Taryn used her time to try and study the man whom, by some accounts, Cheyenne hadn't particularly liked. He was friendly, likable, but what would it have been like to live with him? Was he really that tough on her? Was there something more? Had she really watched too many episodes of Law and Order?

"You know, some people didn't like the way we handled things," he continued.

"What do you mean?"

Jeff shrugged and a cloud of dust fell from his shoulder. "Some folks thought we ought to be more active, get on that Nancy Grace show or talk to Oprah."

"We tried," Thelma cut in. "We contacted all the big shows. n.o.body cared about a girl from the middle of nowhere in Georgia. Never even got any replies."

"We did some TV interviews, but I did the talking. Some folks thought it ought to have been Thelma here pleading for her little girl to come home." He spat this out, disgusted. "Said if there was a kidnapper the mama would appeal to them more. But like h.e.l.l I was going to put her in front of the TV like that. When we married I vowed to take care of her. And I meant it. She was in no shape to talk to reporters. I'm the closest thing that girl had to a daddy. It was my responsibility."

"I wasn't doing too good at the time," Thelma confessed, gazing up at Jeff with veneration. "They gave me this medicine that was supposed to take the edge off. Made me feel like a zombie is what it did. Some people said I was on drugs. And I was! I had to be, just to get through the days. He was doing me a favor by taking over."

"When it's not happening to them, everybody's got an opinion on how you should be handling things," Jeff hissed. "Unless they've been through it themselves they can kiss my a.s.s."

"I know what you mean," Taryn agreed, trying to break the tension. "When my husband died people kept telling me I needed to move on, get out more, do this and that. And that was just a few weeks after it happened. My real grief took months to kick in, almost a year. Before, I was just in shock, a zombie."

Jeff nodded, relief on his face. "Yeah, well, you get it then. You never know how you're gonna act until you're in the situation. And we'd never knowed anyone to lose a child before, at least not like this. We didn't know what to do or how to act."

After he went off to get changed, Thelma turned back to Taryn. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "He gets worked up a little. Some people even think he had something to do with her missing. But I don't believe it. They might not have seen eye to eye regularly but he loved her. He'd never hurt her."

Taryn had no idea what to say. The more she thought about it, the more awful it sounded. There in the sunroom, she was surrounded by memories of Cheyenne. Pictures on the wall painted her life, from the row of school photos to the senior portraits of her standing in a field of daisies, her red cowboy boots gleaming in the morning sun. Cheyenne might not have been dead, but Taryn was in her tomb and everyone around her in a wake they hadn't yet left.

Although it was chilly, and growing colder by the minute, Taryn sat on the ground in the middle of the farmhouse's front yard. The gra.s.s was dry, but the cold earth below it still managed to numb her bottom and legs. The wind whipped icy fingers around her face and down the back of her neck. Her feet, always cold regardless of temperature, ached from the walk over. Her hands, snug in gloves, were about the only things that still had feeling left.

The old house set stoically behind her, watching her. The air was still and quiet. In just two weeks the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking of gla.s.s and plastic would fill the air. It would be a whole lot like what Cheyenne had heard on her last night. Would Miss Dixie pick up on anything then? Would it feel like recreating that fateful party? Taryn didn't know.

If I do have something, she thought to herself, then let me feel it now. She sat cross-legged, her hands on her legs, palms up. Willing herself to be open to any energy surrounding her, she took deep breaths, in and out, tried to clear her mind. Maybe it was true that being with Matt made her stronger but it didn't negate the fact that whatever she saw and felt originated in her. If the trees or gra.s.s or house knew anything, they weren't giving up their secrets. The fire pit was dry as a bone, lifeless. The last fire it had seen was a long time ago. The wood pile was stacked and ready to go, waiting for slaughter. There was nothing around her offering any clues for Cheyenne.

"I'm losing it," she finally giggled when nothing happened. "I'm freezing my a.s.s off and losing my d.a.m.n mind."

Nothing had ever happened to her by sheer will before; she didn't know why she expected this time to be any different. Still, she'd tried.

As she was rising to her feet, the sound of the screen door behind her slapping against the frame with a "bang" startled her. She nearly lost her footing and tripped a little before catching her balance and straightening up. When she turned around, she half-expected to see someone standing on the front porch, watching her. But the porch and doorway were empty; the front door was closed, too. It was only the wind making the screen thrash back and forth.

But then it happened again, only this time, as she watched, the door opened slowly, deliberately. It held itself open for a few seconds before, once again, banging shut with a force. Maybe it was the wind, and maybe it wasn't. Taryn couldn't be sure something was trying to send her a message but since it was the only thing she had to go on, she turned Miss Dixie on and aimed her at the house.

A few clicks later and she was studying her LCD screen, hoping she might have caught something but not holding her breath. She'd taken dozens of pictures of the farmhouse and had so far been unlucky. This time, though, she'd found something.

While it was still daylight now, in the picture it was nighttime. Blaze from a fire cast shadows on the front of the house and she caught these pretty vividly with the camera. The house was dark, except for a faint light glowing from the downstairs left window. A candle, maybe? Flashlight? It wasn't the shadows or the light she focused on, however. Standing in the doorway, peering out at her with the same pale eyes she'd seen at her bedside, was Cheyenne. Only this time she was very much alive.

Chapter 17.

Taryn was depressed.

She'd ordered a new Allison Moorer CD off Amazon and was excited to see it had arrived in the mail. When she'd taken it inside, though, she'd found Matt blaring Beck and dancing in the kitchen, baking bread. Ordinarily Taryn would've shrugged it off, taken her laptop upstairs, and done her own thing. She'd have been thankful that there was actually someone in the house baking bread.

But for some reason today it just ticked her off.

Except for brief periods in the car when she was on her own, and that wasn't often since Matt usually drove her in, she barely had a minute to herself. He dominated the radio in the car and, because he took charge of the kitchen and cleanup, he also dominated the musical entertainment segment of the show in the house. She hadn't been able to crank up Allison or Tift Merrit or Iris Dement or any of her women in weeks. And she depended on music to keep her going, to be her soundtrack to her work. She might not have possessed a musical bone in her body and couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but music was important to her. When she did try to listen to hers, Matt would politely put on a pair of earbuds and go about his business. And that p.i.s.sed her off.

Then there was the matter of the kitchen.

It was no secret: Taryn didn't like to cook. However, just because she didn't like doing it didn't mean she couldn't do it. She was actually pretty good at it. After being on her own for so long, though, she'd just gotten used to eating out. Most boxed items and packages vegetables were too much for one person and she didn't like to waste.

It sounded whiney to complain, and she loved that Matt cooked for her, but she hated feeling like he thought she couldn't. She listened to him ramble on about new recipes and new cookbooks and new things he'd discovered. She even listened to him brag about how his blueberry cobbler was the best he'd ever had and how he could replicate any food he tasted at a restaurant.

Sometimes, she didn't want to eat at home. Sometimes she didn't care that he could make O'Charley's brown bread in his own kitchen. Sometimes she just wanted to go to O'Charley's!

It was on the tip of her tongue to storm into the kitchen, announce that she didn't like Sade and her weird music and that she was going to order a pizza. But that was wrong and weird and it would hurt Matt's feelings.

It wasn't about him, anyway. It was about her. Taryn craved people and attention like anyone else but she also worked best alone and had gotten used to being on her own. She just didn't know how to deal with always having someone around. Andrew was different. They'd been so much alike in so many different ways. Although he was much more sociable than her, he'd been perfectly content on his, too. They often spent their afternoons in different parts of the house, working on their individual projects, or even in the same room without speaking, alone in their comfortable silence. She figured that eventually she and Matt would be like that, too. They were still trying to find their footing.

Her bedroom balcony was cool and inviting. Now that the morning rain had cleared up she was able to set up her easel. People called her talented when it came to her art, but she didn't feel like it came easily to her; she worked hard at it and had to keep up with it or else she'd lose whatever skills she had.

In one of her college art cla.s.ses her old professor, regionally acclaimed artist Ron Isaacs, had showered praise on a sketching she did of a live model. It wasn't very good. In fact, she'd started over and changed things so many times that she'd actually made a hole in her sketch pad and had charcoal up to her elbows. Sheila Griggs, the student on the other side of her, was having no such problems. Her sketch was beautifully rendered, had taken her half the time it took Taryn, and was so realistic Taryn thought you could practically balance a gla.s.s on the model's perfectly apple-shaped rump.

Still, Dr. Isaacs had praised Taryn's work and not Sheila's. Indeed, he'd even criticized Sheila's work, something that shocked Taryn so much she'd nearly made another hole in her paper.

Later, as she was packing up to leave, she'd overheard Sheila arguing with the wired-hair, quiet professor. "I don't understand," she'd whined, on the verge of tears. Taryn knew a good cry coming on when she heard one. "I worked really hard and my drawing was good. Taryn didn't even finish hers and it has all kinds of mistakes. Why did she get a better grade than me?"

Taryn had to admit, her sympathy for the budding artist dropped a couple of notches after that but, for curiosity's sake, moved slowly. She wanted to hear his reply, too.

"Your rendering is superior," he'd replied in that slow, steady way of his. His bushy eyebrows rose in an arch, the white threads of hair in them shining in the overhead light. He was so frumpy in his wrinkled khakis, oversized sweat shirt, and cheap loafers with a hole in them that the average person would have never thought his last painting sold for five thousand dollars. "But your work, your work was lacking."

"I don't get it. What's the difference?"

Taryn wondered that as well.

"Miss Magill's work shows promise. She is very good, but she has to work at it. Yours is very good and you know that. Therefore, you do not try. In the long run, I have much respect for the person who constantly works to achieve better. To work so hard at capturing the vision in their mindthat is more than technical skill; that is pa.s.sion."

Taryn still worked hard at what she did and never felt like a painting was completed.

There was a slight breeze outside and it ruffled what few leaves were left on the skeletal trees. She'd been able to hear Sade until she shut the door and then that sound, as well as all the house sounds, dissipated and she was left with the outside noises. Taryn had barely finished setting up her easel, however, when the other music started.

At first, it sounded like the radio. The music was tw.a.n.gy with a distinctive electric guitar. It could've been Dwight Yoakam's "Fast As You" and she found herself humming along with it, even growling to the "Aw, sookie" part. Maybe Matt's changed his mind, Taryn thought to herself as she poured in a tiny bit of linseed oil. If she'd known he was going to put in Dwight (what that man did to a pair of jeans) she might've stayed inside.

The music began fading out, however, and there was a stretch of uncomfortable silence that made Taryn's mind start to wander again. To ward off any negative of unpleasant thoughts she began singing to herself, an old folk song about blackbirds her grandmother used to sing to her. But then the music started up, this time a woman. She would've known Patty Loveless' "Timber I'm Falling in Love" anywhere. Matt must've found a cla.s.sics station, she mused. The volume was turned up loud, loud enough for Taryn to catch an occasional lyric, and the comforting sound of a familiar song and voice she'd known all her life cut through the chill of the afternoon and warmed her bones.

When she grew a little thirsty, though, and started back inside to grab her a drink she stopped in her tracks. Sade was still blaring below; all traces of Dwight and Patty were gone.

"Well that's weird," she muttered aloud.

In an experiment, she closed the bedroom door and stepped back out onto the balcony. Sade stopped, Patty returned, this time singing "Lonely Too Long."

Shrugging, Taryn went back to work, forgetting about her drink. She figured it must be someone on the other side of the woods, perhaps working outside. Maybe Cheyenne's uncle working at the farm, getting things ready for the party the kids were going to have.

Later, when she saw Matt come out of the house and head to the car to retrieve something, she called down to him. "Can you hear that music?" she yelled.

Startled because he hadn't known she was outside, he jumped a little and then looked up at her and grinned. "What music?" he asked, innocently.

'The music playing outside. I think someone's got a radio on or something. Sounds like Patty Loveless, but I can't make out the song now."

Matt stood still, c.o.c.ked his head to one side, and listened. "Nope, nothing. Maybe cause you're higher up?"

"Yeah, maybe," she nodded.

He went back in and she returned to her landscape. Her head and joints might be killing her, but at least it appeared her hearing was in good shape.

Something woke her up again and it had Taryn sitting straight up in bed, gasping for breath like she'd been held underwater. Her lungs were full to bursting and she clawed at her throat in the dark, reaching for air her body told her she so desperately needed. In her half-dreaming state she panicked, fighting off an invisible attacker that was keeping her from moving, from breathing. But then she opened her eyes, her movements ceased, and she acclimated herself to the darkness. Once again, she was back in the bedroom with Matt snoring peacefully beside her, nothing out of the ordinary except for her heart trying to beat its way out of her body.

Still, something had woken her upsomething more than a bad dream. It was another sound, a sound that wasn't quite right in the house.

Straining her ears, she listened for a follow-up, fearful of hearing the pounding of heavy shoes on the staircase or the padding of unwanted feet below. The house was quiet, however, and the only thing she could hear was the white noise of the dehumidifier by the bed. Thelma'd installed it a few nights before. With all the rain they'd been having, she was worried about moisture and them getting sick with allergies and sinus problems.

Although her body was still trembling and her mind was racing with horrible thoughts of death and rape, she lowered herself back to the pillow, sneaking her leg over to wrap itself around Matt's. The warmth of his skin was heartening and a gentle reminder that she wasn't alone. Still, she was by herself in her fears and thoughts and the fact that something had woken her up was unsettling. The numbers on the clock flashed 3:15 am, and she groaned aloud. She never should've watched The Amityville Horror as a kid.

She'd nearly dozed back off again, lulled by Matt's gentle breathing and the hum of the machine, when the room suddenly filled with sounds. This time, she was sure of it. The voices were low, conversational, and it sounded as though there were several people speaking at once. While she couldn't make out what they were saying, try as she might to strain her ears, she could pick up on a word here or there.

Puzzled, she listened quietly, rising up on her elbows to hopefully catch more. There was no sense of urgency in their voices, nothing menacing that should have caused her any alarm. And yet the simple fact that a random conversation was going on around here when n.o.body else should've been in the house was unsettling.

At first she thought, hoped rather, that the voices were from Thelma and Jeff. Perhaps they'd needed something or were worried about her. But the thought was ludicrous; Thelma would never come into the house in the middle of the night like that. She wouldn't have scared Taryn. Her next thought drifted towards another burglar, or somebody up to no good. But she was very good at reading tone and the conversation going on was light, airy, mild. It didn't sound like people planning a sneak attack on the two sleepers.

Then there was the fact that the voices seemed to be coming from every direction, surrounding her. An echo from outside perhaps?

Softly letting her feet land on the floor, Taryn got out of bed and tiptoed towards the balcony door. It opened quietly and she stepped out onto into the night, gently pulling the door to behind her. The wood was cold under her feet, the October air bitter with a hint of moisture. There were no sounds, however, other than the night ones. She listened for a minute, willing them to start up again, but there was nothing. In something not quite fear, she walked back into the bedroom. The conversation immediately picked up again, the voices maybe just a little bit softer but still there nevertheless.

Now she made herself walk out the bedroom door towards the stairs. Along the way she grabbed her curling iron. It wasn't much but she might be able to beat someone off with it as she called for Matt if she had to and it was the closest object she could find.

The humming of the dehumidifier trailed off behind her, growing quieter the more distance she put between her and the bedroom. Likewise, the voices diminished, too. Nothing drifted up from downstairs; whatever she was hearing had to be originating from the bedroom.

When she turned around and started back towards the bedroom, Taryn came to a sudden halt. A candle burned in the room and its flame flickered, throwing odd-shaped patterns against the wall. From where she stood, the murky room looked distorted, like a carnival funhouse. Knowing what awaited her inside, her feet refused to move. She just couldn't bring herself to go back in there. The fear of the dark she'd fought as a child was coming back to her now almost regularly and she was tired of it. She was going to be thirty-one soon, for G.o.d's sake. She was behaving like a toddler.

Having her back exposed to the staircase, where anything could fly up the length and attack her in the dark, didn't seem much better. Panicked now, she turned in circles and weighed her options. Go downstairs and spend the night on the couch, alone, or enter the bedroom and snuggle in next to Matt? The latter sounded more appealing but would she even be able to sleep?

At last, after giving herself a firm and stern lecture, she gave in and walked back to the bedroom. Matt woke a little when she slid in next to him (okay, maybe it was because she poked him hard in the ribs and tried to wake him up) and his voice was hoa.r.s.e and thick from sleep. "Everything okay?"

"Do you think you could go downstairs and get my Benadryl?" she asked, embarra.s.sed. "I'm spooked and don't want to go alone."

"Yeah, sure," he answered without any questions. "Be right back."

She flipped on the lamp while he was gone, unable to sit alone in the dark even for a few minutes. When he got back she popped two and then cuddled into the crook of his arm, wrapping her arm around his neck so that she could curl her fingers in his hair. "Matt?" she whispered when his breathing became steady again, a sure sign he was almost out.

"Yeah?"

"Do-do you hear that?" she stammered.

"Hear what?"

"The voices. There's at least three. And they're talking."

Matt listened and then patted her on the head. "I don't hear anything. Must be the dehumidifier."

And somewhere, wherever they were coming from, someone laughed.

Chapter 18.

As soon as she heard Rob's voice on the phone, Taryn felt like she was reconnecting with a long-lost friend, despite the fact it had been less than a year since she last spoke to him. Of course, what a year that was!

"Sorry it took me so long to get back to you," Rob apologized. "I actually closed shop for a week and took the lady on vacation to Gatlinburg."

"Oh yeah? That sounds like fun!" It had been a very long time since Taryn had been on an actual vacation, staying in a motel room she didn't have to work in and doing nothing but relaxing and having fun. "What all did you guys do?"

"You know, the usual stuff." Taryn could hear the grin in his voice. He sounded happy. "Go carts, mini golf, c.r.a.ppy buffets. Went through Wonderworks. Some of that s.h.i.t just blows my mind. She dragged me through the t.i.tanic museumtwo hours of my life I'll never get back again. Made me buy her a teacup, supposedly the replica of the exact pattern they had on the ship. She put it on the shelf with the shot gla.s.ses from Excalibur in Vegas and seash.e.l.ls she made me pick up off the beach in Daytona."

But he didn't sound like he was complaining. In fact, he sounded excited and proud. Taryn was happy for him. Despite some of the crazy-looking paraphernalia Rob carried in his shop, he was just about one of the straightest guys Taryn had ever met and, outside of Matt, the only other person she felt she could be truly honest about her gift with.

"It sounds like you're really happy, Rob," she said sincerely. "And I'm happy for you."

"Yeah, well, I hear you're shacking up with my buddy now. Good for you guys!" Both had trained in engineering; Rob went the alternative route and now sold ritual gear to Wiccans and repaired the occasional iPhone screen.

"Yeah, um, it's going well," Taryn agreed hurriedly. "So listen, I have some questions for you; things I'd like to talk about."

"Shoot. What's up?"

Taryn leaned back against the throw pillows on the couch and propped her feet up. She settled in for comfortthis was probably going to take a while.

"I don't know how much Matt filled you in on," she began.

"Very little. Just that you're in Georgia teaching a cla.s.s, kudos by the way, and he's staying with you and taking some time off. Said a girl was missing and you were helping with that."

"Yeah, well, I guess that's the gist of it," Taryn agreed. "The problem is, I feel like I am supposed to be here, and yet I can't pick up on anything. A noise here, a flash of something there. One night I was certain I saw her in my bedroom, crawling towards me." Taryn still shuddered at the thought. "It was horrible."