Page 9 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Trent nodded. “Yeah, the cops will be in contact with them too. I’m guessing they’ll need to come back home. Sucks to have a vacation end like that.”
“It’s not their fault someone chose their ditch to dispose of the body.”
“Investigations don’t play favorites” was Trent’s only reply. He studied her for a moment. “Want to wait for me to finish the chores and then I’ll give you a ride back to the house?”
“No.” She shook her head and mustered the willpower to shake herself back into the mental capacity to live today as it was, not dwell in the past and on what she didn’t have, all that they had lost. “I’ll walk.”
“’Kay.” Trent stepped aside and opened the door for her.
Molly jumped down, and her boots ground against thegravel. She looked up at Trent, who was a few inches taller, and for a moment she almost had the courage to just meld into his chest and wrap her arms around his waist. But that invisible, awkward barrier was between them. She chose not to, but instead tugged her T-shirt down to hide her oversized backside and hoped Trent didn’t have any hot female farming co-workers she didn’t know about.
“The police said they’d call if they have more questions, but that you can go for now. I doubt they’ll need you. You didn’t find the body.” Trent shut the truck door behind her. “Still, keep your phone on you.”
“I always do.” And she did.
Trent’s hand came up, hesitated, then fell back down at his side.
The absence of his touch made her ache.
“Well—have a good day then.” He ended with a lame raising of his eyebrows.
A good day. Sort of hard to do as she passed the cart with the dead woman’s body encased in plastic. Molly paused and stared at it, as if she could see through the bag to the person beneath it. Her eyes would be closed now. The forensics team would have made sure she was transported properly, all evidence being acquired here at the scene and what was left on the body waiting for the medical examiner’s assessment.
Find her.
Molly froze, staring at the body bag. The voice again. So clear. So urgent. She looked around her. Authorities milled around, all with a purpose. Detective. Police. Forensics. Had no one heard the voice?
“Ma’am.”
Molly jumped.
A police officer looked kindly at her. Kindly but firmly. “We need you to move along now.”
“Yes.” The moment felt out of body. It wasn’t she that moved her legs forward, acquiescing to the instructions toleave the scene. It wasn’t her breath that filled the surrounding air, echoed in her ears, and captured her focus. She could feel herself staying behind, holding hands with the dead woman, even as Molly’s feet moved her body toward the road. Toward the farmhouse she never wanted. Toward her life that was haunted by ghosts of her own.
5
Perliett
Funerals were, after all, a necessary inconvenience. This was Maribeth Van Hilton’s mantra, and Perliett could see it barely concealed behind the sorrowful expression carefully positioned on her mother’s face.
Eunice Withers was to be buried in the middle of the cemetery. A mound of dirt mixed with green sod had been ripped from the earth to make a place for the unfortunate young woman. Perliett lifted her eyes, Eunice’s casket a barrier between herself and the man her vision locked with. George. He was a nuisance, and even now he glowered at her. It wasn’t as ifshewere the one who had stabbed the very life’s blood from Eunice and thrown her in the cornfield like a forgotten sack of potatoes.
Perliett winced. Sometimes she was very glad people could not read her thoughts. A sideways glance at her mother affirmed Maribeth couldn’t read them either. Which was helpful, considering her mother couldhearmany things otherworldly that no one else could. She knew Maribeth was attuned to the spirits even now. Perhaps Eunice would step forth, speak to Maribeth, and provide an element ofcomfort to Eunice’s grieving family. This was why Perliett’s mother wasn’t overly fond of funerals. For Maribeth, communication did not cease with the dead but only shifted into a different medium.
The reverend’s baritone voice droned on, reciting Scriptures Perliett could barely remember, let alone abide. Paltry comforts, words were, when faced with the loss of a precious one. It didn’t matter who spoke them either. Whether coming from a fellow mourner or God himself, words were hardly comforting when the heart had shattered into a thousand pieces.
Perliett scanned the guests. The shroud of black was dismal, and Perliett shifted, listening to the soft rustle of her own silk dress that flowed straight to the tops of her black-leather-clad feet. Eunice Withers’s family was comprised of three girls: Angelica, the eldest; Eunice, the now-dead middle one; and Millie, the youngest. Perliett noted the consternation on Millie’s face. She was perhaps seventeen? Porcelain-faced, rose-lipped, delicate features, not unlike Eunice’s. It was Angelica who’d inherited her father’s less fortunate genes with the mousy-brown hair and homely features. Yes, it would be Millie’s beauty that would now step into Eunice’s shoes as a desirable and marriageable young woman coming into her own. Poor girl. That a death would be responsible for ushering Millie into life’s experiences was disheartening.
“Did you ever notice you resemble a Withers daughter?” Maribeth’s whisper shocked Perliett, and she jerked away from her mother.
The reverend continued speaking as the two women exchanged harried glances. Maribeth’s beseeching Perliett to consider her observation, and Perliett’s pleading for her mother not to disturb the peace with her superstitions.
“It was merely an observation,” Maribeth whispered again.
Perliett squeezed her mother’s hand, which to anyone elseappeared to be offering comfort, yet the squeeze was entirely too tight for that. Dark hair and blue eyes didnotconstitute a resemblance, and why Maribeth found it fascinating enough to compare her own daughter to a dead woman was a bit disconcerting.
Thankful that Maribeth seemed to be biting her tongue, Perliett allowed herself to renew her observations of the funeral-goers. A man mingled with the church guests. His head was bare, unlike the other men in attendance. His dark overcoat was familiar, and in the daylight, though the sun was currently behind the clouds, his features were more definable than the other night during her mother’s interrupted séance. Why in heaven’s name was Mr. Bridgers attending the funeral of a young woman he couldn’t possibly know? It was beyond Perliett’s imaginative abilities. She narrowed her eyes, clutching at her handbag’s strings, her gloved fingers toying with its tassels. He was staring directly at her. Jasper Bridgers’s deep-set eyes were black. Probably a dark brown, really, but from where she stood, they appeared to be black. His angular face was chiseled, his forehead broad, his dark hair rakish and boldly unkempt. She refused to look away, though every ounce of the blood in her body had thickened to a nervouschugalugthrough her veins.
