Authors: Ingrid Weaver
Tags: #mobi, #Romantic Suspense, #Paranormal Romance, #Fiction, #Shadow, #epub
Delaney's Shadow (5 page)
The hair rose on Max’s arms. He went motionless, fighting to contain the rage that waited to be released. He could feel it pulsing through him, tempting him, tightening his fists until the muscles in his arms started to tremble.
It would be easy to let go. It would feel good to let the ugliness out. It had felt so good before . . .
Max looked at the crimson that spattered his shirt and stained his hands.
And he remembered the second time he’d picked up Virgil’s belt.
Bile gathered in his throat. He dropped the canvas and backed away, coming up against the wall with a thud. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands high into his armpits as he pressed into the unyielding plaster.
“Damn you, Deedee,” he said through his teeth. “I’m not that boy anymore.”
He had thought the past was under control. And it had been, until she had slipped into his mind and right through the walls that preserved his sanity.
Max didn’t want to remember. Forgetting was how he survived.
THREE
THE SCREAM RENT THE MORNING. DELANEY JERKED HER head up, sending her sun hat tumbling to the ground behind her. The blackbird at the edge of the woods took to the sky in a sudden blur of wings, and Delaney struggled to breathe, unable to draw enough air into her lungs. What was that? What on earth had just happened?
There was another scream, this one followed by high-pitched squeals of laughter. Delaney leaned to her side to look past the trunk of the oak tree. A pair of children raced around the house, their giggles trailing like banners behind them. A plump woman in shorts followed, calling their names as they dodged behind the roses, admonishing them to behave. Her words sounded as if they were coming through a tunnel. Delaney watched her usher the girls back to the veranda, distantly aware they must be some of Helen’s guests, yet the scene seemed as unreal as the vision of Max.
Was this how insanity started?
She dropped her head into her hands.
Think logically
, she ordered herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation for the . . . the incident she had just experienced.
Think logically
, she ordered herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation for the . . . the incident she had just experienced.
Yet her mind was still reverberating in shock from the loss of contact with Max.
No, she hadn’t lost him. He had severed the link himself. This hadn’t been any gentle fading, the way it used to be. His image hadn’t gradually dissolved into the mist when they were finished with their game. He had rejected her.
What did this say about her ego, her self-esteem? Her own fantasy had told her to get lost. Worse than that, he had told her to get the
fuck
out of his head.
fuck
out of his head.
Her Max never would have said anything like that. Sure, he used to be mischievous at times. That was all part of his charm. But he was never bad or mean or . . .
She pressed her fingers to her eyes. Stop. Max wasn’t real. He was imaginary. He was a creation of her own subconscious. He had no free will, no control, no existence. Therefore she was the one who had rejected herself.
Did this mean she had created a tall, well-muscled, dark-haired man as a fantasy and then had made him reject her? Why? Because there was some suppressed prude inside her who felt guilty over the fantasy? Because she didn’t feel she deserved it? Because she felt disloyal to Stanford?
No, that was all wrong. She was doing this because of Stanford. She
had
to remember. She owed him that much.
had
to remember. She owed him that much.
Then why had her subconscious severed the link with Max? Was there something buried there that she would be better off
not
remembering?
not
remembering?
Delaney choked back a sob. If the incident didn’t indicate insanity, then trying to explain it could drive her there. She concentrated on her breathing, trying to bring it back to normal.
There had to be a simple explanation for the . . . the hallucination. It might have been a vivid, fever-dream kind of phenomenon. It could be hotter out here than she’d thought. It was only mid-June, but the humidity could be a factor, especially to someone who hadn’t spent much time outdoors lately. Or it could be even simpler than that. Her blood sugar might be too low, and she’d slipped into a semi-doze when she’d started to relax. Yes, that seemed plausible. She should have taken her grandmother’s advice and eaten a muffin.
A hand settled on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.
Still strung tight, Delaney cried out and jerked away from the touch.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
A man in navy blue coveralls stood in front of her. His eyebrows were bushy and steel-colored, as was the hair that poked out from beneath his John Deere baseball cap. His face bore the kind of deep creases due more to weather than to age. He peered at her with wary concern, his brown eyes looking familiar . . .
Once again, the present merged with a vision from the past, only this man was real. “Edgar?” Delaney asked.
He nodded, a curt, energy-conserving motion of his chin.
Edgar Pattimore had been a frequent sight around the place in the old days. Each fall when the rain gutters had needed cleaning or the porch had needed painting, Edgar’s blue pickup truck with the toolbox and ladders would clatter up the driveway. He’d seemed ancient to her when she’d been a child, probably because he’d been friends with her grandfather, yet he didn’t appear to be much past Helen’s age.
Or Stanford’s.
The realization shocked her. She didn’t know why it should. Age had been irrelevant when it came to her feelings for her husband.
Delaney got to her feet and combed her hair from her face with her fingers. It took a second to remember there wasn’t enough hair to comb. It took several more to register the fact that her hands were shaking. She retrieved her sun hat from the ground and set it back on her head. “You might not remember me, Edgar. I’m—”
“Deedee,” he said. “Your grandmother said you were coming.”
He was the second person in the space of an hour to call her by the childhood name. The third, if she counted Max.
But Max wasn’t real. So he didn’t count. Or maybe he did, because he was a product of her subconscious mind . . .
Enough already
, she told herself. Contacting Max had been an experiment. It hadn’t worked. Time to move on. “Yes, I arrived here yesterday.” The wind picked up, moving the boughs overhead. A shaft of sunlight struck her cheek, and she adjusted the brim of her hat to protect it. “The place looks wonderful,” she said, gesturing around the yard. “I should have realized that you’d still be helping out.”
, she told herself. Contacting Max had been an experiment. It hadn’t worked. Time to move on. “Yes, I arrived here yesterday.” The wind picked up, moving the boughs overhead. A shaft of sunlight struck her cheek, and she adjusted the brim of her hat to protect it. “The place looks wonderful,” she said, gesturing around the yard. “I should have realized that you’d still be helping out.”
“My nephew takes care of the heavy work now, but I do what I can.” He slapped the work gloves he was holding against his leg, knocking off a shower of dirt. An electric hedge trimmer dangled from his other hand. “You didn’t see anyone else out here, did you?”
She started. “What do you mean?” Her voice sounded shriller than she’d intended. She took a calming breath. “Uh, no, other than those girls and their mother. Why?”
Edgar used his chin to point toward the small wooden structure that was nestled beside the hedge on the far side of the roses. “Some of the stuff inside the garden shed was moved around. Looks like someone was inside before I got here.”
“Was anything taken?”
“Nope. Besides the tools and a few bags of fertilizer, the only thing worth stealing’s the lawn tractor, but it’s still there.”
“It could have been kids.”
“I suppose. I don’t like to think someone’s been snooping around. That shed should be locked.”
“Has Willowbank changed that much?”
“Used to be we knew everybody. Not now. Lots of new people building around the lake. Kids cut through here on their way into town. They figure everything is public property.” He slapped his gloves against his leg again, then shifted his gaze from the shed to her. “You need some help?”
“Help?”
“You didn’t look so good a minute ago. You need help getting back to the house?”
“Thanks, but I’m all right. I was just . . . reminiscing. This garden used to be one of my favorite places.”
Another chin nod. “Sorry about your husband, Deedee. Or I guess I should call you Mrs. Graye now.”
“No, Delaney’s fine. And I appreciate your sympathy, Edgar.”
The creases in his cheek tightened in Edgar’s version of a smile. “It’s good you came home, Delaney. We missed you.”
Oh, God. Were those tears starting again?
Before she could embarrass herself, he pulled on his gloves and turned toward the driveway. “Watch out you don’t step on any broken glass when you’re wandering around. I picked up more’n half a case of empties last week. Kids,” he muttered, moving away. “Some of ’em need a good swift kick.”
She waited until he had left, then returned her gaze to the back fence. Not that she expected to see anyone. Not again. Not unless she summoned him, and she wasn’t about to do that. She’d gotten carried away with the reminiscences, that was all. As if to prove it to herself, she left the shelter of the oak tree and crossed the lawn, walking directly through the spot where she’d seen Max.
Nothing was there. No mist or shimmers in the air, no warmth other than the sunshine. Good. She continued until she reached the gate.
Like the fence, it was only as high as her waist and would present more of a nuisance than an obstacle to an adult, but it had been an effective barrier for a toddler. Her grandparents had always been adamant about keeping this gate closed. With the woods so close and the pond only a short walk down the path, their concern had been understandable. Helen would want it closed now, too, with those children of her guests running around.
Yet this morning the gate was unlatched, as if someone had passed through in a hurry and hadn’t bothered to close it completely. Someone flesh and blood, like whoever had been in the garden shed.
Or someone with no substance at all, like a figment of an overactive imagination . . .
Delaney grasped the top of the iron gate and yanked it toward her. The latch clicked with satisfying finality. She returned to the house without looking back.
The kitchen was empty when she stepped inside. Judging by the silence in the dining room, breakfast was over. A tray full of dirty dishes rested on the counter, so evidently Phoebe hadn’t yet arrived. She wondered briefly where her grandmother was, but then she heard a thump from the direction of the front of the house, followed by a pair of shrieking giggles like those she’d heard in the garden.
Those girls must be continuing their game of tag inside, which explained what Helen was doing. She would be running after them, trying to minimize the damage, but the children would be able to see through her scolding. Delaney certainly had. She wouldn’t be surprised if the girls had already discovered the banister. She left her hat on the coat tree, found a pair of rubber gloves under the sink, and started on the dishes.
Though it had been years since she’d needed to do any housework, she welcomed the chore. Regardless of what Helen said, Delaney intended to help as much as she could, for as long as she was here. Besides wanting to ease her grandmother’s workload, she did need to keep busy, or she would likely go nuts for real.
That was one of the few things she and Stanford had disagreed about. She’d been a successful real estate agent when she’d met him. He hadn’t been able to understand why she didn’t want to lead a life of leisure and simply enjoy the wealth he’d spent his lifetime acquiring. His first wife had filled most of her days with bridge games and shopping, and had apparently been perfectly content. Mundane necessities like cleaning, laundry, menu planning, or caring for her child had been handled by the household staff. The only occupation Constance Graye had undertaken seriously had been playing Stanford’s hostess. She’d excelled at that, working her social connections with the zeal of a politician. The parties she’d given had been legendary.
Or at least they had seemed legendary to Delaney the first time she’d attempted to host one of her own. She’d wanted to make Stanford happy. That was why she’d eventually given in about her career, too. She’d directed her energy toward being a good wife. She hadn’t quite believed him when he’d sworn he didn’t expect anything from her except her love.
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