.

''Michael Lafferty,'' I said to her. ''And Rachel wasn't his girlfriend.''

''What is this, Lucy?''

I closed my eyes. ''Here's what happened.'' I told them the whole story, from when Michael walked into my office to when I shook his hand and saw the vision of the ring. And of how that led me to do a little digging in Great Esker.

''Convenient,'' Chapman said.

''What are you implying?'' Dovie demanded.

''I'm implying you're a phony, Ms. Valentine,'' he said to me.

I gritted my teeth, sat up. ''Have you two ever lost anything?''

''What?''

''Have you ever lost anything? Keys, wallet, et cetera?''

''Yeah,'' Chapman said hesitantly.

''Think about that object. Don't tell me what it is. Just think about it. Are you thinking?''

''I don't see what this has to do—''

I grabbed his hand. It was as big as a catcher's mitt and just as leathery. Images whirled through my head, a tornado of information. Pulling my hand away, I looked at him. ''Your wedding ring.'' I tsked. ''I'm not sure where you lost it, but it's currently in a pawnshop in Southie.''

His mouth tightened.

''You?'' I said to Kolchowski.

He held out his hand. After a dizzying second, I shook my head clear. ''The item you lost is a shirt. Looks to be an old Aerosmith concert shirt, but it's seen better days. It looks like someone hacked at it with a pair of scissors.''

''I knew she did something to it! Where is it?''

''In a black garbage bag with dozens of ripped-up baseball cards in the Holbrook landfill.''

''Son of a bitch!'' he mumbled. ''I didn't know about the baseball cards. Man, that hurts.''

''Phony, my ass,'' Dovie said.

The two detectives stared at me as if not quite believing, but believing just the same.

''Michael can't be guilty. He didn't know where the ring was.'' I gave them a second to process. ''He's innocent. You see that, right? You only went after him because of me—because he was my client. But now you know how I found Rachel's body.''

Chapman shook his head as if trying to sort it all out. ''If you two don't mind,'' he said to Dovie and Holliday, ''we'd like to ask Ms. Valentine some questions in private.''

''No,'' Dovie said.

''I'm sorry, ma'am, but it's not up to you.''

''Lucy,'' Em said, coming from the bedroom, ''Marshall says not to say another word. Oh my God! What happened to your feet?'' She crouched down and looked at my wounds. ''Holy shit, you did a number on them.''

''Detectives, it's time for you to leave,'' Dovie said, in full protective mode.

''Who's Marshall?'' Kolchowski asked, not budging.

Marshall was suddenly my savior. He was also Joseph's father, Em's future father-in-law. And one of the best attorneys in the city.

''Marshall Betancourt,'' Em answered. ''Lucy's lawyer. If you want to speak with Lucy, you'll need to go through him first. Here's his number.'' She handed Kolchowski a scrap of paper.

It didn't escape my attention the way Holliday looked at her, impressed.

''You sure that's the route you want to go?'' Kolchowski asked me.

''Yes,'' I said. It was obvious they didn't want to release Michael as a suspect. Maybe because he was the only one they had. Had they tried to find Elena at all?

Dovie marched to the door, held it open. ''Good day, Detectives.''

As the two detectives walked toward the door, Chapman looked back at Holliday. It wasn't a friendly look that passed between them.

As soon as the door closed, Holliday said, ''I don't think I'll be getting a Christmas card from them.''

''Will they cause trouble for you, Lieutenant?'' I asked.

''Please call me Aiden. And nothing I can't handle.''

Em rooted around her bag and came up with a prescription pad. ''You need antibiotics, Lucy.'' She looked at her watch. ''I can go get them.''

I glanced at the clock. ''You're going to be late for work.''

''I'll go,'' Dovie said, taking the prescription.

''Could you get some fresh bandages and some Polysporin, too? Lucy, stay off your feet today. Doctor's orders.'' Em gathered up her things.

I fished through my bag, tossed her my car keys. ''Thanks, Em, for everything. I'll see you tonight.''

''I'm going to go, too.'' Aiden strode to the door. ''I'll run interference for you at the street,'' he said to Em.

She gazed up at him and smiled. ''Thanks.''

''I'm going to let you rest today, Cinderella, but I'll need to take a statement from you,'' Aiden said. ''If you want to have your lawyer with you, that's fine, but it's mostly just tying up loose ends. I don't know what's going on with this other case—and honestly, I don't want to—but I suggest you listen to your lawyer. And stay out of the detectives' way. They're gunning for you.''

As Em drove off, Dovie waved, then closed the door. She looked at me expectantly and smiled. ''What boyfriend?'' she asked. ''Details!''

NINETEEN

It was a day of firsts.

It was the first time I'd ''lawyered up.''

The first time I'd been outed as a psychic.

My first time riding in the trunk of a car.

Fortunately, I was way past the age of losing my virginity—good thing, too, since Sean was in close proximity. He was just the kind of boy Raphael had warned me about.

Slivers of light cut through the darkness of the trunk. My legs were bent to my chest, and I rested my head on an old musty blanket. Every time the car bounced over a dip in the road, pain radiated from my spine and I sucked in gasping breaths traced with mold spores. It had been just five minutes since the trunk had closed, and already my heart raced, my palms dampened.

To say I wasn't a happy camper would be a complete understatement.

''Three times three is nine,'' I said, trying to distract myself.

Sneaking away in the trunk of Sean's car had seemed like a great idea ten minutes ago.

Until I realized I might be the slightest bit claustrophobic. Who knew? It wasn't as though I was trapped in trunks every day.

''The square root of one-forty-four is twelve.''

''Are you talking to yourself?'' Sean shouted.

''How much longer?'' I yelled back.

The car slowed, then stopped. A second later, the trunk popped and Sean was there, holding out his hand. ''You don't look so well.''

I looked at his palm. No way. My heart was already palpitating—it would probably go into complete arrest if I saw more images of Sean and me in bed together. ''Don't want to zap you,'' I said, hauling myself out.

Sean had parked in the empty lot at Sandy Beach. The dark gray whitecapped ocean stretched out before us as far as eye could see. Hungry seagulls squawked overhead, circling beneath ominous storm clouds. The sharp briny smell of low tide stung my nose as angry waves slapped at the rocky shore.

''You okay?''

''Nothing a little fresh air won't cure.'' I took in deep lungfuls. The crisp breeze cooled me off. My heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm.

The wind ruffled his dark hair, raising the short strands on end. ''You should have told me you were claustrophobic. We'd have come up with another plan.''

''I didn't know.'' I stretched my legs, working out the kinks, while inhaling deeply. Rain hung in the crisp autumn air. A strong gust of wind took hold of my ponytail, thrashing it against my face. ''We should go.''

''You sure you're ready?'' Sean looked completely comfortable in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a button-down striped blue and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In this light, his eyes were the same color as the churning ocean.

Shells crunched beneath my sneakers as I walked tenderly toward the car door. ''I'm good.''

As long as I didn't walk, I was just fine. I had one dose of antibiotic and two Extra Strength Advils in me. Hopefully enough to get me through the day.

As I buckled my seat belt, I said, ''I'm sorry about Dovie earlier.''

''What was with that?''

''When the detectives came, they mentioned you were my boyfriend. She was sizing you up to see if it was true, because she didn't believe me when I said you were.''

His head snapped to look at me. ''You what?''

''The road! The road!''

Jerking the wheel hard left, he swerved back into his lane. He'd just barely missed a telephone pole.

So much for my steady heartbeat.

''Does being my boyfriend panic you so much you want to run us off the road?'' I teased.

''I just, I mean—''

''You should see your face.'' Panic furrowed his brow; apprehension darkened his eyes. The sharp sting of rejection pinched my chest. It was ridiculous to feel that way. I knew—knew!—we couldn't be together. I had issues. He had issues. Then there was the whole Curse thing to deal with. But still, his reaction smarted.

''Did you really tell her that?'' he asked.

''Yes, I did.''

''But Lucy . . .''

My heart fluttered at the way he said my name. I tried to pass it off as having drunk too much coffee that morning. ''Yes, I lied to her. And I'd do it again. She's on a mission for me to have children and is setting me up with every single guy on the South Shore. Enough is enough. I saw an opportunity to save my sanity, and I took it.''

''So you're using me.''

''Essentially.''

''I'm okay with that.''

I smiled at his teasing tone. ''Unfortunately, she's suspicious. Be prepared for more questioning.''

''Consider me forewarned.''

Fat raindrops splashed the windshield. Our first stop was to meet Ruth Ann Yurio, Rachel's grandmother. She lived in South Weymouth, a good half-hour drive from my cottage.

''Did the detectives try to get in touch with you?'' I asked.

''They called—I didn't answer.''

''How long do you think we can avoid their questions?''

''Not much longer. Stonewall as long as possible. Or until they believe we had nothing to do with Rachel's death other than recovering her body.''

I'd spoken to Marshall Betancourt for almost an hour, telling him the whole story. He didn't seem the least bit put off at representing a psychic, though he kept joking about me being able to ''see'' that the detectives had no case against me. I had to set him straight—that my abilities were limited.

''Too bad,'' he'd said. ''I was hoping to hit the lottery tonight.''

I didn't find the joke the least bit funny.

So far I'd found the hardest part of being outed was explaining my gift to people. No one quite understood that psychics came in all shapes and talents. Some could simply read auras, like my ancestors. Some had ESP, telepathy, clairvoyance, channeling. The list was actually quite long. My talent was a specific form of ESP. I was convinced there was a medical explanation behind being psychic—how else to explain why an electrical surge transformed my abilities? Something in my brain had been altered.

''Have you been able to locate my parents?''

''They checked out of the main resort because it was undergoing some unexpected renovations.''

That explained a lot. My father wouldn't have put up with the noise. When he was on vacation, he strived for peace and quiet.

''They moved to an exclusive private villa on a remote part of the island. No phones, no electricity.''

Sounded like something my father would engineer—and my mother, an original flower child, would wholeheartedly support. ''If there's no electricity, their cell phones are probably dead.''

''Exactly. I hired a messenger to track them down and have them call you and check their e-mail as soon as possible.''

''E-mail?''

''I sent them the link to the
Herald
. The story is front and center on their Web page.''

''Great.''

In the chaos of the morning, I managed to find time to call Raphael, who'd slept in and hadn't yet seen the paper. It wasn't like Raphael to sleep late, and it had me wondering if he was alone.

And I'd have to keep on wondering, because that wasn't a question I was going to ask him. He'd been first horrified at the article, then mad, cursing like I'd never heard him before—in both Spanish and English. He'd wanted to come to the cottage, but I insisted I was okay. He finally relented, but not before cussing out Preston Bailey one more time.

I let him. Preston was probably lapping up accolades this morning while my life was falling apart.

My hands balled into fists. Anger bubbled in my chest, pounding against my rib cage like a prisoner trying to escape a cell. Closing my eyes, I tried to relax.

8 times 6 is 48.

The square root of 4 is 2.

10 to the second power is 100.

Better. But not quite there. I always thought I had a forgiving nature, but apparently not where nosy reporters were concerned.

''Want to hit me?'' Sean asked.

My eyes flashed open. ''What?''

''Want to hit me?'' He nodded to my clenched fists.

I released my fingers, flexing them. ''Not you.''

''Might make you feel better.''

Sex might, too. I wondered if he was willing.

Therapeutical sex. I might be on to something.

''I'm sorry,'' he said, as if reading my mind.

''About?'' I questioned. Did
he
have ESP? Was he turning me down when I hadn't technically asked?

''Everything you're going through right now.''

My heart tripped over itself. Why did he have to make it so easy to fall for him? ''Thanks.''

Sean pulled into the parking lot of a massive retirement community off Route 18, not far from South Shore Hospital. We parked in the main lot and Sean cut the engine. Rain tapped melodically against the roof as he shifted to face me.

Before I could react, he had encircled my left wrist with his fingers.

''What are you doing?'' Curious more than anything.

''What happens when you touch me?''

My mouth went cotton-ball dry. ''H-happens?''

''Do you see something I've lost?'' With a little bit of pressure, he turned my hand over, palm up. The heat from his fingers sizzled against my skin.

''I've never seen something you've lost.'' There. Not a lie.

With his other hand, he traced the outline of my fingers, like he was a little kid drawing a Thanksgiving turkey. He touched everywhere but my palm, which tingled uncomfortably.

''Does your touch zap everyone?'' he asked.

''No, I don't zap everyone.'' Water! I needed water. ''Just you.''

''I must be special.''

I focused on his lips, my own aching. ''You must be.''

''But you do see something when you touch me.''

''Nothing.'' I kept staring at his lips. The way they moved when he spoke. The way his tongue flicked against his teeth. The way they pulled me in.

''Liar,'' he said softly, leaning in to me. ''What do you see, Lucy?''

I nearly jumped out of my skin as his fingers trailed across my palm.

Images came slowly, languidly. Lips. A bed.

''Nothing,'' I said, closing my eyes against the lie.

''Nothing?'' Again his finger drifted across my palm.

Mouths meeting. Hands exploring. A bare breast. A heated gaze.

My eyes flew open. I snatched my hand away, tucking it protectively under my arm.

The rain intensified, sheeting the windshield. Rattled, I tried not to look at him but couldn't refuse when he nudged my chin. His thumb brushed my bottom lip. I think I groaned.

''I can't see it, Lucy.'' He held up his fingers. ''But I
feel
it.''

''I don't understand it,'' I said, tears clouding my eyes from the sheer need of wanting him. ''I can't explain it. And there's no point in talking about it. We should go.''

Shoving open my door, I didn't give him a chance to argue. Ignoring the pain, I dashed toward the main building, dodging puddles.

Under the safety of the awning, I brushed at my eyes, chastising myself for being so emotional. Sean jogged across the parking lot, his shirt darkened with moisture. He finger-combed sopping hair, sending spikes into the air. His labored breathing caught my attention.

''You okay?'' I asked.

''I'm all right.''

I looked long and hard at him. Outwardly, he was in perfect condition. I'd give him a 10 on a how-hot-is-he? scale. What had happened to him? What injury had caused him to leave the fire department? Had left him fighting for breath?

We followed an outdoor corridor to Ruth Ann's apartment. By the time we rang her bell, we were dripping wet.

''Do you think she'll talk to us?''

Sean shrugged. ''You never know.''

Slowly, the door opened. Gentle folds of wrinkles lined the woman's heart-shaped face. Sharp green eyes focused on us. ''Yes?''

''Mrs. Yurio?''

The woman shook her head. ''No, dear.''

''Is she home?'' I asked.

''May I ask what this is concerning?''

Dripping, I said, ''I'm Lucy Valentine and this is Sean Donahue. We'd like to talk to Mrs. Yurio about Rachel.''

''Valentine?'' the woman said hesitantly, the crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes deepening.

''Yes, ma'am.''

''Are you the girl in the paper today?''

Breathing deep, I said, ''Yes.''

The door opened. ''Come in.''

The foyer opened into a surprisingly spacious living room. It was an open layout, with one room blending into another with only columns as dividers. Vanilla scented the air as she led us to a pair of brocade-covered sofas facing each other. The scent couldn't quite cover a lingering antiseptic smell.

''Let me get some towels,'' she said, hurrying down a narrow hallway.

A door opened and closed. When she returned, she placed two bath towels across the sofa. ''I'm Marilyn Flynn. I take care of Ruth Ann.''

''Take care?'' I asked.

She nodded to an open door down the hall. Through it I could barely see the frame of a hospital bed. ''She had a stroke many years ago and never fully recovered. She's not quite . . . there,'' she said softly.

''How long ago?'' Sean asked. ''Eight years, give or take.''

Eight years? ''Wasn't she the one who reported Rachel missing?''

The woman smiled wanly. ''Technically. Six years ago when Rachel didn't come by for Christmas, I knew something was horribly wrong. It just wasn't like her to miss a major holiday with no word. I took Ruth Ann to the police station and filed a report. Back then she was still able to get around, but I provided most of the information.''

''Are you a relative?'' Sean asked.

''All but blood,'' she said. ''Ruth Ann and I grew up together. Neither Rachel nor I had the heart to put her in a home after the stroke, so I volunteered to move in and take care of her, even though she doesn't remember me.''

The love in the woman's voice broke my heart. ''I'm sorry.''

''Thank you. Coffee? Tea?'' she asked. ''To warm you up?''

''No, thank you,'' Sean and I said in unison.

She slowly lowered herself onto the couch facing us, delicately perching on the edge of a cushion. Her crooked posture and sallow skin hinted at health problems, but her eyes were clear. White, shoulder-length poofy dandelion-style hair framed her face.