So Many Secrets ~ Chapter Fourteen

So Many Secrets ~ Chapter Fourteen

Natasha had to get out of Vestemere. Last night’s face-off over fairytales with the Sea-Eyed Knight Crawler had tangled her nerves into knots as she’d tried to reach into his mind. Could he reach back?

—Are you psychic?—

she had asked, but he had not replied, the only Shadows she’d seen were the unspoken indictments slipping silently from his mouth, words like sneak and liar hanging between them, dark and accusatory

.

And then there were the fluffy pink peonies.

This morning another one, pink and puffy, breached the patch of sunshine she stood in and drifted weightlessly, her Shadows’ symbol of love. Her lips twisted as she reconsidered the conclusion she’d drawn last night about the peonies, a conclusion she’d tried sharing with Jakob when he’d finally returned home.

He hadn’t listened. Had merely handed her the kitten—“She is a cripple”—then went to bed.

Now she batted this morning’s peony away. “Let’s see how dismissive Jakob is when I solve this mystery and leave him to deal with the outcome.” She shut Shoes in her bedroom with a saucer of milk and a litter tray fashioned out of an empty cereal box and some dirt from the flowerbed outside (where there was no juniper smelling like cat pee to be found. Imagine). She shot Railey a text—Will you come get me in B.C. if I need you?—and was grateful when a response pinged immediately:

Can I strangle Jakob Michael while I’m there?

By all means. I can’t afford that kind of bail money

Ping! Buzzkill. Say the word and I’ll come on the run

“Thank you,” she whispered, then glanced at Jakob’s empty bedroom. He’d left before she’d woken, leaving her a note saying he’d be in the shop they’d leased for their ruse. Yet even in his absence his Shadow rose up to face her, waxing and waning from child to adult, a spectrum of his history as her lifelong companion and—“Best friend.” A pang of remorse pained her and, needing to be somewhat honest, she concentrated, spoke to him:

—I don’t think I’m cut out for this, Jakob—

A reply blasted the middle of her forehead instantly, stinging like an ice cream headache

—You have no idea what you’re cut out for—

She pressed the heel of her hand to her head. “Dammit, Jakob.” She shook off the pain. “I have to get out of here. I am getting out of here.”

The Shadows tossed another pink peony at her feet.

“Yes,” she snapped. “I hear you.” By the time the Knight Crawler left last night she’d been wading in psychical peonies, so vivid she could feel the petals, slippery and cool, against her bare feet. Why? she had called. She hated when her Shadows were cryptic. But then...then Owen Brophy had folded his burly arms across that chiseled chest, cocked one blue-jeaned hip, and…and she had it. Peonies. Love. Infidelity. Which also explained why the Shadows had shown her Jessalyn’s philandering father; limited by showing her the past, her ability was trying to tell her that history was repeating itself. Heart Face and the Knight Crawler were having an affair.

It made sense. For even though Brophy had that long, slicked-back hair and scruffy face, he also had those sweetheart’s dimples—and tattoos, rough muscle, and all that bad-boy danger.

While poor Blue Eyes was just the quintessential cute boy-next-door. She scowled—shame on you, Jessalyn Haslom!—and yet, who was she, of all people, to be sanctimonious? And besides, being cheated on was the least of Rob Haslom’s worries. Last night, in her dreams, the Shadows replayed his future over and over, dead with a spiked heel in his chest.

So…was Owen Brophy his killer?

And what about little Shoes? Was the Knight Crawler so jealous, so possessive, that he’d left a warning saying he’d hurt both Rob and Jessalyn if he couldn’t have her all to himself? It tracked and yet…yet it confused her because she didn’t want it to make sense. “Show,” she whispered and she brought her hands together, formed a cup. “Prove it to me.”

swarm of toxic green and gray Shadows whorled together, and amid them a voice slithered, flat and neutral in the murk. “Kill it. I will kill it, so help me, I! Will! Kill! It!…”

Her nose spouted and she struck a hand through the air, chased the Shadows away.

Wisps of poison remained, noxious shimmers visible as she squinted, stemming the nosebleed. “Kill it?” she whispered. “Who will kill it? What is it?”

A pink Shadow surged in the sun, the baby from before, gurgling and sweet.

Kill it.

“Don’t show!” She squeezed her eyes shut. Dead babies. Dead Blue Eyes. And jealousy so lethal it turned her Shadows to sludge. She needed to touch Heart-Face. Skin-to-skin contact would strengthen her ability to see, confirm that—“She’s not just cheating on Rob,” she whispered. “She’s in over her head with someone who will...” Kill it

Owen Brophy reappeared, a Shadow with sparkling Pacific eyes and a dimpled grin hiding within his bad-boy beard. She glared at it. “I’m not the liar,” she said. “You are.”

The Shadow Brophy grinned, tossed a peony at her feet.

“Stop that! What you feel is not love. It’s possession. Obsession.”

“Duty, actually,” said the Shadow.

She recoiled. Duty? It was his duty to kill his best friend? All because he wanted his wife? “Don’t show!” she snapped, and ignored the Shadow Brophy’s indignation as she waved him away. Grabbing her cell, she fished out the business card Rob had left when they’d signed the lease for the rental.

Jessalyn’s enthusiastic “Yes!” to her invitation for coffee was so eager it took Natasha aback and the pride in her voice when she said “And can I show you my gallery?” curdled her with guilt. Still—

“Ja. Yes. Absolutely.” They set a time then she prepared a new message for Railey: Come NOW. There. All she’d have to do was hit ‘send’ and then—

Home. The word, a Shadow, swam out of the door as she left the cottage. She nodded. “Yes. Then I’ll go home. Jakob can deal with Owen Brophy. I can’t do this.”

The Shadow shrank, a pucker that reminded her of a face that looked deliberately misunderstood. She frowned and more Shadows rushed forth, a moving theatre as she took the sidewalk downtown. The past, her past, and it showed her…

Herself, curled into her easy chair like every Friday night, the TV remote in one hand, a big bowl of potato chips in the other.

Alone.

She, baking big batches of cookies and buns because Baba had never taught her how to make smaller portions…then tossing half in the trash because baking became stale with only her to eat it, and no one in Echo Creek would accept anything from her if she tried to give it away.

“Don’t show,” she mumbled.

The Shadows persisted, more memories: Her, checking her appointment book and feeling the familiar pang of disappointment when every name was from out of town because no local would let her touch them.

Alone.Home. Alone.

Her eyes stung and her Shadows shrank, mollified.

“Happy now?” she whispered.

Answering hues of turquoise and sunshine streamed down the street, wove between the lampposts and fruit trees. Home , they spelled, a flowing banner.

“Stop taunting,” she said, and entered the pet store, grabbed cat food, a pet carrier, and…she paused before a plush cat bed, adorable with tiny tulle curtains and candy-colored cushions of velvet. She snapped it up too.

“Isn’t that the sweetest?” the cashier beamed, and Home drifted from her smile. Home was the Shadow cast by a wrought iron sign that said Yesteryear's Vestemere, an antique shop where two crystal bowls, one for Shoes’ food, the other for water, waited in the window. Home swept atop the scent of blossoms down main street, and Home chased her into a park nestled in town center. “Stop,” she muttered.

The park came to life with Shadow people from the past. Many relaxed on gently sloped lawns, others danced to a jazz band on a stage in an amphitheater. Others milled amid a spray of outdoor vendors selling everything from fresh fruit to flowers to wine from the myriad vintners across BC’s Okanagan Valley.

Home.

“Yes, please,” she whispered, involuntary, and lost her gaze in the crowd of Shadow people. “And the Sea-Eyed Knight Crawler said there are no tourists here? Stupidni man.”

The Shadows shrank then, music and merriment fading to leave her—“Alone.” She sighed. “Point made.” An elegant building waited across the park, black brick, tan mortar, and Art by Danini & Chandler over the front entrance. Setting her shoulders, she went inside.

Dim lights and soft pan flutes ushered her over the threshold, and when a voice she now recognized spoke a pink peony coasted atop it. “Morning, Ms. Nikoslav.”

Why, of course you’re with her. Sneering at the peony, she faked a smile rivaling his. After all, she had dimples too. “Owen Brophy. I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

He smiled and

—I know—

he thought, and she heard him, just as plain as if he were Jakob. She fell still, real shadows and her Shadows swimming within the dim peace of the foyer. Then she set her gaze into his and

—Can you hear me?—

she asked.

He did not blink or flinch. She tried louder

—OWEN BROPHY! CAN YOU HEAR ME?—

Any other psychic, Jakob, and certainly the other test subjects in Gregory’s studies, would have flinched. Some may even have erupted into nosebleeds like she often did.

Owen Brophy did not even twitch.

Not psychic. Her hands found each other, tangled. How can I hear him without touching if he too is not psychic?

And who, if not him, had blackened last night and made her Shadows go blind?

“Jessalyn’s on the phone with a customer in her gallery.” He indicated a room partially walled off behind the counter where he stood. “You been enjoying all our quaint little shops?”

“I—” Oh, Lord—the cat supplies! Blue Eyes had been stern: “No pets.” She tightened a grip on her bags, sealed the contents inside. “Y-yes.” She tucked the bags behind her legs. “Your little town is…” Home. “…i-it’s enchanting.”

“So no huntsmen with axes out lurking in the shadows this morning?”

The Shadows? She gaped, but his sea eyes…sparkling. And there were those sweetheart’s dimples, all charm. Also…she swallowed. Tattooed muscles, bulging beneath the arms of a t-shirt pulled tight across an acre of pecs. I’d massage you, she thought, and it shocked her. Never—ever—had she misappropriated her role as a massage therapist, the one arena where she could touch people and help them, the massage oil providing a barrier that prevented the invasion of showing or reading. Yet…that chest. Warm oil. Her hands kneading…sliding…she tore her gaze away. Okay, so maybe she couldn’t blame Jessalyn entirely.

A spear of darkness, a Shadow, fell before her feet and when she looked down Blue Eyes looked back, big eyes ripped wide, and hands clutching the spiked heel in his chest. “Natasha,” he whispered. “Help.”

Blood seeped, a black pond spreading under his body and creeping close to her feet. She shuffled backward, heart hammering. Was this the past? Please tell me this isn’t past!

“Help me,” Rob repeated and, tearing her gaze from his Shadow, she looked to Owen Brophy. “Wh-where is Rob?” Her voice was a gurgle.

He hoisted a shoulder. “Working. Why? Something wrong at the rental?"

“Uh…no.” Her toes curled as Shadow blood inched closer. “I…I just thought he might come join his…his wife and I for coffee.”

The Knight Crawler watched her, eyes as cold and steady as an aimed gun. “He was at his new development when I left earlier,” he said.

“Natasha,” the Shadow Rob called from the floor. “Help me.”

Her gaze skittered from him to Brophy.

—And was he alive when you left him?—

Again not so much as a twitch. “Want to follow me back into the gallery?” he asked.

Through the blood? Over the body? Her stomach squelched.

“You okay?”

God, no. She forced herself to ignore Rob and look beyond, where Brophy led into a sanctum of silken black walls and a floor so glossy she could see her reflection, wan and pale, in it. “Do…are we expected to take off our shoes?” Her toes curled in her sandals. Would Rob’s Shadow blood be warm on her bare feet?

The thought made her belly kick over.

Brophy looked surprised. “Hope not,” he said. “I didn’t.”

The dimples. The ocean. His grin was phony yet…she smiled back, the sensation shaky on her face.

“Be true,” A new Shadow spoke from the corner.

Natasha looked and Jessalyn’s redheaded father was staring down at his feet, just like when she’d first seen him deliver this confession. “Before you know it, you’ve shattered so many lives.”

Her heart knotted. I understand, she called out, but of course he could not hear her. So

—I understand?—

this she offered to Brophy’s broad shoulders. For was that what the Shadows wanted? For her to give him exoneration?

He turned. “You say something?”

“Y-yes.” Her pulse pattered. “I said I do not understand much about art.”

A Shadow that said Liar floated out of his eyes. “Didn’t you say your cousin dealt in art?”

“Collectibles, yes. And he, not me, I’m—”

“A massage therapist. Right.”

New Shadows flickered like candle flames. Her massage table. Him, atop it. Her with warm oil….Don’t show! She jerked her gaze away, heart galloping.

He said “—and a fairytale scholar.”

“S-scholar?” Her affected laugh sounded like nervous bird chitter. “I would not use a word quite so sophisticated.”

“Why not? You look sophisticated.”

A firework flared inside and for a moment she wished he were being honest, that he looked at her and really did see a sophisticate, a person worth getting to know.

Instead of a liar. An aberration. A prostitute and a sneak. Their eyes locked and “I…I have travelled,” she said, then cursed herself when his thought

—On whose dime and what did you have to do to earn it?—

slid into her mind. What was wrong with her? Wanting admiration, even friendship, from this Knight Crawler? A drug dealer she suspected of murder? She glanced back at the Shadow of Rob Haslom, dead on the floor. I want to go home. Shakes, and tears, threatened to consume her. This place is not home. I just want to go home.

“Oh yeah? Where to?”

“P-pardon?” Could he read her?

“You’ve travelled. Where to?”

“O-oh. Well, Europe, obviously.” She wrinkled her nose. She had never been able to disguise her accent as easily as Jakob could abandon his, sounding Anglo whenever it suited him. “Mexico. Costa Rica.”

“Lucky you. You go with a boyfriend, or—”

“No!” she burst, too forceful. Still, had she traveled with Gregory? Who had never even been able to take her out in public for dinner, much less on a trip? “With my cousin,” she said. “And Railey, my friend.” A flare of homesickness threw more tears in her eyes and she felt for her phone in her pocket, ready to shoot the waiting text. “Listening to she and Jakob bicker always seems to be the price I pay to enjoy somewhere beautiful.”

His thought

—Enigma—

was another she caught and she considered the word, turning it over and over like a found dime. ‘Enigma’ did not mean ‘scary’—and was acres better than anything he’d called her so far.

“Natasha!” Jessalyn bounded out of the darkened gallery, hair a riot that looked bigger than she was. “Hello!” She beamed then turned to the Knight Crawler. “Owen, you didn’t get Natasha a coffee?” She hoisted an elbow to a coffee service gleaming in a softly lit corner, and as the Knight Crawler eased over to it, a Shadow spilled out behind him.

Choreographed it read, then the floor sipped it up.

Natasha stepped back, tightening her grip on her shopping bags, grateful for something to hold onto. Choreographed. As in they were setting her up. Why? Did they somehow know what she knew?

Jessalyn smiled. “First things first,” she said spritely, and Choreographed breezed through the gallery again. “Your number came up as ‘private’ when you called, and I need a way to get hold of you, confirm dinner party plans.” She smiled brightly.

The Knight Crawler said “Take anything in your coffee, Ms. Nikoslav?”

Smug. The word occurred without Shadows, and as she regarded him a pink peony fell onto the floor. Her eyebrow jolted at the reminder. Is your affair worth killing for, Knight Crawler? Why, how very Agatha Christie of you. “Three cream, three sugar,” she said, and when he blinked she smiled—“Yes, you heard me correctly”—and was pleased that the plucked thought unnerved him.

Not that he missed a step. “That’s syrup, not coffee.”

Sea eyed sparkle. Dimples dancing. She rolled her eyes and “I like sugar,” she said. “Real sugar, not fakery. Phoniness leaves…a foul aftertaste.” She accepted the coffee with aplomb that would make Jakob applaud, then turned back to Jessalyn. “You need my number?”

“Or how about social media?” Heart Face beamed. “I’m one of those Facebook junkies myself, and I found your profile. Can I send you a friend request?”

An immediate flurry of Shadows rushed over the floor, a dark tangle of brambles sharp with thorns and blood red rosebuds. Careful. The word met her ear like a breath made of knives and at her feet the brambles all twisted, forming gnarled words that said Danger and Run.

Why? she asked, confused, then peered at Jessalyn. “You…you found my Head To Heal page on Facebook?” It was the only social media presence she had, and hardly something to use for personal communication.

The Knight Crawler and Jessalyn traded a glance and in it she saw befuddlement mirroring her own. The word choreographed reappeared too, but this time it was written in all uneven letters, out of sync. “H-here,” she said and, mindful of Shadow thorns, moved close enough so they could see the screen on her phone. She brought up her business page, the banner photo a muscle chart, and the profile picture she and Railey in scrubs. “Head to Heal is my massage clinic,” she said, yet somehow felt as though she were covering for a lie she had not even told, a lie she needed to further justify by saying, to Brophy, “And this is Railey, the friend I told you I travel with.” She tilted the screen.

His eyebrows went up and

—Looks legit—

he thought.

She glared.

—Of course it’s legitimate, you scary, phony, cheating, drug dealing MURDERER—

He flinched and shot a glance beyond her, where Rob Haslom lay bleeding on the floor. “You hear that?” he asked.

—Yes. I just spoke to you. Are you going to show me you’re psychic now too?—

“No,” said Jessalyn. “Did someone come in?” She moved past them and Natasha sucked in a breath as she trod upon her dead husband, foot striking the Shadow spike, driving it deeper into his heart. Dizzy stars swept past her eyes as Jessalyn then turned back, announced “No one” and returned, feet making wet, sticking sounds as she tracked through the blood.

A leave of red footprints trailed in her wake, and as Natasha’s belly turned, there, in the background, the Shadow of Jessalyn’s father spoke again. “Shattered so many lives,” he said, and looked her in the eye. Tremors gobbled her hands and “Excuse me,” she managed. “My phone vibrated.” Sweating, she swiped her business page off the screen, shot the text she had cued to Railey. Come NOW.

Jessalyn held up her tablet. “Isn’t this your page?

The picture there hit Natasha in the chest, a blow knocking her breath away as a disembodied whisper

--now you’re dead—

floated out of her Shadows, reverent and solemn. Her eyes filled, tears of shock and fear, but she forced herself to examine the Facebook picture, hand rising to her chest as she felt Sleeping Beauty’s’ injury there, a dagger jabbed deep into her breastbone.

“Natasha?” Jessalyn prompted.

She could not lie. Could not, would not, lay claim to this…what was this? She stared at the dead Sleeping Beauty bearing her name. A statement? A threat? Her gaze skittered to Owen Brophy, and…

Oh, Lord, she could not tell the truth, either. He would never believe her—she could barely believe herself—after their fairytale banter last night. So—“I…I don’t use this page,” she said, and crossed her fingers, diluted the lie.

The Knight Crawler and Jessalyn swapped another quick glance and black Shadows rustled over Jessalyn’s tablet, wisps obscuring the screen to form...

A tombstone.

The Knight Crawler said “Ms. Nikoslav? Are you bleeding?”

She ignored him. The Shadow tombstone said BELOVED atop…my name. My birthday. And under it all, a death date (that’s next month!). A scream clawed the inside of her mouth.

“Natasha?”

She tried to answer, but two more Shadows appeared—Jakob and Railey, walking straight through Jessalyn and the Knight Crawler, faces ashen and Railey hissing at Jakob as they faced the tombstone. “You,” she said. “You did this.”

“I know I did it.”

Natasha’s heart stuttered to a stop then the Shadow Jakob turned. When he walked through her she shuddered from the cold.

What…Jakob what do you mean you did it?

“Ms. Nikoslav?” Owen Brophy called her name, but it sounded like he spoke through a wind tunnel. “You’re—”

The rest jumbled as everything became Shadows and there, lying next to Rob Haslom…

That’s me. With the dagger from that Facebook Sleeping Beauty picture buried in her chest, and a trickle of blood dribbling out of her mouth. Her pulse whacked and

—Now you’re dead—

said the Shadows.

“You’re bleeding,” Owen Brophy stepped in front of her, shattering the Shadows as he held out a tissue.

“I…thank you.” She reached for it and, as their fingers connected

—Help me!—

she cried, involuntary.

He balked. “Are…you okay?”

No. God, no. “I…I’m fine. I just…” She lost herself a moment in his ocean eyes, certain that this must be the way he looked to Jessalyn: tender. Compassionate. “I-I’ve had some …vision problems lately and—”

“Nosebleeds?” he supplied.

“Yes,” she whispered. She had to get out of here. Thank God she’d sent Railey that text. “My…my number.” Turning to Jessalyn she rattled it off, desperate to salvage some sort of normalcy yet knowing she sounded garbled, inarticulate.

Jessalyn frowned. “Could you repeat that?”

“I got it.” The Knight Crawler raised a piece of paper, digits scratched on it. “Ms. Nikoslav, can I help you home?”

Choreographed gusted through the gallery again and a peony, landing at her feet, shriveled and died there before her. “I…no. thank you. I’m fine. I…I may just need to lie down.” And wait hours, many hours, for Railey.

“I’ll call you for dinner?” Jessalyn was still all phony-jaunty.

“Ja. Yes. Of course.” She hurried out into the warmth of perfumed blossom air and was halfway through the park when her phone started ringing.

“Tash!”

Railey. She reeled, then sank, grateful for the park bench that caught her.

“Jakob Michael—that bastard—somehow intercepted us. I knew I should have cranked music as soon as I saw your first message.”

“What…what did he say?”

“That if I put so much as a tire on the highway he’d have someone plant dope in my car and tip off the police.”

Oh God, Jakob, why? Why?

“And he’d do it.”

Of course he’d do it. And even if he didn’t…she closed her eyes.

The tombstone waited there, behind her lids.

“I…I can’t leave, Rae.” And she could not tell her why. Could not tell Jakob, either. The last time she’d been threatened…“I regret nothing,” he had said, and she knew from her Shadows what he’d done. What he’d do again. Although… “I know I did it,” his Shadow had said in the gallery. What did that mean?

His Shadow reformed, Railey’s too. “You killed her,” she said.

Again he did not deny it, simply turned and disintegrated, swallowed by sun.

Railey, on the phone, said “What did you say? Tash, I can’t hear y—”

“I need to go Rae.” She hung up, cupped shaking hands. “Show.”

Her tombstone reappeared. Her Shadow body too, the dagger’s gilded hilt glinting in her chest. She gritted her teeth. “Show. Show me who’s done this.”

A glimmer of a face took shape—a jaw, a hairline—but an inky pall, the inky pall, dropped over her Shadows, turned them black.

Blinded. Again. “Bastard!” Jakob? Could her cousin who had once done the unthinkable for her be planning to do the unthinkable to her? "No. Please no." And Owen and Jessalyn—that word choreographed wasn’t something they’d been able to hide from her Shadows. Then there was poor Blue Eyes, his Shadow had begged her for help. He was in no position to assist her.

A Shadow wisped blackly over the pool of sun she sat in, the word Alone like earlier—except now with a whole new meaning. For her tombstone said she’d be dead in a month. Which gave her less than four weeks to keep quiet—and uncover her own killer.

©bonnie randall 2005