behind the beautiful sage and olive-green Victorian style area rug covering the hardwood floors, and entered a small foyer. As she neared the wooden door, golden light streamed through the decorative leaded glass windows on either side of the doorframe. Her body stopped and the tunnel vision grew alarmingly worse as she was quickly turned to the left. As it dissipated and the foyer came into focus, she realized she stood in front of a full-length mirror staring at a reflection that didn’t belong to her.
Terror tightened her chest.
Oh, my God. This wasn’t her. Who was this woman?
Her hands sifted through long dark-brown hair, then touched high cheekbones. She was moved closer to the mirror, and gazing into soft brown eyes. Pretty, intelligent eyes that held a haunting familiarity.
Sandra’s eyes.
No. Sandra’s daughter’s eyes.
She was in the secret daughter’s body. Which meant…oh, God…Tracy Saunders was dead. She had to be. The dead reached out to her, not the living.
If she was right, this moment, this vision might be her only chance to help give both this woman and Sandra justice. Knowing it might be her chance to find out the truth, she cleared her mind and sought to connect with the woman’s thoughts. Although the tunnel vision continued to make her stomach sick, the pounding in her head slowly abated. The throbbing in her temples, the sensation of having her ears stuffed with cotton lessened and was replaced by quiet whispers. She opened her mind and heart to the woman who had invited Celeste into her body. The whispers grew louder, stronger, more distinct until—
Maybe I should have worn something else.
The woman’s inner thoughts were crystal clear as Celeste looked through Tracy’s eyes and stared at the mirror.
Something less subtle and sexier. Get a grip. Don’t mistake friendly for flirty. Tracy eyed her reflection one last time, adjusted the charcoal-gray cowl neck sweater, before smoothing her hands over the black leggings she knew accentuated her rear. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned away from her reflection, then opened the door.
“Hi,” Tracy said, smiling. Oh, wow. Talk about gorgeous. Tracy stared at her new student hoping to God she was right and she hadn’t mistaken friendly for flirty. It had been too long since she’d been in a relationship, and she’d missed dating, kissing…making love. “Are you ready for your first piano lesson?”
The pounding in Celeste’s head returned, along with fear. The figure in the doorway was nothing but a shadowy blur, similar to what she’d witnessed during her vision at Maxine’s, and she didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she see what Tracy could? When she’d been with Sandra, she’d been able to make out what she had assumed was the woman’s mother. Everything in that vision had been pure and the surroundings vibrant. Then again, she hadn’t been able to see who had been in the room with Sandra when she’d been murdered.
“I’m ready,” the figure said, its voice echoing over itself to the point Celeste couldn’t tell whether a man or woman spoke. “Learning to play the piano is on my bucket list.”
“Well, I’ll have you playing Mary Had a Little Lamb by the time we’re finished today,” Tracy said, leading her student toward the piano.
The figure chuckled, and Celeste wished Tracy would turn around and look at it again. There had been something malevolent in the sound that had her queasy stomach twisting with unease.
“I don’t plan to get to the level where I’m playing Beethoven, but that’s a start.” The black figure, moved alongside Tracy. “I love your home. What year was it built?”
“Thank you. It was built in 1910. I’ve been slowly renovating it over the years, trying to bring it back to what it once was.” Tracy looked around her living room and Celeste could feel the woman’s pride. For a split second, she saw the room as it had been when Tracy had first bought the
Terror tightened her chest.
Oh, my God. This wasn’t her. Who was this woman?
Her hands sifted through long dark-brown hair, then touched high cheekbones. She was moved closer to the mirror, and gazing into soft brown eyes. Pretty, intelligent eyes that held a haunting familiarity.
Sandra’s eyes.
No. Sandra’s daughter’s eyes.
She was in the secret daughter’s body. Which meant…oh, God…Tracy Saunders was dead. She had to be. The dead reached out to her, not the living.
If she was right, this moment, this vision might be her only chance to help give both this woman and Sandra justice. Knowing it might be her chance to find out the truth, she cleared her mind and sought to connect with the woman’s thoughts. Although the tunnel vision continued to make her stomach sick, the pounding in her head slowly abated. The throbbing in her temples, the sensation of having her ears stuffed with cotton lessened and was replaced by quiet whispers. She opened her mind and heart to the woman who had invited Celeste into her body. The whispers grew louder, stronger, more distinct until—
Maybe I should have worn something else.
The woman’s inner thoughts were crystal clear as Celeste looked through Tracy’s eyes and stared at the mirror.
Something less subtle and sexier. Get a grip. Don’t mistake friendly for flirty. Tracy eyed her reflection one last time, adjusted the charcoal-gray cowl neck sweater, before smoothing her hands over the black leggings she knew accentuated her rear. Drawing in a deep breath, she turned away from her reflection, then opened the door.
“Hi,” Tracy said, smiling. Oh, wow. Talk about gorgeous. Tracy stared at her new student hoping to God she was right and she hadn’t mistaken friendly for flirty. It had been too long since she’d been in a relationship, and she’d missed dating, kissing…making love. “Are you ready for your first piano lesson?”
The pounding in Celeste’s head returned, along with fear. The figure in the doorway was nothing but a shadowy blur, similar to what she’d witnessed during her vision at Maxine’s, and she didn’t understand why. Why couldn’t she see what Tracy could? When she’d been with Sandra, she’d been able to make out what she had assumed was the woman’s mother. Everything in that vision had been pure and the surroundings vibrant. Then again, she hadn’t been able to see who had been in the room with Sandra when she’d been murdered.
“I’m ready,” the figure said, its voice echoing over itself to the point Celeste couldn’t tell whether a man or woman spoke. “Learning to play the piano is on my bucket list.”
“Well, I’ll have you playing Mary Had a Little Lamb by the time we’re finished today,” Tracy said, leading her student toward the piano.
The figure chuckled, and Celeste wished Tracy would turn around and look at it again. There had been something malevolent in the sound that had her queasy stomach twisting with unease.
“I don’t plan to get to the level where I’m playing Beethoven, but that’s a start.” The black figure, moved alongside Tracy. “I love your home. What year was it built?”
“Thank you. It was built in 1910. I’ve been slowly renovating it over the years, trying to bring it back to what it once was.” Tracy looked around her living room and Celeste could feel the woman’s pride. For a split second, she saw the room as it had been when Tracy had first bought the
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