Truly, Madly

  “You okay?”

  “Nothing a little fresh air won’t cure.” I took in deep lungfuls. The crisp breeze cooled me off. My heartbeat settled into a steady rhythm.

  The wind ruffled his dark hair, raising the short strands on end. “You should have told me you were claustrophobic. We’d have come up with another plan.”

  “I didn’t know.” I stretched my legs, working out the kinks, while inhaling deeply. Rain hung in the crisp autumn air. A strong gust of wind took hold of my ponytail, thrashing it against my face. “We should go.”

  “You sure you’re ready?” Sean looked completely comfortable in a pair of jeans, sneakers, and a button-down striped blue and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. In this light, his eyes were the same color as the churning ocean.

  Shells crunched beneath my sneakers as I walked tenderly toward the car door. “I’m good.”

  As long as I didn’t walk, I was just fine. I had one dose of antibiotic and two Extra Strength Advils in me. Hopefully enough to get me through the day.

  As I buckled my seat belt, I said, “I’m sorry about Dovie earlier.”

  “What was with that?”

  “When the detectives came, they mentioned you were my boyfriend. She was sizing you up to see if it was true, because she didn’t believe me when I said you were.”

  His head snapped to look at me. “You what?”

  “The road! The road!”

  Jerking the wheel hard left, he swerved back into his lane. He’d just barely missed a telephone pole.

  So much for my steady heartbeat.

  “Does being my boyfriend panic you so much you want to run us off the road?” I teased.

  “I just, I mean—”

  “You should see your face.” Panic furrowed his brow; apprehension darkened his eyes. The sharp sting of rejection pinched my chest. It was ridiculous to feel that way. I knew—knew!—we couldn’t be together. I had issues. He had issues. Then there was the whole Curse thing to deal with. But still, his reaction smarted.

  “Did you really tell her that?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “But Lucy . . .”

  My heart fluttered at the way he said my name. I tried to pass it off as having drunk too much coffee that morning. “Yes, I lied to her. And I’d do it again. She’s on a mission for me to have children and is setting me up with every single guy on the South Shore. Enough is enough. I saw an opportunity to save my sanity, and I took it.”

  “So you’re using me.”

  “Essentially.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  I smiled at his teasing tone. “Unfortunately, she’s suspicious. Be prepared for more questioning.”

  “Consider me forewarned.”

  Fat raindrops splashed the windshield. Our first stop was to meet Ruth Ann Yurio, Rachel’s grandmother. She lived in South Weymouth, a good half-hour drive from my cottage.

  “Did the detectives try to get in touch with you?” I asked.

  “They called—I didn’t answer.”

  “How long do you think we can avoid their questions?”

  “Not much longer. Stonewall as long as possible. Or until they believe we had nothing to do with Rachel’s death other than recovering her body.”

  I’d spoken to Marshall Betancourt for almost an hour, telling him the whole story. He didn’t seem the least bit put off at representing a psychic, though he kept joking about me being able to “see” that the detectives had no case against me. I had to set him straight—that my abilities were limited.

  “Too bad,” he’d said. “I was hoping to hit the lottery tonight.”

  I didn’t find the joke the least bit funny.

  So far I’d found the hardest part of being outed was explaining my gift to people. No one quite understood that psychics came in all shapes and talents. Some could simply read auras, like my ancestors. Some had ESP, telepathy, clairvoyance, channeling. The list was actually quite long. My talent was a specific form of ESP. I was convinced there was a medical explanation behind being psychic—how else to explain why an electrical surge transformed my abilities? Something in my brain had been altered.

  “Have you been able to locate my parents?”

  “They checked out of the main resort because it was undergoing some unexpected renovations.”

  That explained a lot. My father wouldn’t have put up with the noise. When he was on vacation, he strived for peace and quiet.

  “They moved to an exclusive private villa on a remote part of the island. No phones, no electricity.”

  Sounded like something my father would engineer—and my mother, an original flower child, would wholeheartedly support. “If there’s no electricity, their cell phones are probably dead.”

  “Exactly. I hired a messenger to track them down and have them call you and check their e-mail as soon as possible.”

  “E-mail?”

  “I sent them the link to the Herald. The story is front and center on their Web page.”

  “Great.”

  In the chaos of the morning, I managed to find time to call Raphael, who’d slept in and hadn’t yet seen the paper. It wasn’t like Raphael to sleep late, and it had me wondering if he was alone.

  And I’d have to keep on wondering, because that wasn’t a question I was going to ask him. He’d been first horrified at the article, then mad, cursing like I’d never heard him before—in both Spanish and English. He’d wanted to come to the cottage, but I insisted I was okay. He finally relented, but not before cussing out Preston Bailey one more time.

  I let him. Preston was probably lapping up accolades this morning while my life was falling apart.

  My hands balled into fists. Anger bubbled in my chest, pounding against my rib cage like a prisoner trying to escape a cell. Closing my eyes, I tried to relax.

  8 times 6 is 48.

  The square root of 4 is 2.

  10 to the second power is 100.

  Better. But not quite there. I always thought I had a forgiving nature, but apparently not where nosy reporters were concerned.

  “Want to hit me?” Sean asked.

  My eyes flashed open. “What?”

  “Want to hit me?” He nodded to my clenched fists.

  I released my fingers, flexing them. “Not you.”

  “Might make you feel better.”

  Sex might, too. I wondered if he was willing.

  Therapeutical sex. I might be on to something.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, as if reading my mind.

  “About?” I questioned. Did he have ESP? Was he turning me down when I hadn’t technically asked?

  “Everything you’re going through right now.”

  My heart tripped over itself. Why did he have to make it so easy to fall for him? “Thanks.”

  Sean pulled into the parking lot of a massive retirement community off Route 18, not far from South Shore Hospital. We parked in the main lot and Sean cut the engine. Rain tapped melodically against the roof as he shifted to face me.

  Before I could react, he had encircled my left wrist with his fingers.

  “What are you doing?” Curious more than anything.

  “What happens when you touch me?”

  My mouth went cotton-ball dry. “H-happens?”

  “Do you see something I’ve lost?” With a little bit of pressure, he turned my hand over, palm up. The heat from his fingers sizzled against my skin.

  “I’ve never seen something you’ve lost.” There. Not a lie.

  With his other hand, he traced the outline of my fingers, like he was a little kid drawing a Thanksgiving turkey. He touched everywhere but my palm, which tingled uncomfortably.

  “Does your touch zap everyone?” he asked.

  “No, I don’t zap everyone.” Water! I needed water. “Just you.”

  “I must be special.”

  I focused on his lips, my own aching. “You must be.”

  “But you do see something when you
touch me.”

  “Nothing.” I kept staring at his lips. The way they moved when he spoke. The way his tongue flicked against his teeth. The way they pulled me in.

  “Liar,” he said softly, leaning in to me. “What do you see, Lucy?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin as his fingers trailed across my palm.

  Images came slowly, languidly. Lips. A bed.

  “Nothing,” I said, closing my eyes against the lie.

  “Nothing?” Again his finger drifted across my palm.

  Mouths meeting. Hands exploring. A bare breast. A heated gaze.

  My eyes flew open. I snatched my hand away, tucking it protectively under my arm.

  The rain intensified, sheeting the windshield. Rattled, I tried not to look at him but couldn’t refuse when he nudged my chin. His thumb brushed my bottom lip. I think I groaned.

  “I can’t see it, Lucy.” He held up his fingers. “But I feel it.”

  “I don’t understand it,” I said, tears clouding my eyes from the sheer need of wanting him. “I can’t explain it. And there’s no point in talking about it. We should go.”

  Shoving open my door, I didn’t give him a chance to argue. Ignoring the pain, I dashed toward the main building, dodging puddles.

  Under the safety of the awning, I brushed at my eyes, chastising myself for being so emotional. Sean jogged across the parking lot, his shirt darkened with moisture. He finger-combed sopping hair, sending spikes into the air. His labored breathing caught my attention.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m all right.”

  I looked long and hard at him. Outwardly, he was in perfect condition. I’d give him a 10 on a how-hot-is-he? scale. What had happened to him? What injury had caused him to leave the fire department? Had left him fighting for breath?

  We followed an outdoor corridor to Ruth Ann’s apartment. By the time we rang her bell, we were dripping wet.

  “Do you think she’ll talk to us?”

  Sean shrugged. “You never know.”

  Slowly, the door opened. Gentle folds of wrinkles lined the woman’s heart-shaped face. Sharp green eyes focused on us. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Yurio?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, dear.”

  “Is she home?” I asked.

  “May I ask what this is concerning?”

  Dripping, I said, “I’m Lucy Valentine and this is Sean Donahue. We’d like to talk to Mrs. Yurio about Rachel.”

  “Valentine?” the woman said hesitantly, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes deepening.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Are you the girl in the paper today?”

  Breathing deep, I said, “Yes.”

  The door opened. “Come in.”

  The foyer opened into a surprisingly spacious living room. It was an open layout, with one room blending into another with only columns as dividers. Vanilla scented the air as she led us to a pair of brocade-covered sofas facing each other. The scent couldn’t quite cover a lingering antiseptic smell.

  “Let me get some towels,” she said, hurrying down a narrow hallway.

  A door opened and closed. When she returned, she placed two bath towels across the sofa. “I’m Marilyn Flynn. I take care of Ruth Ann.”

  “Take care?” I asked.

  She nodded to an open door down the hall. Through it I could barely see the frame of a hospital bed. “She had a stroke many years ago and never fully recovered. She’s not quite . . . there,” she said softly.

  “How long ago?” Sean asked. “Eight years, give or take.”

  Eight years? “Wasn’t she the one who reported Rachel missing?”

  The woman smiled wanly. “Technically. Six years ago when Rachel didn’t come by for Christmas, I knew something was horribly wrong. It just wasn’t like her to miss a major holiday with no word. I took Ruth Ann to the police station and filed a report. Back then she was still able to get around, but I provided most of the information.”

  “Are you a relative?” Sean asked.

  “All but blood,” she said. “Ruth Ann and I grew up together. Neither Rachel nor I had the heart to put her in a home after the stroke, so I volunteered to move in and take care of her, even though she doesn’t remember me.”

  The love in the woman’s voice broke my heart. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. Coffee? Tea?” she asked. “To warm you up?”

  “No, thank you,” Sean and I said in unison.

  She slowly lowered herself onto the couch facing us, delicately perching on the edge of a cushion. Her crooked posture and sallow skin hinted at health problems, but her eyes were clear. White, shoulder-length poofy dandelion-style hair framed her face.

  “You knew Rachel well, then?” Sean said.

  “I was like an auntie to her. Like I said, no blood, but love doesn’t know the difference.”

  Very true. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t really know where to begin,” I said, twisting my hands. “We, Sean and I, were the ones who found Rachel’s body.”

  Her paper-thin eyelids drifted closed. “It’s still hard to believe it’s her. She’s been gone for so long. It’s both a blessing and a curse,” she said softly. “How did you find her?”

  Slowly, I went through what had happened with Michael and the ring, leading us to the body. It was surreal to be talking about my abilities out in the open.

  Marilyn tipped her head, the wrinkles stretching into smooth skin along her jaw. “I mourned her, years ago. I knew she was gone. She was an independent one, but her grandmother meant the world to her. When she didn’t come calling at Christmas, I checked her apartment and reported her missing. The police never wanted to believe something may have happened to her, but I was certain.”

  “Why?”

  She blinked twice. “I found her locket on the floor of her apartment—the clasp had been broken, as if someone ripped it from her neck. Rachel never removed that locket. It was a gift from her parents the Christmas before they died. She never would have willingly left it behind.”

  “Did the police find any signs of a struggle?” Sean asked.

  “No. There weren’t any. Except the locket. There was no evidence she was gone, none at all. But I knew . . .” she said, trailing off.

  “How old was Rachel when her parents passed?” I asked.

  “Six. A car accident. From then on she was a changed girl. Sullen, sad. It was to be expected, the psychiatrists said. As she grew into a teen, she became more withdrawn.” She shook her head. “If not for her friends, I’m not sure what might have happened to her.”

  “Elena?” I asked.

  “And Jennifer,” she said.

  Coincidence? “Jennifer Thompson?”

  “Yes. Three peas in a pod, all through middle school.”

  I was suddenly reminded of my friendship with Marisol and Em.

  “Unfortunately, the girls’ friendship with Jennifer fell apart in high school.”

  “Over Michael,” Sean stated.

  She smiled. “So silly. Jennifer had what Elena wanted. Elena never got over the supposed betrayal. And held on to her fixation of Michael much too long in response. There’s nothing worse than being jealous of your best friend, or wishing for something that you felt should have been yours. Rachel sided with Elena, mostly because she didn’t want Elena to have no one.”

  Marisol, Em, and I had never let a boy come between us. I can only imagine the ugliness that would have ensued if one had.

  “Do you know what happened to Jennifer?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Last I heard of her was when she and Michael had broken up. Rachel was ashamed of her role in that and eventually confessed to Michael.”

  “You knew about the huge fight between Elena and Rachel?” Sean asked.

  She nodded. “Elena moved out of their apartment that same night.”

  “How did Rachel take it?”

  “Devast
ated.” She smoothed an already straight skirt. “I have to be honest. I wanted to like Elena. But she was . . . hard. Raised by a single alcoholic father. Dirt-poor. I never could trust her. Her eyes. So very disturbing. She was clearly damaged, if that makes sense. Rachel, being of a kind heart, latched onto her. Was certain Elena was good underneath the surface, even though she continually tested that faith.”

  “How so?” Sean asked.

  “You name it. Stealing, fraud, assault, harassment. Poor Jenny Thompson took the brunt of it. Elena held a mean grudge.”

  “Do you think Elena would hurt Rachel?” I asked.

  “I’d like to think Rachel meant too much to her. But I also feel that Elena would lash out if she was hurt. All this I told the detectives from the state police.”

  Sean asked, “Is she an official suspect?”

  “I don’t know. The only name I heard mentioned was Michael’s.”

  Raindrops skimmed my spine. “Does Elena’s father still live around here?”

  “Her father passed away when she was just eighteen, a fire. She had no other family that I know of.”

  “What did you do with Rachel’s belongings?” Sean asked.

  “They’re in storage.”

  “Did the detectives confiscate anything?”

  “They never asked about her belongings. They looked through her things after the initial missing persons investigation, but not recently.”

  Sean said, “Do you mind if we have a look?”

  “Why?” she asked.

  I explained about my ring theory. “Therefore, Michael can’t be guilty. And if he’s innocent . . .”

  “Rachel’s killer is still out there.”

  I nodded. “Yes. There might be something in her things that will point us in the right direction. Do you happen to know why Rachel would have his ring?”

  She shook her head. “I honestly don’t know. Are you sure you don’t want something hot to drink?”

  We shook our heads.

  “I’ll get the storage key for you,” Marilyn said. “I don’t know why I kept her things. I suppose a part of me always hoped I was wrong. That one day Rachel would come home.” She grabbed a key ring from a kitchen drawer and handed it to Sean.

  I clasped my hands. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Flynn, for speaking with us. I feel . . . almost responsible for what happens.”