Whispers of Fate: The Mistresses of Fate, Book Two (7 page)

7

CIRCE WATCHED HER
husband pace. Mark had changed very little in the years that he’d been gone. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen, as handsome as she was beautiful, with thick dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He was tan, as if he’d been somewhere tropical. He’d said he was going abroad when he’d left almost thirty years ago. He’d said he’d return quickly.

When she’d gotten home last night, after dropping Ninny off, she’d expected him to be waiting for her, but he’d been gone again.

She didn’t remember sleeping, but at dawn he’d walked up to her where she was sitting in the kitchen. She’d been about to get dressed to open the store. Jane had insisted, even though Circe didn’t care about the store now that Mark was back. She watched his athletic body as he paced her room like a caged tiger. He was home.

“What have they found, Jane?”

She thought about mentioning that she was Circe now, but he looked upset, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“Nothing.” She shook her head. “They haven’t found anything.”

“They found the bodies.”

Circe shrugged. After so long and in the noxious stew of the millpond, they were likely bones, and the missing persons records hadn’t been that detailed then, hadn’t been nationwide. “I don’t think it will matter.”

“You told me that already,” he snapped. “I’m telling you it will. They sent me to Mexico, to Colombia. You think I went there by choice?”

Circe hadn’t known. He hadn’t told her that part when he’d left.

“Why’d they let you leave now?”

He laughed harshly. “They didn’t let me do anything. I left. I’m sick of working for those assholes, helping them bring the shit in every day, risking my ass while they get rich. No, I’m taking what’s mine before the Feds or that asshole Robert digs it up.”

“I don’t think the Feds will find it.” She hadn’t been able to find it, not since right after they’d buried it.

He walked over to her and shoved a hand in her hair, tilting her head back. “Still pretty as ever.” He used his grip on her hair to tilt her head back even farther.

Circe lifted her chin. She was still beautiful.

“Guess they believed that bullshit story about Charlie, huh? Or they would have carved up this pretty face of yours looking for it.” He paused. “Killed me, too, I suppose, instead of just sending me to hell. Guess we’re lucky. Good old Charlie. He was finally good for something.”

The voice laughed and mocked her,
Sing it, Circe. Sing his name. Chaaarlie Collins.

He squatted in front of her, releasing his hold on her hair and cupping her face. “God, you’re beautiful,” he said sincerely. “Like getting punched in the stomach. I forgot how beautiful you are.” He leaned closer, almost whispering, “I missed you, Janie. Do you believe that?”

Circe eyed him, her gaze level. “Where did you go? Last night, where did you go?”

He gripped the back of her arm and twisted, hard.

Circe gasped at the startling pain. He was so handsome, staring at her, hurting her. Her eyes filled with tears and his face blurred, twisting and running.

He released her and stepped back, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you. You shouldn’t question me.” He bent down again, lifting her chin. “Forgive me?”

Circe shrugged, pushing Jane aside, burying her deep. Jane was afraid of him sometimes. “I might forgive you. Eventually. You shouldn’t treat me like that.”

“You’re right. You deserve the world. Now tell me the truth.” He leaned a little closer. “Has anyone been asking about this? The old guy?”

“No,” Circe whispered. “No one knows anything.”

He sneered at her. “We both know that’s not true. There’s that stupid bitch Gloria Belle and Old Man Fucking Know-It-All.”

Circe shook her head. “He’s crazy. The Triplets said he’s dying.”

“Who the fuck are the Triplets?”

“My nieces. John’s daughters.”

“John. The one in the army?”

“Yes,” Circe confirmed. She didn’t mention that her brother John had died in a training accident at Fort Benning right after the triplets were born. Mark had never met John. John had been stationed abroad then; he hadn’t been here when everything had happened. He hadn’t seen.

John would’ve stopped it
,
the voice whispered.
He would have known—he’d been like his daughters. Like Summer. He’d had intuition, been brave and true. Unlike you.

Circe scowled. She couldn’t be expected to be like John. Her mother told her she was beautiful instead. Some were talented, some beautiful. John was talented. John knew things.
John is dead.

“Where’s he at?”

“Dead.”

Mark’s lip curled. “Guess he wasn’t that good a ‘witch.’” He sneered the last word. He’d never believed in the gift. He’d always thought they were all crazy.

“What about these girls? They live here?”

Jane nodded.

“They can’t know I’m here.”

A short sharp laugh escaped Circe. “They already do.”

Circe’s husband stopped dead in midstep.

“What do you mean ‘they already do’?”

She tossed her hair and pouted a little, hoping to distract him. Mark’s voice had gone soft and dangerous. She didn’t like that voice.

“I didn’t tell them. Any of them,” she explained. “They know things.”

“Bullshit,” he cursed, straightening and going over to the window to look out. “There’s no privacy in this damn commune. I came up the back way, but one of you freaks must have seen my car. How do they know I’m your husband?”

He had a strong jaw, a bold nose, and a swaggering walk. He’d been in the military at some point, and he spoke several languages. She had no doubt that he could disappear if he wanted to, if he made the attempt, but he wasn’t bothering right now.

“Maybe they saw you?” she suggested.
You don’t believe that
, the voice said flatly.

He gave her a suspicious glance, then looked back out the window, his face in profile.

“We’ll have to deal with that, I suppose. Will they say anything?”

She wondered what he meant by “deal with that.”

There weren’t many Havens left. Most had died or moved deeper into the forest, living off the land. Of the ones who remained, few concerned themselves much with her business. Her second cousin Keenan and his mother, Beatrix, lived in the house that looked like a Victorian cottage in Wonderland. Beatrix didn’t like to leave the house if she could help it, and Keenan was obsessed with his paintings. Keenan was dangerous, though, when he stepped out into the world. Ninny lived with her two German shepherds in the cabin next to Circe’s house. The only person Ninny might tell was Raquel, Gloria Belle’s daughter, the cop from Atlanta.

The voice didn’t think it was smart to tell him that.

“They might. By accident,” she explained, referring to the Triplets. “They go to town. They’re young.”

He looked unhappy. Circe didn’t like it when he was unhappy. She wanted to please him; she wanted him to stay. It had been so long since anyone worthy of her was nearby, so long since she’d been loved by him.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She went to stand behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

He caught her wrist, tugging her forward.

“Oh, we’ll make sure of it, Jane. We’re going to make sure it’s all right,” he murmured against her wrist, brushing his lips back and forth over the sensitive white skin.

“Okay,” Circe agreed. It would be all right. He would take her away from this and she would live like a queen.

He smiled at her, tugging her forward until she was leaning against him while he rested against the sink. “Why don’t I show you how much I missed you?”

Circe flushed, enthralled by the heat in his eyes. It had been so, so long.

“That sounds perfect,” she agreed, sliding forward, smiling at him.

He pinched her chin gently between his fingers. “You are so beautiful, Jane.”

Circe smiled and took his hand away from her face. “Come with me.” She tugged him toward the bedroom. “It’s been a long time.”

He followed her, his eyes on her swaying hips.

Circe knew he watched her. Jane didn’t like the way he’d spoken about the Triplets, or think it was a good idea to blow off opening the store, but Jane was an idiot. Circe knew what her husband needed, what she needed as well, as she intended to give it to him.

8

TAVEY’S WEEK PASSED
in a blur of activity. She managed to find homes for two of the rescue dogs, review the books for Dog with Two Bones and Once Was Lost with her bookkeeper, and finalize the arrangements for the search-and-rescue class she had coming up. She’d also managed, with no small amount of effort, to get hold of the original design and layout of the old Cherokee Paper Mill, built in 1832. It hadn’t been online, but she’d found an archive near Alpharetta. The only thing she didn’t do was speak to Tyler or Abraham.

She’d thought about it. If the old man was dying, she was running out of time to find out what he knew about Summer, but none of her previous efforts had been successful. She thought maybe she should try to get Tyler to help her talk to Abraham. If she could convince him to talk to his uncle about that day in the woods, maybe he would find out something new.

So she’d called him on Wednesday night, after three days of replaying that kiss in her head.

She chewed on her lower lip, thinking through that conversation. It hadn’t exactly been one for the record books, but he’d been at least a little receptive. He was supposed to talk to his uncle this morning, try to find out more about Abraham’s connection to the book they’d found.

“Okay, guys,” she addressed the beagles, who lounged at the end of her bed. “Time to go outside.” She padded over to the French doors, opening them wide. The back lawn stretched for several hundred yards, its smooth rolling landscape a carpet of green velvet broken by the occasional oak tree. She’d worked with them again this week on not jumping over the fence, but she wasn’t sure how long the training would hold before something irresistible would catch Boomer’s attention. The beagles raced out, eager to discover what had changed since their last visit the night before. Tavey, watching them, wished that she had time to just play with them for a morning, maybe take them for a run along the paths she’d created over several acres of the surrounding property, but there were tasks to be done. She had to get dressed for church, meet her friends for their weekly Sunday lunch date, check on the grooming salon, and hopefully hear from Tyler about his uncle. She chewed on her lip. Only part of her excitement was the hope that she would find out something about Summer, the rest simply had to do with getting to interact with Tyler, maybe meet him for coffee. Could it be that after all these years they could work out their differences?

She shook off her agitation and left her bedroom through another set of French doors; these opened to a long hallway with the original farmhouse wood floor and a long Persian runner that had been around since she was a girl.

At the end of the long hallway and around the corner, the entry opened into an enormous open-plan kitchen. It was Tavey’s favorite room in the house even though she didn’t cook. She’d had it renovated a few years back. The floor was the same original hardwood, expertly restored in places to look like the original. The slate countertops and warm reddish-brown paint on the walls made it seem very welcoming. The French press full of hot coffee made it even more so.

She looked around but didn’t see Thomas. Something in the oven smelled wonderful, though. Feeling like she was being nosy—which was ridiculous—she opened the door to the top oven and peered inside. Mini-quiches—they smelled heavenly.

“Good morning, Miss Tavey,” a voice said from behind her.

Tavey turned, closing the oven door with one hand. Sylvia Pascal had been the Collins family housekeeper since Tavey was little, but more important, she was Chris’s mother, and she prided herself on being very professional. Tavey wished she’d relax a bit; after all, it had been several decades since she’d had an affair with Chris’s worthless father, Robert Carlson, who’d been her employer at the time.

“Good morning, Sylvia.” Tavey made herself busy getting down mugs for coffee. Sylvia was wearing a pink suit with low tan heels and pearls—all ready for church, while Tavey was still wearing her silk pajamas and slippers.

“I’ll get that.” Sylvia moved to take over.

“I’ve got it.” Tavey smiled at her, but she didn’t let the woman take over. “It’s your day off. Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you,” Sylvia said, but her voice was stiff.

Tavey poured coffee into her own cup and fetched the cream from the fridge, telling herself the whole time that this awkwardness was not her problem and she didn’t need to fix it. Nevertheless, as soon as she swallowed her first sip of coffee, she blurted, “Sylvia, why don’t you just talk to her?”

Sylvia straightened the lapels of her suit jacket and sniffed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Tavey leaned against the counter and gave her a level look. “Come on, people don’t change churches after twenty years on a whim. You don’t have to do this—just call her.”

Sylvia’s mouth pruned up. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Tavey, I have a few errands before church. I think I’ll drive myself this morning.”

Tavey sighed and took another sip. So much for trying to meddle in someone else’s business. She assumed Sylvia was upset because her daughter had brought scandal on her once again—after all, it was her online profiles that lured the serial killer to Fate last fall. Sylvia had maintained a low profile since her scandalous affair with Chris’s father over thirty years ago, and all the media attention resulting from the psychopath’s killing spree had brought the old stories to the surface once again. Tavey had heard the whispers and seen the sidelong glances at Sylvia in church.
Bad blood will out
, they said, which was nonsense, but it seemed neither Chris nor her mother appreciated her efforts to repair the rift between them. “Of course, Sylvia. Enjoy your day.”

Sylvia left, but Tavey had barely taken another sip of her coffee when Thomas popped his head into the kitchen.

“Is she gone?”

“Yes,” Tavey assured him.

“This is good.” He grabbed an oven mitt. “She is very grim. Is she always like this?”

Tavey thought about it, but she didn’t believe in gossiping about one member of her staff to another, especially her friend’s mother. “She’s had a difficult life, Thomas. Try to be kind.”

He waved that off, examining his quiches with the intensity of an artist. “Of course I don’t care. Are you hungry?”

Tavey’s normal response would have been no—she usually drank a protein shake for breakfast, but the quiches smelled wonderful.

She nodded. “Yes, I’ll have breakfast. Just let me get dressed and take care of the dogs. Fifteen minutes.”

“Oui,” he agreed, waving her off.

Amused, Tavey carried her coffee back into the bedroom, whistling for her beagles to come. They ran back inside, their tails wagging in anticipation of breakfast.

She set her coffee on her dresser and led them back down the hall to what she called the dog room. It had been a pantry, but she’d put in a doggie shower, several dog beds, and a feeding area. A small door controlled by their collars had also been installed to allow them outside into a small enclosure when necessary.

“Okay, babies.” She glanced down and noticed that Boomer was chewing enthusiastically on something.

When she bent down and got a closer look, she paused, her hand beginning to tremble. It was a hair ribbon, so stained with dirt that it was nearly brown, but the original colors showed through in places, red with a white stripe down the center. Though covered in a healthy amount of dog slobber, she recognized the pattern. The last time she’d seen a ribbon like this one, Summer had been wearing it tied to one of her braids.

Tavey felt horror rise from deep within her, her fist clenching around a wad of paper towels. The beagles, sensing her disquiet, shifted restlessly. Lizzie whined.

“It’s okay,” Tavey murmured automatically, but without conviction. The beagles hadn’t been off the property since last Sunday, when they’d ventured into the woods near Abraham’s house, but she thought she would have noticed if Boomer had been holding something in his mouth.

She hesitated to touch it, thinking about evidence collection, but she doubted there was much harm in picking it up at this point. She wanted to snatch it and go straight to Abraham’s house and ask him if he recognized it, if he’d seen anything like it. Part of her wanted to demand he tell her where her friend was buried.

A lifetime of working with the police stopped her, however. Instead, she urged her beagles from the room and ran down the hall to get her phone.

She snatched it off her dresser and dialed Raquel, who just happened to be a cop with the Atlanta Police Department.

“Raquel, forget about church, you have to come here,” she ordered when her friend drawled a hello.

“All right,” Raquel agreed immediately. “What’s up? Is someone hurt?”

Tavey shook her head, pacing the room in her agitation. Her beagles, uncertain why they weren’t being fed, followed her, their brown eyes concerned.

“No one’s hurt. I’ve found something.”

“Okay.” Raquel’s smooth voice was calm and businesslike. “I’m calling Chris. Should I call Tyler as well?”

“No, not yet.” Tavey sighed. “I want to know what you think first. Maybe I’m crazy.”

Raquel didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either. “Okay, honey, we’ll be right there.”

“Good. Sorry. I’m a little rattled.” Tavey realized she sounded out of control. “I think I’ve found something of Summer’s.”

“What?”

“One of her hair ribbons, the red one with the white stripe.”

“Well—”

“She was wearing it when she went missing.”

Raquel paused, her voice calm and steady. “We’ll be there soon, Tavey, but let’s not spiral out of control here. . . . I don’t think we can be sure it’s the same ribbon she was wearing. . . .”

Tavey was emphatic. “It is. She was wearing it. I remember.”

“Okay, we’ll take a look. We’ll be there soon, just remember that it was a long time ago.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“None of us have forgotten Summer.”

“But I could be wrong. That’s what you’re saying.”

When Raquel grew passionate about something, her voice took on the deep rolling tones of her grandmother, whose daddy had been a preacher. “Octavia Collins, you know as well as I do that what we remember is rarely the truth. It’s like a whisper told across a crowded room. The truth changes from one ear to the other.”

“I swear it’s hers.”

“You might be right,” Raquel temporized. “You usually are.”

“This is crazy, but . . . I feel like she’s sending me a message. Telling me not to give up.”

Raquel had always been the most comfortable with the idea that Summer and her family practiced witchcraft. “Well, if anyone could do that, our Summer would,” Raquel allowed.

“She would,” Tavey agreed and let out a long sigh. “It’s been a long time since we missed church.”

“I imagine God will understand.”

“Thomas made quiches.”

“This morning is getting better by the minute.”

Tavey knew she should chuckle, but she couldn’t quite manage it. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Tavey?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve never given up on anything.”

“Thanks, love you.”

“Love you, too,” her friend replied, and hung up.

Tavey sighed and dropped the phone into her lap. She thought maybe that was part of her problem, the not giving up. She clung to so many things: her pain over Summer’s disappearance, her convictions about Abraham, Tyler. None of them had helped find out what had happened to her friend. Maybe it was time she started to think a little differently.