The Line (Witching Savannah #1)

The Line (Witching Savannah #1) Page 12

“I’m not through,” she said, determination putting lines on her forehead. Her knitted eyebrows exposed her cornflower blue eyes and made them seem somehow larger. “I couldn’t help you. Do you understand? I tried to heal you. Iris and Connor brought you to me before taking you to the hospital. It should have been easy. You had a jolt, but you’re young and strong and healthy, and I should have been able to heal you. Instead, I could have let you die.” The tears flowed heavily down her cheeks.

“I wasn’t hurt that bad!” I exclaimed. “Just knocked for a loop.”

“You were unconscious for days,” Ellen said.

It was true, helping me should have been a no-brainer for her. Out of my mother’s three siblings, I was most in awe of Ellen’s talents. I’d seen her stop bleeding cold and regulate the beat of a heart. Once I witnessed her bring someone back from the brink of death. I was scared to go near her for days after that. And maybe she had caught death’s attention by straddling the threshold between life and death for too long, because her own son and husband were killed in a traffic pileup a week later. I was certain that she blamed herself for what had happened. Nowadays she spent most of her time hiding from the sun with a cold glass of something strong in her hand.

“I don’t know what’s happened to me. I can barely patch up a scraped knee on my own these days,” Ellen continued. “You were in the hospital for a full day before I could locate your essence. Even then, I needed Maisie’s help to pull you back from your coma. But you wait and see; I’m going to get things back together. You have faith in me even if no one else will, okay, darlin’?”

“I do have faith in you.” This time she didn’t resist when I pulled her into my arms. I didn’t think the alcohol could be the only thing interfering with her powers, but I knew now was not the time to kick out any of Ellen’s supports.

“Will you walk me back into the house?” she asked. “I can’t face that bunch of buzzards on my own.” We took a few more steps, and she stopped again. “What do you think she wanted? Why did Ginny want to see you?”

“Honestly,” I lied, “I haven’t the darnedest.” We turned down Perry and headed home.

Folk usually chose to cross the street rather than passing directly in front of our house, an almost embarrassingly large, but still graceful, Victorian that took up the better part of the block. Maybe they crossed out of respect or fear, or maybe a century and a half of people doing so had carved some kind of psychic groove into the walkway. Which is why it was an entirely new experience to see a stranger sitting on the front steps.

“Adam Cook! Although it’s Detective Cook now, isn’t it?” Ellen addressed the man. A policeman. I knew without asking that he was there to interview me. I’d been expecting this conversation, but I had hoped that the police would find Ginny’s killer before I was forced to relive the morning I found her body. Unrealistic, I knew, but it would neither be the first nor last time I fell prey to foolish optimism.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” the officer said, standing and taking Ellen’s hand. “Thank you for remembering. It’s good to see you again.” Even after stepping down onto the sidewalk, he towered over the both of us. Mixed African American, American Indian, and Caucasian blood played in his handsome features. A high forehead, straight nose, and nearly cinnamon skin came together in an extremely eye-pleasing way.

“Oliver is going to be so pleased to see you,” Ellen said, then remembered herself. “Good heavens, don’t tell me you were left out here on the doorstep! Did no one respond when you rang the bell?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. There was a response. I was kindly asked inside to wait, but honestly there was so much…” he searched for a word and settled on “ ‘activity’ going on inside, I thought it would be better to wait out here and enjoy the morning air. I do hope to pay Oliver a visit before he heads back to California, but I’m afraid I’m here on official business.” His intelligent, tea-colored eyes flashed over to me. “Miss Taylor,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and about. I saw you in the hospital while you were still out, and I have to admit that I’m amazed by your recovery.”

“Well, we Taylors are a hardy stock,” Ellen responded for me.

“Yes, ma’am, I know that for a fact from personal experience,” he said, but his lips arced into an embarrassed smile, and he quickly changed the subject. “Miss Taylor, would you feel well enough to talk with me about the incident?”

I made the connection between his embarrassment and his history with my uncle. Detective Cook had obviously been another one of Oliver’s conquests. I almost blushed myself at the thought of the two of them together.

“Sure,” I responded. To my surprise, I was a bit relieved that the discussion I’d been dreading would soon be over. Maybe telling the detective my story would be enough to exorcise it from my dreams. “I can’t say that I’ll be able to help much, but I’ll do my best.”

“Fine,” he said, smiling, his manner clearly intended to put me at ease.

“Then I must insist that you come inside,” Ellen interjected brusquely, her furrowed brow betraying that she was offended. “We do not discuss such matters on the doorstep.”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. I apologize for my tactlessness,” Cook responded.

As Ellen ushered us into the house, Maisie caught my eye. She wore an old white sundress, and her golden hair was knotted into a careless bun, but even so casually attired, my sister was one of the most breathtaking beauties Savannah had ever known. She pointed almost imperceptibly to the ceiling, and I knew she was telling me to meet her in our not-so-secret secret meeting place, a linen closet in the back corner of the house’s uppermost floor.

Ellen guided Detective Cook and me into the library and shooed away the members of the extended family who had set up shop there. Cook stopped a moment and took the room in. Ceiling high shelves with ancient leather-bound books lined the length of the western wall; the eastern wall was taken up by two sets of French doors that opened out onto the house’s side porch. The northern wall was devoted to an oversized fireplace that we rarely lit. A painting of my grandmother hung over its mantel. It was a beautiful room, but I spent so much time in it that I’d stopped noticing. Cook’s admiration prompted me to see it through new eyes.

“I should get Iris and Connor,” Ellen said. “They can fill in any blanks that Mercy might have.”

“No, thank you,” Cook replied with a little too much vehemence. “I would rather talk alone with Miss Taylor, if that is all right with you?” he said, looking at me for agreement. “If I understand correctly, you are shortly to turn twenty-one, and this is just a casual, informal discussion. You are certainly not suspected of having been involved in your aunt’s, or great-aunt’s that is, assault.” He chose the most benign terms: incident, assault.

“I believe the phrase is ‘cold-blooded murder.’ And yes, I am fine with discussing what I saw without ‘adult supervision,’ ” I responded. Ellen’s eyes warned me not to reveal too much. Too much about what? I didn’t know who killed Ginny. Hell, I wasn’t even quite sure what had hit me and turned out the lights. “It’s okay, Aunt Ellen. We’ll be fine.”