clippers, and toothpaste into his toiletry kit and zipped it shut.
The chair was piled high with her brother’s rumpled clothes. With a sigh she lifted one soft shirt and creased it neatly, set it on the edge of the bed. She balled together a pair of socks. She stacked boxers and tees and finally shook out a spare pair of jeans. As she began to fold them with military precision, something fell from the pocket. Shelby leaned down to pick up what had dropped: three pennies, dated 1932, which she set on the dresser where Ross would be sure to see them.
Ross turned and waved up at Ethan in the window, then cautiously approached the spot in the woods where he’d last seen the flash of white. He had left Ethan with the Maglite, which meant Ross fully expected to plunge headfirst over an exposed root. Although he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him, he could still hear the sounds of someone—or some thing —scrabbling around.
Ross shivered; it was colder out here than he’d expected it to be, and he wished he’d brought his sweatshirt. He could suddenly smell wild roses, as if there were a field of them underfoot, and he knew from Curtis that this, too, was a way a ghost might make its presence known. Show yourself , he thought.
But any hopes he had of encountering his first apparition died as he came upon a young woman, crouching as she tried to dig into the frozen earth.
She was wearing a flowered dress, and her pale hair was wild around her face. The white flash Ross had seen was a lace collar. She was feverishly busy, intent on her task. And she was as real as the ground beneath his feet.
Clearly, she had not heard him approach, or she would have realized she’d been caught in the act of . . . well, whatever she’d been doing. Ross found himself tongue-tied—not only wasn’t she the ghost he’d been hoping for, but she was young, and pretty, and uninvited. He seized on that, if only to have something to say. “What are you doing here?”
She turned slowly, blinking, as if surprised to find herself in the middle of the forest. “I . . . I don’t know.” Glancing down at her hands, dirt caught beneath the nails, she frowned.
“Did van Vleet send you?”
“I don’t know Van Fleet . . .”
“Vleet.” Ross frowned. Maybe it was only an unlikely coincidence that the night he began his investigation, an insomniac would come wandering onto the property. There were other homes in the vicinity, and stranger things had happened. He found himself wishing that he hadn’t started this conversation on the defensive. He found himself wishing she’d glance up at him again. “What are you looking for?” he asked, nodding toward the hole she’d been digging.
The woman blushed, which lit her from the inside. When she shook her head, he could smell that floral perfume again. “I have no idea. The last time I sleepwalked, I wound up in a neighbor’s hayloft.”
“With or without the neighbor?” Ross heard himself ask, and the woman looked so mortified that he immediately wished he could call back the words. He dug his hands into his pockets instead, trying to make amends. “I’m Ross Wakeman,” he said.
She looked up, still discomfited. “I have to go.”
“No, see, where I come from, the appropriate response is: Hello, I’m Susan. Or: Hey, Hannah’s the name. Or: Howdy, I’m Madonna.”
“Madonna?”
Ross grinned. “Whatever.”
A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I’m Lia,” she said.
“Just Lia?”
She hesitated. “Beaumont. Lia Beaumont.”
Every line of her body was poised for flight. Then again, coming across a stranger in the middle of the woods when you were sleepwalking was bound to be upsetting. If possible, she seemed even more unsure of herself around Ross than Ross felt around her. She nodded, still awkward, and started to walk off. Ross was filled with an unaccountable need to keep her from leaving, and tried to think of one thing to say that would
The chair was piled high with her brother’s rumpled clothes. With a sigh she lifted one soft shirt and creased it neatly, set it on the edge of the bed. She balled together a pair of socks. She stacked boxers and tees and finally shook out a spare pair of jeans. As she began to fold them with military precision, something fell from the pocket. Shelby leaned down to pick up what had dropped: three pennies, dated 1932, which she set on the dresser where Ross would be sure to see them.
Ross turned and waved up at Ethan in the window, then cautiously approached the spot in the woods where he’d last seen the flash of white. He had left Ethan with the Maglite, which meant Ross fully expected to plunge headfirst over an exposed root. Although he couldn’t see more than a foot in front of him, he could still hear the sounds of someone—or some thing —scrabbling around.
Ross shivered; it was colder out here than he’d expected it to be, and he wished he’d brought his sweatshirt. He could suddenly smell wild roses, as if there were a field of them underfoot, and he knew from Curtis that this, too, was a way a ghost might make its presence known. Show yourself , he thought.
But any hopes he had of encountering his first apparition died as he came upon a young woman, crouching as she tried to dig into the frozen earth.
She was wearing a flowered dress, and her pale hair was wild around her face. The white flash Ross had seen was a lace collar. She was feverishly busy, intent on her task. And she was as real as the ground beneath his feet.
Clearly, she had not heard him approach, or she would have realized she’d been caught in the act of . . . well, whatever she’d been doing. Ross found himself tongue-tied—not only wasn’t she the ghost he’d been hoping for, but she was young, and pretty, and uninvited. He seized on that, if only to have something to say. “What are you doing here?”
She turned slowly, blinking, as if surprised to find herself in the middle of the forest. “I . . . I don’t know.” Glancing down at her hands, dirt caught beneath the nails, she frowned.
“Did van Vleet send you?”
“I don’t know Van Fleet . . .”
“Vleet.” Ross frowned. Maybe it was only an unlikely coincidence that the night he began his investigation, an insomniac would come wandering onto the property. There were other homes in the vicinity, and stranger things had happened. He found himself wishing that he hadn’t started this conversation on the defensive. He found himself wishing she’d glance up at him again. “What are you looking for?” he asked, nodding toward the hole she’d been digging.
The woman blushed, which lit her from the inside. When she shook her head, he could smell that floral perfume again. “I have no idea. The last time I sleepwalked, I wound up in a neighbor’s hayloft.”
“With or without the neighbor?” Ross heard himself ask, and the woman looked so mortified that he immediately wished he could call back the words. He dug his hands into his pockets instead, trying to make amends. “I’m Ross Wakeman,” he said.
She looked up, still discomfited. “I have to go.”
“No, see, where I come from, the appropriate response is: Hello, I’m Susan. Or: Hey, Hannah’s the name. Or: Howdy, I’m Madonna.”
“Madonna?”
Ross grinned. “Whatever.”
A tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I’m Lia,” she said.
“Just Lia?”
She hesitated. “Beaumont. Lia Beaumont.”
Every line of her body was poised for flight. Then again, coming across a stranger in the middle of the woods when you were sleepwalking was bound to be upsetting. If possible, she seemed even more unsure of herself around Ross than Ross felt around her. She nodded, still awkward, and started to walk off. Ross was filled with an unaccountable need to keep her from leaving, and tried to think of one thing to say that would
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