"Are you doubting yourself now?"

"Yes and no. I guess in the clear light of day it's easy to think it might have been in my head, that maybe I was dreaming or seeing things or had one too many Benadryl or something. But at the time..."

"Well, you're a rational, logical-thinking human being," he declared. "It's no wonder you'd question such a thing. But after all that, what makes you think you're not getting anywhere? Sounds like you're getting into a lot."

"True. But I am no closer to giving the parents any answers than I was before. I know she's dead." Even just saying it aloud gave her chills. Cheyenne was dead, and someone had killed her. And maybe even tried to kill Taryn, unless she was being too melodramatic. "I know she's dead," she repeated, "but have no way of figuring out who, where, or why."

"Have you tried a clarity spell?" Rob suggested. "It might help."

As someone who'd never been a church-goer and rarely prayed, much less experimented with alternative religions, Taryn was still a little taken aback by some people's casual att.i.tude towards spells, rituals, and the Craft. "No, no, that's one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you," she smiled.

"I have something that might work," he mused. "But you'll need quite a bit of stuff to do it well."

"I'm more of a kitchen witch," she lamented. "Anything I could do that would just require a little garlic, a little olive oil? Maybe a nice tomato?"

"I'll see what I can come up with," Rob laughed. "In the meantime, I'm sure you've had Miss Dixie out and put her to work?"

"Yes, but only a few things and I don't know how they fit into the big scheme of things." She quickly filled him in on the image of Cheyenne she'd seen on the porch and the other subtle nuances her camera had picked up. Rob was as lost as she was.

"I'm afraid I haven't been much help," he apologized with regret. "I can try to come up with a simpler spell, though, that you might be able to use."

"I'm willing to give anything a shot at this point."

For the next few minutes they talked about the weather, the new season of their favorite zombie post-apocalypse show, and Matt's cooking. Before she hung up, however, she asked him one last question.

"Oh, Rob, there was one more thing I wanted to run by you."

"What's that?"

"You know how you told me that sometimes you hear things that other people can't?" she prodded.

"And things that are far away?" he answered. "Yes, it happens. Why?"

"I think I'm doing it too. Or else I'm going crazy," she added nervously.

"I highly doubt that. I figured the longer you went on, the more your gifts were developed. Interesting that it would happen in this way," he mused. "Tell me about it."

Taryn filled him in on the voices, the music, and the other smaller things that she hadn't even considered until she had him on the phone. When she was finished his end of the line was quiet. "You still there?"

"Yeah," Rob replied, "just forming my thoughts."

"So what do you think?"

"It's called 'clairaudience.' Now, some people interpret it as another way of channeling, like a medium would. It's a way of communicating with spirits, but through sound. It's part of being clairvoyant, only instead of seeing things or feeling things, you actually hear them. You're basically picking up on another frequency that's not accessible to most people."

"I've never heard of such a thing. Why did it start all of a sudden?" Taryn asked. Although she shouldn't have been surprised. Miss Dixie had certainly started picking up on past images out of the blue.

"My guess is you've always had a little bit of it, it just wasn't very developed. Are you a big fan of music? Always have to have it on? Feel depressed when you can't listen?"

"Yeah," Taryn laughed.

"And my guess is that in a car you're constantly changing stations, searching for that perfect song or sound. People might even complain about it..."

Taryn thought of her parents and even Matt who were driven crazy by her radio channel-hopping. "That's me."

"And it's probably easy for you to pick up on other people's voices and tell them apart that way, maybe even better than looking at them," Rob pushed.

"That's so weird," Taryn mused. "I never knew that was a 'thing.'"

"Welcome to the world of clairaudience."

"I notice it most in the bedroom," she stated, remembering the overlapping of voices. "That's where it was the loudest."

"Did you have anything on at the time? A heater? Fan? Snow on television?"

Taryn didn't have to think twice. "Yes, actually. I had the dehumidifier on. It's been raining a lot."

"Well, a lot of people, and highly respected people, think that white noise is a conduit for picking up on other frequencies. And you don't even have to be psychic to hear it," he explained. "I wish I had a better explanation for you but I'd say that coupled with what you get out of pictures and your feelings, this is probably just the next step."

"So what you're saying is that now not only can I see things through my camera but I can communicate with them through my microwave oven?"

"Well, when you put it that way, yeah."

Travis Marc.u.m sat in the booth across from Taryn at the Cracker Barrel. She tried, unconsciously, to watch him as he devoured his stack of pancakes and bowl of grits. They were both alone, and he sat at a table for two, shoved back into a corner by himself. She'd observed that, despite the fact his gla.s.s was empty from the minute she sat down, he was never offered a refill. Her server, on the other hand, badgered her almost to the point of annoyance.

It was cold outside and even starting to flurry a little bitnot something she expected to see this far south. They didn't get a lot of snow in Nashville. The last big snow she remembered was when she was a lot younger. But, a few fat courageous flakes slowly drifted down where they were immediately soaked up by the parking lot. The fireplace was going full throttle just a few feet away from her, though, and a grandfather was playing a rousing game of checkers with his little redheaded grandson. All in all, it was a pleasant place to park yourself, even if it was a chain and most of the food probably got delivered frozen.

Still, she couldn't take her eyes off Travis. Like most people probably did, she tried to envision him a.s.saulting Cheyenne. Maybe peeling her jeans off while she kicked frantically at him, or perhaps laid unconscious on a hard floor. Her shirt lifted over her head, her bra ripped open revealing firm, teenage b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Had he smacked her? Banged her head on the floor? Did she vomit in the middle of the act, the liquid running into her dark hair and matting it? Had he held onto her while life faded from her eyes? To look at him now, an average-looking guy spreading b.u.t.ter on a biscuit, he looked young, incapable of killing someone. He kept his face down, staring at his food, and seemed oblivious to everyone else.

Emma said he'd lost his job at the factory he worked at, that he was still living at his mother's house, sleeping in the bas.e.m.e.nt. His clothes were clean and fresh; his flannel shirt looked ironed. Someone took care of him. Someone ironed his clothes, washed them, and gave him money to eat lunch out at a restaurant. Somebody loved him.

Taryn had met more than one killer in her life. Since Miss Dixie started doing her tricks it felt like Taryn drew them like flies. She shouldn't be shocked anymore by the secrets people lived with. It felt like everyone had a double life these days.

She didn't think Travis had noticed her but after he flagged his server down (the same one who had been so attentive to her but had completely ignored him) he paused at her table as he was pa.s.sing by. "I know who you are," he growled through his teeth, barely looking down at her. "You don't have to keep staring at me."

Embarra.s.sed she'd been caught, she began to apologize in haste. "I'm sorry. I know it was rude. It's just that-"

"You just wanted to know what a killer looks like?" he snorted.

Taryn did not think it prudent to point out that she'd met others who'd been accused of similar crimes, and those people had tried to turn their actions on her.

"Innocent until proven guilty, right?" she asked faintly. Suddenly, the fire felt just a little too hot, her red sweater a little too snug. She was aware that the people around her had stopped eating and were staring at them.

"Yeah, right. Well, you're the psychic, right? Then you should know the truth. I didn't kill n.o.body. I never saw Cheyenne after that party. I didn't touch her, didn't even talk to her except when she b.u.mmed a smoke off of me around the fire."

There was no pleading in his voice, just a matter of factness that was hard to reb.u.t.tal. He stood there in the middle of the restaurant, a young man in work boots and a thick coat, and stared down at the floor, unable to make eye contact. She could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves.

"You mean she didn't go back to your place after?"

Travis shook his head. "s.h.i.t no. I know what they're saying, what they say. And people gonna believe what they want to believe. Look, I don't know where she went or who she went with, but it wasn't me. I didn't touch her," he repeated, his face growing redder with anger.

"Then what happened to her, Travis?" Taryn asked gently.

"I don't know. Isn't that why they hauled your a.s.s here? You figure it out!" And, with that, he marched away from the table, barely missing a server with a heavy tray of breakfast in his path.

"I'm missing something, Matt, I know I am. I think I'm going to go back to the farmhouse." Taryn paced back and forth in the living room, nervously chewing on her fingernails. It wasn't even a bad habit of hers; she was just nervous and looking for something to do. The three c.o.kes she'd already had that morning couldn't be helping matters.

"You've been over there half a dozen times," Matt reminded her. "Don't you think your camera would've picked something up by now?"

"I don't know," Taryn snapped. "How am I supposed to know how this works?"

She immediately felt guilty for yelling at Matt and, in a rare scene of public emotions, sat down on the couch and burst into tears. G.o.d, she was such a girl sometimes. Matt, whose inner peace was solid to the core, patiently put down the epic fantasy novel he'd been reading for the fifth time and trudged over to her. His arm slid around her protectively and as he squeezed her shoulders she felt even worse. There she was, being mean to probably the only person in the world she cared about.

"I'm sorry," she blubbered, wishing she was the type of woman who looked pretty when she cried. "I don't even know why I'm on edge."

"You haven't been getting a lot of sleep," Matt reminded her. "And you're pushing yourself really hard on something you might just not be able to fix."

"I know you're right," she sighed, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "But why would Cheyenne be contacting me, and I know it's her, if I couldn't do anything. I feel like the answers are right at my fingertips, and I'm just too dense to figure it out."

"You're no dense," Matt chided. "One of the things I love about you, and the main thing that drives me crazy about you, is that you have very good perception and can read people like a book. Honestly, if I had a mystery to solve you'd be the first person I'd come to because you're so good at cutting through the bulls.h.i.t. It's no wonder the dead seek you out."

Taryn giggled a little, her mood lifting. "You said 'bulls.h.i.t.' I think I've only heard you cuss twice in twenty years."

"Yeah, well, I save the foul language for special occasions. I think it shows lack of creativity unless it's used wisely," he grinned.

Taryn, on the other hand, might have been creative when it came to her art but not in language. She cussed like a sailorall words learned courtesy of her grandmother.

"Their party is in a week. I wanted to have answers by then. We're leaving a few weeks after that and it's not a lot of time. I just feel so... involved," she finished lamely.

"Why do you think that is?"

Taryn turned around so that her feet were propped in Matt's lap. He stretched out on the other end of the couch and, facing each other, they carried on as though she'd never had her little outburst. "I don't know," she replied honestly. "Maybe because we're here, in the middle of it? Maybe because I can feel her a little bit. You know how I've always had an active imagination?"

Matt nodded. When they were little she used to make him pretend that they both had magical unicorns. They'd gallop all over the neighborhood on their adventures until their legs were worn out. She had him so wrapped up in her imagination that he'd even get off his first and help her down since she was so short.

"Yeah, well, it's different this time. I don't need the camera or my dreams or even her spirit. I can see her in my mind. She's as real to me as you are. And maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me, I don't know," she shrugged with agitation. "But I feel like I'm supposed to be here."

"Well then, you are. If you feel it then you're meant to be. It just means we're going to have to start looking under other rocks. In the meantime," a little gleam formed in Matt's eyes as he tickled the bottom of her feet. "In the meantime we have an hour before you have to leave for cla.s.s. How about I get under you?"

"Why Matthew," Taryn purred in an exaggerated southern drawl. "That's downright lewd and vulgar of you."

"Yeah well, like I said. I save my foul language for special occasions."

Chapter 19.

Taryn and Emma squeezed into a booth at a small, greasy diner on Main Street. Emma promised her the breakfast was the best in town and she wouldn't find better ice tea.

"That's okay," Taryn waved her hand in the air. "I'm kind of off the stuff. I'll take an apple juice."

Emma raised her eyebrows but didn't press and Taryn didn't volunteer her past experience with her once-favorite drink.

"So, any news?" Taryn asked once they made their orders and settled back into the plastic seats.

"I met with the guys last night. Nothing new," Emma sighed. "I really thought we would've been farther along at this point."

Taryn felt a stab of shame, knowing that several people had hoped her presence would bring some answers. So far, it hadn't. "I'm still working my end," she said, all the same. "I'm not giving up yet."

Emma smiled brightly and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Despite the fact there'd been snow flurries just a day or two before, now the sun was out and her car thermometer boasted a whopping sixty-six degrees. Welcome to the south.

"Let's say, for argument's sake, that Travis did kill Cheyenne," Taryn began. "Where's her body?"

"Unfortunately, there are lots of places around here to hide one. Some sinkholes, wells, creeks, the river, a cave or two..." Emma shrugged. "And he would've had several hours to do it in. n.o.body even realized she was missing until later the next day."

"What do you know about him?"

"Not much. He's older than most of us. Was in the marines and got injured. Afghanistan? Maybe Iraq. I can't remember. Anyway, he came home and went to work for Sieko, that's the cell phone factory."

"What was someone older, like him, doing at a party that was mainly meant for high school students?" Taryn wondered aloud.

"Oh, well, anyone could go. It was kind of the place to go, if you know what I mean," Emma explained. "There's not much to do around here, not even a theater. So you just kind of hang out until you get married."

"Or go to college?"

"Yeah, well, there's that. But I don't know if you've noticed or notthe town and the college are kind of divided. Like, their own little worlds, you know? The people at the college don't really get out in the community. They all shop at the same craft supply store, eat at the same cafes, and then hang out at the different centers on campus. It's a liberal arts school, but our town is anything but liberal."

"But you go there," Taryn pointed out.

"Yeah, well, I always kind of felt like I didn't belong here," Emma admitted. "You know, I didn't go to church or anything growing up. And that's the thing to do. My parents weren't exactly church-going people and then in high school I got into Wicca and stuff. I did a semester abroad in Rome when I was a junior. Some of these people have barely been out of Georgia. And, I don't know if you've noticed or not, but I am a vegetarian." Emma smiled, and Taryn felt even more connected to her. She knew how it felt to feel disconnected to the world around you.

"So why stay here? Why not go to Atlanta or Memphis or even Chattanooga or Nashville?"

Emma sighed and stared over Taryn's head, out the window that overlooked the quiet little main street. "I don't know. Growing up I couldn't wait to get out of here. It's easy to dream, though. Actually leaving just ended up being too hard. I have a love-hate relationship with the place. Living here I feel stifled, trapped, out of my element. But when I'm away I yearn for it. I guess it doesn't make sense."

It did make sense to Taryn, though. Sometimes she found herself feeling the same way about Matt. When she was with him she questioned what she as doing, if what they were doing was right, what her feelings truly were. "Stifled" was a good word. And then, when they were apart, her heart felt broken.

"I don't know," Emma laughed. "Maybe I'll go soon. Seeing you and what you do and how independent you are, it gives me the motivation to make a change. Maybe now is the time."

"I need to get out," Taryn stated. Matt was holed up in his makeshift office, a corner of the dining room, and Taryn burst through the door after her cla.s.s, adrenalin pumping. "Really, I do. How about we drive to the next county over and eat, see a movie, do something?"

"Yeah, okay," he agreed. "Give me an hour to finish this up and then I'm yours. You okay?"