Taryn's students, for the most part, were extremely talented. What they lacked in technique they made up for in enthusiasm. She'd divided them into two groups: those who were in the cla.s.s for the art and those who were there for the history. The artists simply loved sketching and drawing; their subject matter didn't necessarily matter. The other group might not have been as talented but had a pa.s.sion for the history and architecture she talked about. They didn't care that the buildings Taryn had them draw weren't mansions or historically relevant-they were just as happy to sketch a dilapidated farmhouse as they were the governor's mansion. These were the students after Taryn's own heart. Her love of history had come before her love of drawing and painting. She was l.u.s.ting after ramshackle American four squares and the sad little neglected bungalows in Germantown (they'd held happy, proud families at one time) before she knew anything about shading.

Word had spread about her "other" talent and even though the students were too polite, or too nervous, to ask her about it she could feel their questions hanging in the air. She wondered how many of them knew she'd been lured to the town for reasons other than to teach. She was faintly embarra.s.sed by the fact, something she'd cried to Matt about. "Hush," he'd scolded her. "You're a good artist and a good teacher. They're all getting something out of your cla.s.s. Who cares why you originally came?"

But now she felt like she should address the issue.

"Hey guys," she began once they were all seated. Taryn was wearing a long wool skirt, tall black boots, and a black leather jacket over a red sweater. She'd taken the time to pull herself together and even applied a little bit of blush and mascara. Living with Matt was starting to make her a little sloppy, especially since he seemed to love and want her no matter what she looked like. If she didn't watch it, she'd start buying flannel pajama bottoms at the Dollar General and wearing them out in public with her house shoes. "I need to talk to you all for a second before we get started today. I'm anxious to look at everyone's pictures but I kind of have something to say first."

She had their full attention and felt on the spot as they turned their eyes to her, their inquisitive faces making her blush.

"So I know some of you know that in addition to my job I also, er, work with the paranormal." Make it normal, she thought. Make it sound like just part of the job. "I was asked to help out with a case while I was here and so some of my time is going to be devoted to that. I don't know what you've read or heard but if you have any questions, I just wanted to let you know it's okay to ask me."

It didn't take long before they started flying.

"Are you looking for Cheyenne Willoughby?"

"Have you seen any ghosts while you're here?"

"Can you talk to the ghosts?"

"Have you ever worked as a psychic for the police department?"

"How long have you known you're a psychic?"

Now feeling overwhelmed, Taryn tried to answer them as they came but there were just too many. Holding her hand up, she quieted them down and laughed. "Okay, okay. Let me try something else. First of all, I am not a psychic. I can't see the future, never have. Most of what I do is seen through my camera. Miss Dixie is the one with the real talent, I guess; she can see the past. At first I thought it was just her but now I realize it's me and she's more like the..."

"Conduit?" one of the more vocal guys volunteered.

"Yes, thank you. The conduit. I don't always need her, but she helps me see the bigger picture I guess. And, as some of you know, I am here trying to help with Cheyenne Willoughby's disappearance, although so far I haven't been able to add anything constructive. As for talking to ghosts, I have tried talking to them but haven't had any response back. I still think spirits might be leftover energy and not real ent.i.ties with the capability of communicating."

"I don't know," a quiet little blonde in the front stammered. "I mean, when my papaw died I saw his ghost about a week later. I spoke to him and told him I loved and missed him. He told me he loved me, too, and then he disappeared."

Although n.o.body snickered or poked fun at her, she shrank back into her chair as though the laughter would soon follow her confession.

"I've talked to other people who have been able to communicate with spirits," Taryn revealed carefully. "But so far I am not one of those people."

At the risk of turning the cla.s.s into a paranormal session, she tried to wrap things up. "I guess, the thing is, you might be hearing a little more about me. I hope that doesn't change your impression of me or make you freaked out about being in the cla.s.s. I promise I'm not a weird-o." The students laughed, a sound that cut the tension. "Okay, well, maybe I am a little bit but I'm not a freak, and if there's anything you want to talk about then please find me after cla.s.s or email me and I'll do the best I can."

As a previous a.s.signment, she'd asked the students to go around the county and take pictures of their favorite old homes and buildings. Each one got a couple of minutes to pull their image up on her laptop so she could show the whole cla.s.s on the board. They then got the chance to talk about why they'd taken the shot and what drew them to the building.

When everyone was finished, Taryn flipped on the lights and stood in front of the group again. "All right, those were great. Now, your next a.s.signment is to draw one of the buildings you saw today. Only, you are going to have to draw it from memory, the best you can, since you won't have the picture in front of you. I want to test your imaginations, memory, and creativity. Don't worry, there is no right or wrong way to do this," she added when a few groans erupted around the room.

Emma took her time and waited for everyone to leave before approaching Taryn. "Hey," she smiled. Taryn coveted the beautiful white pea coat she wore. She knew she spilled too much and had hips that were too wide to be able to carry off such a thing. "How you holding up?"

"Okay," Taryn shrugged. "Better now that my friend's back in town." There was no way she was going to tell her about the nightly visitor she'd had.

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. Any news on who it might have been?" The concern on Emma's face was touching and Taryn felt warmth at the young woman's compa.s.sion.

"Not yet. Probably just someone who thought n.o.body was there," Taryn answered. Of course, the lamp was on downstairs.

"Or someone looking to score," Emma declared. "The drug problem is getting really bad here. When I was a kid it was all about the booze. Some people smoked pot but most of us couldn't afford it. We were lucky to score a Marlboro. Then it was prescription pills. OxyContin, Percocet's, s.h.i.t like that."

"What happened?" Taryn asked with interest. "Has it moved on to something else?"

"Yeah," Emma scoffed. "Heroin. Cocaine. Used to be cocaine was just stuff rich people or celebrities did. You know, very 1980s. But then they started cracking down on the prescription pills, making them harder to get. Shut down the pain clinics, made it impossible for doctors to prescribe them, even to people who needed them. My mom? She had a hysterectomy and they sent her home with Tylenol. And not the kind with codeine."

"That's usually the way it happens," Taryn agreed. "The people who need it can't get it and those who don't need it and abuse it still find a way."

"Yeah, well, they didn't find a way to get it; they just moved on to something else," Emma explained. "Now it's heroin and cocaine. They got these drug runners coming up from Florida and down from Detroit. It's not even that much. After school job, allowance? A little money goes a long way now and it don't take much to get you hooked. Some people still do crystal meth, but that s.h.i.t's scary. Girls around here don't like what it can do to your teeth, to your skin. They think heroin is safer."

"Nothing with a needle is safe," Taryn mumbled. "They're playing Russian roulette with their lives."

"Tell me about it," Emma replied. "We had two heroin deaths last spring and our county hadn't had that in almost twenty years. But I wasn't actually up here to get all depressed and talk drugs. I wanted to invite you to a party," she offered brightly.

"Oh, yeah, when?" It had been a long time since someone invited Taryn to a party. The invitations dropped off after Andrew died. Someone who sat in the corner of the room or parked themselves by the buffet table all night and didn't socialize wasn't a person most people wanted around, especially when booze made her a downer.

"It's going to be at the farm, you know, the one you're staying at? And it's on Halloween night. Should be fun."

A feeling of unease ran down Taryn's spine. What was it her grandmother used to say? A goose walked over her grave. "But I thought Cheyenne's uncle said there wasn't going to be anything else out there?"

"Yeah, well, Eric and I persuaded him. And Thelma said it was okay," she added hurriedly. "We thought a bonfire, a cookout, some costumes, and live music? It's what people need around here. And, of course, we want you to come. And for you to bring your boyfriend."

Taryn didn't correct her about Matt. She didn't know how he'd feel about it. He wasn't into loud parties with alcohol and dancing. Matt was more of a quiet dinner for two and live jazz, twirling her around a dance floor kind of guy. Still... as morbid as it felt to attend a party at the last place Cheyenne was seen, it might not hurt to be around others who knew her.

"Yeah, we'll come," she declared. "In two weeks, right? I guess I need to start looking for a costume."

"What do you think? s.e.xy Eve or s.e.xy witch?" Taryn held both costumes in front of Matt but his lack of response had her lowering her arms and rolling her eyes. The dressing room lines were long and she was already agitated. "How about s.e.xy Yoda?"

"What?" he asked, confused. His eyes were glued to his phone. "Sorry. I'm just trying to answer some emails."

"You didn't have to come with me," she reminded him. "You could've stayed back at the house."

"Oh no, it's fine," he insisted. "I like getting out. I'm just really behind."

She knew that, of course, and knew he was behind because of her. Not only had he taken a bunch of time off from work, something he never did, but he'd rushed back when the intruder came in on her and that had thrown him even further off course. "I'm sorry," she apologized, feeling ridiculous for toting around s.e.xy Halloween costumes when, for all Taryn knew, his job could be on the line. He was there to help her work, sort of, and there she was trying to find a s.l.u.tty costume to keep in line with a bunch of teenagers.

"It's okay. I'm enjoying myself. I don't know about the party, though." His forehead burrowed in concern and he began biting his lower lipa sure sign he was feeling uncomfortable and didn't know how to vocalize his feelings. "I'm just not into getting out with a bunch of people I don't know and spending the evening with them."

"I'm not either usually," she agreed. "But she asked and it does sound like fun. Besides, I might learn something."

"I guess I could make some chocolates. Or bread. You think they like sourdough?" he asked hopefully.

If the party was anything like the ones she'd heard about in high school, but had never actually attended, then she was certain there'd be more making out and drinking than eating from a buffet. But that was something she'd have to work up to with him gradually. "I think chocolate might be a good idea," she offered. "Or you could do a dip and chips. Everyone likes those."

"Okay," he agreed, a light turning back on in his eyes. "And a bottle of wine?"

Or a box, she muttered to herself.

"We don't have to do too much, okay?" she repeated gently. "These are young adults who probably just want to listen to music and dance. Get into some trouble. We're going to be the old fuddy duddies hanging out because they were too polite to not ask us."

"Are you going to drink?" he asked with honest concern. "You know how alcohol has been affecting you recently. It might make your headaches and joint pain worse."

"I don't get that," she mused. "That gla.s.s of wine I had the other night with dinner was nothing compared to what I've done in the past and, yet, I felt like I had a major hangover. Do you think that's why I..."

"Pa.s.sed out?" he offered. "Maybe. You said you were feeling a little dizzy earlier."

"I was going to say see Cheyenne's ghost but I guess pa.s.sing out could have been because of the wine, too. Matt, do you think maybe there's something wrong with my brain?" The idea had been troubling her but considering how she was feeling before Cheyenne's spirit, or whatever it was, took a little stroll on all fours to her bed she couldn't discount the notion.

"What do you mean?"

"My brain. The headaches? The dizziness? The tingling I've been feeling in my arms and my pain? Do you think there might be something wrong with my brain and that's why I am the way I am?" Tears p.r.i.c.ked at the corner of her eyes and she did her best to fight them back. Breaking down in the middle of the old Wal-Mart that had temporarily been converted into a seasonal Halloween store would not be cool.

"What do you mean 'the way you are'?" he asked gently.

"The ghosts, the feelings. What I see through Miss Dixie. What if I am not sensitive or I'm not seeing or feeling things at all? At least nothing paranormal. What if I just have a brain tumor?"

"Oh, sweetie, my little love,' he patted her affectionately on the cheek. "You do need to get yourself to the doctor. I think there might be something wrong that could easily be fixed. But what you've been going through with the spirits has nothing to do with your physical health. Unless you're bringing me into it by some sort of weird ma.s.s hallucination deal."

Taryn felt a wave of relief wash over her, followed by another nagging concern of finding a physician. "But, haven't you noticed things are different here?"

"How so?"

"I'm seeing more, I guess you could say. Or hearing more. It's not just in the photos anymore. I feel like Cheyenne has found me and is trying to talk to me. Or something. Why have things changed?"

"Didn't you know?" he asked nonchalantly, picking at an invisible piece of lint on her black sweater.

"Know what?"

"It's because I'm here."

"Oh Matt," Taryn giggled, giving him a slight push on the shoulder.

"I'm serious," he vowed and she could see he was. Her smile faded. "I've always known we're stronger together, that we can create our own energy. You're my soulmate, Taryn; together, we're a force. The other world knows it, too."

Chapter 16.

Thelma, at the risk of sounding weird, I want to ask you something."

Taryn was sitting with Cheyenne's mother in her sunroom. The bright October sun offered warmth through the windows, although the day was deceivingly cold. The temperature was hovering around 35 degrees and the weather man had even called for snow flurries, although n.o.body thought it was cold enough to stick.

"What is it, dear?"

Taryn fumbled with her mug of hot chocolate and delicately wiped at the lipstick smudged she'd left behind. Elvis' face from the 1968 comeback special smiled at her every time she took a drink. Thelma, on the other hand, was drinking from a chipped mug that boasted an image of two cartoon girls with the words "A Sister is a Forever Friend" inscribed on the side.

"Have you ever felt like Cheyenne was trying to communicate with you in some way?" It was a sensitive question because, no matter how Taryn phrased it, it alluded to the idea Thelma's daughter was dead.

Rather than looking upset, however, Thelma c.o.c.ked her head and studied her drink. Finally, she answered. "There are times when I feel like she is near me. I've prayed to G.o.d she would give me a sign, either way, and let me know she's okay. I've seen her in my dreams, I've even heard her voice when I was almost asleep. But nothing concrete. I wish I could. Why, have you?"

She asked this last bit hurriedly, with a dash of hope Taryn found sad and pitiful. She couldn't tell her about the vision in her bedroom; that wasn't the Cheyenne Thelma would want to know about. But maybe she could offer her something.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "I mean, I don't know how much of it is Cheyenne and how much of it is just my over-active imagination because she's on my mind. But in my first few days here I heard a woman scream. Before I even knew about your daughter. And I've heard it since then, too."

"But Cheyenne's not on the farm," Thelma protested.

"I know. And that's what I don't understand. Maybe I am just picking up on her energy there. I've dreamed about her a lot, too. I can't tell you what that meansif she's trying to communicate with me or I'm just wrapped up in her story. I mean, in her life." Taryn corrected herself since, to Thelma, this was not a story but her daughter's life they were speaking about.

"It would make sense to get a feel for her in the cabin," Thelma agreed. "She loved it there. Used to go with us and stay when it was hunting and fishing season. She'd take her books and read, play with the dogs, just kind of run ragged. Then, when she got older, she didn't care for it as much. You know how teenagers are. She didn't like staying out so far away from her friends. The last couple times we went she stayed with friends."

"I'm enjoying being out there," Taryn a.s.sured her. "The break-in excluded, of course."

Thelma leaned forward and, in a conspirator's whisper, confided in Taryn. "I haven't been sleeping real good lately. Been staying up late, sometimes all night. I found this website, see, where they post pictures of people who have been found dead but they don't know who they are? Well, they ain't real pictures; they're artists' renderings of the bodies. I look every night, going over the images and ages and heights of all them girls. They've got 'em from all over the country. I keep thinking I might see her. Maybe she went to another state and someone found her and she's out there, laying in a morgue, and n.o.body knows who she is."

The awfulness of it struck Taryn cold. The idea of Thelma, wrapped up in her housecoat, glued to her computer night after night, staring at images of dead bodies, hoping and not hoping one of them might be her daughter was horrible.

Taryn could hear the front door open and what sounded like the stomping of boots on the laminate floor. "My husband's home," Thelma explained. "Jeff. Excuse him. He works foundations and always comes home covered head to toe in mud and concrete."

A few moments later, a middle-aged man with a stubby beard streaked with gray and a paunch belly walked out to the sunroom. He'd taken off his boots and his once-white socks were dingy and gray. A big toe poked out on the right side. Like Thelma had said, he was covered from top to bottom in muck, but he was a nice-looking man and had a friendly smile.

"How's it going over there? Any more trouble?"

"No, it's been quiet," Taryn replied.

"Your man back there with you now?"

Taryn reddened at the question, embarra.s.sed. "Yes, he's there with me."

"That's good. You don't need to be staying out there by yourself. Need yourself a gun, too," he grunted, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Taryn badly wanted to point out that she'd lived by herself for a long time, traveled alone, and had spent more time in the isolated countryside than in the city. And then there was the fact she was more masculine than Matt and could probably kick someone's a.s.s before he could. But that wasn't the point. In his own way, he was showing concern.

"Taryn just asked me if I'd heard or seen Cheyenne's ghost since she disappeared," Thelma explained.

Taryn opened her mouth to protest, since that's not exactly what she'd asked, but Jeff waved her off. "Naw, can't say I have. Wish I did. When she up and left I ain't seen hide nor hair since. Not a trace of her. Like she disappeared off the face of the earth. I still think she's going to come back. I have to, you know."