Perfectly Matched

  I rather liked it, too, having her so close. My cottage sat on the edge of Dovie’s property, on a cliff with breathtaking water views. And though I insisted on paying rent, I knew she took the money and funneled it into some sort of high-yield account that would eventually come back to me. Still, it made me feel better to think I was paying my own way.

  Now that Em was engaged to Aiden, I wondered how long she’d be around. Not that Aiden lived all that far away, but still. A long engagement would be nice.

  I blinked my eyes open and dialed Aiden’s number. Em had been worried about him being standoffish lately, and filling him in on the Beantown Burner case might be the perfect reason to call him out of the blue and segue into his relationship with Em.

  Which wasn’t any of my business, except for the fact that Em was my best friend, and she was worried, so that made me worry.

  I was a fixer. I couldn’t help myself.

  My call went straight to Aiden’s voicemail, and I left a quick message asking him to call me back about a case.

  I pulled the pink bear from the coffee table onto my lap and stared into its small black eyes. Holding it between my hands, I tried to replicate what had happened earlier in my office, but saw nothing. Felt nothing.

  I sighed.

  “Just about done here,” the locksmith said. “You gonna be okay here? You need a ride someplace?”

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m okay.”

  His face pulled into a frown as he wiped his hand on a rag pulled from his pocket. “You call me if you change your mind. I’ve got three daughters of my own, and I’d want someone looking after them.”

  I smiled. Sometimes I forgot how kind people could be. “Thank you. I have your card if I need you.”

  With a brusque nod, he packed up his stuff. “I’ll send your father the bill.”

  “I’ll make sure he pays it.”

  The man laughed. He set a ring of keys on the table—he’d already given me several new key cards to hand out. “You take care, Ms. Valentine, and get to that doctor.” With a wink, he added, “I’ll see myself out.”

  I debated walking him out just to show I could, but quickly decided against it. In fact, I was seriously considering staying on this couch for the next three days. If not for the extreme heat, an arsonist on the loose, an abandoned cat at my place, and a missing Sean, I might have.

  Instead, I stared again at the pink bear.

  Orlinda had forbid us from searching for the little girl through other methods besides our abilities. No Googling allowed.

  However, I was itching to do a search for a missing little girl named Bethany. Where was she from? Had there been any leads in her case at all? Had any clues been found?

  I wouldn’t do an online search, however. I’d trust Orlinda’s process, as painful as it was.

  The office phone rang, and I gave it the evil eye for a long second before I hauled myself off the couch and hopped, one-footed, over to Suz’s desk.

  I grabbed the phone. “Valentine, Inc., this is Lucy, may I help you?”

  “Lucy Valentine!” a woman shouted. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day.”

  By the harsh tone, I knew immediately that it was Annie Hendrix. An image of enormous breasts popped into my mind, and I shook my head to get rid of it. “Hi, Annie.”

  “Don’t you ‘Hi, Annie’ me. You don’t know what I’ve been going through. What I’ve endured.”

  Annie was a professional psychic, working full-time at a place on Tremont Street. Her gift was automatic writing—jotting down information guided by spirits who’d passed over. Despite her histrionics, she’d become quite successful in her field.

  I sat in Suz’s seat. My patience had worn paper thin, so I bit my lip to keep from giving Annie a flip response. My head was starting to ache.

  “I cannot afford to lose business, Lucy Valentine. So whatever you’ve done to me, undo it.”

  A nice bath. That’s what I needed. A glass of wine.

  And maybe some morphine.

  Rubbing my temple, I said, “You lost me. Undo what?”

  “Whatever hex you put on me.”

  I opened Suz’s drawers, hoping to find a wayward bottle of aspirin. “Annie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “All day, Lucy Valentine! All day. Whenever a client came in, and I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper to do their reading, do you know what I wrote?”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Your name. Lucy Valentine, over and over.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve hexed me!”

  “I hate to break it to you, Annie, but I’m a psychic, not any kind of witch. I don’t have hexing powers.”

  “Well,” she said with a big dose of acrimony, “you kind of seem like a witch to me.”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, unable to believe what I’d just heard.

  The nerve!

  My last shred of patience went up in flames.

  I hung up.

  When the phone immediately rang again, I ignored it.

  Even though I was dying to know why she was getting readings on my name, I was done with the abuse. The taunts. The teasing. The snickers. This weekend would be my last meeting with the Diviner Whiners. Orlinda would just have to understand.

  As the phone continued to ring, I smiled.

  Suddenly feeling good, I rewrapped my foot and turned off all the fans and lights. I grabbed my cell phone, the pink bear, and my new set of keys and locked up the office.

  On my way out, I ignored the drone of the ringing office phone and paused on the landing. Looking up the wooden stairs to SD Investigations, I saw the door was open.

  Sweat beaded on my forehead as I carefully climbed the steps. Cherry wood stairs creaked under my feet with each tentative step I took.

  I tried not to put weight on my left foot, but it was nearly impossible. I thought about what the locksmith said, about my foot being broken, and hoped he was wrong.

  The last thing I wanted was a cast during this heat. Never mind navigating the world on crutches.

  Then I thought of Orlinda in her wheelchair and felt terrible.

  At least my foot would heal.

  I tried to ignore the pain as I hobbled into the office. Andrew’s desk was clear, and there was no sign of him anywhere. The scent of cinnamon lingered in the air as I headed down the hallway to Sean’s office.

  Sam stuck his head out of his office door. “I thought I heard someone. I’m just locking up.”

  “Are you going straight to Raphael’s?”

  “I’m going to stop at home first and pack some things. I’ll take the long way to Raphael’s, just to make sure no one is following me.”

  The pit was back in my stomach. “Be careful, okay?”

  “I will.”

  I nodded toward Sean’s office. “I just came up to check on him one more time.”

  “He’s not back yet. What happened to you?” He motioned to my foot.

  “Long story.” I leaned against the wall. “You haven’t heard from Sean at all?”

  He shook his head.

  I eyed him carefully, picking up on the fact that even though he was stressed, he wasn’t stressed about Sean. “Why don’t you seem as concerned as I am?”

  “Because I know where he is.”

  “What?” My tone was sharp. I’d been worried sick all day and Sam had known where Sean was this whole time?

  “Sorry, Lucy. I hoped he’d be back by now, and I wouldn’t have to be the one to fill you in.”

  Taking a deep breath to tamp down my annoyance, I said, “What do you mean, ‘fill me in?’ Where is he?”

  I wanted to know so I could get his ass-kicking under way. Then I’d go home, get my foot looked at by Em, deal with Ebbie, and have that bath.

  “The cemetery.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Being at a cemetery had a way of knocking the ass-kicking right out of a girl.

&n
bsp; I limped along a damp twining path, using an umbrella as a cane. There was a strange feeling in the air, partly due to the fact that sunbeams had broken through the low-lying dark clouds, casting an eerie glow across the city on the horizon.

  Here, tombstones rose up around me as trees canopied the path. Because of the clouds, it felt like dusk, even though it was only a bit past six.

  The cemetery itself should have been creepy, especially in this light, but the birds were chirping, the breeze rustled the leaves, and I finally felt at peace for the first time all day.

  As I passed grave after grave, I couldn’t help but think about all these people who’d passed on and wondered what it would be like to communicate with them. One thought led to another and before I knew it, I was thinking about the Diviner Whiners. Annie, Dr. Paul, and Graham could communicate with the dead. Annie through writing, Dr. Paul could see spirits leaving bodies, and Graham could hear them and feel their presence.

  I was entirely fascinated by their abilities, but wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility of speaking for those who passed. It was hard enough living with my own ability. Abilities. I had more than one now.

  I could find lost objects.

  I could see scenes from my and Sean’s future.

  And I could see pieces of a person’s life through their eyes by holding something that belonged to them.

  I just didn’t know how to control that last one. Didn’t know how to turn it on and off.

  Sam had given me directions on how to find Sean, and had let me borrow one of SDI’s cars to get here. He’d also loaned me a tote bag, in which I’d placed my phone and the pink bear. I had a death grip on the bag’s straps. No punk skateboarder was going to get this bag away from me. That bear was my link to Bethany.

  And my link to figuring out more about myself.

  I slowly walked along, thinking about Sean. About why he was here. Sam had said that this was Sean’s thinking spot. Where he went when he was stressed out or simply needed time alone. The spot where he worked through his troubles.

  The spot where his biological mother was buried.

  I debated whether to come. After all, if this was the place he came to be alone, my intrusion might not be welcome.

  Then again, it was about time that Sean Donahue learned that he didn’t have to shoulder his troubles alone—and that I wasn’t going anywhere.

  A raindrop plopped onto my head as sunbeams lit the path. Another dropped, and another.

  A sun shower.

  One of my favorite things.

  I opened the umbrella and stood still, listening to the rain splat against the polyester covering. I breathed deep, loving the smell of the droplets hitting the hot pavement. I drew in another deep breath as I rounded a bend and saw Sean up ahead, sitting on a bench. Thoreau was curled up alongside him, sound asleep.

  Sean hadn’t noticed me yet, and I took a second to watch him. The way he had his arms folded across his chest, his hands clenched as if ready to throw a punch at any moment. The way his legs jutted onto the path. The sharp angle of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. The waviness in his hair. The way he didn’t even seem to notice the rain. The way his gaze was fixated on a tombstone across the path.

  The way sadness emanated from him, making my knees weak, my heart ache.

  His head turned, and his gaze met mine.

  Just like that, my foot didn’t hurt. I wasn’t worried about the arsonist, or Ebbie, or anything.

  My sole focus was him.

  And at that moment, I was his.

  My pulse thrummed in time with the falling raindrops as I walked slowly toward him, and his expression darkened when he noticed my limp. Thoreau suddenly woke from his nap as if sensing a change in the air. His head coming up and he glanced at Sean, then at me. In a flash, he hopped down from the bench and raced to me, as fast as his legs could carry him.

  I bent down to scoop him up and allowed him to slather my chin in doggy kisses. His short fur was damp, and I wrinkled my nose at the sour smell.

  When I reached the bench, I sat down next to Sean, my side pressing against his. I held my umbrella over both our heads, and Thoreau busily sniffed my tote bag.

  “What happened to your foot, Ms. Valentine?” he asked quietly.

  “A skateboard incident,” I said, looking into his troubled eyes.

  He shook his head. “Why do I feel there’s more to that story?”

  “Because there is.” I smiled and reached out to wipe a rain drop from his cheek. “Have you been here all day?”

  “Most of it.”

  I glanced across the path, at the simple tombstone facing us.

  Holly Cavanagh.

  Cavanagh. I committed the name to memory. After all, it had once been Sean’s name, too, before the Donahues adopted him.

  “Did Sam tell you I was here?” he asked.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “He shouldn’t have.”

  “You’re right about that. You should have told me.”

  Rain drops dripped off the umbrella and splattered onto our legs. Thoreau curled up in my lap.

  “I,” he began, then stopped. He picked up my left hand, and turned it palm up. Little zaps of electricity shot down my fingers and up my arm as he trailed his fingertips over my skin.

  This is what happened between us—this electricity. If I pressed his palm against mine, I would have a vision. I recalled the first one I’d ever had, where I’d seen us in bed together.

  “What’s with the smile?” he asked, as he traced the valleys between my fingers.

  “I was just remembering the first vision I ever had of us. In bed.”

  He traced the lines of my palms. My blood raced. “I remember, too.”

  He didn’t see the visions I did, but he felt the same sparks, the same emotion.

  That vision had been one of my misleading ones—we’d been in bed only to fool Dovie, but the thought of him bare-chested atop of me still made my internal temperature skyrocket.

  I nudged him with my shoulder. “You should have told me where you were, Mr. Donahue. I was worried.”

  “I know.”

  His palm hovered over mine, and I tried to ignore the arcs of electricity flowing between our hands. “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know that.”

  I took a breath, folded my hand closed and pulled it away. He wasn’t going to distract me. I motioned to the tombstone. “Your mom?”

  Slowly, he drew his hand back, too. His jaw clenched, and he nodded.

  “She was young when she died,” I prompted.

  I felt his whole body tense next to me, and knew without a doubt how hard it was for him to talk about this. But it was time.

  “Thirty-two.”

  Only two years older than he was now.

  I did the mental math. He was ten when he was orphaned. “How did she die?”

  I could hear his jaw working side to side, could feel his discomfort. “She had a heart attack while driving.”

  Rain splashed against the umbrella, my legs, my feet. I pulled Thoreau a little closer to me. “Heart attack?”

  “That’s what I was told.”

  “But not what you believe.”

  He shrugged. “My condition is genetic.”

  “Did she know she had a heart problem?” Sean hadn’t known about his until he’d almost died.

  “I don’t know.”

  He sat stock-still, and tension emanated from him in waves. I pressed on. We had to get through this. “What was she like?”

  “Lucy.”

  Thoreau glanced up at Sean’s sharp tone. I pet his head, soothing him, and met Sean’s gaze straight on. “Sean.”

  We stared at each other for a bit, neither blinking, neither giving in. Finally, I repeated, “What was she like?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “Was she blond-haired? Dark? A redhead? Did she have gray eyes like you? Was she sweet? Tough as nails? Or crazy like my mom?”

 
“A blonde, but not naturally. I remember the smell when she used to use those at-home kits.”

  “Horrible smell,” I agreed. “Especially back in those days. Once, Marisol and I tried to dye Em’s red hair black. It was her Goth phase, before there was such a thing as Goth. It took five hundred dollars and a hair stylist six hours to fix the damage.”

  His lip twitched. “Em did not have a Goth phase.”

  “I have pictures.”

  “I want to see them.”

  “We’ll make a whole night of it. Popcorn and everything.”

  He leaned forward and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Fingers fumbled as he dug through slots to find what he was looking for. Finally, he tugged out a worn photo and handed it to me.

  Tears sprang as I looked at the image of a beautiful young woman holding a dark-haired toddler. They both had gray eyes. “You look a lot like her.”

  He nodded.

  I studied her features, and noted the wave in her hair, the long nose, the high cheekbones. She didn’t have the superhero jaw—that must have come from his father, but the rest...he was a spitting image.

  “That picture is the only thing I have left of her,” he said.

  “How is that possible?” I asked. It didn’t seem right. What happened to all their family history?

  “It was all lost between my moves in the foster system. A piece here, a piece there. One of my foster mothers thought I obsessed too much on my past and threw a lot of my things in the trash. That was the first time I ran away. I was eleven.”

  I handed the photo back to him. “How many times did you run away?”

  He shrugged. “Too many to count. I met Sam when I was thirteen, and we lived on the streets together until one night when we were squatting in a vacant building and lit a fire to keep warm... The place went up in an instant. We tried frantically to put out the fire, but couldn’t. Next thing we knew, the roof was caving in. We couldn’t breathe. And then a pair of strong hands reached out and saved us.”

  “Daniel?”

  Moisture shimmered in his eyes. “Daniel. I don’t know how he managed it, but he talked his way around the social workers and brought us home.”

  “And kept you.”