The Awakening. Amanda StevensЧитать онлайн книгу.
happens in their life to turn them.”
“Or someone.”
Too late, I thought of his son, Ethan, a man with dark secrets and deadly tendencies. Ethan Shaw hadn’t been born evil and Dr. Shaw had certainly been a benevolent if somewhat absentminded role model. They had always seemed close. And yet Ethan Shaw had fallen prey to outside manipulations and his own misplaced affections until one day he had brought a gun to my house and shot Devlin in cold blood before he, himself, had been shot and killed.
I wondered if Dr. Shaw was also thinking about his son and if I should openly acknowledge the tender subject. Or should I pretend the awkward silence was only a lull in the conversation?
“Looking back, you think you can pinpoint exactly when they made the wrong turn,” he mused. “Where and why mistakes were made. And then years later you learn, quite unexpectedly, that you never really had a clue. Forces were at play you never saw coming.” He picked up a silver letter opener from his desk and absently fingered the edge.
“I—yes, that’s probably true.” I felt bad that he couldn’t open up to me in a more direct way. He had helped me through so many difficult times and he was obviously in the throes of rumination and regret. I wondered what had put him in such a state, the where and the why of his current deliberation.
Absently, he twisted the letter opener in his hand until the jewel in the handle caught the light. Something about his fixation chilled me. Then he rallied and gave me a tenuous smile. “Your ghost. Why do you think she tried to break your window?”
I shrugged. “She wants my attention. And like all the others, she needs my help.”
“Will you help her?”
“Do I ever really have a choice? I keep hoping she’ll just fade away. But they never have before.” Now it was I who sank into gloomy contemplation. “I think other forces may be at play here, too, Dr. Shaw. I don’t know how to explain it, but I’ve had moments of déjà vu lately. Callbacks to my past that I can’t help but think have meaning. I have this looming dread that something is coming to a head. Or to an end. The caretaker found a dead crow in the bed of the crib. He called it a corpse bird. He said it was a sign that someone else was about to pass.”
“Birds have been considered harbingers since the beginning of time. It’s true that a dead bird is often thought to be an omen, but like the death card in a tarot deck, it may not signify a literal passing.” Dr. Shaw observed me with kindly eyes. “It could be the death of something you’ve held on to for too long. An old relationship, for instance. Or the passing of an era. As with all things that end, the way then becomes clear for new opportunities. Perhaps a new destination.”
On the surface, his words seemed hopeful, but for me, they dropped like anvils and I felt a keen sense of loss for something that had yet to go missing. “I’m not sure that interpretation makes me feel a good deal better.”
“Letting go is a very hard thing,” he said. “Grief and guilt, even loneliness, can become a comfort. A touchstone. The road behind us, littered as it is with mistakes and heartache, can often be more appealing than the open road in front of us.”
“I hear what you’re saying and I don’t disagree, but in this case, I can’t help thinking the omen may have a more straightforward implication. I’ve been having strange dreams. Premonitions. The corpse bird can be interpreted literally, can’t it?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, still toying with the letter opener. “A dead bird can most definitely be the harbinger of a physical death.”
I shook off the lingering effects of that unsettling conversation and rewarded myself with another long afternoon of research. Seated in my office with my back to the windows, I switched my focus from “The Loneliest Graves” to the business of restoring Woodbine Cemetery. I’d located a map in the local archives and had already begun a preliminary perusal of the records through the online databases of the main library and the county clerk’s office. But the unnamed graves would require a more thorough digging.
As I worked, I was drawn back time and again to that stone crib hidden in the willow trees. I had the child’s birth and death dates, so I felt certain I could eventually uncover her identity. But after a few hours at the computer, I remained stymied. Either the databases weren’t up to date or her birth and death had been recorded in another county. Or—a more troubling prospect—the official records had been purged. That seemed a drastic action but one that might corroborate Prosper Lamb’s assertion about the well-to-do and their buried secrets.
I kept at it until early evening, when a phone call from Temple Lee drew me back out of the house for dinner. I’d once worked for Temple at the State Archeologist’s Office in Columbia and we’d remained close after my relocation to Charleston to start my own business. I didn’t often go out on weeknights, but a diversion was just what I needed, and Temple was always an entertaining dinner companion.
By the time I left the house, the rain had finally stopped, and the dripping city basked in a golden glow as the sun sank below the church spires. I decided to walk over to Meeting Street, taking time for a brief stroll through one of the city’s churchyards before arriving at Rapture, a restaurant housed in a beautiful old building that had once been a rectory. I had learned on a previous visit that the place had been built on hallowed ground. No ghost could touch me inside and I was more than happy to leave the dead world behind me if only for the space of a meal.
But all through dinner, my mind kept straying back to that nameless grave and to the ghost child that had hovered nearby. I couldn’t help wondering if she had manifested near the crib for a reason. She and the infant had a connection—to each other and possibly to me—that I had yet to discern. No matter how badly I wished to escape another netherworld puzzle, I could already feel the chill of her pull.
Thankfully, Temple seemed equally distracted and paid no attention to my pensive mood. The restaurant was crowded for a Wednesday night and even as she regaled me with a tale from a current excavation, her gaze darted now and then to the entrance and she seemed uncharacteristically fidgety. Lately, I seemed to have that effect on people.
Finally I put down my fork as I followed her gaze. “Are you expecting someone?”
“No, why?” she asked innocently, tucking back her hair. She was dressed in teal silk tonight, a lovely bold shade that complemented her coloring. Gold earrings dangled from her lobes and it seemed to me that she’d taken extra care with her makeup. She always looked fabulous but I didn’t think her fine-tuning was for my benefit.
“You keep watching the door,” I said.
She smiled and shrugged. “Just checking out the scenery. No harm in that, is there?”
“No, but I’m not sure I believe you. You have the look of someone who’s up to something. Or hiding something.” I was only half joking. Canting my head, I pretended to study her. “What’s going on with you? The way you keep watching that door makes me wonder if you had an ulterior motive for your last-minute dinner invitation. And why, out of all the restaurants in Charleston, you asked me to meet you at this one.”
“I didn’t feel like eating alone and as to the restaurant...lovely atmosphere, impeccable service and—” she motioned to her plate “—the best shrimp and grits in the city. Not to mention the lavender ice cream. Why wouldn’t I choose Rapture?”
“I can think of one reason,” I murmured uneasily, picking at my mushroom crepe. The rustic restaurant truly was beautiful. Candles flickered from wall sconces. Soft music played in the background. Our table looked out into the garden, where glowing lanterns seemed to float down from the tree branches. Without any hovering ghosts, the setting was dreamy and peaceful, but I couldn’t stop thinking dark thoughts.
“Do you remember the last time we came here together?” I asked with a shiver. “You invited Ethan Shaw to join us. He’s