Delaney's Shadow by Ingrid Weaver

protecting her skin from sun damage. Her sandals were no protection from the dew, though. Within seconds her feet were soaked. She halted at the oak tree where the signal was better. “I know it’s early for me to be calling,” she said, “but I’m eager to know what you’ve learned.”
    “About . . . ?”
    “About my phone records.”
    “Ah, right. You’ll have to excuse me. I’m only on my second coffee.”
    “You have them, don’t you?”
    “Sorry, not yet. These things take time.”
    “I don’t see why it should. All this information must be on the phone company’s computer somewhere; it’s only a matter of printing it out.”
    “I assure you, I’m doing everything I can.” He paused. “But don’t place too much importance on this detail. Even if you knew who called you the night of the accident, it could very well turn out to mean nothing.”
    “Or it could be the key that unlocks the rest.”
    “Have you remembered anything else, Delaney?”
    “No, not yet, but the rest will come. I’m sure of it now.”
    Brave words, she thought as she ended the call. So far she had nothing to back them up. She slid the phone into her skirt pocket and drummed her fingers on her thigh. It had been three days since the memory of the phone call had surfaced. Nothing further had come back, no matter how hard she’d tried. That was the mistake she’d made before. She needed to relax and let the memories appear the same way she let Max appear.
    Only, Max seemed to have deserted her. He might not have been much more help, anyway. His last visit had left her confused and frustrated. It was hard enough to fight her memory block without having to battle her subconscious at the same time.
    This would have been so much simpler if she hadn’t made him into a man. A boy would have been easier to deal with. The young Max might have enjoyed the challenge of delving into her head. They could have pretended it was a treasure hunt, with her memories as the prize.
    “Max,” she whispered. “Why can’t we go back?”
    A patch of air near the gate shimmered. She stared at the spot, waiting for a glimpse of dark hair and blue eyes. For an instant, she felt the brush of Max’s presence.
    But his image refused to form. It dissolved like a heat mirage, leaving nothing but emptiness between her and the back fence.
    Was she trying too hard with him as well? Maybe this worked like her phone, and she should move around until she found a better signal. Or maybe she should start leaving the back gate open to make it easier for him to drop by.
    The laugh that came from her throat scared her. It held no humor. It was too close to tears. She walked the rest of the way to the fence and curled her fingers over the top of the gate.
    In its own way, the view from the back fence was as picturesque as the Wainright House’s tended yard. A haze of mist hung over the tops of the trees that hid the pond. Dew darkened the leaves in the shadows. The colors and shapes were beautiful, like the kind of soft-edged painting one might find on a greeting card. It should have looked soothing and peaceful.
    It didn’t. This morning it looked ominous.
    Her fingers tightened on the gate. Near the fence, the path to the pond was overgrown with weeds and long grass. It became more defined as it reached the trees. There it was bare dirt. Branches grew down on either side, close enough to form a tunnel for anyone who walked through. Delaney could almost feel the leaves and twigs whip against her face as she hurtled into the darkness . . .
    This was the narrow road in her nightmare, the one she always saw before the crashing started.
    Her first impulse was to turn and run back to the safety of the house. She forced herself to remain where she was. She had to face the unpleasantness, right? This wasn’t what she was trying to remember, but the dream couldn’t hurt her. It hadn’t since Max had shown her how to take control.
    Why would her subconscious include