She could not remember his precise relation to them, could not recall his name, but she could see him in her mind, a nattily dressed man with a thin mustache.
She didn't think he was British, but something in her memory of him reminded her of an elegant English actor whose name she did not know.
There had been another child, but she had not lived with them, had only come over to visit, to play.
Dawn.
The girl from down the way.
The girl she'd promised to marry.
Laurie remembered her now, remembered her name, but her appearance was confused with that of the girl from the alley, the girl in her dreams. Dawn was the one aspect of her previous life that had not been submerged and buried, that she had not entirely blocked out, but in her reminiscences, the girl had been another hippie kid who lived down the street from where she remembered growing up, and Josh had known her as well. She realized now, though, that her memory had transferred the girl from one place, one time, to another. Dawn had been from before. Before her birth parents had died, before she'd been adopted.
In her mind, she saw Dawn standing between two redwoods, smiling at her, beckoning her toward the forest.
The dimensions of the scene expanded as she mentally reconstructed details of the memory. She had not been allowed to go into the woods surrounding the house.
Her parents had instilled within her a fear of the forest, and she'd been aware of the dangers lurking therein since before she'd been allowed to play outside the house. Dawn knew perfectly well that she wasn't supposed to go into the woods, but the other girl tried to lure her in anyway, cajoling her, calling her names, promising her fun, excitement, and lifelong friendship.
Laurie hadn't succumbed--not this time--but Dawn had not quit trying, and it had been a constant battle between her parents' orders and her friend's desires.
Had Dawn had a hand in her parents' deaths?
For some reason, Laurie thought she had. What a small child could have to do with the murder of two adults she did not quite understand, but the feeling was there anyway.
The murder of two adults?
Yes.
This was getting a little too creepy.
Laurie finished her coffee, tossed the paper cup into a wastebasket next to the entrance of a small cafe, and tried to concentrate on the here and now, focusing on the street, on the shops, on the people walking by, trying not to think about her newfound memories.
An hour ago, a half hour ago, she had never even considered the fact that she might be adopted. It was not something that had ever crossed her mind. Now she was recalling a whole other history of herself, a back story she'd never known existed that was already sending out repercussions through the years.
There was too much here, too much to sift through.
She couldn't think about it all right now. She needed time to sort things out.
She arrived once again at The Shire. She'd walked around the block, and she pushed open the door and went into the bookstore. Josh was with a customer, a Doug Henning look-alike, but he excused himself and hurried over when he saw her, a worried frown on his face. 'Are you all right?'
She smiled weakly. 'I'm fine. Go back to your customer.'
'He can wait.'
She felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Biological relation or not, he was her brother, the only brother she'd ever known, and while he might be a flake and a screw up in many ways, she was lucky to have him, and she couldn't ask for a better or more caring sibling.
She reached out, hugged him. 'I love you,' she said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. 'I love you, Josh.'
He hugged her back, held her tight. 'I love you, too.'
Matt was waiting on the porch when she arrived home.
Her first instinct was to drive on, not stop, keep going and not return until he was gone, but though her hands were shaking and she felt like jelly inside, she forced herself to park the car, get out, stride purposely up the walkway. She fixed the most angrily resolute expression possible on her face.
Matt moved down the steps toward her. 'Laurie--'
'I don't want to talk to you,' she said firmly.
'I came to apologize.'
'You are no longer in my life, there is no connection between us, you have no reason to apologize to me.'
'Yes I do, because--'
'Please leave,' she said. She took out her key, unlocked and opened the door.
'Laurie!'
She turned to look at him. 'Obviously, you don't know me at all. Even after all that time together. Let me spell it out for you: I don't forgive and forget. We're not going to be friends; we're not even going to be acquaintances.
At this point, we do not have any relationship at all. It's over. You get one chance with me, and you blew it. I don't give second chances.'
He stared up at her.
She glared back.
'Then I guess here's your key.' He looked at her dejectedly with that hurt, wounded expression that had always made her feel sorry for him and want to mother him, but she refused to fall for it this time, refused to give in.
She held out her hand, accepted the key, and walked inside without looking back.
Her hands were still shaking as she closed the door, and she turned the lock and threw the dead bolt, leaning against the frame, not wanting him to see her pass in front of the window. She waited. A minute. Two minutes. Three.
She hadn't heard him leave, hadn't heard any sound at all, but she figured he had to have left by now and she hazarded a look around the corner of the curtains.
He was gone.
She had to admit that part of her was gratified that he'd come crawling back, but she was not even remotely tempted to start up with him again. Whatever they'd had was dead and could not be rekindled. He'd killed it. As painful and awkward and horrible as it had been, though, she was glad he'd stopped by. She felt stronger now, more sure of herself, and for the first time, she was happy that the relationship had ended.
The phone rang during dinner, and Laurie let the machine pick up. It was Josh, but she still wasn't in the mood to talk, and she listened to his message as she ate her asparagus.
She tried to arrange what little she remembered from her pre-adoptive years chronologically in her mind but was unable to do so. Her memories remained fragmented disjointed images, out of context, with only a vague dread linking everything together. She didn't know what was happening to her, what was going on, but she had the feeling that there was something here under the surface, an overarching connection between the past and the present that she couldn't see and wasn't sure she wanted to know about.
She went to bed early, tired.
And she dreamed of the girl.
Norton Carole's ghost would not go away.
Norton had never believed in ghosts, had always considered those who did to be naive, gullible, and superstitious, the type of people who could be easily separated from their money, but he had had to change his tune.
Carole's ghost would not go away. He remembered, years ago, taking a group of graduating students on a senior class trip to California. They'd gone to Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm, Sea World, and in San Diego they'd visited the Whaley House, the first two-story brick home in California. The house was supposed to be haunted, and
