Page 85 of The Vanished

“But there isn’t, so all we can do is tell him again and again not to touch things he’s not sure about.”

“Easier said than done,” Quinn replied. She suddenly felt very tired and sad.

Gabe took her by the shoulders and looked down into her face. “You look done in. Why don’t you rest for a few minutes, and I’ll come get you when the kids are ready to eat.”

Quinn nodded, but, just as she was about to leave, Alex emerged from the bedroom. He walked up to her and took her by the hand.

“What is it, darling? Are you still afraid?”

Alex shook his head. “No, but I remembered something.”

“What?” Quinn and Gabe asked in unison.

“I think there were two of them.”

FIFTY-TWO

Quinn tried to calm down, but, after what had just happened, she realized that she was truly frightened for her son. Since she was a child, she had been able to see through the eyes of the people who had died and learn their stories, but, although frequently shocked and heartbroken for the victims, she had never experienced their pain physically. Alex had been flailing his arms and gasping for breath. At one point, his fingers had gone to his temple, the same spot where Colin had found a contusion on Geneva. Was Alex’s response a form of sympathetic reflex, or had he been in pain and felt like he couldn’t breathe? What would have happened had she not pulled the earring from his grasp?

And who could she talk to about this? She could hardly explain to a medical doctor that her psychic eight-year-old had experienced the agony of a woman who had died a hundred years before. The doctor might suggest psychotropic drugs or some form of shock treatment. Barbaric as that was, it was still in use when treating psychiatric patients, and she never wanted Alex to be labeled mentally unstable. She prayed that, as he got older, he would learn to self-govern and know when not to touch something, as she had. And if he picked up something by mistake, he’d know to drop it immediately, before the transference had the chance to do him any real harm.

But Alex’s vision, although clearly terrifying, had served to narrow down the list of suspects. Alex had said that the hand he’d seen was bigger than Quinn’s and more like Gabe’s, which had to mean that the killer was a man. And given that Geneva had been wearing Rory’s ring at the time of her death, it had to be Jesse, since Rory would have little cause to murder her if she had accepted his proposal. But why would Jesse kill her? If Geneva had refused to kowtow to her father’s demands, he could have married Honor, or no one at all. His future had not depended on either sister, and he could have disposed of his inheritance as he pleased. So, what had happened that had resulted in Geneva’s brutal death at the age of twenty-one? And who was the other person whose presence Alex had sensed? Was it a man or a woman? And what was their role in Geneva’s death? Could it have been Honor?

Quinn sighed and sank deeper into the mattress. She was so tired and so unsettled by everything that had taken place over the past few days. And she felt woefully cut off from the world without access to the internet. There was another option, but, in the midst of a family crisis, she could hardly hare off to the retirement village where Dinah Wilson resided. She’d speak to the woman in due course, but for now any active research into the case would have to wait.

She had her family to focus on.

FIFTY-THREE

Gabe

The house was quiet, the children in bed. Gabe suspected Quinn was still awake, the earring loosely clasped in her hand as she slipped into another vision. Unable to settle, he stepped outside and lowered himself into a deckchair. The lake mirrored the night sky, the moon and stars reflected in its dark surface. On any other evening, he would have found the sight beautiful and welcomed a few moments of solitude, but tonight he was thrumming with tension. He had not smoked since his early twenties, yet he found himself craving a cigarette, imagining it might steady his nerves. It wouldn’t. Neither nicotine nor alcohol could fix what ailed him.

When Quinn had first confessed her gift to him, he had felt a flicker of envy. For a historian, the chance to bear witness—to truly see the past—was the greatest gift nature could bestow. But after what had happened that night, Gabe wanted no part of his wife’s Besson legacy, passed down through the centuries from Quinn’s Trinidadian ancestors. Watching Alex gasp for breath, clutching his chest, had been more than he could bear. If there were any way to strip his son of this unwanted inheritance, he would do it without hesitation, provided it caused Alex no pain or harm. But there was nothing to be done.

When they had first realized that Alex could see into the past, Gabe had conducted discreet research, hoping to stumble upon a specialist or a neuro-blocker that might target the visual cortex and extinguish the visions. What had surprised him most was not that there was no cure but how incontrovertible the science was. Controlled studies of alleged psychic phenomena had failed to produce replicable results. Brain imaging of people claiming such abilities showed entirely normal activity, and no structure had ever been identified that could receive information from the past or future, access hidden knowledge, or circumvent the senses.

There was nothing Gabe could do for his son beyond impressing upon him that he must never touch anything whose origins he did not know. But Alex was only eight. Like most boys his age, he explored the world with his hands. Gabe remembered the thrill of being allowed to hold a Civil War flintlock pistol that had belonged to some long-dead ancestor, or playing chess with his grandfather, using an antique board with pieces carved from bone. The knights, bishops, and kings had been so lifelike, he had been almost able to see them as real people as he held him in his hands and ran a gentle finger over their features. Gabe had never once hesitated to handle the artifacts uncovered during his own digs. It was instinctive to pick something up, examine it, date it, and record its story.

For Alex, every unknown object was as dangerous as an unexploded mine. What would have happened if they had not reached him in time? What if the visions manifested physically in the present? And how was a child meant to process repeated encounters with death—people who, in the moment, would feel utterly real? No child psychologist would take them seriously, nor would they be equipped to help even if they did. Instead, they might recommend anti-anxiety medication or some experimental drug that might harm Alex in different ways.

Gabe supposed he should be grateful that Mia had been spared. But Alex was such a sweet, sensitive boy. Gabe was terrified that this might break his son before he learned to control his impulses and avoid anything that might cause him real pain.

FIFTY-FOUR

DECEMBER 1923

Ravenglass

Geneva had known it would be a sad Christmas from the moment her father had imparted his news, but it proved even harder than she had anticipated. Douglas was so weak that Dennison had to help him down the stairs and settle him in the drawing room. She could not remember ever seeing her father without a suit and tie on a festive occasion, but now he sat hunched in a pair of corduroys and a knitted cardigan, a rug drawn over his legs. He had lost weight and was so pale that his skin resembled melting wax. His eyes shone dully in the firelight.

His hands trembled as he accepted the gift that Geneva and Honor had bought for him—a first edition of Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend, one of his all-time favorite novels, ordered specially from a London bookseller. It had taken them some time to settle on a present; nearly everything they had considered had felt like a cruel reminder of all the things he would never do again. A book seemed the safest choice. He still enjoyed reading, or, if it became too much for him, someone could always read to him.

Geneva met her father’s gaze over the rim of her glass and saw the question in his eyes. He needed her answer.

“Douglas, are you sure you still want to have the New Year’s Eve party?” Clarissa asked. “Surely it will be too much for you.”

Douglas smiled sadly. “I do. I would like to say goodbye to my friends, and I would like to see this year out in style.”