Dark and Shallow Lies(7)

And I’m fighting it hard as hell right now. I’m fighting it so hard my fingers itch.

But I settle for asking a question.

“Do you feel her?”

Hart runs one hand over the stubble along his jawline and nods, then he takes another long, slow drag off that damn cigarette. Only this time, his hand is shaking something awful. It’s bad enough that I worry he’ll drop the cigarette in his lap and set himself on fire.

“Yeah.” There’s a long, slow, smoke-filled exhale. “I feel ’er all the time, Greycie. That’s the thing. I feel her every fuckin’ minute of every miserable day.”

“What do you feel?”

“Fear,” he says. “I don’t feel anything but fear.”

“I feel her, too,” I tell him.

He really does drop the cigarette then. And it lands in his lap, like I predicted. But it doesn’t set him on fire.

“Shit,” he mutters, and he knocks the cigarette into the bottom of the boat and grinds it out with the heel of his boot. “Jesus, Greycie. For real?”

He’s staring at me.

I hadn’t planned to tell him about the strange flashes I’ve been having. I hadn’t planned to tell anyone. I’ve never had the gift. And I’ve never wanted it.

I don’t want it now.

But I can’t hide this from him. Not from Hart.

“Yeah,” I say. “For real.”

“What do you feel?” he asks me.

“It’s like you said,” I tell him. “Nothing but fear.”





Hart and I both jump when the shuttle boat blasts its horn. It’s the last Saturday in May. A three-day weekend. Perfect weather. Hot. But not as suffocating as it will be in another few weeks. The people of La Cachette should do good business today.

Aside from running the Mystic Rose and doing her own readings, Honey also acts as a broker for all the other psychics and spiritualists in town. For a commission, of course. Day-tripping tourists get off the boat and pour into her shop first thing, looking to buy a cold bottle of water and maybe a postcard, and Honey gets them lined up with appointments all up and down the boardwalk. Advice about lovers. Energy cleansings. Conversations with dead pets. Whatever they’re in the mood for. It can get hectic, and I know she’s glad to have my help during the busy summer season.

Across the pond, Willie Nelson has dragged himself out of the muck, and he’s sunning in the long grass like he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the tourists. Or their money. And I swear,

Hart’s watching that alligator with this expression on his face that looks an awful lot like envy.

He scuffs at a rusty spot in the hull with the toe of one boot, then he turns to look at me. “Tell me what’s going on, Greycie. With you.” There’s a wariness in his voice that matches the deep worry in his hazel eyes. And now I’m wishing I hadn’t even mentioned it.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe nothing.”

“Dreams?” he asks, but I shake my head.

“Definitely not dreams. I’m wide awake.”

“So . . . like . . . what? Visions of some kind?”

“Not exactly. They’re just . . . flashes. You know?” This sounds so bizarre. Or at least it would in Little Rock. In La Cachette, this is what passes for normal conversation. “It’s like I’m seeing bits and pieces of that night through her eyes. Thinking what’s she’s thinking and feeling what she’s feeling. None of it makes sense, though. It’s all jumbled and out of order.”

Hart is digging dirt out from under the edges of his fingernails. He’s hunched over. Elbows resting on his knees. “But these flashes, you think they’re Elora?”

“I know they are.”

“What do you see? Exactly.” His voice is easy. But I don’t buy it. “Or feel? Or whatever.” His jaw is tight. Muscles taut.

Hart is afraid. He’s afraid of me. Of what I know. Of what I’m going to tell him. And I don’t want that kind of power. I’ve never wanted it.

Not over Hart.

Not over anyone.

“I’m not really sure,” I admit. “Dark. And water. The storm. That sudden rain.” I have to make myself say the next part. “She’s running from someone, I think. Somebody’s after her.” I hear Hart’s sharp intake of breath, and I hate myself for being the cause of it. “Mostly, I just feel that fear. Like you said. This awful fear that almost stops me breathing.”

Hart reaches for my hand. His fingers curl around mine. They’re rough and calloused. And they feel like home. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

“But I still think maybe she’s alive,” I say.

“Greycie –”

“No. Listen,” I insist. “In all those snatches or flashes or whatever, when they come to me, she’s always alive. She’s scared. Lost, maybe. Or hurt, even. I don’t know. But she’s always alive. I never see her . . .” I can’t say it. But Hart does.

“You never see ’er die.”

There are voices and footsteps up on the boardwalk, and Hart and I pull back from each other. He lets go of my hand, and I wipe my sweaty palm on my shorts. Could be tourists looking for Willie Nelson.