Page 35 of Ghost Walk
She hadn’t been raped, though. Overkilling like this could often be a sign of a sexual predator, but Grace didn’t get a feeling of impersonal evil from this scene. This killing was all about rage and punishment. Someone hadhatedLucinda. Someone who knew her. The camera picked up distinctive smears in the blood, evidence of the killer’s frantic movements.
Grace crouched down to examine them closer. Bare feet? Had the killer been naked to avoid getting blood on his clothes? That wasn’t unheard of, but it hinted at a high level of criminal sophistication. Who in this town had the smarts to…?
Something under the bed caught her eye. A book was hidden behind the mattress, impossible to see unless you were at floor-level. Maybe it was something the killer touched. Maybe she could get fingerprints. Grace leaned over to grab it, trying to make out the title in the dim light. A diary maybe? It was all handwritten.
As she flipped through the pages, her thumb brushed against an unseen drop of blood that had spattered on the leather cover. Instantly, the disorientating sensation of the world shifting around her struck again.
Just as quickly as she’d left, Grace was back in the twenty-first century.
It was as if nothing had happened, at all. She was kneeling on the floor of Lucinda’s former bedroom, surrounded by modern odds-and-ends, and Ghost-Jamie was staring at her. Only somethinghadhappened. Something that left her scared and shaken and foreverunnormal.
Her gaze went up to Jamie’s taunt face. “I saw her.” She whispered. There was no denying it. Lucinda’s book was still in her hand. “When I touched the blood, I went back to 1789.” And the drop that sent her forward again was still wet on her skin. “I saw Lucinda dead. I reallysawher, Jaimie.”
Peaceful green cornfields.
Peaceful green cornfields.
Peaceful green cornfields.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He knelt down beside her, looking as traumatized as she felt. “Are you alright, Grace?”
“I have no idea.” She suddenly wasn’t sure of anything. Nothing at all. She stared into Jamie’s concerned eyes and swallowed hard. …Well, maybeonething: I’m going to prove that you didn’t kill those girls.”
Chapter Seven
June 23, 1789- HC was quite agitated at our meeting today. Apparently, he’s heard rumors in town that connect my name to a “mystery man” and he’s worried his wife will discover that it’s really him. As if I would ever allow my reputation to suffer like that! The fool probably started the rumors himself, with all his bragging.
I calmed him down, of course. HC can never resist me. …But then, no man can.
From the Journal of Miss Lucinda Wentworth
“You’re going to have to talk about it sooner or later.” Jamie called through the bedroom door. “You said you needed time to ‘process?’ Well, I’ve given you all afternoon. Now it’s time we have a bloody conversation.”
Grace had no desire to discuss what happened. It seemed like a one way ticket back to the crazy house. Far better to seal herself away in her favorite fuzzy bathrobe until she could make some sense of what happened.
Her striped sundress was in a heap on the floor, all ready to be bleached and burned. Her sandals were already in the garbage. She’d scrubbed her skin in the tub. But it would still take a long time for her to feel clean again.
There had been so much blood.
Grace pressed her lips together. Once the adrenaline had faded, her old fears and insecurities had come flooding back. Along with all their new friends. Holy cow, she’d really been standing over Lucinda Wentworth’s dead body. How was this happening?Whywas it happening? She was nothingspecial. Why wasshethe one traveling through time? Why not someone braver or smarter? Had she done something right or wrong or was it all just random? Regardless, what the hell was she going to do about it?
Jamie wasn’t giving up. “You can’t just go back to ignoring me.”
Grace sank farther into the heap of pillows on her bed. Oh yes, she could. At least until she figured out her next step, which was going to take a heck of a lot longer than one afternoon. She’d done her part. She’d calculated the smeared footprint photos and, as far as she could tell, the killer was between 5’ and 5’5’’. Which eliminated basically no one in Revolutionary War era America, where people tended to be smaller than their modern counterparts. …Except for a certain tall, Scottish pirate, anyway.
She’d also skimmed through the diary, which was mainly just Lucinda complaining about her dull life of privilege, rating her lovers, ridiculing her sister and parents and friends, and using gratuitous exclamation points. Unfortunately, Lucinda had described most of her boyfriends with initials, so the mystery man was still nameless. (The JMR entries got skipped entirely, because it made Grace nauseous to read about Jamie and Lucinda together, but the others revealed nothing useful.) In short, Grace had done all she could with the evidence she’d gathered.
Now she was going to lay in bed and be crazy for a while.
“Damn it, we need to talk, Grace!”
“Go away!” Her voice broke on the last word. “I’m having a nervous breakdown and I need some frigging space!”
There was a long pause and then Jamie won the argument by simply walking through the wall. For a guy who’d been alive when they signed the Declaration of Independence, he sure didn’t care much about protecting a person’s right to privacy. He stalked into the bedroom and crossed his arms over his wide chest.
“Are you crying?” He demanded, his browscompressed in concern. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Grace gave a squeak of alarm. “Geez, it freaks me out when you do that!”
