“Impressive.”
She studied him for a long minute, then unfolded her legs and jumped to her feet. “You’re not grouchy, are you? I came as soon as I could.”
He stood up slowly. “It’s no big deal.”
She walked closer, peering up into his face. “Oh, really. Lacey, Lacey, I need you! I was sure that was you sounding totally desperate, but I guess I’d better check on my other clients.” She faded to a purple mist and drifted past him.
“Lacey, wait! I do need you. . . . I’m . . . kind of on edge.”
This time she materialized as herself. “Guess what? I can now maintain my physical form for fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” he muttered.
“And I can add props as you just saw. I constantly amaze myself.”
“And God as well, I imagine.”
Lacey surveyed the church. “Some hideout you found! Who’d expect to find an angel here?”
“I hide in the bell tower,” he told her.
“Bell tower?” Her dark eyes shone. “Awesome. Ever see The Hunchback of Notre Dame?” She raised one shoulder and began to limp. “Of course, you remember what happened to Quasimodo when he became totally obsessed with a woman. He—”
Tristan was losing patience: “Lacey, I’m hearing voices.”
She straightened up. “Now?”
“When I called you. And I’ve heard them before. The first time I was asleep and thought they were part of a dream. But today I was awake and they kept getting louder, so loud I couldn’t think.”
She looked intrigued. “What were they saying?”
“They were angry and excited, hundreds of voices talking at the same time. I couldn’t understand the words.”
Lacey raised an eyebrow.
“They were like the voices the night Gregory died.”
Lacey took a step back.
“Is it because of him?” Tristan asked. “Is he one of them?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you hear or see Gregory?”
“When I look in Beth’s eyes, I see darkness, a kind of restless darkness, like smoke.”
“How do you know that the darkness is Gregory?”
Lacey thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like recognizing people in a dream, even if they look different in everyday life. You just know.”
“When Gregory looks out through Beth’s eyes, what does he see?”
“Opportunities.”
To hurt Ivy, Tristan thought, to kill her and separate them once more. “Does he see you?”
“He never acts like he does,” Lacey replied.
“He must be aware of me.”
Lacey grimaced. “You flatter yourself, Tristan. Do you think that some kind of celestial trumpet sounded to announce your return? I had no idea you were back until Ivy told me. If you’re lucky, Gregory still hasn’t figured it out.”
Tristan paced the front of the church, then sat down and drummed his fingers on the back of a pew. “So then Gregory doesn’t leave Beth’s mind—he doesn’t roam at all?”
“I suppose he could. . . . You remember how it was when you came back the first time. You were most powerful when you were working through Will and Beth, when you slipped inside their minds, but you were limited by what they saw and thought. It was dangerous for you when you stole into Eric’s drug-fried mind. He was vulnerable to you, but you were vulnerable to him and his drugs as well. Whatever happened to Eric when you were inside would’ve also happened to you.”
Tristan nodded. “Good, that’s good. At least, while Gregory is in her mind, he won’t do anything to hurt Beth.”
Lacey laughed harshly. “Since when has self-destruction stopped him? Since when has self-destruction stopped anybody who is obsessed with something—or someone.”
Tristan barely listened, his mind racing ahead. “So maybe I’ve come back in Luke’s body to remain hidden from Gregory. And I’m back with the mission of saving Ivy from him.”
Lacey pointed her finger at Tristan. “Your mission is to save yourself from Ivy.”
“That’s what you think. I disagree,” he said calmly.
Lacey threw up her hands. “Listen to me, Tristan! Ivy was a dead girl. Crash, smash, dead! Exit Ivy. You had no right to give her another entrance.”
“And the person who drove her off the road that night, you’re saying that person had the right to kill her,” he replied angrily, “but I didn’t have the right to bring her back?”
“Neither of you had the right.”
“And this is what you’ve learned during your three years of fooling around and failing to find your own mission.”
Lacey glared at him, then strode down the church aisle, turning back when she reached the door. All of this was for effect, since she could have disappeared whenever she wanted.
“Maybe I’ve never read the big script,” she said, “and maybe Number One Director has never consulted with me, but I can tell you what I see from the audience: an angel, who has lost his powers, is occupying the body of a murderer, and he hears the voices of demons getting closer and closer. You made a big mistake, Tristan. Now it’s time to save yourself.”
SHORTLY AFTER IVY LEFT ALICIA AT THE FARM STAND, she found a convenient place to pull off the road and write down everything Luke’s friend had told her. Then she drove on to St. Peter’s Church, where she spent the rest of the afternoon practicing piano and working on the summer assignments. Playing the piano always seemed to help her think things through.
By the time she returned the church key to the rectory, she realized there were two items she hadn’t seen in the online news stories: an estimated time of death and the time at which the body was found. In the news reports Ivy remembered, Corinne’s death had been noted as occurring “late on the night of April 14.” If Alicia had left Luke’s at eleven o’clock, depending on how long it took to drive to Four Winds, he would have had just a small window of time to commit the murder and leave by midnight.
After dinner in Chatham, Ivy arrived back at the cottage just as Kelsey and Dhanya were headed out. When they had left, Ivy walked back to the kitchen stairs and called up to Beth. The floor creaked, but Beth didn’t reply. After several attempts, Ivy gave up and opened her laptop. For a moment she held her breath, but her usual screensaver came up.
Checking the file in which she had copied news reports about Corinne’s death, Ivy wondered if the police had withheld information while interviewing possible suspects. None of the early stories mentioned the circumstances of the crime’s discovery; but a recent one, written after “Luke” had been found on the Cape, named the person who had discovered Corinne’s body: James Oberg.
Ivy searched Facebook without luck, but found a number for James P. Oberg in a phone book for metropolitan Providence. She quickly placed the call. The voice on the answering machine sounded old but strong. Slightly belligerent, she thought. Ivy hung up and debated whether to leave a message. Deciding that old people were likely to be annoyed by repeated calls in which a caller did not identify herself, she called a second time and left a name: “This is Abbie Danner, a journalism intern with the Cape Cod Times. I have a few questions to ask for an article I’m writing.” She gave her cell phone number, explaining it would be the easiest way to reach her.
That done, Ivy located Luke’s neighborhood and Four Winds Farm on Mapquest: The fastest driving route took forty minutes. Even allowing for empty roads and the possibility of speeding, Luke’s window of opportunity was getting very narrow!
Ivy researched Hank Tynan, Tony Millwood, and every Facebook friend and person mentioned on Corinne’s page, collecting the information on a thumb drive. She was especially interested in Tony Millwood, Corinne’s confidant. According to Alicia, it had been a love-hate relationship, and Tony had become increasingly angry and resentful of the way in which Corinne used him.
Corinne had posted plenty of her photography and other works of art; some were still on her art-school site, and
Ivy studied it, trying to read Corinne’s personality and interests in the work she’d left behind.
Two hours later, she stretched and stood up. A demanding meow caught her attention; Dusty peered through the screen in the back door.
“Aren’t you supposed to be earning a living, protecting the garden from hungry critters?”
Dusty lifted a paw, about to claw the screen. “No, no,” Ivy said, quickly opening the door. She filled a bowl with fresh water and set it down on the floor. “No treats. This morning Aunt Cindy lectured us about you. You’re getting too fat and lazy with everyone feeding you.”
Dusty stared down at the water, then looked up at her as if to say “You can’t be serious.”
“Sorry.” After fixing herself some ice water, Ivy sat back down in front of her computer, calling up a map of Providence and using the zoom to study the streets of River Gardens. When she looked up, Dusty was sitting on the kitchen table with his paw in her glass, about to scoop up a drink of water, true to his Maine coon breed.
“Hey, do I go drinking out of your water bowl?” Ivy asked, laughing.
The cat purred, obviously in the mood for company. As she typed, he rubbed her wrist with his cheek, then squeezed under her arm, trying to fit his large body on her lap. Twenty pounds flopped down on her legs. Ivy scratched the thick ruff of fur around Dusty’s neck, then combed her fingers through his heavy coat. Beneath her hand, the cat’s body suddenly tensed. He switched his tail hard against her hip, then sat up, gazing at the stairway next to the kitchen hearth.
“What is it?” Ivy whispered.
Dusty lifted his chin, his eyes drawn up to the ceiling. He appeared to be tracking something from the corner where Beth slept to the top of the stairway, and back again. His ears were sharper than Ivy’s—she hadn’t picked up a sound.
Dusty leaped off Ivy’s lap, walked cautiously to the base of the steps, and stared upward, tail lashing. Ivy rose quietly and tiptoed to the stairway. She debated whether to call to Beth again, then decided not to warn her and crept up the steps.
The room was dark except for a crimson glimmer at one end. Beth had lit the candle again. As Ivy stole toward her, she saw that Beth was lying in her bed, eyes closed, her body still as death. Sitting down on the bed across from Beth, Ivy studied her friend’s face, then out of the corner of her eye saw something sparkling.
Beth’s amethyst pendant glittered in the quivering candlelight. Its silver chain had been looped over the knob on Ivy’s headboard, then looped again at the other end—fashioned into a noose. Ivy’s china angel hung by her neck.
In a mental flash, Ivy saw herself in Beth’s dream, a snake of rope coiled around her neck. She began to shake. She reached to free the angel, then quickly pulled back her hand as Beth’s eyes flipped open. They were pools of black, her pupils nearly rimless, the candle’s flame reflected in them. The tiny smile that played on her lips wasn’t Beth’s. It belonged to a dark soul lying in wait for Ivy.
Ivy made herself calm. “Untie the knot.”
Beth glanced toward the strangled angel then down at the crimson candle. She didn’t speak, but Ivy had seen it—a slight contraction of the delicate skin beneath Beth’s eyes: She had winced. For a moment, Beth’s own soul had shrunk from what she saw.
Hopeful, Ivy pressed on. “Look at what you have done.”
Beth refused, keeping her eyes on the flickering votive.
Ivy reached out and placed her fingers beneath Beth’s chin, lifting it. Beth clawed at Ivy’s hand, knocking it away, but Ivy kept her gaze on Beth’s face and saw it again: the flinch, the sign that something of her friend Beth was still present.
“Take it down.”
Beth shut her eyes. Ivy saw the tension in Beth’s throat. She wanted to hold Beth’s face gently in her hands, but when she leaned toward her, Beth quickly turned away. Ivy lifted the chain from the bedpost and laid the necklace and statue in Beth’s lap. “Free her.”
Beth’s hands were knuckles of stone. Still, Ivy pushed on, seeing that, small as the opening was, something was allowing her to get through to Beth. “You can do it. You can fight him, Beth.”
Beth turned her head and gazed down at the amethyst in her lap. A tiny blue vein pulsed in her temple.
“I’m here,” Ivy said. “You and I, together we’re stronger than him.”
Beth touched the purple stone with one finger.
“That amethyst was Will’s and my gift to you—a sign. Our love is stronger than all his hate.”
Beth’s fingers opened, then closed around the stone. “I can’t stop him, Ivy. He will hurt you. He will use me to get his revenge. Stay away from me.”
“I won’t stay away! I won’t let him have you!”
“It’s too late. It’s no use.”
Ivy untied the knot at the end of the necklace, freeing the angel, then slipped the silver chain over Beth’s head. Was it possible that the purple stone made Beth stronger, allowing Beth to break through the hold that Gregory had on her mind? Ivy remembered how, in the weeks that followed the séance, Beth had held on to the amethyst and warned her that Gregory was here. “Don’t take this off, Beth. Don’t forget that Will and I are with you. We’ll find a way out of this, I promise you. Don’t take it off.”
“I’m tired.”
Ivy looked into Beth’s eyes. They were rimmed with azure now, but the votive’s flame still shone in their darkness. The circles beneath her eyes looked like bruises.
“So tired,” she said softly.
“Sleep now. Lie back. I’ll stay with you.”
“No, Ivy, not with me! He wants to destroy you.”
Ivy blew out the candle. “Hush. Lie back. I’ll stay with you till Dhanya and Kelsey come home.”
Even after Ivy’s roommates returned, she lay on her bed across from Beth’s, her mind at work. Making plans, telling herself there were things she could do, was the only way to keep back the terror. Tomorrow she would urge Suzanne to e-mail Will about Beth’s dreams. If he heard these things from someone else who knew and cared about Beth, he might finally listen. Together they could battle Gregory. Then she’d tell Tristan what she had learned from Alicia, and she’d talk to the man who found Corinne. . . .
Make me strong, Ivy prayed. She was stronger than the darkness that was ignorance. She was stronger than the darkness that was evil itself. She would find the way for all of them.
Sixteen
FOR TRISTAN, THE ISOLATION WAS WORSE THAN THE fear. When he was in the hospital, he had thought it was the absence of memory that drew him under waves of despair. Now he knew better. It was how Ivy’s absence made him feel: exiled. Maybe that’s why he was hearing the demon voices; maybe that’s what hell was, he thought, the state of exile from Ivy.
Then he heard a melody. Someone was standing outside the church, whistling. Tristan stood in the foyer close to the ladder, ready to climb to safety, but suddenly found himself humming along with the cheerful whistler. The song was from Carousel, the music Ivy played for him.
He rushed to the stairway that led to the basement. It was Monday afternoon, the basement lit with sun, exposing him to whoever might peer in the clear windows. It was stupid—dangerous—he knew it. And then he saw her, sitting in the tall grass by the window, whistling. Stupid, dangerous—and she knew it. They would take the chance anyway.
Tristan hurried to the window, tapped on it and removed the wood block. At first he thought she hadn’t heard him; she glanced around so casually, looking as if she were daydreaming. Then she scooted to the window, slid it open the same time as he, and climbed through into his arms.
“Steps,” he said as she pulled the backpack through. He shut the window, replaced the block, and followed her. They made it only to the landing halfway up the steps. Safe in the bent arm of the stairway, they clung to each other. He covered her face with kisses.
“Missed you.”
“Missed you!”
“Love you.”
“Need you!”
r /> Her hair tumbled over his face and hands. He lost himself in her smell, her touch, and her voice. The sweetness with which she kissed him went straight to his soul. If he was fallen, he thought, Ivy was the grace sent to him, redeeming him.
“Tristan,” she said. “I missed you so much. I shouldn’t have come in the daylight, but—”
He silenced her with a kiss.
“It never gets easier, being away from you.”
“I know.” He held her against him and gently stroked her cheek. “I will always want you with me.”
“I was worried about you during the storm Saturday night. But you look fine.”
He decided not to tell her about the voices he had heard. There was no reason for her to fear something that was happening only to him.
“No big leaks?”
“Not after I thought to close the door to the bell platform.”
She smiled and walked around the main floor of the church, tracing its carved wood and remnants of delicate stenciling with her finger. Then they sat together on one of the long wood benches. Watching the light of the milky glass play over the contours of Ivy’s face, Tristan wondered if he would ever get over the simple wonder of looking at her.
“I have some new information about Luke,” Ivy said, and told him about her conversation with Bryan on Saturday night and yesterday’s meeting with Alicia.
“Then Luke may actually be innocent. . . .”
“He is innocent. I just know it!”
“Slow down, Ivy. Let’s not celebrate too soon,” Tristan warned, but his heart lightened in spite of his attempt to be cautious.
Ivy recounted her information about the man who had found Corinne’s body, then checked her cell phone. “Still no response. But reporters are supposed to be persistent,” she added, pulling up James Oberg’s number and trying it again.
Her eyes brightened. “Yes, hi. This is Abbie Danner.” She held the phone away from her a little so Tristan could hear.
“The college girl who left a message earlier,” the man was saying.
“That’s right. I’m working on an article about the death of Corinne Santori.”