Authors: Alane Ferguson

The Circle of Blood (3 page)

BOOK: The Circle of Blood

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“A word of advice,” Lyric said. “You have to remember that your dad’s opinion of Hannah is biased. I love him to death, but this is a competition. You’re the prize.”

“Some prize. I’m so messed up I can’t think straight.”

“Science-heads such as yourself are sort of messed up by definition.”

“Excuse me, science-heads deal in facts. This woo-woo-touchy-feely stuff is your domain, which is exactly why I needed you to tell me how to do this thing with Hannah. How do you
make
someone talk?”

“You say, ‘I know this is hard, but understanding what happened in my past is important to me.’ And did you just call me ’woo-woo’? ”

“Your hair is purple. I think you qualify.” From the front seat of her Jeep Cameryn scanned the upper floor of the Wingate, the bed-and-breakfast where her mother had set up house. Leaning forward, she peered over the steering wheel so that she could see the top of the home. Beneath a gable she saw her mother’s window, lit from within. With a start, Cameryn realized Hannah’s outline was clearly visible, a dark space against the light.

“She’s watching me, right now! ” Cameryn cried. “Hannah knows I’m here.”

“Good! Honestly, if you can deal with a headless corpse, you can handle your own mother. Just
talk
to her! It’s not that hard.”

Peering anxiously, Cameryn chewed the edge of her cuticle.

“What can I do, Cammie?” Lyric asked. “You want me to light a candle? That’s supposed to help, isn’t it? It’s a Catholic thing, right?” Cameryn could hear something rattle in the background. “I’ve got a whole box of birthday candles in my hand. I’ll light the bunch if it’ll help. Whatever works.”

With a weak smile, Cameryn said, “No, just send me your good karma.”

“That you’ve got. Now get in there. I’m babysitting and the rug rats are restless.”

With that, Cameryn ended the call and dropped her BlackBerry into the pocket of her jacket. Stepping out of her Jeep, she looked up at the bright blue building.

The Wingate House had been painted the color of a clear blue Silverton sky. Built in 1886 by a Russian spiritualist named Emma Harris, the home was rumored to be haunted, although Cameryn had never accepted those wild stories. But now, as she looked at the moon-white face pressed into the glass, she half-believed. This ghost, though, was her own mother. Hannah was a different kind of spirit, but she haunted, just the same. Cameryn could read her mother’s lips through the glass: “Come in,” Hannah was saying. Then, like an apparition, she disappeared.

Cameryn entered the Wingate parlor, careful to shut the heavy door behind her. The owner had put Hannah into a room named the Adam and Eve Room, located on the second floor. Up the steep staircase Cameryn climbed, past a wall of old portraits. The door to her mother’s room had been left open, and she stepped inside. An easel was set up at a right angle to the window, to capture the best light. And there, perched on a metal stool, sat Hannah, holding a paintbrush to her mouth. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt speckled with colorful paint like bits of confetti. Although she seemed intent on her painting, she said, “Hello, Cammie.”

“Hi, Hannah,” Cameryn answered.

“‘Mom,’” Hannah corrected. She smiled, flashing teeth. “I missed you today. I was up all night painting, and I kept thinking how much better it would have been if you’d been here to keep me company. There’s something about this place that gives me energy. I feel like I can do anything!”

It still startled Cameryn to see her mother. In the mirror of Hannah’s features she didn’t see her own face, exactly, but an older version of herself, a Dorian Gray portrait in reverse. They shared the same high cheekbones and the identical large, dark eyes, the color of earth itself. Both of them were petite. Her mother, now forty-two, had kept her slender figure, her wiry frame. Gently curling hair that had only the beginnings of gray hung past her shoulders.

“Whether you realize it or not,” Hannah said, “you’ve become my muse. Before I came to Silverton, I thought I couldn’t paint anymore. Now I’m alive again. So, what have you been doing today?”

“Me? I had to work.”

“At the Grand?”

“No,” she answered carefully. “There was an accident. A boy died this morning.”

“Oh.” Her mother frowned. “That means you were working with your father.”

“Yes.”

Sighing, Hannah said, “Unfortunately, Patrick was always drawn to death. I never liked it. Truth be told, forensics is not my first choice for you as a career. I know it’s your passion, but there’s a whole world out there, beyond the grim. A doctor, maybe?”

“You sound like Mammaw.”

“I do? Well, I’m sure that will be the first and the last time that happens. Your grandmother and I never saw eye-to-eye. She always hated me.”

Cameryn’s skin tingled with little pinpricks of goose-flesh. Tentatively she asked, “Why?”

But her mother, as always, ignored the question. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like the fact that we’re together. I’m so happy now.” She returned to her painting. It was of an iris, with individual petals as big as her hand. Cameryn watched, unsure of her next move. She remembered that as a child she’d invented a fantasy mother, an angel-mom who’d scooped Cameryn into her arms to rain kisses on her head. The imaginary mother was so different from the flesh-and-blood woman now before her. Because she wanted it so much, Cameryn had been willing to play pretend, had become a partner in this false, manufactured intimacy. “I’ve always loved you,” Hannah had said that first night.

I’ve always loved you, too.
Cameryn had been hungry for it. But the closeness, she realized now, wasn’t genuine. How could you really love what you didn’t know?

Hannah dabbed paint on the edges of petals. The corners of her mouth lifted, ripples forming at the edges like a series of commas. “Cammie, sit down,” she said. “You’re just standing there. You’re making me nervous.”

A blue wing chair stood close to the easel, and Cameryn dropped into velvety cushions. The entire room had an overstuffed, plumped feel to it. The comforter was enveloped in eyelets, pillows had been tossed about, silk flowers bloomed from pots placed in every corner while curtains ballooned from the windows.

“Something has happened. I can sense it. Was it seeing the dead boy?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way,” Cameryn said, wary of how to begin. “I was bagging the vic’s—I mean, victim’s—property when I started thinking about how you never know when your time’s up. The kid was just driving along, listening to the radio, and then
bam!—
he was dead.”

“Is that what’s worrying you?” Hannah asked, amused. “You think I’m going to die? Is that why you’re so nervous? ”

“No, that’s not it.” Cameryn’s legs began to jiggle. She put her hands on her knees to stop them. “The thing is, you’ve been in Silverton two weeks and—”

“Three.”

“Three weeks.” She took a deep, wavering breath. “And I keep thinking that I still don’t know about my life. Or yours. From before, I mean. With Jayne and all of that.”

Her mother winced at the sound of the name. Cameryn could actually see Hannah’s muscles tighten beneath her smock. “That past is over for me. I want you to get to know the person I am right now.”

“But you can’t separate the two.”

“I’ve already told you how I feel. You need to respect my wishes.”

“Right. But that’s just the thing.
I
need to talk about it. I know it’s hard. I’ve got this puzzle of my life with huge pieces missing.” She felt a cold wave of disapproval emanating from her mother, so that right then Cameryn almost gave up. Had she not heard her father’s voice in the back of her mind—
Secrets were put in place to protect
you—
she might have turned back.
No,
she commanded herself. However impenetrable this ice wall seemed, she had to break through. “Just tell me the truth. What happened that day? When Jayne died. Is that why you left us?”

“Your father put you up to this.” Hannah loaded her brush with paint, her fingers trembling as she swirled the tip into a deep purple, so dark it seemed almost black. “It’s his way to get me out of town, to break us apart. He wants you to leave me.”

It took a moment for Cameryn to process this, since it was backward from what she’d expected. Hannah to leave Cameryn, that was his obvious plan. But how could it be the other way around?

“Before you came to Silverton, you told me everything about my life was a lie.”

“Not now, Cammie.”

“But if you won’t tell me what happened, then you’re lying to me, too.” Her words rushed into her throat so that she almost choked on them. “I thought I could trust you.”

Her mother was silent.

Large slashes of purple, from deep plum to lavender, had been topped with a shining bright center, a gold-yellow, like a ray from the sun. These she covered with a brushstroke. Her movements were harder now as the bristles made a thwacking sound on the canvas.

"Hannah?”

“I’m not ready.”

“This morning Dad and I had a . . . disagreement. It was about you. He told me secrets were put in place to protect me. He wouldn’t tell me what he meant.” Cameryn hesitated. Although she wasn’t as good at reading people as Lyric, she sensed she was on sensitive ground. “Dad said that you’ve changed the rules, and that if you don’t come clean, the deal is off.” She waited a beat. “What is he talking about? What deal?”

The paintbrush stopped an inch from the canvas as Hannah held her arm unmoving, like a maestro waiting to begin. Then . . . nothing. Not a movement, not a sound. Cameryn’s heart beat so loud she could hear it pulse in her ears, could feel her carotid artery flutter in her neck. Outside, someone laughed. She focused on that sound until it died away. “I didn’t know I even
had
a sister until you sent me that painting and the letter. Dad and Mammaw lied to me.”

“I never deceived you.”

“But you’re keeping secrets and that’s the same. Father John says you can tell a lie without saying a word.”

Her mother’s hand hovered in the air as if it were a masthead pointing the way to another land. Why wouldn’t Hannah speak again? Behind her, through the window, the mountain filled the frame all the way into the sky. Pure white snow had hidden everything, leaving the mountain featureless. It seemed as though, in the same way, her mother had been somehow erased. She’d gone away somewhere deep inside.

“Hannah?”

Her mother did not respond. In one last, desperate effort, Cameryn murmured, “I remember this dream I had, when I was little. It was about another girl. We were sitting in the gutter and I had a pretty pony named Cotton Candy and hers was blue and—somebody must have been hosing their driveway because there was a lot of water. And we were laughing, except then her pony floated away. Then the girl tried to take Cotton Candy, but I wouldn’t let her.”

The arm holding the brush drifted down into Hannah’s lap, leaving a paint stain on the leg of her jeans. It spread like a bruise.

“Was that Jayne? Did that really happen?” Cameryn asked. And then, when her mother refused to answer, she demanded, “Say something! ”

“I killed your sister.”

The words hung in the air.
Killed. Your sister.
Cameryn couldn’t take it in. “I’m sorry—what did you say?”

“I killed Jayne. I’m sure Patrick will be happy you know the truth at last.”

Cameryn registered her mother’s answer, but the wheels of her mind seized up.

“What . . . happened?” she finally whispered.

Her mother turned, her hair wrapped around her neck like a scarf. Everything was dead except the eyes. She fixed them on Cameryn, her expression embalmed. In a flat, emotionless voice she said, “I backed out of the driveway. You two were always playing in the gutter, but that day I didn’t see her. I felt the bump. I didn’t stop. The tire left a tread mark on her dress—the yellow one with daisies. When I got out of the car, I saw her head in the water. Your father called me a murderer.”

Cameryn didn’t want to hear any more. Shutting her eyes, she commanded her mother to stop, screaming the word inside where Hannah couldn’t hear.

“I’ve looked for girls ever since, trying to connect so I could remember. I’d see your faces everywhere—any girl with long hair, anyone who looked like they might need a mother. But even with all those strangers it was never the same. They can never be Jayne.”

Cameryn had thought she’d prepared herself for every possibility—but not this. Never this.

Slowly, Hannah stood, peeling off the smock, releasing it to the floor in a crumpled heap. She went to the bed. Squatting, she searched under it for a pair of cowboy boots, which she tugged on over bare feet.

“What are you doing?” Cameryn asked, rising from the chair.

“I need to go out for a while.”

“You’re not a murderer, Hannah. I don’t understand why my dad said those things. It was an accident!”

“You want the truth? All of it?”

BOOK: The Circle of Blood

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