Mama didn’t ask about my work, about the overlooks and the remains that had excited her just a few days earlier. Except for one comment on the state of my nails, she didn’t criticize or critique. Mostly, she spent the time shut away in her own private world of thought.
Desperate to engage her, I introduced the topic I’d been dodging so diligently. A topic I’d yet to share with her.
“I have some news, Mama.”
She gave a curious flick of one perfectly plucked brow.
“Andrew Ryan has asked me to marry him.”
That got her full attention. “Your French detective?”
“French Canadian.”
“How delightful. When is the wedding?”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“Do you love this man?” Asked after a long, scrutinizing look.
“Yes.”
“Then why on earth not?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“You can’t keep brooding over Pete’s infidelity.”
“My hesitation has nothing to do with that.” Deep down knowing that Pete’s betrayal had yet to grant me permission to leave the building. That now and then the pain still came knocking at the door. “Ryan is complicated.”
Her face didn’t change, but I saw her turn inward to roll that around. Then she took both my hands in hers and said, “Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
“Aristotle.”
She nodded. “Do you feel such a connection with this man?”
An icy clamp took hold of my tongue. For the life of me I could think of nothing to say.
I stayed a couple of hours. We didn’t mention Ryan again. When I left, she absently turned one cheek for a kiss.
Walking the path to my car, I couldn’t fend off the guilt coming at me on multiple fronts. Mama was on a downswing. I’d largely neglected her of late. Discussion of possible nuptials had done nothing to cheer her.
Hazel Strike was dead, perhaps because I’d ignored her calls. Ryan was set to decamp, peeved that I’d continued to duck his proposal.
I was nowhere on Cora Teague or the Brown Mountain bones. So far my actions had generated only vague suspicions, no solid leads. No hundred-watt bulbs lighting up over my head.
I was so deeply immersed in self-reproach, at first I didn’t hear movement in the darkness behind me. Subtle noises that shouldn’t have been there. Suddenly, I was motionless, breath frozen, straining like some startled woodland creature.
Yes.
The airy swish of nylon. The soft crunch of gravel. Abruptly stilled. Far off, the blurry murmur of wind slipping through some secret passage.
My mouth went dry. My heart pounded my ribs.
My car was five yards ahead. I fumbled in my shoulder bag. Another harebrained move. Why hadn’t I carried the keys in my hand?
Because no bogeyman lurked at Heatherhill. But someone or something was stalking me.
Run! My mind screamed.
Instead I whipped around.
Saw a shadowy silhouette in the blackness.
“Who is it?”
No response.
“Who’s there?”
My adrenals were pumping hard. In the dark, the guy looked huge.
Still nothing.
“I’m armed.” Groping for pepper spray years past its shelf life.
Finally, a flicker of movement. An arm going up? A wink of pale skin.
“I want to talk to you.” The voice was surprisingly calm.
“Stay back.” Mine wasn’t.
Another subtle realignment of the shadows. Then footsteps. Heavy. Determined.
It was a bad place for an encounter. Hedges lined both sides of the path. The parking lot to my rear was totally deserted. My pursuer blocked a return to River House.
The footsteps were fast closing in.
“Stop!” Inside my purse, I popped off the cap and death-gripped the can. If the spray failed, I’d kick the guy’s plums into his brainpan.
The sheen of black hair. Eyes obscured by overprivileged bangs.
My finger eased off the nozzle. My pulse dropped a micron.
“Did you follow me here?”
Susan Grace nodded, a shadowy shape-change in the gloom.
“You lied to your grandmother about ballet.”
“She can confess for both of us.” Deep and low and neutral. And it was impossible to read the expression on her face.
“Why follow me?”
“I want to find Mason.”
“I have nothing to tell you.”
“Are any of you really looking for him?”
“Perhaps Cora and Mason don’t want to be found.”
“Cora.” Bitter. “My brother would never ever leave without telling me where he was going.”
“Where do you think he is?”
She was so close I could hear the hitch in her breathing. I waited, letting her choose her own timing. “I have something to show you.”
“Are you parked in the lot?” I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder.
“Yes.”
“Okay.” Hoping the kid wasn’t slit-my-throat nuts. “Let’s go to my car.”
Two vehicles hulked dark in the otherwise empty quadrangle. I scanned for signs of a second presence, saw nothing but bushes, trees, and white picket fencing. While unlocking the Mazda, I transferred my iPhone to a jacket pocket for easier access.
I got in and slid my purse between my belly and the wheel. Susan Grace tossed a backpack to the floor, then dropped onto the passenger side. When she swung her feet in, her knees were high and pressed tight to the dash.
“Feel free to adjust the seat.”
She did.
Seconds passed. A full minute. Again, I held my tongue, not wanting to press.
“My life’s like living the freakin’ Song of Bernadette.” I assumed she meant the Henry King film.
“I was raised Catholic.” Seeking common ground. “My father loved that movie.”
“Catholic?” She laughed, a quick angry scrape. “You met my psycho grandmother and her Nazi priest. We’re not just Catholic. We’re über-Catholic. Supercolossal kick-ass-and-take-no-prisoners Catholic.
“We pray in Latin because English isn’t pious enough. We beg forgiveness on bloody knees because God demands penance for sins we’ve never committed. Sins we’ve never thought of committing. Sins we’ve never even heard of.”
“Are you talking about Jesus Lord Holiness?”
“Of course I am. We are the righteous. The devout. We speak in tongues to the Holy Ghost. We shun the unanointed, the unbaptized, the unvirgin, the unclean. Pretty much anyone who isn’t us. And, whoa-ho! If you are one of us and you screw up, watch out. We have ways of punishing the wicked!”
“Susan Grace—”
“We follow rules even the pope has kicked to the curb.” Whipping sideways to face me, all round eyes and trembling lips. “We’re so goddamn sanctimonious, we’ve kicked the big guy himself to the curb!”
She laughed again, that same humorless scratch of breath.
I’d heard kids vent. Heard them curse a parent, a coach, a teacher who ousted them for wearing a Korn T-shirt to class. This was different. Susan Grace’s intensity suggested a fury that was deep and powerful.
“I’m sorry.” Lame, but that’s what I said.
“I don’t need a shoulder to cry on.” Brittle. Now embarrassed by her outburst.
“What do you need?” I asked softly.
“I need someone to find my brother.” After backhanding tears from her cheeks, she yanked a zipper on the backpack and pulled something free. “I heard the cop ask Grandma for a photo of Mason.”
“You have one?”
“No. But I have this.”
She shoved the thing toward me. I took it and turned on the overhead light. Which was lousy, but good enough to identify a Black n’ Red personal planner barely holding together at the binding.
“There’s a picture. Use the ribbon.”
I lifted the end of the narrow red satin placeholder. It took me to the middle of the journal.