the key in your mind.” She looked around the circle. Everyone was staring at the candle flame-everyone except Daniel. He was staring at her. She gave his hand an impatient squeeze and nodded toward the center of the circle. “Everyone stare at the candle.”
His eyebrows drew together and he pursed his lips, adequately conveying his contempt for the entire project. But he turned his face toward the flickering flame.
Cleo let her voice become low and hypnotic. “Just watch the flame and think about the key. Visualize the key in your mind. When you’re ready, let your eyes fall closed. With your eyes closed, you should still be able to see the flame. And within that flame…the key.”
Cleo hadn’t tried to hypnotize herself in years, not since she’d lived in Madison. Today, actual hypnosis was the furthest thing from her mind. She only intended to use the basic technique to give everyone a thrill. A ceremony that involved candles and sitting cross-legged on the floor seemed the very thing Daniel would despise, so it was the very thing she was using to get him back.
But instead of being the one in control of the situation, the candle flame took over. It pulled her in, sucked her in, swallowed her. It wasn’t like the time in Madison. She didn’t feel transported. Instead she felt incredibly heavy.
Her eyelids drifted shut, her breathing became even and rhythmic. And suddenly she was asleep. Asleep while awake.
Walking down a road.
Barefoot.
There were her red toenails. And the bump on her middle toe, a souvenir of the time she’d broken it playing softball with no shoes.
A barn.
A big red barn.
With a rusty weathervane at the top.
Weathervanes were cool, but for some reason she didn’t like this one.
The weathervane was shaped like a pig. It creaked and turned, even though she could feel no breeze against her skin, or hear any rustling of dead weeds along the side of the road.
The dream changed.
Suddenly she was inside the barn.
Part of the roof had been ripped away, leaving a gaping, jagged hole. Through the hole, she saw dark, churning clouds.
She couldn’t open her eyes.
Someone pressed against the back of her head, making her look at something on the ground. A shovel materialized in her hand. She was supposed to dig in the spot in front of her bare feet.
She didn’t want to, but she had no choice.
The shovel hit something solid.
She peered into the dark pit. At the bottom of the hole was a pumpkin. A broken, smashed pumpkin.
She gasped and flung herself away, smacking the back of her head on something hard. And then everything turned black.
Chapter Twelve
Cleo regained consciousness in slow stages. First came a gradual awareness of her surroundings, followed by the far-off drone of voices, a drone that slowly became more distinct until she could finally distinguish one person from another.
There was Jo’s voice, breathless and worried, coming from nearby, as if she stood directly over Cleo. “Are you all right, dear?”
“Give her some air. She just fainted.” Dr. Campbell.
And the twins, shocked and puzzled. “Is she supposed to do that?”
Another voice she couldn’t quite place. Parker? “I don’t know if we should have stopped holding hands. It might not be a good idea to break the circle.”
“For chrissake.” It was Daniel. “Can’t you see she’s putting on a damn show? What the hell’s the matter with you people?” His voice shook with frustration and anger. “The woman’s an accomplished actress. A con.”
“How can you say that?” Jo again. “Look how pale she’s gone.”
“She’s always pale. And it’s so damn dark in here. Somebody blow out that candle while I open the shades.”
He moved away, his heavy footfall shaking the wooden floor under Cleo’s cheek. The hard surface gave her a sense of location.
Egypt, Missouri. The police station.
With Daniel Sinclair raving like a lunatic, making her head hurt even more.
She smelled smoke, the kind of smoke a candle makes when it’s blown out. That sensory stimulation was followed by one of sound-of window blinds being angrily pulled open. Through closed eyelids, Cleo perceived the room changing, becoming bigger, brighter. She felt a breeze on her face. She moaned and slowly opened her eyes.
Jo was leaning over her, fanning Cleo with a magazine. “How are you feeling?” Jo asked. “Better?”
Cleo nodded. With Jo’s help, she managed to sit up. Wrong move. Her stomach churned. An acid taste gathered in the back of her throat.
“Bathroom,” she managed to whisper.
Immediately grasping the urgency of the situation, Jo shoved a wastebasket in Cleo’s face. Cleo wasn’t going to throw up in front of an audience. That wasn’t going to be part of the show.
She shoved herself to her feet and grabbed the metal wastebasket. Then, with the wastebasket clutched to her chest, she bolted down a hallway, Jo keeping one arm around her waist, a hand to her elbow, steering her in the direction of the bathroom.
Spotting the toilet, Cleo slipped from Jo’s grasp, slammed the door in the woman’s face, and dropped to her knees. When she was done relieving herself of a partially digested slice of white bread and bottle of soda, she flushed the toilet. Then she pushed herself away to sit with her back against the wall, forehead against her knees, arms wrapped around her legs.
There was something wrong with her. Really, really wrong.
From outside the closed door came the sound of voices-an argument. It seemed Daniel Sinclair wanted to open the door; Jo was trying to stop him.
Cleo heard the door open, then close. She heard the slide of a metal lock.
“Well,” Daniel said from somewhere above her. “It seems like we’re always ending up in bathrooms together.”
“What was all that about out there? Was it to get back at me?”
The doorknob rattled. “Open this door right now, Daniel Sinclair,” came Jo’s muffled voice.
“You can quit the act,” Daniel said. “There’s nobody here but you and me. Did you hear what I said?” Strong hands wrapped around her arms, pulling them away from her face.
Dazed, unable to make sense of what he was saying, Cleo lifted her head. Through a watery blur she saw him, saw his furrowed brow, saw his startling blue eyes.
It was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Why should she care?
She saw his anger dissolve, replaced by puzzlement, doubt.
