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Perturbed, she stared out the side window to the manicured lawns, trimmed hedges, and outdoor lights that set off the foliage. Well, Rex was right about one thing. It was up to Elizabeth now. Ravinia’s mission had been to warn her and she had, but it felt like she’d fallen down on the job, that she should have convinced her of the danger or, better yet, stuck around to help her.
Whether Elizabeth believed her or not, Declan Jr. was probably on his way. If not already, sometime. She didn’t know much about him, other than he was relentless. That, in itself, was why Elizabeth needed to listen to her.
Elizabeth peered through the blinds, holding one of the slats open with her fingers for a few seconds as she watched Ravinia jog down the street. Then she pulled her hand back and let the blinds snap into place. She felt a stirring within her, a reluctant acceptance of the fact that, at least partially, she believed the girl was telling the truth. Plenty of fantasy filled Ravinia’s tale, too, she didn’t doubt, but the bits of truth woven into her yarn were compelling. A part of Elizabeth wanted to step onto the porch and call Ravinia back, ask some probing questions, get answers, find out more about Siren Song, the women who lived there and their gifts. Especially their gifts.
Ravinia seemed to believe Elizabeth’s foreshadowing was one of those gifts.
“Come on,” she said, leading Chloe to bed once more.
“I really want a dog,” the little girl said, stomping her feet.
“I know.”
“And you won’t get me one!” She climbed into bed and buried her face in her pillow. Elizabeth rubbed her back, but she wouldn’t turn around. It was only a few minutes before her breathing deepened and she was asleep once more.
Elizabeth walked back to the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of chardonnay and a wineglass, pouring herself half a glass. Eyeing the liquid, she knew it wouldn’t be enough to get her to sleep. Detective Thronson was dead, Ravinia Rutledge claimed she and Elizabeth were related, and Elizabeth’s ability to predict disaster moments before they occurred was a gift shared by her entire family. It sounded like a joke, put like that. It was a joke. She was a joke. She wanted to drug herself senseless. Drink herself into oblivion and damn the consequences. But she couldn’t. Not with Chloe depending on her.
What do you believe?
“I don’t know,” she whispered aloud.
She did want to know more about her birth parents and her family, and Ravinia acted like she had the answers. Did she? Or, was this a really elaborate scam perpetrated by an accomplished con artist?
She’d named Catherine Rutledge as Elizabeth’s mother . . . was that true? If so, why had she given her up? What sort of danger was so great that she’d abandoned her as a baby? And what about her father? Who was he? Was he still alive? Where was he? How did he figure into this? Did he care, or even know, that she existed?
If what Ravinia had told her was the truth, did she have any siblings? It sounded like she had cousins galore, ones who’d been sired by any number of men who’d c
ome in and out of Mary Rutledge’s life.
Elizabeth considered calling Catherine, through the number for Ophelia’s cell phone, but did she really want to? What would she say? I think I possess one of your gifts—or maybe two! It looks like I can save people, but I can kill them, too....
Her headache had ramped up again and started to throb. She needed sleep, about three days’ worth, but she’d settle for seven, or even six hours, would that her mind could rest enough to allow it.
She tucked Joel “Rex” Kingston’s card into a drawer in the kitchen and, after double-checking the locks on the doors and the latches on the windows, and one last peek in on Chloe who was resting comfortably, her cheek lying on the pillow instead of her face pressed down into it, Elizabeth unbelted her robe and walked to her room where she tossed the robe onto a nearby chair, then washed her face and finally sank gratefully onto her bed.
For a second, she stared at the far side of the mattress where Court had slept. She placed a hand in the spot he’d occupied and felt the emptiness, the sheets stretched over the mattress pad. He’d been her husband, Chloe’s father. But whatever love she’d once felt for him was long gone. She was sorry he was dead. Really sorry. He should never have died, nor should have Whitney Bellhard.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, feeling the air go out of her lungs. For some inexplicable reason, she saw Rex Kingston’s face in her mind’s eye. She’d hardly gotten more than a glimpse of him, but somehow his image lingered. A pleasant face, a mouth made for kissing, she thought drowsily.
Her eyes flew open in shock. A mouth made for smiling. That’s what she’d been thinking. He seemed like a nice man, the kind that would help you if you were stranded beside the road with car trouble, the kind who would help a friend put in a patio, or teach a child like Chloe how to ride a bike.
“God . . .” You really are losing it, Elizabeth. With everything that’s happened, this is what you think about? This is the vacation from your thoughts you’ve chosen?
She was so annoyed with herself that she was suddenly wide awake. Punching her pillow, she flopped down on her back and tried to drift off again but her thoughts kept churning over and over. Detective Bette Thronson’s dead and Officer Maya seems to think you had something to do with it. The media’s gotten hold of your save at the restaurant and your friends know it was you. You wished them dead . . . you wished them all dead . . . Chloe said he loves you, but he did some bad things. . . .
Though Elizabeth dozed off and on, she always awoke with a start, fear breaking through her subconscious, only to realize she and Chloe were home and safe, then drifting away only to wake again and check the digital readout of her clock throughout the night. Some time after four AM she fell into a deep sleep only to drag herself awake at the sound of Chloe’s bare feet scurrying along the hallway. Frightened, her eyes popped open and she eyed the clock again. Six thirty-seven. Morning.
“Ugh.” she said, wanting to burrow back into the blankets and sheets. No time for that. Throwing off her covers, she told herself to face the world even though she was sure there wasn’t enough coffee in the universe to kick-start her after that miserable night. But she needed something, anything to get her through the day.
Chloe had already climbed onto a bar stool and was waiting for her breakfast when Elizabeth entered the kitchen. She looked no worse for wear after being woken up by Ravinia and Rex Kingston. Her mind touched on him again and she felt heat suffuse her cheeks. She instantly wanted to turn away in embarrassment, more at herself than anything her young daughter would notice.
“Hungry?” she asked with forced brightness.
“Uh-huh.”
“Let’s do something about that.” Intent on heating leftover coffee in the microwave, she poured a cup from the half-full pot before catching herself. Wait. Just how long had the sludge been sitting on the kitchen counter? One day? Two? Longer? Didn’t matter. She tossed the murky dregs into the sink, washed the carafe and started over with fresh grounds and clean water.
As the coffeemaker gurgled to life, she pulled a box of cereal from the pantry, poured her daughter a bowl, added milk, and set it in front of her.
