And, to be truthful, I was a little afraid to be alone with Devlin in my house. It wasn’t just the odd instance of my waning energy while he slept that made me uneasy. Something Temple had said the night before kept coming back to me.
What worried me the most? I wondered. That Devlin would lose control with me…or that he wouldn’t?
That was crazy. I had so many more important things to worry about.
Locking the front door, I went straight to the bathroom, showered and got ready for bed. I was so exhausted from the evening’s ordeal that I wanted nothing more than a long night’s sleep.
But I couldn’t shut down my brain. The moment my head hit the pillow, my thoughts ran rampant.
I hadn’t told Devlin what I’d seen at the edge of the woods—on either occasion—because I didn’t know how to explain it. What would I say?
There was another darkness that frightened me, too—the black sedan that had sped away the moment headlights appeared on the horizon. I really wanted to believe I’d chanced upon some illegal activity that would explain the driver’s peculiar behavior, but already doubt had started to gnaw a hole in that theory.
The vehicle that had nearly run me down in the parking lot the night my briefcase was stolen had also been a black sedan.
I’d tried to convince myself the killer would have no reason to target me once I’d sent those photographs to Devlin, but now I worried…
What if I’d seen something I didn’t even know I saw?
What if there was something in those images—a hidden symbol—that only I could interpret?
What if I really was the key to solving Hannah Fischer’s murder?
Outside, the wind picked up. I could hear the rustle of limbs against the house, the faraway tinkle of the wind chimes in the garden. I lay there shivering even though the night was balmy and warm.
Easing my hand from beneath the cover, I reached for Essie’s amulet on the nightstand. The pouch had a fusty odor I hadn’t noticed earlier. I started to toss it on the end table, but slipped it underneath my pillow instead.
I hoped she was right.
My eyes fluttered closed and my muscles finally began to relax.
Floating down into a deep slumber, I was oblivious to the creak of my garden gate, the howl of my next-door neighbor’s dog and the eyes that gleamed with madness peering in through my bedroom window as I slept.
Twenty
The Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies was located on a dead-end street just inside the Historic District. It had once been a run-down neighborhood of sagging antebellums, but a flurry of redevelopment had spit- shined the grand old dames into a semblance of their former luster.
With the facelifts had come a rather pretentious promenade of trendy new businesses—art galleries, design houses and antique shops—all entering into an unlikely waltz with the tattoo parlors and the adult video stores that had dominated the area for the past twenty years.
The CIPS building was the fairest belle of them all, a three-layered confection of white columns and lovely piazzas with off-street parking in the rear. I located a space in the shade and cracked the windows to allow for airflow.
As I walked back to the side entrance, my gaze was drawn by the flicker of a hand-shaped neon sign on the house across the street, where some enterprising palmist named Madam Know-It-All had set up shop. The irony of her proximity to the loftier Charleston Institute for Parapsychology Studies gave me the best laugh I’d had in days.
I’d been to the Institute before, so I knew the drill. Ringing the front bell, I waited for the lock to disengage, then passed through from the muggy midmorning heat into the cool, shabby elegance of crystal chandeliers and brocade wallpaper. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed, enhancing the sensation of having stepped back in time.
No hoop skirts for the young woman who came out to greet me, but she was quintessentially Southern— golden hair, golden skin, friendly smile. She’d added a bit of mystery to her appearance by rimming her blue eyes with kohl and adorning herself in silver rings and chains dangling with exotic charms.
She was new since the last time I’d been there, but she recognized my name. Escorting me down the hall to a set of pocket doors, she slid them open to announce me, then waved me in.
Unlike the rest of the house, Rupert Shaw’s office was sparsely furnished with a mishmash of seedy castaways and a noisy window AC unit that kept the temperature somewhere between warm and frigid, depending on where one sat.
What the room lacked in style, it made up for in substance. A view of a cozy back garden, a huge marble fireplace and books—hundreds and hundreds crammed into wooden shelves, stacked on the floor, spread out over every square inch of desk space. Old leather-bound volumes reeking of mildew and knowledge of the ages sat alongside dog-eared paperback novels.
It was a room I would have felt very comfortable in if I could have adjusted the air-conditioning.
Dr. Shaw rose when I came in and walked over to kiss both my cheeks before motioning me to the empty leather chair across from his desk. He wore his usual tattered attire of flannel trousers, houndstooth vest and a light blue shirt that complemented his eyes and an impressive helmet of white hair. He was taller than Ethan, with a lankier build and a graceful carriage that suggested, despite his threadbare garb, a lifetime of affluence.
As I sat down across from him, I was reminded of the first time we’d met. Someone had sent him the Samara video, and he’d contacted me through my blog, persuading me to come by for a tour of the Institute. Afterward, he and his research assistant had taken me out to dinner. She was a grad student who’d recently accepted a teaching assignment overseas and needed to sublet her apartment on Rutledge Avenue. Since I was looking to move to Charleston and had yet to find suitable accommodations, I’d asked if I could take a look at her place. The moment I set foot in the door, I knew it was where I needed to be. A week later, I was moved in, and when the assistant decided not to return at the end of her term, I boxed up all her personal belongings, stored them in the basement and signed my own lease. I’d lived there in perfect harmony ever since…until Devlin’s ghost child appeared in my garden.
But that wasn’t the purpose of my visit.
After we’d exchanged pleasantries, Dr. Shaw steepled his fingers beneath his chin and gave me a curious scrutiny. “So what can I do for you today? Your phone call sounded a little mysterious.”
“I’m hoping you can provide a plausible explanation…or any kind of explanation…for what I’ve been seeing lately…” I trailed off, uncertain of how I wanted to proceed. I wouldn’t tell him about the ghosts. Until my conversation with Essie, I’d never talked about the sightings to anyone but Papa. Though not a specific rule, silence and secrecy had always been implied.
But the new entity I’d been seeing was a different matter. I’d never witnessed anything like it and I didn’t know how to protect myself from it.
I settled back in my chair, willing myself to relax. Opening up about a paranormal event, even to someone like Dr. Shaw, wasn’t so easy. It made me feel exposed and subject to ridicule.
“You know I’ve been working in Oak Grove Cemetery, right? In fact, Ethan told me you’re on the committee that awarded me the contract. I’d like to thank you for that.”
He made a dismissive motion with one finger. “Your work speaks for itself.”
“Still, I’m grateful for the vote of confidence.”
He inclined his head and waited patiently for me to get to the point of my visit.
“I’m sure you’ve also heard about the murder victim that was uncovered in one of the graves. It’s been in the papers and on the news…”
