Читать книгу Darker Than Midnight - Maggie Shayne, Maggie Shayne - Страница 10

Jax sipped her coffee and actively resisted the temptation to revisit the platter of sausage links on her mother’s perfectly set kitchen table.

“Have some more, hon. You’re too thin.”

She smiled. Her mother would say she was too thin no matter what her current weight was. Though, in Jax’s considered opinion, her mom could use a few pounds of padding. The woman had the body of a thirty-year-old. Only her face showed the signs of her age—or, more likely, the stresses of her past. You didn’t see it in her blond hair. She kept it colored, cut and styled to perfection.

“I couldn’t eat another bite, Mom. Besides, I have to get into town. Don’t want to be late my first day.”

“Oh.” Mariah frowned. “Oh, well, then, never mind.”

Jax slanted a look from her mother to her father, who shook his head. “Don’t bother Cassie today, hon. I told you, I can take that stuff over for her and drop the other things off, as well.”

Frowning, and curious, Jax said, “What stuff?”

“Your mother has an ice chest packed full of food for you, is all,” her father said. “Thinks you might starve to death in a house without groceries, and a whole mile from the nearest store.” He pointed to a cooler in the corner of the room. It sat right beside a box of clothing.

Jax smiled, because he’d nailed her mom so well. “I can take it for you.”

“No, I won’t hear of it,” Ben said. “I’ve got to go into town anyway, take that box of castoffs to the Goodwill.”

An idea crept into her brain as she followed his gaze to the huge cardboard box that sat in the corner near the cooler. Piles of folded clothes filled it. She tried to ignore the notion, and couldn’t. “What sorts of castoffs?”

“Clothes. Shoes. Your mother didn’t throw a thing of mine out the entire time I was…away. Kept everything. Most of those don’t even fit me anymore. Came across them in the attic, when we were going through it looking for things you could use for the house.”

Mariah shot him a look. “Ben, I asked you a dozen times to sort those things before we ever moved out here. Had you got around to it when you should have, we wouldn’t have ended up packing them and moving them with us.”

“I told you I didn’t need them.”

“There were perfectly good things in there!”

Jax held up a hand. Even though their bickering was good-natured, she didn’t like it. And she supposed it was silly, after all this time, for her to still be afraid they’d end up splitting like so many couples did after a tragedy. But silly or not, she did worry. Her mother seemed to have recovered, for the most part. But her father—God, there was still something dark and enormous that haunted her father.

Those two had lost a daughter. They’d survived her father’s lengthy prison sentence. And yet they’d stayed together. But they were not the same. Neither of them was.

Jax wasn’t, either. She’d been the youngest daughter, a tough little hellion, but still…She had become the oldest, abandoned by her big sister, and by her dad, whom she’d thought would always be there for her. She’d become a caregiver to her mother—and there had been no one left to be a caregiver to her. So she’d grown up and she’d done it fast. Hadn’t done her a bit of harm, either, she reminded herself, just in case a hint of self-pity tried to creep in. She didn’t believe in that kind of garbage.

Hell, it amazed her how solid her parents’ relationship must be to have weathered so much. And yet there was something lurking underneath. Something waiting, ready to pounce and ruin it all. And she thought they both sensed it, even if they didn’t know what it was.

“I’ll be glad to take those things for you,” she said, breaking free of the silence into which she’d fallen. “Really. It’s no trouble.”

Her father frowned. “Only if you’re sure.”

“Do you need me to phone Frankie for you, hon?” her mother asked. “I could explain you might be a few minutes late.”

Jax laughed. She couldn’t help it. She lowered her head and laughed.

“Well…what did I say that’s so funny?” Mariah demanded, sounding defensive.

Ben patted her hand. “Honey, our daughter is a grown-up woman. She doesn’t need you to write an excuse to her teacher.”

Mariah pressed her lips together.

“It’ll be fine, Mom. If I leave right now, I can still make it on time. That Taurus knows what to do when I stomp on the gas, and the roads are blessedly bare.”

“Don’t you even think about breaking any speed limits, Cassie,” her mother warned.

Jax got to her feet, gave her mom a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for breakfast. It was fabulous.”

“You barely touched it.”

One egg, two sausage links, a scoop of home fries and a pancake were apparently her mother’s idea of barely touching. “I’ll see you later, Mom.”

Her father grabbed the ice chest and carried it out to her car, sliding it into the back seat. Jax carried the box of clothes, and even as she loaded them in and closed the door, she knew she wasn’t going to take them to the Goodwill in town.

She was going to leave them on the porch of her home, right beside the cooler of food. It was stupid. The scrawny hunk was long gone, and she would probably never see him again. Then again, she couldn’t very well justify leaving a warm bed and food for a stray dog and not doing as much for a stray human being. Particularly one who’d saved her life.

Dr. Ethan Melrose stood over the slab in the hospital morgue and waited while the attendant pulled a sheet from the dead man’s face. They needed to do a postmortem. And since he was both River’s doctor and his best friend, he wanted to oversee it personally.

But as soon as he looked at the body, he knew something was wrong.

“How did he do that much damage to his face with a simple fall?”

The attendant flipped open a metal folder, reading from a chart. “Hit the toilet, facefirst.”

“No way in hell,” Ethan said. “Get this cleaned up. I can’t even see him, much less examine him.”

He paced the room while the attendant worked, but when he turned again and saw more of the corpse’s face, he thought his heart flipped over in his chest. It was pummeled, yes. The nose broken, maybe a cheekbone, too. But he was certain of one thing.

“That man is not Michael Corbett,” he said.

“What?”

Lunging forward, Ethan grabbed the dead man’s wrist, lifting it. “Jesus, where’s his wrist band? Didn’t anyone even bother to check his wrist band?”

“Oh, God,” the attendant muttered. “He…the patient’s room was locked. He was the only one inside. No one even thought to question—Doctor, if this isn’t Michael Corbett, then who the hell is it?”

“I don’t know. But I think we have a more pressing question to answer right now. If this isn’t Michael Corbett, then where the hell is he?”

“Jesus, he escaped.”

Ethan nodded. “Better call the state police. And find out the name of every male staff member who was on duty last night. See who’s not accounted for.”

He walked out of the room, but had to stop halfway down the hall, because his knees were shaking so badly he thought he might fall. He braced his arms against a wall, lowered his head between them. “Dammit, River. Where are you?”

“Welcome to the Blackberry Police Department,” Frankie said, beaming a smile at her as Jax walked through the door. The police department took up fully half of a neat brick building with a huge parking lot that rolled out in back of it. The other half held the town post office.

The first room was a reception area, more or less. It held a desk, where a pretty brunette with a nameplate that read Rosie Monroe jumped to her feet as soon as Jax entered the room.

“Hi, Lieutenant Jackson,” she said. “I don’t think we really met last time you were in town.”

“Well, there was a lot going on last time I was in town,” Jax said, extending a hand. “Chief Parker tells me you practically run this department.”

Rosie shrugged, shaking, her grip entirely too gentle, her hand cool. “I’ve been here ten years. It’s kind of second nature.”

Jax released her hand and looked around the room. Besides Rosie’s desk, this end held a small sofa and love seat in fake green leather. Between them was a stand with a coffeepot, creamer and sugar containers, and a large white box that she guessed, from the aroma, contained fresh doughnuts. It had Susy-Q’s Bakery stamped on the lid.

The other side of the room opened out wider, held three desks and was lined with file cabinets. Every desk had a typewriter, and there was one computer in the room, which the men apparently had to share.

The officers were coming over now, two of them smiling and vaguely familiar—she’d worked with both of them during the Mordecai Young incident last year. Good men. She held out a hand. “Campanelli, Matthews, good to see you again.”

Bill Campanelli shook her hand warmly, his smile genuine. All of five-six, and nearly as big around, Bill had a thin layer of carrot-red hair remaining on his rapidly balding head, and when he smiled, his whole face lit up. “Same here,” he said.

Mike “Icabod” Matthews took his turn, adding a pat to her shoulder. “If anyone can fill Frankie’s shoes, we figure it’ll be you.”

Cassie shook her head. “Either one of you could handle the job,” she said.

They exchanged looks and winked. “Neither one of us wants it,” Campanelli said. “Hell, I retire in five years. And Matthews, he’s got so many side projects going he wants to have himself cloned.”

“Town couldn’t take two of me,” the other man joked.

The third man stood off to one side, waiting his turn. His pale blue eyes were cold, his smile forced in his square-jawed face. He was built like a boxer—stocky and solid. Jax knew the type. Big chip on his shoulder and probably had issues working under a woman. It might have been different with Frankie, since she was the man’s aunt. But Jax was not only female, but a younger female at that. And stepping into the job he had coveted for himself. She read all of that with her first look at the guy, pegged him as an asshole, and didn’t doubt she’d be proved right, given time.

She extended a hand. “You must be Officer Parker,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” It was a lie, but what the hell.

“Lieutenant,” he said with a nod.

She almost told him to call her Jax, but decided against it. She’d need every edge she could get with this fellow, and establishing a pattern of respect would be a good start.

“I hear you stayed out at that old empty house last night. How do you like it?”

“Love it,” she said.

He lifted his brows, maybe a little surprised. “Really? I’d have thought being way out there like that might make a city girl a little uncomfortable.”

“I’m from Syracuse, Officer Parker, not Manhattan.”

He shrugged. “Still city, compared to here.”

“I like the country. It’s quiet.”

“Not a neighbor within a mile of you,” he said. “A lot of the locals claim to have seen things out there, since the fire.”

“What kinds of things?” she asked, looking him square in the eye.

“Just things. Things that spooked ’em.”

“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t spook easily. I didn’t have power or a phone last night. And even that didn’t spook me.”

“Those will be on by the time you get home,” Frankie told her, coming out of her office to join them. “Power company said by noon today, and the phone guy told me dinnertime at the latest.” She smiled. “So did you really like the place?”

“I’ve never spent a more interesting evening,” she said, and it was a perfectly honest answer.

“Well, now you’ve got me curious. Come on, you can tell me about it while I give you the grand tour.”

“Nothing to tell, Frankie. Honest, I love the house.”

Frankie led her through the station, showing her the files, the communal computer, the supply closet, which was packed full. Jax noted a holding cell in what looked like a new part of the station. “Just the one cell?” she asked.

“We didn’t have any until this past year,” Frankie told her. “It’s brand-new.”

“What did you do with the criminals before now?”

Overhearing her, Kurt Parker released a bark of laughter. “Hell, honey, this isn’t some city police department. We barely have any criminals.”

She shot him a look, but before she could say a thing, Frankie cut in. “I’m pretty sure I did introduce you, didn’t I, Kurt? The woman’s name is Lieutenant Jackson. Not ‘honey.’”

He looked as if he was about to say something belligerent, but by then the other two officers were chiming in. “You’d think some of us had been raised in a cave,” Matthews said.

“Hey, Parker, you want some more coffee? Honey?”

“Yeah, how about it, sweetie pie?”

Parker’s face reddened, and he turned to stomp off to his desk as if he had something pressing awaiting him there.

Rolling her eyes, Frankie led Jax into her office and closed the door. There was a smaller desk set up in the corner with a blotter, a cup full of pencils and pens, and a Blackberry Police Department coffee mug with a blue ribbon fastened to the handle.

“Aw, heck. Is that for me?”

“Sure is,” Frankie said. “That’s your desk. At least, until you move on over to this one.” She patted her own desk. “And to answer your earlier question, when we needed to make arrests, we’d call the county boys in. We’d get the paperwork, they’d get to hold the prisoners. It sounds complicated, but we had got it running like clockwork. Still, having a holding cell of our own is nice. And Kurt was right about one thing—we very rarely have to make any arrests.”

There was a tap on the door, then it opened and Rosie poked her head through. “Got a call, Chief.”

Frankie lifted her brows and waited, and Jax felt herself tense, just as she always did on the job when a call came her way.

“Purdy says someone just snatched some fruit from his produce section, and took off without paying.”

Jax blinked. Frankie nodded. “And what did this dangerous felon make off with?”

“An orange and a bunch of grapes, near as he could figure.”

Frankie nodded and smiled at Jax. “Welcome to high crime in Blackberry,” she said, her eyes twinkling. Then, to Rosie, “Description?”

“Male. Couldn’t see his face. He was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with some kind of bright orange logo on the front.”

Jax felt her own smile freeze in place and slowly die. Damn, she hoped the stranger went back by her place, so he would find the offerings she’d left and not feel compelled to steal. Apparently, he wasn’t very good at it. An orange and some grapes? Freaking pathetic.

“Suggestions, Lieutenant Jackson?” Frankie asked.

“Maybe the store’s security camera got him on tape?” she said.

“Nope. No security cams around here, except at the bank and post office.” She nodded to Rosie. “Why don’t you send Kurt over to take a report? He needs something to get his mind off his hurt feelings.”

“Sure thing, Chief.” Rosie backed out of the office.

Frankie sighed. “May as well get comfortable,” she told Jax. “We’ll take a look at the notices from the state police, and the county, and then we’ll head on over to the coffee shop.”

“But there’s coffee here,” Jax said.

“Ah, but we don’t go for coffee. We go for gossip. Best way to keep your finger on the pulse of this town. The good old grapevine—Blackberry’s lifeblood flows through it.”

“I can see I’ve got to get used to a whole new way of working, huh?”

“You’ll pick it up in no time, Jax.” The telephone on her desk rang, and Frankie reached for it. Her smile faded about three seconds into the phone call. Her face seemed to pale, as she scribbled notes. When she hung up she was already on her feet.

“What have we got?” Jax asked, getting to her feet, as well.

“Trouble. Come with me.” She went out of her office. “Rosie, there will be a fax coming through any minute. I’m gonna want a dozen copies, pronto.”

“On it,” Rosie said, and even as she spoke, the fax machine beside her desk was ringing and churning to life.

Matthews and Campanelli came over from their desks. Kurt Parker had apparently already gone to check out the great produce heist.

“Michael Corbett escaped from the state hospital last night,” Frankie said. “Killed an orderly in the process.”

“Holy shit,” Matthews muttered. “They think he’ll head here?”

“He’d be stupid to come here,” Frankie said. “But we need to be ready, just in case.”

“Wait, someone needs to bring me up to speed,” Jax said. “Who is this Corbett? Is he dangerous?”

With a heavy sigh, Frankie turned to her. “Hell, I didn’t want to dump all this on you your first night in town and maybe scare you off. But…well, I already told you the house—your house—has a history.”

“You said a whole wing was destroyed in a fire, and a woman was killed.” A little shiver ran up her spine, but Jax shook it off. She was a cop. Those kinds of shivers had no place in her life. And yet she kept thinking about the odd white shape she’d glimpsed outside, and Kurt Parker’s words about the place spooking people. And the cold spot on one side of the house that never seemed to get warm.

“The house belonged to the Corbetts, and the fire was arson,” Frankie said. “Corbett was found on the lawn with a gas can at his feet. His wife died in the fire—was pregnant at the time, too. Corbett claimed he couldn’t remember a thing, and he had some history of blackouts to back it up and a top-notch shrink on his side. The D.A. accepted an insanity plea and shipped him off to the state hospital, where everyone expected him to spend the rest of his life.”

Jax lifted her brows. “I thought you said nothing bad ever happened here?”

“I may have exaggerated just a tad. Hell, I’ve only given you the digest version. Rosie, dig out those old files so Jax can get caught up. Got that fax yet?”

“Got it.” Rosie handed the faxed sheet to Frankie, who looked at it and shook her head sadly. “That’s our man. Shame, crying shame. He was a cop once. A damn good one, as I understand it.” She passed the sheet to Jax. “We’ll get some posters up around town, keep a keen eye out for him.”

Jax barely heard her. Instead, she stared down at the face of the man who had spent the night in her house. The man who had saved her life at the risk of his own, who had wept in her arms and then slipped away before she woke. The man who, even now, might be finding the food and clothing she had provided for him.

Clothing—that belonged to her father, who was an ex-con and couldn’t afford to be tied to an escaped killer. God, what the hell had she done?

Her first day on the job, and already she was guilty of aiding and abetting an escaped criminal. That wasn’t going to earn her any points. She wouldn’t be surprised if Frankie withdrew the job offer when she found out. Jax knew that in her place, that’s what she would do.

She couldn’t believe she’d done it. She’d helped a murderer—one who’d got off on an insanity plea—much like the man accused of murdering her own sister had nearly done twelve years ago.

And maybe that was why. Not that she believed in fate, or karma or any of that hokey new age garbage. But damn, at the very least, the universe had one sick sense of humor.

He wasn’t doing well.

His feet scuffed through the dusting of snow along the winding road’s shoulder. He knew he was leaving a distinct trail, but doubted anyone was following it. The cold seemed to knife straight through to his bones. He ached with it.

He’d expected to feel better by now. To be starting to feel strong again after a good night’s sleep, in a warm, dry place. But he wasn’t feeling strong. He was shaky. His head felt heavy and cotton filled, and he was having trouble convincing his feet to pick up off the pavement. His chest hurt, too, ached and burned. And every now and then a full body shiver racked him from head to toe.

Taking the grapes from his pocket, he ate them as he walked. When there was nothing left but the spiny stem, he tossed it, and took out the orange. But he couldn’t manage to get a start on peeling it. His fingers were thick and stiff. No dexterity, very little hand-eye coordination.

He closed his eyes, giving up on the orange and dropping it into the pocket of his borrowed hoodie. Then he looked up to gauge how far he’d come, and found himself standing in front of his house—or her house. The place where he’d spent the night.

River lowered his head, shaking it slowly even as the specter of that fireplace rose up to tempt him to come inside. “No,” he muttered. “I’m not dragging some stranger into my messed-up life.”

He took another step, intending to walk right by the place. But then he saw the ice chest on the porch and hesitated. What the hell?

He moved closer, wondering if the woman could have deliberately left it outside for him to discover, but he found that hard to believe. More likely it was bait of some kind. Surely, by now they’d figured out the dead man in his hospital room wasn’t him. Surely, they would have alerted the authorities in this small town, and the word was out. Maybe by now she’d heard about him, and gone to Chief Parker to tell her about the stranger who’d spent the night under her roof. The cooler, left on her porch, could easily be meant to lure him in. They might be waiting, even now. He had no desire to deal with those officers again. They were less than gentle, those hometown boys in the Blackberry PD. At least, the one he’d dealt with back then.

His stomach growled and churned. He needed food. His body was at war with his brain. Hell, if he didn’t get physically up and running again, this entire mission was no more than one big waste of time.

He crouched in the trees across the street, watched the place for a while. Eventually an electric company truck rolled up. Men went around to the back, messed with the box mounted to the side of the house. They left again. Her power had been turned on.

He waited longer, kept watching the place. No movement. No sign of anyone nearby. Swallowing hard, he came out of his cover, and started moving across the street. He was slow, clumsy and wary. He told himself to turn and run at the first sign of a trap, but doubted he’d be able to outrun anyone. And then he heard a low, deep growl, and froze in his tracks.

The woman had a dog? He didn’t remember a dog from last night.

The growling grew louder, and he saw the animal’s large head emerge from underneath the broken boards in the porch. It barked at him once, twice, three times. River went stiff, looking around for people to come running, cops with guns drawn, at the dog’s summons, but none came. Maybe it wasn’t a trap, after all.

The dog came the rest of the way out; the barking ceased. It looked at him, growling deep, stepping forward, hesitant, wary.

River frowned, eyeing the skinny animal, the way his stomach seemed concave, and the familiar markings on his face. “Rex?” he whispered. Then louder. “Rex, boy? Is it you?”

The dog went still, head tipping to one side. It whined once.

“Rex, it’s me. God, boy, you look as bad I must. Come here. Come here, Rex.”

Tail wagging slightly, the dog came closer, wary and pausing between steps. River knelt down, right there in the road, and held out a hand. The German shepherd moved nearer, sniffing at him. Then, suddenly, the dog burst into a loud chorus of barks and jumped on him, paws to his chest knocking him flat on his back, tongue licking his face and neck.

River smiled. It hurt, pulling at facial muscles that hadn’t been used in months. Burying his hands in Rex’s fur, he hugged the dog, and wondered why he was feeling so damn emotional. It was an animal.

But he knew. Rex was a piece of his old life. The life he’d had before everything had been taken from him. The life he’d thought had been entirely obliterated. Rex remained. And if he did, then there was hope.

River pushed the dog off him, and then used his old friend to help pull himself to his feet. Keeping one hand on the animal, he moved across the road and into the driveway, trying to walk in the nicely plowed spots, where he wouldn’t leave obvious footprints. He went up onto the porch, then turned, realizing Rex was no longer beside him. The dog sat at the bottom of the steps. Too wary, perhaps, to come closer.

“It’s okay, pal. I’m pretty sure there’s no one around. Come on.” He slapped his hand against his thigh. Rex came up the steps and onto the porch, where he proceeded to explore and sniff the length and breadth, with special attention to the corners and the empty dog food dish that still held a few telltale crumbs.

She’d fed his dog.

River moved to the cooler, lifting the lid up and peering inside. “And now she’s feeding me,” he muttered.

Tupperware dishes lined the thing. He found one full of homemade rolls, and couldn’t stop himself from taking one. He bit into it, then felt Rex’s eyes on him, and saw the dog watching intently as he chewed.

“Okay, one for you, too, boy,” he said, tossing the dog a roll.

Rex caught it and ate it eagerly, tail wagging, while River examined the other containers. One held a stew, thick with gravy, vegetables and meat. Impossible to eat that, really, without utensils. The next dish he opened held cold fried chicken.

“God, Rex, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” He took out two pieces of the chicken and, forgetting his caution, sat right there on the porch to eat them. But before he got more than a bite off the second drumstick, his stomach was protesting. It had been too long. He just couldn’t hold food the way he would have liked to. Couldn’t do this meal justice.

There were other dishes in the cooler, and bottles of water, as well. He didn’t go through them, just peeled the remaining meat off the chicken bone for Rex, then put the bone itself back into the container, because he didn’t want the dog eating that, and set the container back in the cooler. He helped himself to a bottle of water, and only as he took his first sip did it occur to him that he hadn’t had a drop of water since before leaving the hospital—aside from the icy pond water he’d swallowed last night.

He drained the bottle, too thirsty, suddenly, to take it slow. And then his stomach convulsed and heaved. He ran off the porch, the dog at his heels, and only just made it into the thick brush across the road before he lost his lunch. The heaving left him weak and trembling, his stomach feeling far too queasy for him to even consider trying again to put food into it.

Rex nudged his thigh, whined a little.

He petted the dog’s neck and straightened. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll live. Maybe.” Lifting his head, he eyed the house. “You don’t suppose I could crawl under that porch with you, rest up for the day, do you?”

The dog barked once, and then the two of them made their way back across the street. River paused long enough to go through the box of clothing. Men’s clothing, all of it. There were jeans and flannel shirts, T-shirts and button-down shirts, ties, several pairs of shoes, and best of all, sweaters. Four of them, thick and heavy and warm. And a denim coat with a fleece lining, and even a knit cap.

“Heaven,” he said again. He took the jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, socks and the coat. He took only one pair of shoes, a pair of lined, waterproof boots that were more valuable to him right then than a million dollars would have been. He tried to arrange the remaining items—the dress shirts, ties, suit pants and jackets—in such a way that it wasn’t utterly obvious things were missing from the box. But it was pretty clear.

He bundled up his treasures, and went, with the dog, to the open spot under the porch, then knelt and crawled in.

And then he let his eyes adjust to the darkness. When they did, he realized that the woman who lived here was a pushover. There was a brand-new dog bed under the porch.

But there was something else even better. Something he had known about, once, but forgotten long ago. There was a hole in the cinder block foundation, made for a casement window. But there was no window in the hole.

He peeked through, into the house’s cellar. The furnace was running. The warmth of it touched his face.

He closed his eyes, told himself this woman was too nice to be treated this way. She didn’t deserve to have a confessed murderer, much less an escapee from a mental hospital, hiding out in her basement.

And yet he didn’t see that he had much of a choice in the matter.

He tossed the clothes into the basement, then went back to the porch to get the bottles of water, the chicken and the rolls from the cooler, and took those back with him. His list of earthly possessions was growing. He had clothes now. He had food and water, and he had shelter. He also had a knife with a six-inch, razor sharp blade and his assailant’s fingerprints, he hoped, preserved on the handle. He’d wrapped it in a rag he’d found along the roadside to keep the prints from being smudged. A plastic zipper bag would have been better.

This time, when he crawled underneath the porch, he kept on going, through the missing window, into the cellar.

Turning, he wondered if Rex would try to come in, too. If he did, and she came home, the dog would surely give him away. But Rex was happily curled up on his dog bed, already snoring.

Dawn came out of the laundry room with an overflowing basket of clothes. She tended to let her laundry pile up at the dorm, so she’d brought it all with her to wash during the holiday break. And this was the last of it.

Everyone had been watching her too closely today. It made her want to cut and run, but she kept reminding herself it was only because they cared about her. Still, the searching looks, the leading questions—it was wearing thin.

She walked through the living room with her basket of clothes, and felt the chill as soon as she entered the room. That chill—it wasn’t a normal one. It only came when one of them was close, and Dawn’s entire body tensed with anticipation.

Beth stood there, talking to a man as a woman stood nearby. The man was tall, slender, dignified looking and soft spoken. He had a worried look about him, and his shoulders nearly slumped from whatever weight they were carrying.

The woman…oh. Her again.

She was semisolid, her white nightgown stained with soot and black spots, as if it had been burned. So was her face, for that matter. One side of it was twisted and scarred. She held a baby in her arms, wrapped in a scorched, sooty blanket, and she stared. Not at Beth, or at the man, but at Dawn.

Dawn’s fear turned to anger. It was one thing for them to harass her, entirely another to get within a mile of her family. Screw this. She set the basket down on the floor and marched forward, making her stride aggressive and sending the dead woman a look meant to chase her off.

Beth turned, and Dawn plastered a more pleasant expression on her face, but not before Beth had seen her.

“You feeling all right, Dawn?”

“Fine,” she said. And she beamed a smile at the man who was looking her way.

“This is Dr. Melrose, Dawn,” Beth said. “He’s taking a room for a couple of days.”

“It seems silly, my living only an hour from here,” he said. “But then again, driving back and forth until my business in town is finished would be even sillier.”

“Dawn Jones,” she said, taking his hand, which was so icy it nearly made her pull hers away. “Welcome to the Blackberry Inn.”

“Thank you.”

“So you’re a doctor.”

“Psychiatrist, actually.”

Dawn shot Beth a look, wondering just for a moment if this was some kind of setup. Had she managed to convince her birth mother that she was losing her mind? Hell, why not? She was half convinced of it herself.

She glanced past the man. The dead woman was gone.

For now.