Dark and Shallow Lies(13)

That’s one of the things Elora and I went round and round about last summer. She couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and get the hell out of here. And I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen and finally come home. Full-time. I imagined myself helping out in the shop, then running it on my own. Someday.

Honey is still watching me. She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, and I somehow find the courage to ask the question I couldn’t ask her earlier.

“Has she reached out to you?” I hear the fear in my voice. “Elora’s ghost? Or spirit or whatever?”

Honey chuckles a little. “Oh, goodness, no, Sugar Bee. Why would Elora want to talk to an old lady like me?” Then her voice turns serious. “Besides, if Elora has crossed over, she may not have the energy to reach out to anyone yet. Sometimes it takes a while for spirits to gather themselves. And even then, they may only have the strength to communicate with one person, so they have to be choosy about which channels they open up.” Honey is quiet for a moment before she goes on. “It would make much more sense for Elora to contact someone she was close to in life. Someone she already had a deep connection with.”

I know she’s talking about me, but I’m not ready to share those strange flashes with Honey yet.

“Did you know Mackey had a death warning?” I ask. “About Elora? The night she disappeared?” I shiver a little in the air-conditioning. “Death in the water.”

Honey sighs and pulls the blanket over me. “I heard about that,” she admits. “But a death warning is just that. It’s a warning. That’s all. It means death is close by. But it’s not a sure thing. Not always.”

I remember an old story about Mackey’s uncle knocking on the front door one morning to give Honey’s first husband, my grandfather, a death warning that had come to him over breakfast. Death from below, he’d told them. And sure enough, my grandfather had been bitten by a huge water moccasin that very afternoon while he was out hunting. He nearly died that night. But come morning, he was still hanging on. He ended up losing his big toe, but he didn’t lose his life. Not until a heart attack took him a couple years later. And nobody had warned him about that.

Honey’s hand is still in my hair. It’s making me so sleepy. I can hardly keep my eyes open, and an old nightmare comes creeping in around the edges of my consciousness.

“Do you remember anything about Dempsey Fontenot?”

Honey tucks the blanket around my shoulders. “Well, I never knew much about him, to tell you the truth. He lived way out there all alone. Kept to himself, mostly.” She pauses, like she’s trying to choose her words. Being careful. “He had some odd ways. There were stories . . .” She stops and smooths my hair again. “I don’t guess folks cared much for him, even before what happened.”

“Do you think he got Elora?” The words come out thick and sleep-coated. Heavy in my mouth. “Like he got Ember and Orli?”

“No. I don’t think so,” Honey says, and for a long while, there’s only the hum of the air conditioner in the window and the soft sound of Sweet-N-Low snoring beside me. By the time she adds the next part, I’m almost too far gone to hear it. “I don’t imagine poor Dempsey Fontenot ever got anybody.”





When I wake up, the light coming in the windows is different. I’ve slept the whole afternoon. Which means I’ve missed lunch. And I’m starving.

I hear Honey humming to herself in the kitchen while she makes dinner. “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. She promises it won’t be long, so I head out front to the steps to wait.

Five thirty. The shuttle boat is blowing its horn for the final upriver trip of the day. The last of the tourists are heading back to Kinter, where they’ll climb into their cars and drive north to New Orleans for a night out on Bourbon Street.

At the river dock, right across from the bookstore, Sera and Sander are helping their mama pack her little bottles and charms into boxes. They finish loading everything into their boat, and Delphine wanders over to chat with one of the fishermen who’s just come back in for the day.

I wave to Sera and Sander, and they exchange one of those looks they have. Then Sera digs something out of her backpack, and they start in my direction. As soon as I see the artist’s sketchbook tucked under Sera’s arm, something that tastes like dread tickles at the back of my throat.

Sera and Sander are psychic artists. The dead communicate with them, like they do Honey. Only it’s different. The twins draw things. People. Places. Objects. Images that come into their heads out of nowhere.

A lot of weekends they sit out there on the dock with their mama, and for twenty bucks they’ll sketch the exact place your lost wedding ring is hiding, or a perfect spitting-image likeness of your dead son or your grandmother – people Sera and Sander have never even laid eyes on. I’ve seen folks clutch those drawings to their chests and sob. And when that happens, they always tip extra.

“We have something to show you,” Sera says, and the two of them join me on the steps. Sander does his best to give me a reassuring smile. “We didn’t say anything earlier because we haven’t told Hart yet. Or any of the others.”

“Okay,” I say, even though I don’t like the idea of keeping secrets. Especially from Hart.

Sera flips open the sketchbook, and I stare at the shape drawn in charcoal. “You recognize it?” she asks, and I nod.