“Yeah.” Sylvie sounded doubtful. “The heat must be off.”
“Ghost sign,” Lucas said, sounding cheerful. “When a ghost gets upset—and I’m guessing Dillon didn’t like hearing about the serial killer—they pull in energy from the atmosphere. It makes the room cold.”
“Don’t tell her that,” Dillon complained, paying attention again. “She’ll start trying to exorcise me.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Lucas’s grin grew a little wider but he didn’t say anything.
“No way. He’s moved on. He must have.”
“We could argue about this forever,” Lucas answered her. “I’m not going to. We’ll find out eventually.”
“Damn it, Lucas, if Dillon needs help moving on—” Sylvie started.
“If Dillon needs help—any kind of help—I’ll do my best to give it to him,” Lucas interrupted, speaking directly to her. “But I’m not making his choices for him. If he wants help, I’m here. He knows how to find me.” Turning away again, he added to the air, one hand on the door, “Text me if you need me, bud.”
“That’s—you’re—that’s—” Sylvie almost spluttered a response and then stopped and simply glared at Lucas. Dillon could tell that she was speaking to him telepathically again.
“I’m not being unfair,” Lucas answered her aloud. “For twenty years, you’ve made the choices for all of us. Not anymore.” He smiled at her, the expression wry, and added, “I’ll see you next week. Wear the dress.”
As he pulled the door closed behind him, Sylvie seemed torn between kicking the door and yelling. And then she sighed, bending her neck and pressing her forehead with the base of her palm as if her head hurt. “Dillon?” she asked, voice muffled slightly by her position, before lifting her head, moving her hand, and repeating the name. “Dillon?”
She looked around the room, eyes intent, as if she could see him if she looked hard enough. “Are you here?” she asked. She looked down at the phone that she’d been clutching all along, but Dillon didn’t send her a text. He felt sorry for her, but not so sorry that he wanted to get pushed into leaving before he was ready.
“I tried to do what was best,” she said. “Really I did.”
He believed she had. But Dillon agreed with his dad. He didn’t want Sylvie making the decisions anymore.
*****
It was like waiting for the sword to fall.
Sylvie couldn’t remember whose sword it was, or why it was hanging by a single thread, or what it had to do with anticipation. But checking her phone for text messages had become a nervous habit over the past couple of days.
She glanced at it again now.
Nothing.
No texts from a sweet boy ghost nor any word from his aggravating father. For the hundredth time, she wondered if she should call Lucas. Just to ask him if he’d heard from Dillon, of course.
Lucas had thought Dillon was staying with her, but maybe Dillon had heard enough. Maybe he wanted to be with his father. Or maybe he really had moved on.
She slipped her phone back into the bag at her feet, then turned to look at the monitors. It was Sunday morning and she was sitting in the security room at the Chesney mansion. She didn’t usually work on Sundays, but Ty had reshuffled the schedule to deal with her unexpected Thursday absence and she’d picked up the Sunday shift for her replacement.
A gentle knock on the doorframe interrupted her and Sylvie swiveled her chair. Rachel stood in the doorway, still wearing her going-to-church clothes: a navy blue button-down dress with white piping and matching navy blue flats.
Sylvie let a polite smile curve her lips, covering her surprise, as she said hello. Rachel didn’t seek out her bodyguards. In fact, as far as Sylvie could tell, when at home, Rachel usually emerged from her bedroom only for meals.
“I have an art project due for school. Do you—I need you—could you take me to an art gallery this afternoon?” Rachel started briskly, before trailing off uncertainly under Sylvie’s gaze. “For school,” she repeated, rubbing her foot against the back of her leg and dropping her eyes.
Sylvie didn’t let her expression change. “Sure thing,” she said. “What time do you want to leave?”
Rachel was lying. Sylvie probably didn’t even need her gift to tell her so, but with it, she could feel Rachel’s mix of guilt and nervous excitement even as they transformed into a burst of anticipation at Sylvie’s words.
A boy? Sylvie wondered, but it didn’t matter to her. She didn’t need to know what the teenager was planning or why Rachel felt the need to lie about it. Her job was to keep Rachel safe. It’d be easier if Rachel trusted her, but an art gallery wasn’t likely to be dangerous.
Just boring.
Sylvie tried not to let her lack of enthusiasm show as Rachel bubbled over with delight at the gallery three hours later. It was surprisingly crowded for a space dotted with the bleakest, ugliest metal structures Sylvie had ever seen. That was good news: it meant Sylvie could focus on the people instead of the equally dark paintings on the walls.
“Don’t you like this one?” Rachel asked her.
Sylvie glanced at it. It looked like a dead tree. Why would anyone want to paint a dead tree? A living tree, okay, that might be pretty hanging over your sofa, but a dead tree?
“It’s very nice,” she answered Rachel, trying to keep her voice noncommittal. Inwardly, she was wondering. What were they doing here? Rachel had a frenetic quality to her enthusiasm that only added to Sylvie’s suspicions, but as she scanned the room, Sylvie felt increasingly doubtful. Where was the teenage boy she’d expected to see? Or even a teenage girl? Rachel was the only adolescent in the gallery.
Rachel’s lengthy list of activities didn’t include art lessons, so despite her apparent enjoyment of the paintings, it seemed unlikely that it was the art that brought her here. But what else could it be? Automatically, Sylvie scanned the emotions of the people nearest them, looking for flavors of danger but finding none.
A nearby woman was showing a decided interest in the two of them, however. Sylvie looked in her direction, meeting her stare and assessing her quickly. The woman wasn’t typical Washington or even typical Georgetown: with three inch heels on knee high boots, artfully tousled hair streaked with vibrant almost-natural color, and a gray dress with bold geometric black lines, she could have stepped off the plane from New York or Paris. Meeting Sylvie’s gaze, she stepped forward and gave a bright smile.
“Ms. Blair?” she said.
“Yes?” Sylvie responded warily, glancing at Rachel but feeling nothing from the girl but mild curiosity. This meeting wasn’t what Rachel was excited about.
“I thought it was you.” As the woman fumbled open her black clutch purse, Sylvie tensed, but it was automatic, not instinct. She didn’t feel a threat, just an eagerness almost equal to Rachel’s. The woman pulled out a business card, handing it to Sylvie with a breathless laugh. “I hate to say it, but it was the black eye that convinced me.”
Sylvie resisted the urge to touch her cheek—the bruise from Wednesday night had darkened to a deep purple edged with green—and glanced down at the card. Stylist? What the hell was a stylist?
“I’m sure you’re going to be busy over the next few days. The offers from the morning shows must be pouring in. But if you need any fashion advice, I’d love to help. I could recommend a great concealer, for example, to help cover up that eye. And the right colors make a huge difference on television. I’m sure the all-black look works for your job, but some softer shades—maybe a forest green or even something brighter, like a royal blue that matched your eyes—would really stand out.”
Television? The woman continued to talk but Sylvie, after glancing down at her black slacks and shirt, had stopped listening. She’d thrown her phone away just over a week ago. Although she’d picked up a new one on Tuesday, the number was unlisted. Half the world could be calling her and she wouldn’t know about it.
“Well, congratulations again, and do keep me in mind.” The woman flashed another smile at Sylvie and backed away. Sylvie nodded, hoping she’d said something polite and didn’t look as horrified as she felt.
“Television, Sylvie? Are you going to be on television?” Rachel didn’t sound intrigued, just curious.
“No,” Sylvie said firmly. Definitely not. She looked at the girl. “Why are we here, Rachel?”
Guilt, uncertainty, defensiveness, and a flash of that same frenetic excitement all shot to the surface of Rachel’s emotions, and then Rachel’s chin rose as she said, “I have a school project.”
Sylvie looked at her without saying a word.
“A report to write. For art class. On modern art. Um, very modern art,” Rachel continued, cheeks slowly starting to pick up color as she wove her lie.
Sylvie remained silent, but crossed her arms. One more untruthful word and she’d start tapping her toe on the ground.
“Ma’am?” Sylvie had felt the worried presence approaching her, but hadn’t bothered to register his intent. Still, she didn’t jump at the tap on her shoulder. “I’m very sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but I need to ask you to leave now.”
“What?” Sylvie looked over her shoulder in surprise. The tapper was a security guard, dressed in the standard blue uniform, his dark face uncertain.
“No,” Rachel protested. “Not yet. I haven’t even—” She let her sentence break off.
“The artist asks that you and the young lady leave the premises, ma’am.” Sylvie followed the direction of his doubtful gaze back through the room. A woman and a man were standing in a doorway, clearly arguing. The dark-haired woman looked on the verge of tears while the man’s tense frame radiated frustration even as he awkwardly patted her shoulder. And then, as another man approached, the first man’s face broke into a beaming smile and he stepped forward, away from the woman, displaying jovial enthusiasm.
What was going on here?
“Is that her? The artist?” Rachel asked the guard.
“Yes, miss,” he replied, still looking uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but I need to escort you out.”
Rachel’s eyes were wide and intent, fixed on the dark-haired woman, her expression blank, but the burst of desolation that flooded her was so intense that Sylvie gasped. Without thinking, Sylvie put her arm around Rachel’s shoulders and pulled her closer.
“Excuse me?” she said to the guard, voice cold, Rachel stiff against her side. “Have we done something to cause a problem?”
Maybe it was her tone of voice. Maybe it was the stylist, talking with animation and many glances back at Sylvie to a small cluster of people nearby. Maybe it was the distress of the woman in the doorway, the artist. But for whatever reason, people were starting to pay attention. Like bugs crawling on her skin, Sylvie could feel them noticing her.
The security guard wasn’t important, she decided. The artist was. Arm still firmly around Rachel, she started off, tugging the unwilling girl in the direction of the artist.
“No,” Rachel whispered a protest.
“Hush,” Sylvie ordered. Maybe she wouldn’t speak to the artist, but she was definitely getting close enough to feel her emotions.
And then she did and almost staggered. If Rachel was desolate, this woman was bereaved. It was the bitter taste of overheated black coffee, a scream breaking silence, the gagging smell of death.
“Ma’am, please.” The security guard’s words behind her were as inconsequential as the buzzing of a fly as Sylvie pushed forward.
“Please.” The woman’s words were a murmur as Sylvie and Rachel reached her, but her eyes were greedy, focused entirely on the girl, completely ignoring Sylvie. “You can’t be here. He’ll destroy me.”
Emotional overload, for Sylvie, was being in a group of eighteen-year-olds under fire for the first time. She’d done that, more than once. It wasn’t pretty and this was nothing close. But the density of the emotion, the depth, the purity of the grief, was unique.
Sylvie hated it. She wanted nothing more than to leave, as quickly as possible. “You’re the artist?” she heard herself saying.
The woman nodded. “You need to leave,” she repeated, voice weak.
“Yes,” Sylvie agreed with her. “We’re going.”
Rachel didn’t say anything. Sylvie pulled her even closer until the girl was nestled against her, tucked up by her body, pressed next to her skin. It was barely enough. “He has custody?” Her voice sounded odd to her, as if she was talking underwater.
“He has everything,” Rachel’s mother answered. “Everything.” She pulled her gaze away from Rachel as if fighting against a current, and looked at Sylvie. “Everything,” she repeated for the third time. She shook her head. “You can’t fight him. He’ll always win.”
Sylvie nodded. And then, without another word, she headed toward the door of the gallery, arm still tight around Rachel’s shoulders.
She didn’t know what Rachel understood.
If
Rachel understood.
But it didn’t matter.
Keeping Rachel safe meant keeping her away from her mother.
At least for now.
They didn’t speak in the car. The driver was new, just hired, and Sylvie didn’t know him well enough to be comfortable talking to Rachel in front of him. Not that she knew what to say anyway. The girl’s misery was palpable. No Frappuccino would even make a dent.
When they reached the house, Rachel fled upstairs, almost running in her haste to get away. Sylvie frowned after her, trying to decide what to do as she entered the house at a slower pace and headed toward the security room. Should she follow Rachel and try to talk to her? But what could she say? Should she confront her about her lies? Or console her for her loss? Rachel was unlikely to welcome either.
She could ask Ty, but she already knew what he’d say. He’d tell her to forget about it. It was none of her business unless Rachel was in danger, in which case she needed to report it to Chesney immediately. The thought made her feel queasy. Telling Chesney about the scene in the art gallery would be awkward as hell, made worse because how could she share the emotions she’d felt? Besides, Rachel wasn’t in danger.
But following the first part of Ty’s imagined orders felt equally difficult. Forget about it? Forget Rachel’s misery, her mother’s despair? How? It would be like trying to forget witnessing a car wreck.