Delaney's Shadow by Ingrid Weaver Page A

this place in her nightmare of the accident? She had seldom come to Willowbank with Stanford. Whenever they’d arranged to visit, some business emergency usually had cut the visit short. While they’d been here, they’d never taken a stroll to the pond. He hadn’t been fond of the outdoors, and she disliked water. Her grandparents had lectured her about the dangers of wandering down that path so thoroughly, she had no desire to set foot on it.
    Of course. This fit with what Dr. Bernhardt had said about her aversion to water. That was why the scene was incorporated into her nightmare. Her grandparents had warned her so often to keep away from the pond that she would have developed a dread of the path that led to it.
    In light of that, it was odd that she often used to imagine Max appearing from this direction when she’d been a child.
    Or maybe it wasn’t that odd. She must have been using him as an emotional crutch even then. He could have been her way of facing what frightened her.
    The shadows over the path wavered. They gathered into an oblong shape the size of a man, then flattened once more.
    Without pausing to think, Delaney opened the gate and started down the path. “Max? Where are you?”
    A flock of crows took flight in a flurry of squawks when she reached the trees. Water glinted through the undergrowth. The smell of mud settled in a lump at the back of her throat. She was almost to the pond when her legs began to feel heavy, as if something was holding them down. Water flowed over her feet and rose to her ankles and then to her knees. Seaweed curled around her thighs as her toes sank further into the muck . . .
    She recognized the sensations as more pieces from her nightmare. There was a logical explanation for those, too. They must be more manifestations of her dislike of water. She wiped her palms on her skirt, trying to deflect her fear the way Max had shown her. The dampness on her palms was sweat. This time, the moisture on her feet actually was dew. She took a few deep breaths, put up her arm to push a branch aside, and followed the path around a birch tree.
    The pond was suddenly in front of her. It was another greeting-card-peaceful scene. Boughs from the birch provided a natural frame. Twining fingers of mist curled among lily pads and their half-opened flowers. The surface of the water mirrored the clouds like polished silver. Something plopped within the patch of bulrushes that flanked the shore. The silver rippled. The lily pads bobbed.
    Delaney shivered. She really didn’t like water. Regardless of how much she tried to reason it away, the mere smell of the pond was turning her stomach.
    Yet she couldn’t leave. The sensation of Max’s presence was much stronger here than it had been in the yard.
    That didn’t make sense. She wasn’t relaxed. Hadn’t she decided she needed to be relaxed in order to see him? She grasped the tree trunk, digging her nails into the papery bark. “Max? I know you’re here. I can feel you.”
    A cicada whirred.
    The noise made her jump. She moved around the tree, placing her back to its trunk so she faced away from the pond. Her pulse steadied once she could no longer see the water. “Please, Max. Why won’t you answer me?”
    A breeze came up, rustling the leaves overhead. The nape of her neck tingled. She glanced to the side.
    And just like that, there he was, standing on a patch of moss in front of a willow on the other side of the path. The pattern of the bark showed through him, then gradually faded as his image strengthened.
    Delaney smiled. The mere sight of him spread such a sense of . . . rightness, she could forget about the taste of mud in her throat. “Uh, hi.”
    The sharp angles of his face appeared more dramatic in daylight. His shirt was black silk that rippled against his chest and arms in the same breeze that stirred the leaves above him. He wore narrow black suspenders rather than a belt. Instead of jeans he wore tailored black pants that