“Rest now. Niall’s just started making a pot of his world-famous chicken noodle soup.” Pressing her hands together in prayer-like fashion, Libby emphasizes, “It’s delicious!” Then she leans in conspiratorially and whispers, “I’ve pretended to be sick just so that I can have some.”
Cynthia places both hands on her stomach. “I love his cooking. I can’t imagine him making anything that’s not delicious.”
“Well, I can vouch that his chicken noodle soup will cure anything that ails you, regardless of what it is.”
As she returns to the kitchen, Libby says, “Fran, Cynthia is resting now. You might as well get some rest too. I’ll ring you in Dickens cottage if anything new transpires.”
“Promise?” Fran asks.
Raising her little finger, Libby smiles. “I’ll pinky-swear if that’ll make you feel better.”
Fran laughs and hooks her little finger around Libby’s. Entwined, they make a swift downward movement and together say, “Pinky swear!”
“Okay.” Fran smiles. “I believe you.”
Libby gathers her wind-tangled hair into a loose bun and then shifts to face the bird feeders. While filling them with seed, she notices the lengthening shadows and knows that dusk is on its way. She hasn’t heard from Mick. I’m not going to worry. At least I’m going to try not to worry.
Long ago her mother told her, “Worry is like sitting in a rocking chair. It gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere.” She smiles, knowing there’s wisdom in that adage.
“Did you pick some basil for me?” Niall asks over his shoulder when Libby steps into the kitchen.
“I sure did. Oh, that smells good!” Feigning illness, she holds the back of her hand to her forehead and bats her eyelashes.
“You’ll get some too,” Niall laughs.
Libby watches as Niall bathes the chicken in Chardonnay. When it’s almost cooked off, he tops the golden meat with sautéed artichoke hearts and sprinkles it generously with the basil that Libby had minced while he was making egg noodles.
Niall turns the flame as low as it will go. “I’m going to hold off on anything further until the troops gather. Once I add the noodles, these bad boys won’t take long,” he says, pointing a flour-covered finger toward fat golden strips draped over a wooden rack.
They turn in unison as Mick bolts through the door, Fran not far behind.
“Fran told me that Cynthia’s here,” Mick says. “I need to speak with her.”
“I was just about to wake her up,” Libby says.
“Who, me?” Everyone turns as Cynthia enters the kitchen.
“Cynthia, I’m so glad that you’re alive and safe. Here—” He leads her to a chair at the enormous pine table. “I need to show you something.”
As he steps up to the table, Mick turns so that his right thigh is against the edge, then reaches into his pocket and pulls the interior fabric until a pearl earring drops onto the table. Everyone leans forward for a closer look.
“This is one of Emma’s earrings,” he says. “I haven’t touched it. When I found it near the back side of Thoreau, I staked the spot with a stick, then scooped it up with a leaf and slid it into my pocket. I’m not sure what you look for when you tune into the energy of an item, so I didn’t want to contaminate it.”
“Not many people are as thoughtful as you,” Cynthia says, looking up into Mick’s eyes, tight with worry. “Now if one of you will get a pen and paper, it’s a good idea to write down what I say.”
“I’ll write,” Fran volunteers.
“I’ll get a pen and paper,” Libby says.
“Would it be okay if I use the recorder on my cell phone as a backup?” Mick asks.
“Yes, that’s a great idea.” Cynthia smiles.
As Libby hands a tablet and pen to Fran, Niall asks, “Are you going into a trance?”
“That’s a good question, Niall. The answer is no.” Cynthia looks around the room and continues, “I’m just going to close my eyes and sit with Emma’s earring for a bit. If I receive any energetic pictures, I’ll state them out loud. I say this in advance because it might seem disjointed.”
“What do you mean by energetic pictures?” Fran asks.
“An impression. It could be something I see or hear. It might be something I feel, smell, or even taste.”
“You said if,” Mick notes, an unasked question hanging on the end of his statement.
“That’s right, Mick,” she says gently. “It doesn’t always work.” And with that, Cynthia picks up Emma’s pearl earring, lays it on her left palm, covers it with her right palm, then rests both hands on her lap.
All eyes are on Cynthia as she closes hers.
CHAPTER 22
“Cram your head with characters and stories. Abuse your library privileges. Never stop looking at the world, and never stop reading to find out what sense other people have made of it. If people give you a hard time and tell you to get your nose out of a book, tell them you’re working. Tell them it’s research. Tell them to pipe down and leave you alone.”
—JENNIFER WEINER
Jason’s hands are trembling. His whole body is jittery. Damn, I need a drink, and I’m out of Jack. He wonders what else will soothe him. Patting the knife in his pocket he muses, Should I kill Emma now? Excitement tingles through him at the prospect. What a great blow that would be to Mick. But devastation should be paced. It should build—slowly—until the final eruption. No, he tells himself, keep to the original plan.
Jason removes a small, battery-operated lantern from his backpack and turns it on. It casts light on the damp walls. Bat guano glistens on the rock-strewn ground.
Emma observes Jason’s face surreptitiously. The threatening emotions that play across his face raise the hair on the nape of her neck. Everything in her is coiled tight, ready to shatter. She can taste her dinner in the back of her throat. It’s been hours since she’s emptied her bladder and it feels
