Home for the Haunting(90)

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Cookie. “I thought the dad killed everybody. Why do we care about who was at the door?”

“Because Sidney Lawrence didn’t do it,” I said.

Hugh gasped, and Simone held him to her chest.

“Are you certain of that?” Annette asked.

“No. But I know how to find out. Let’s do this one more time,” I said. “Everybody take a seat and join hands.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Annette asked.

“I have to,” I said.

“Are you kidding me?” said Cookie with a tone of outrage I hadn’t heard since the time Daphne and I used her junior prom dress for an art project. “This is dangerous! If the dad didn’t kill his family, then whoever did could still be around! And if Mel sees who it is, she could be . . . I mean . . . What’s to keep him from coming after her?”

“Me, for starters,” said Annette.

“It’s okay, Cookie,” I said. “This is what we’re here for.”

“It most certainly is not okay, Melanie Ann Turner. You should have seen yourself. It was . . . it was as if you weren’t even here. What’s wrong with you people? Graham?”

“Gotta say, I’m siding with your sister here, Mel,” said Graham.

“Cookie,” said Olivier, coming over to take her hand. “You must understand, your sister is very gifted. She might be able to tell us what happened that night, be able to help Hugh understand his family’s tragedy. Maybe discover a killer. It is very noble, what she does. You understand?”

“No, I don’t understand,” Cookie said flatly. “I don’t care about Hugh’s family tragedy. Sorry, Hugh, but I don’t. Not if it means risking Mel’s safety.”

“If I can help solve a murder and clear an innocent man’s name, Cookie, then it’s something I have to do.”

Cookie glared at me for a moment, then let out a shaky breath.

“Fine.” She looked around at the group. “But I want to make one thing perfectly clear: If anything happens to Mel, anything at all, each and every one of you will answer to me. Do you understand? We’ll give this séance one more try because Mel insists, but the moment it’s over I am taking her home and we’re ordering Thai food and watching a DVD on the couch under the quilt Mom made. That is it. Period. End of story.”

And with that she flounced back to her chair, plopped down, her back ramrod straight, and held her hands out, palms up. “Well? Let’s get this party started.”

Chastened, we did as we were told. I hid a secret smile. My big sister had stood up for me.

We held each other’s hands and bowed our heads. Meredith began her incantation . . . and just like that I was back again.

This time Jean was in the kitchen, chatting with someone I couldn’t see.

“I always know it’s you by your knock,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

Why couldn’t I see who she was talking to? I felt the urge to go into the kitchen, but my body felt strange, not my own. It wouldn’t respond to my commands. Nightmarelike, it was as though I could run forever and yet never move. I walked—or was I walking? It felt like floating. No one saw me, no one noticed me as I moved into the foyer, and then into the parlor.

As if I were the ghost.

Bridget was in the front room, humming, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She turned around and looked over her shoulder, to see herself from behind.

She glanced into the hall, then picked up a man’s plaid jacket from the brocade loveseat. She patted it down and took out a pack of cigarettes, then frowned as she felt something else. She pulled it out: a gun.

She whirled around, the gun held out in front of her.

“Why do you have a gun in your ja—”

There was a brief struggle. The log came down . . . and Bridget fell, banging her head on the fireplace hearth.

“Bridget!” Jean screamed from the doorway. “My baby! My baby!” She reached for her daughter, then reared back, her eyes wide with fear. She turned and ran. A shot rang out. And another.

A dark stain marred Jean’s white shirt, and she collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. But she was still alive, looking over her shoulder.

“Sidney . . . ,” she whispered, then screamed, “No . . . Sidney!”

Another shot.

And a child’s gasp. At the top of the stairs was Linda. She wore a white T-shirt and faded jeans shorts, her unkempt hair curling around her pretty face, her arms and legs thin and long. A girl on the brink of womanhood.

“Daddy! Daddy shot Mommy!” She screamed as she ran down the hall.

Sidney burst in through the kitchen, running to tackle the shooter.