Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
Delaney's Shadow (4 page)
Delaney never had learned to appreciate the lake that drove the town’s tourist economy. She didn’t know how to swim. For as long as she could remember, she’d had a deep-seated aversion to water.
A burst of laughter drifted into the kitchen. Delaney took her sun hat from the coat tree beside the back door, settled it on her head, and went outside. She walked past the beds of roses at the edge of the terrace—even if she’d wanted to weed them today, she wouldn’t have found anything to pull out. The lawn was over an acre in size and was just as well tended as the garden. It stretched in a freshly mowed carpet between high cedar hedges on either side of the yard to the wrought iron fence at the back. Sticking to the shade as much as she could, she wandered among the shrubs and beds of annuals until she found herself at the oak tree in the center of the lawn that used to hold her swing.
Like the other remnants from her childhood, the swing was gone, its ropes rotted long ago. Yet as Delaney paused beneath the oak, drawing in the smell of the leaves and the damp earth that mounded around the base, the past rose effortlessly to her mind. She could remember what it had felt like to sit on the swing, kick her feet free from the ground, and give herself up to the sway of the ropes. She remembered the half-scary, half-giddy sensation of leaning backward so far that her hair swept the ground. Sometimes, if her mother was having a good day, she would come outside and push her, but most of the time, she had played alone.
The Wainright house was on the outskirts of town. That fact, combined with sheer size of the property, had meant they had no close neighbors. There had once been a trailer park and a set of old train tracks beyond the wooded area, but the kids who had lived there had tended to stay on their own side of the tracks. Delaney’s mother hadn’t had energy to spare for socializing during her final years, and her grandparents hadn’t had friends with children her age, so it wasn’t surprising that she had invented a playmate of her own to fill her solitude.
Max. After lying dormant for so long, that was the second time today thoughts of him had surfaced. It wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for, but it was progress. If she could uncover memories that were buried as deeply as her imaginary friend was, could the others be that far behind?
Delaney rested her palm against the tree. As she’d done at least a thousand times since she’d first awakened in the hospital, she sent her thoughts back to that night last winter. She felt the bite of cold air as she stepped out of the restaurant, the warmth of Stanford’s grip on her elbow as he helped her into the car, caught the scent of his lime aftershave and the faint aroma of wine . . . and then . . . and then . . .
Nothing. She shut her eyes and shoved against the closed door in her mind. Why hadn’t they gone straight home? What had they done for the next four hours? And why on earth had she ended up behind the wheel? The details had to be buried in her brain—the fragments that had been surfacing in her nightmares proved that. She needed to push herself harder.
A breeze stirred the branches overhead, and the trace of Stanford’s lime aftershave was replaced by the acrid scent of oak leaves. She couldn’t hear screeching brakes, only a warbling robin. No thud of metal, just the sound of her heart.
Delaney curled her fingers into a fist until the backs of her knuckles prickled. Trying to remember the accident had become a daily routine. She should be accustomed to the frustration that followed, but she had hoped things would be different now that she was in Willowbank. If only she could find the key . . .
She strained,
willing
her mind to open.
willing
her mind to open.
Still nothing. Damn.
She sighed and opened her eyes. Maybe she was trying too hard. She’d never had to try hard to conjure up Max. He would simply appear.
A blackbird squawked from the woods beyond the fence. Delaney moved her gaze to the line of trees there, picturing Max’s shuffling walk as he emerged from the shadows that hid the path. His hair had always been uncombed and a little too long, but she’d loved the way it had gleamed in the sun. She’d loved his smile, too, and the way it had never failed to wrap around her like a hug . . .
Her vision blurred, melding the manicured green lawn she saw with the one she remembered. And in the center of both there was Max. He had already passed the gate and was walking toward her, his hand lifted in greeting . . .
The lawn was empty. Of course, it was empty. No little boy, imaginary or otherwise, was coming to visit. It must be some trick of the sunlight, or a streamer of mist that had drifted in from the pond, that made the spot in the center appear blurry. It gleamed like something solid, yet she could see right through it, as if she were looking into another dimension . . . or a make-believe world.
Delaney’s palm slid down the tree as she sank to the ground. She dug her fingernails into the arch of a root, anchoring herself in the here and now.
Yet the budding vision persisted. A feeling of warmth, of unconditional welcome, was enveloping her. Although her mind was alert, her body was relaxing as if she were once again on the wooden seat of the swing and had kicked free from the ground. Her limbs tingled. This was how it used to feel when she had summoned her imaginary friend.
This was pathetic. A grown woman reverting to the crutch of her childhood.
Yet what did she have to lose? Summoning Max wasn’t that different from the hypnosis Dr. Bernhardt, the clinic’s chief of psychiatry, had attempted. Maybe her subconscious was trying to tell her something. If she could free her imagination the way she had as a child, perhaps she could push past her mental block.
Delaney glanced around to ensure she was still alone, then drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, and focused her thoughts on Max.
The picture of him wavered, then re-formed, stronger than before. Blotches of crimson and yellow sparkled against the sky. The mist around him thinned, as if stirred by the same wind that rustled the leaves over her head.
Instead of coming closer, the figure in the center turned away from her.
“Hey, Max,” Delaney whispered. “Don’t go yet.”
The shape that was Max appeared to stiffen. He paused where he was and tilted his head to one side, as if he were trying to hear her.
“That’s okay, Max.” Incredibly, she heard a chuckle bubble past her lips. How long had it been since she had laughed? “Talking to myself is bad enough. I don’t expect to get answers.”
The light around him brightened, and details began to appear. He was still turned away, so she couldn’t see his face, but his hair was the same dark brown it had always been, gleaming with streaks of auburn where the sun touched it.
He was taller than she remembered. Much taller. As a matter of fact, he was far too tall to be a boy. And he was no longer skinny. His shoulders had the breadth of a man’s and his biceps stretched out the sleeves of his white T-shirt. He stood with his feet braced solidly apart in a stance filled with self-confidence.
Delaney blinked. Her imaginary friend had grown up.
This time, her laugh came more easily. It was bad enough to regress to her childhood by imagining Max. It was downright pitiful to fantasize about him being a fully grown man.
But what had she expected? She wasn’t a child any longer, either.
“Deedee?”
The voice startled her. She hadn’t heard it; she had felt it. It was inside her head. It was deep and rough, stroking through her senses like summer heat.
Years ago, she had imagined Max’s voice in her head, too. They had giggled together as they’d played their pretend games, and sometimes he would join in when she sang her nonsense skipping rhymes. Back then he had sounded like a child. Now his voice was as unmistakably mature as his appearance.
This was some fantasy, Delaney thought wryly. The doctors would have a field day if they knew. So would Elizabeth. She’d haul her into a competency hearing so fast . . .
But no one had to know. That was the beauty of having a secret friend. “Long time no see, Max,” she murmured.
There was a pause; then the spots of color that surrounded him began to move, elongating and twining around themselves. Sunshine gleamed not only from his hair but from his broad shoulders. The image was strengthening. His arms became more defined. She could see a smear of crimson on his sleeve, and a streak of blue on his jeans.
Max pressed the heels of his hands to his temples. “Deedee?”
The distress in his voice took her aback. “I know it’s been a while,” she began.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I just wanted . . .” She caught herself. He was a figment of her imagination. Why was she trying to explain anything to him?
He dropped his hands and half turned toward her. There was a hint of a sharp cheekbone and strong jaw, but she still couldn’t see his face. “Go away, Deedee. I don’t have time to play.”
“Play? I don’t want to play, Max. I only want to remember.”
“I don’t.”
“But you can help me.”
“No.” He strode away. The colors whirled around him, melding with the shades of green at the edge of the lawn.
“Max, wait!”
“No.”
“Max—”
“Dammit, Deedee. Get the fuck out of my head!”
TWO
THE CONNECTION SNAPPED. MAX DUG HIS FINGERS INTO his scalp and stumbled backward, his mind recoiling. Wood splintered as he fell against the easel. He didn’t hear it. His foot came down on the wet canvas. He barely felt it. His senses were still clinging to the feeling of
her
.
her
.
She’d come back. She was here. The bond hadn’t broken.
How was that possible? More than two decades had passed since she’d left him. He’d stopped looking for her a long time ago. He’d stopped needing her. The bond should have been as dead as the boy he used to be.
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, as if he could rub away the mist that had stolen into his mind, but it was as useless as trying to rub away sunshine. Or shut out the echo of laughter.
Her
laughter.
Her
laughter.
Deedee. He would have known her anywhere. She’d been his special playmate, the baby sister he’d never had. He’d felt the touch of her warmth even before he’d heard her voice calling his name. It was the name he used to go by, not the one on his paintings or his prison record but the one he kept for himself. As it had all those years ago, her presence had tingled across his nerves like the brush of a butterfly just out of reach. He’d needed only to turn around and he could have seen her . . .
“No.” It had been a fluke, a trick of his mind, like the phantom twinge of an amputated limb. Max dropped his hands and forced his eyes open, grounding himself in reality. A cerulean sky spread beyond the windows. Stark, whitewashed plaster covered the walls. There were his shelves of paint, the jars of brushes, and the rolls of canvas waiting to be stretched. Nothing remained that didn’t belong. He kept this room stripped down to the bare necessities, because that was how he lived his life.
This
was what he needed. Peace. Sanctuary. He sure as hell didn’t need that voice in his head, stirring up the past.
was what he needed. Peace. Sanctuary. He sure as hell didn’t need that voice in his head, stirring up the past.
I only want to remember,
she’d said.
she’d said.
Well, he didn’t. What was there to remember? What a fool he used to be? How naive and trusting he’d been? How much he’d loved? How much it had
hurt
?
hurt
?
He looked down. A smear of crimson slithered over the maple planks. More paint of the same shade clung to his heel. The canvas he’d been working on lay in a crumpled heap, a deflated, dead skin over the broken skeleton of his easel.
It was gone. Ruined. But it had already been ruined before his foot had gone through the canvas. The shimmering image, the vision he had painstakingly built in his head, had slipped from his grasp the moment
she
had barged into it.
she
had barged into it.
Max aimed a kick at the pile of debris. The remains of the painting skidded across the room, bleeding more smears of crimson until it came to a stop against the far wall.
Instead of relieving his frustration, the kick only fed it. He followed the trail the painting had left, his bare feet leaving bloody red footprints. He snatched up what was left of his work, twisting it between his hands, snuffing out the last possible spark of life until the paint oozed between his fingers . . .
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