The fireplace was perfect. It rose from floor to ceiling, its carved surface a mellow beige marble, asymmetrical and stylized. On the right was a trio of young, long-haired mermaids with graceful, elongated tails. They looked up and to one side, where a young man writhed among the reeds near shore. In the distance was a ship, as though the sailor had been lost. Or had he been found? The wind and rain were indicated by the swirling lines of the carving, everything smooth and curvy.
“The oldest daughter, Bridget, age seventeen, was found right there in front of the fireplace. Bludgeoned with a piece of firewood.”
Annette’s grim words shook me from my artistic reverie.
“The mother was there, blunt force trauma as well, then shot.”
Annette strode back across the front hall and stopped short of the stairs.
“According to the deposition, Linda saw her father standing here, at the bottom of the stairs.”
We both stepped back as though afraid of standing on the same spot where he had stood.
I started feeling the sensation of my own breathing, hearing the harsh sound. The beating of my heart seemed to fill the space. I couldn’t tell whether it was, indeed, the presence of something else making me feel this way, or if it was my imagination.
I took a step toward the parlor, but Annette was headed for the dining room.
I looked over at her and noticed she was clearly uncomfortable but had a determined set to her face.
Slowly, she turned and flashed her beam toward the kitchen, the light illuminating harvest gold linoleum tiles with a floral design on them. I pointed my beam that way as well, then stood staring.
“You see something?” she asked.
I did. I saw wallpaper that was identical to the paper I had helped my mother put up in one of the houses they renovated, the first one I remember trying to take part in, when I was just a child. A pattern popular in the early eighties. A blue background with little geese on it in bonnets, ribbons around their necks.
“That wallpaper . . . I remember that pattern.”
Annette rolled her eyes, thinking I was joking or at the very least focusing on unimportant details. But for some reason, the sight of that and the sudden memory of spending time with my mother sent my mind reeling.
And then I glanced into the reflection on the window and saw a woman.
The image was bluish and faded, like the home movies Hugh had shown me.
It was the mother of the family, Jean Lawrence. On the floor, pushing herself up on one arm, the other reaching up to me . . .
“Sidney . . . ,” came the fierce whisper, before it rose to a scream: “No . . . Sidney!”
I whirled around to look at the floor directly. Nothing.
Annette watched me with hawk eyes.
My heart pounded; my head pounded. I blew out a breath, shook my head, and then nodded.
“The mother, Jean, was killed here, right?”
She nodded.
Something moved past the passage in the corner of my eye. Great. The first time I’d seen a ghost, I could see it only in my peripheral vision, or occasionally in a mirror or other reflective surface. It drove me nuts. As though seeing spirits weren’t crazy enough already, a person had to see them and yet not see them, constantly wondering whether there was really anything there.
But my last spectral encounter was different—I saw the ghost as if she were as real as Annette. I had thought maybe my abilities were getting stronger, but Olivier had suggested that in that instance, the spirit’s visibility had more to do with the ghost’s wanting to be seen or having the power to manifest, rather than with my talents.
I paused and tried to get a handle on myself. Being resolute and centered was among the most important aspects of encountering spirits. They are people, just as we are, and might be confused or scared, angry or threatening, just as they might have been when they were alive, but even more so now that they were in limbo. Having a calm, serene countenance and reaction helped calm them down as well, making the entire interaction much more pleasant.
“You see something?” Annette asked, a slight frown on her otherwise smooth forehead, but at least she was sparing me the raised eyebrow. “The EMF reader is going crazy.”
“Maybe,” I said, hesitating. Not only did I not want to freak her out, I didn’t want to muck up whatever I saw with preconceived notions. I wanted to remain open to whatever came. Like the position and mode of death. It made more sense for me to see, first, and check notes later to see how close I was.
Carefully skirting the area where I had seen the specter, I started up the stairs. An old runner, dirty and matted in spots, was plush mauve with a forest green edging. The fifth stair up squeaked loudly in protest as I stepped on it.
Annette practically jumped out of her skin.