He snorted. "But ghosts?"
"Believe it or not, the spirits are very active here."
Diego turned his back on the woman and watched the kids playing. He also wanted to keep an eye on Hotah without being too obvious. Kayda was acting friendly so far—he just wasn't sure how long he could count on that goodwill.
"You get all that," said Diego, pointing to the glyph he drew, "from these crosshairs?"
"Emphasis on
cross
. There's a lot of power in that old symbol. Whether you believe or not, history has proven that many do. What better way to ward off vampires or demons?"
Diego rolled his eyes. "You were just selling me science. Now you're straying into religion."
"They are just points of view."
"Sure, but don't tell me you believe Sycamore is crawling with creatures of the night".
"I haven't yet encountered any," she answered. "Besides the Seventh Sons."
The concession was aggravating. "And Hotah."
"And my dead brothers," she finished. "But why limit ourselves to the world we already know? The point is that lots of people over time have put faith in that symbol. It's a Celtic cross, a Christian cross, but ancient usage was different. Prehistoric cultures viewed the wheel cross as a representation of the sun. The Middle Ages saw this symbol adorned on many monuments, and the Victorians relegated it to gravestones. Many meanings. What's important is what the one who drew it believes."
Diego thought he understood. "So the glyph alone has no power?"
"I didn't go that far. But without context, power can be invisible. Intent can be misunderstood. Watch this." The woman crouched and picked up a red piece of chalk. She traced familiar lines on the sidewalk. "What do you see?"
"A swastika."
"Yes, but what does it evoke?"
"Nazis. White supremacists. Racism and evil."
The witch nodded. "Naturally. Except the gammadion cross is a symbol of well-being. Its significance ranges anywhere from holy symbol to good luck charm. Even so, modern usage has a habit of erasing old meanings. Something once sacred is now printed on Hot Topic T-shirts."
The biker scratched his goatee. "So symbols are reused and abused. They rarely mean today what they once did."
"Unfortunately," conceded Kayda. "And in this case, it's hard to understand everything from just your glyph." The woman frowned as a thought came to her. "You said this man in the woods carries a metal pole. It's widely believed that spirits and fairies don't like metal of the earth."
"You're talking about fairy tales."
"I'm talking about belief. Historically, iron guards against the fay. It's a life-giving metal. A vital component to our blood. It threatens them. If that's what the old man believes, it would explain his penchant for the metal."
"It's just metal."
"Funny words from a man armed with silver. But it's not just any metal.
Old
metal. Iron. Steel. Of the earth. Ask yourself what this man knows that we do not."
Diego thought of Red's weapon, spiked in the dirt while he was safely home but in his hands when trekking to the city. Over the tracks, he realized. Red always stuck to the old metal of the tracks.
"Protection," he said, and was pleased to see Kayda nod. He recalled the iron leg brace Red wore without seeming to need the support. How did that protect him? Then Diego studied his own boots, with buckles and toes of steel. He remembered his heavy legs in the forest, wanting to continue but needing to stop. He'd considered taking his boots off completely. Maybe the steel had protected him.
"That settles it, then. I need a gun."
"Lead won't help you."
"Let me worry about that part. It's dangerous out there. This is what I do." He began to walk away, then stopped and turned halfway to her. "There's a light. Someone. Or something. It knew I was following."
Kayda moved square to him again. "Don't fall for the glamour. The only light you need for guidance comes from the moon. The crow knows this."
"It's too dark," said Diego. "The trees cover the sun and moon. Besides, what if the moon's not out?"
"It's always out, even when in shadow. I thought you were the outsider most likely to know this, given your history with wolves."
"Fine," he said, dismissing the mystical moonwitch stuff. As Kayda had said, facts were filtered through perspectives. Some truth likely hid behind the stories. "What about the girl, then? How do I track her down?"
Kayda Garnett released Diego and turned away. She used the silence to consider her answer, but it also highlighted the futility of his mission. "That depends," answered the woman, "on whether or not she wants to be found."
Diego pictured Hazel with a crooked smile. A sweet and unassuming girl. He was positive she'd want to be back with her mother. Kayda's esoteric response couldn't have applied to her. But then he recalled Annabelle Hayes dashing into the forest, making a break from civilization.
"And what if she doesn't?"
Chapter 33
Olivia Hayes turned her nose up at Maxim. She threw him a hard look and spun around, her eyebrow raised just enough to let Maxim know his visit wasn't entirely unwelcome.
"You sure you won't have a glass of wine?" she asked for the second time, swirling a sparkling white in her hand. "I appreciate that you're taking an interest in me and my daughter, but you'd be more supportive if you eased up a little."
Maxim sighed and followed the woman into the living room. He relaxed into a cream leather couch and decided to play this differently. "Do you have something heavy and red?"
Olivia smiled and seductively rubbed the back of her neck. "Now you're just trying to be difficult. Let me see what I can open."
Maxim shrugged as the woman went to the kitchen. He didn't feel bad about making her open a bottle just for him—she was the one who had pressed the issue—but the last glass of white he'd drunk was in memory of his late wife. If Maxim had anything to say about it, he'd never touch the stuff again.
After a minute in isolation, the detective rose. The house was large but not the type to get lost in. It couldn't hurt to look around. After lapping the room twice, he wandered into the hall.
Where the living room was prim and sterile, the den he entered was used and messy. The living room was a place to impress guests, but now Maxim found the real heart of the home, the part that was lived in. In place of a posed family picture on the mantel and a large impressionist painting, the den was strewn with personal items. A small blanket on the recliner next to a book. A set of fur slippers. Two magazines on the end table. The flat screen plugged into a cable box. But something struck Maxim as odd. The paperback was a trashy romance novel. The magazines were about home fashion. No video game systems or anything more modern like tablets were around. To the detective, it was clear this was Olivia's space. If he had to guess, Annabelle preferred her room.
On his way past, Maxim peeked into the kitchen but didn't see Olivia. He continued through and glanced up the wooden staircase. It was strange. Where was the girl?
Olivia appeared behind him and seemed to read his thoughts. "Annabelle's been in a pouty mood since yesterday."
Maxim accepted the glass of red. "Is that when it started?" he asked.
"What do you mean by that?"
The detective shook his head. "Just trying to get into her headspace. That's all." Maxim tasted the red. He wasn't cultured enough to identify what he was drinking, but it tasted okay and had a bite.
Olivia beckoned him back to the sofa. When she sat, she tapped on the cushion beside her. Maxim chose the couch across from her. She smirked.
"You're a tough man to figure out, Detective."
Maxim sipped his wine. "Yeah? How so?"
Olivia leaned back and stretched her arm out in a sultry fashion. "It's obvious you're attracted to me."
Another gulp of red. After a moment, Maxim cocked his head. "Well, I don't see what's so hard to figure about that. I'm sure you're used to it. You're a very pretty woman. And single, from what I can tell."
"I'm not the only one without a ring on my finger," she said. Maxim's thumb instinctively moved to the spot above his knuckle, now barren of the silver band. "Are you going to tell me you've stayed distant because you're a professional?"
"Something like that, Ms. Hayes."
Olivia laughed. Maxim hadn't called her that in a while. It felt forced and artificial, and they both knew it. They drank in silence, but something told Maxim that while he thought the moment was awkward, the woman entirely enjoyed it.
Mercifully, she broke the silence.
"I hope I don't offend you by saying this, but you strike me as the type of police detective that gets emotionally invested in his cases."
"If you mean I care about the victims, I plead guilty. I want to get Annabelle all the help she needs. The same goes for anyone else."
Olivia swirled her glass of bubbly and frowned. "I don't want you visiting her anymore."
"Hazel—"
"I don't want to hear about other people's children. I can only do what's best for mine. If that means grounding her until she shows progress with Bertrand, then that's what I'll do."
Maxim nodded in disappointment. After yesterday's car ride, he hadn't expected anything more. But his suspicions acted up again.
"You're on a first name basis with the psychologist?"
"Dr. Collins?" she asked, moving back to formalities. "He's the family therapist. He said you two spoke briefly."
"He mentioned me?"
Olivia seemed bored with the questions. "In passing."
The detective wondered what words they shared about him but didn't bother asking. He asked a question he already knew the answer to instead. "So he has sessions with you as well as her?"
"He counseled me and my husband before we went through with the divorce. He also helped Annabelle get through it."
"If you ask me, she's never gotten through it."
Olivia sipped her wine. "Dr. Collins says there are residual issues. She was getting better until this recent episode."
Maxim nodded even though the doctor had conveyed a different impression to him. "Is your daughter at his office now?"
"No," said Olivia. "She's upstairs. But she's seeing him soon. Of course, you already know that. Don't play coy with me."
Maxim didn't take her meaning. Olivia saw the puzzlement on his face.
"Isn't that why you're asking? So you can interview my daughter under his eye?"
He shook his head. "I didn't know they had a session today. He said he just saw her Tuesday."
"He's here every Thursday morning. Tuesday was just an emergency. After getting Annabelle back on Monday, I couldn't wait."
Maxim couldn't blame Olivia. Annabelle barely said a word the first day she was back. But something else Olivia had said stood out to the detective.
"Wait. Do you mean the doctor comes here?"
Olivia didn't understand the question. "His weekly session."
"No, I mean Bertrand Collins comes to the house?"
"Yes. He holds a morning session in her room. She's safer under this roof. Besides, she's more comfortable there. She doesn't like going to his office."
Maxim glanced towards the staircase to make sure Annabelle wasn't around. "Isn't it odd for a practicing psychologist with an office to pay house visits?"
"He's…" started Olivia, trailing off for a moment, "familiar with the house."
He knew it. Maxim shook his head and put his empty wine glass on the table. "Familiar, huh?"
The woman shrugged and stood up. "I'll get you another glass."
"Hold on a second."
Olivia turned around sharply. "Detective, I know what you're going to ask, and the answer is none of your business. All you need to know is that anything is long over and our relationship is strictly professional now." She cut out of the room before Maxim could respond.
So there was the wildcard Maxim was searching for. Annabelle's parents were divorced, and Olivia had a relationship with their marriage counselor. Even though it was over, it must have been hard for the girl to confide in the man who was with her mother. Had Dr. Collins ever been a father figure in the picture? Had he been abusive? Maxim realized he didn't know enough about the man yet.
The detective glanced at the staircase again, wondering if it was too late to cancel the second glass of red. Something shimmered on the smooth wooden surface of the steps. It wasn't just a fresh coat of polish. There was movement. A thin ribbon of water snaked across several steps, dribbling onto the next, stretching halfway down the staircase.
Maxim stood up as Olivia reentered the room.
"What is that?" he asked. He moved toward the stairs.
Olivia huffed. "I told you I don't want you talking to her—"
"The water, Olivia. Why's there water running down the steps?" Maxim took the first step and scanned what he could see of the second story. He thought he heard water running.
"The bathroom!" she chimed. Olivia rushed past him. She was quick. Maxim hadn't even noticed her putting the wine glasses down.
He followed her up. A few yards down the hall was a closed door with a bar of light seeping beneath. Water flowed from the crack and across the wood floor. Olivia frantically jiggled the handle.
"Annabelle? Annabelle, open the door!"
Maxim marched forward and sternly brushed the woman aside. He lifted his foot and planted it under the handle. The cream white door frame splintered and the bathroom opened up to them. A fresh wave of water escaped into the hallway, soaking their shoes. The bathtub and sink faucets ran at full power, both basins overflowing. Annabelle Hayes stood in the middle of the bathroom wearing pajamas. She stared at her submerged bare feet.
"What are you doing?" cried Olivia, barging past the stunned detective and shutting off both faucets. Olivia grabbed her daughter by the shoulders and attempted to shake her from her reverie. "Annabelle!" She dragged the girl away, into her bedroom.
Maxim flipped the sink and bathtub levers to drain the basins, but they didn't give easily. Something jammed the plugs. Maxim stuck his hand in the tub drain and pulled at the cloth clogging it. He yanked out a black sock and a bubble announced the blockage cleared. He did the same with the sink and took the wet articles to Annabelle's room.
The girl was covered in a bathrobe. Her mother fussed at her hair with tears in her eyes. "Why won't you tell me what's wrong?" she asked.
It surprised Maxim how neat the room was. No punk-rock posters or teen idols adorned the walls. No slew of stuffed animals or clothes on the floor. Also strange was the Ouija board laid out on the bed, which had been stripped down to the mattress.
"Where are the bedsheets?" he wondered aloud.
Annabelle spun around and dropped her jaw in shock. "Get out of my room!" she yelled, clutching her arms tightly around her robe.
Maxim suddenly realized the girl was old enough to deserve privacy. He'd been examining the contents of her room while she was half naked. He hurried outside and glanced up and down the hall, then down at his wet shoes. He kicked at the water and threw the wet socks to the ground.
It was only then that he realized: one of the socks was not a sock at all. It was a black, nondescript pair of girl's underwear.