Squatter 3: Trinity MacNeil Paranormal Mystery, #3

By Rosalyn Wraight

Since receiving an unwelcome plea for help at the membrane, Trinity MacNeil has refused for even a second to remove her jade moon necklace, empowered to protect her.  She has worked to gain control over her clairsentience, and her relationship with Maisie Beckett has continued to strengthen. Now, she's about to start her dream job, and she's bound and determined to let nothing and no one interfere.

 

Not Sheriff Danforth who shows up and tries to manipulate Trinity into confirming his suspicion that she's psychic. Not Abbie Lathan who has news reporters hanging on her every word and unwittingly passing messages to Trinity—ones that point to repressed memories of her childhood.

 

Despite her fear, Trinity is determined to remember, but all her attempts are met with anger from Richard, the spirit guide who swore to protect her. If Richard's not protecting her, who is he protecting? Is he responsible for the dark heaviness that overtakes the house and its occupants?

 

Does Trinity have the power to unmask and outwit this malevolent spirit trying to destroy her life, isolate her from those who love her,  and make her his own? To what lengths will she go to save herself, her relationship with Maisie, her life? And, at what cost?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Don't Waste Daylight
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781932014969

Book preview

Chapter 1

With a grunt of triumph, Trinity MacNeil heaved a large bundle of tomato plants into the fire pit, being careful not to smother the flames. She grabbed a straggler from the wagon beside her and threw it in, as well.

While the plants had already been victims of the season’s killer frost, they were nowhere dead enough to be consumed by the flames. Rather, the intense heat first had to desiccate them, and then it could slowly turn them to ash.

She watched for several minutes, and finally satisfied the fire would continue without her intervention, she pulled her wagon back to the garden.

The late October morning had been brisk, but now that it neared noon, the sun had managed to raise the temperature to the unseasonable upper 50s. Deeming her blue sweatshirt unnecessary, she pulled it off and tossed it to the ground just as her cellphone sounded. Recognizing the tone, she excitedly lunged to its spot on the lawn.

Hey, librarian, Maisie Beckett hurriedly greeted. Any chance you’re by the TV?

Um, no. Rarely one to watch, she was taken aback by the question. I’m in the garden. Why?

Run! she charged. Hurry and get to my parlor and turn on the local news!

Okay! Okay! she shouted and tore off. The phone jostled by her ear, and she could not make out what Maisie said to her. She figured she simply prodded her on: Faster. Faster. Faster.

She had just barreled around the house’s front corner when she nearly collided with someone. Reflexively, she screamed and felt no calmer when she realized it was the county sheriff.

Sorry, Trinity, Sheriff Danforth said, his hands rising as though to proclaim he posed no threat. I didn’t mean to scare you. When you didn’t answer the door, I thought maybe—

I was working in my garden, she said, trying to ease her breathing and hoping her heart remained in her chest, despite its effort to do otherwise. Then, though, she panicked for a different reason. He had been to her house before, but never without being summoned, and that made her think of the night a policeman showed up at her door to tell her her mother had died in a car accident. She peered into his eyes. Is something wrong, Sheriff? Did something happen?

No! No! Nothing like that! Shaking his head, he apologized again for startling her. I’m looking for a dog, he explained.

A dog?

Jutting his arm out to his left, he explained, One’s missing from a family about two miles up the road. I just stopped to see if maybe you had seen him, or something.

Relieved, she shook her head, rammed her phone into the back pocket of her jeans, and brushed her jet-black bangs out of her face. Maybe it was a small town thing, she figured, that sheriffs doubled as dogcatchers.

He’s a cocker spaniel, he continued. Goes by the name of Avery.

I haven’t seen him, she assured, but, if I do, I’ll be sure to let you know.

I’d really appreciate that.

She expected him to turn around and leave, but instead, he moved even closer to her.

Did you ever get that hole in your backyard filled in? When she nodded, he asked, Can I take a look? Without awaiting her reply, he headed in that direction.

Puzzled, she followed him.

Yep, he said after barely surveying the spot, you sure did.

Months had passed since Maisie and she had filled it, but it was still an eyesore: horribly uneven with sections of sod they simply stuck back together as best they could. The rain had neither helped rejoin roots to soil or level it. Even repeatedly rolling over it with Trinity’s pickup and the riding lawn mower, did nothing.

He continued, I still find it amazing that there you were, digging a pond, on the very spot where Charlotte Thorpe and her son had been buried. It’s a miracle you found them, don’t you think?

Again, he confused her. Was he questioning whether she had done something wrong? Or, was he wondering aloud whether they had dug there intentionally, that she had known they were there? The last time she had seen him was at Miles’ Sturtevant’s house, a man who had just confessed to killing his wife, and she had gotten the sense that he had been figuring out she knew things she couldn’t have known by normal means. She doubted clairsentience was on his list of possible explanations, but she remained convinced that something similar was. She hoped he never found the courage to ask.

With both feet and his well-polished black shoes, he stomped on a large chunk of sod. The weight of the snow will help even this out, he said, and come spring, it’ll start to root again. By next fall, no one will ever know. He stopped and looked at her. "But we will, won’t we? You can’t forget things like this."

She shook her head, unwilling to verbalize how true his words rang.

Well, I better get moving. Back on the trail of Avery, he said and began walking toward the house.

Intentionally staying two paces behind him, she followed.

Yet again, she nearly ran right into him, for he abruptly stopped and turned around.

Oh, oh, he excitedly said, forgot something. His hand dove into his jacket pocket and returned with a five-inch orange football, nubby and with each end ringed with a dark blue stripe. He outstretched it to her. This is Avery’s. I thought maybe it would help find him. When she didn’t take it from him, he waggled it in front of her.

Without a doubt, she knew he expected her to take it in hand, close her eyes, and psychically know where the dog was—dead or alive—at that very moment. He was testing her, and she found herself both angry and amused.

He shoved it closer, and she half-expected him to pry open her fisted hand and force it on her. Not wanting it to go that far, she took it from him, and seeing the valve on its midsection, she repeatedly squeezed it to produce a loud, irritating squeak.

Smart, she said. I bet he’ll come running if he hears this. She shoved it into his hand.

He gave her a blank look, turned, and resumed walking.

Before he ducked into his squad, he wished her a good day, and as pleasantly as she could, she wished him the same and offered her assurance that she’d called if she saw Avery.

Resisting the urge to spike a middle finger, she watched him drive away.

Three steps into her intended return to the garden, she realized she had been in the middle of a call with Maisie. She seized her phone from her pocket only to find a darkened screen.

As she hurried to the front door, she called her back.

What the heck happened? Maisie asked without a greeting. Who was that?

She slipped into the house’s foyer. Sheriff Danforth, she answered. Nothing’s wrong, though. I’ll tell you later. Finally, she took the opportunity to ask, What did you want me to see on TV? Is it still on?

I’ll tell you later. My lunch break’s almost over, she said. You just get your gardening done. I’ll make supper when I get home while you take a bath. She laughed. You’re going to be stinky and sore.

I already am, she admitted. But, I think I’m more than halfway done.

Good girl, she said with a laugh. Go make yourself a sandwich and coffee and then get back out there. Clock’s ticking.

Yes, boss! She saluted.

Chapter 2

A gentle knock on the bathroom door barely preceded Maisie’s announcement, Supper’s ready when you are!

I’m starving, she shouted as her toes skillfully wrapped around the drain stopper’s chain and pulled. I’ll be right down.

In the span of a minute, she had hurriedly dried herself, slipped into her robe, and headed out the door.

At the top of the stairs, the smell of something stupendous quickened her steps even more. Indeed, she was starving, and the pangs intensified with each deep sniff. By the time she entered the kitchen, her mouth hopelessly salivated. Like a dog. Like Avery.

My God, what did you make? she asked. It smells divine.

With a cocky grin, Maisie answered, Pork chops, mashed potatoes, pan gravy, and peas.

I don’t deserve you. She kissed her cheek.

I feel like a farmer’s wife. She gestured her to the breakfast nook. Eat up, farmer.

She wasted no time doing just that. Several mouthfuls later, she found herself sated enough to slow down and divide her attention between eating and enjoying Maisie’s company. Anything exciting at work today? she asked. And, what was on the TV that you wanted me to see?

I’ll tell you after dinner. Want some more gravy? When she received an exuberant nod, she grabbed the gravy boat and hovered it over Trinity’s half-devoured potatoes. Tell me again what the sheriff said.

Word for word, she repeated the strange conversation, just as she had done when Maisie arrived home from work.

"He’s really expecting you to find this dog?"

He’s fishing, not dog hunting.

Maisie shook her head and burst air out her nose. Why doesn’t he just come out and ask you?

Because he doesn’t want to look like a fool if he’s wrong. Rolling the last of her peas onto her fork, she said, As long as he doesn’t ask, I don’t have to explain, which is fine by me! She thrust the fork into her mouth and watched Maisie continue to shake her head.

Abruptly, Maisie changed the topic to the state of Trinity’s garden. After Trinity filled her in on what she had accomplished, she said, "You’re just kicking butt ticking things off your to-do list. You really will have a clean plate when you start your new job."

My new job! she said and promptly set down her fork. The mere thought of it took her to a completely different place—but not one of the expected nervousness. She had never felt anything about it other than joy. She had dreamed of it when she moved there: the quaint public library in sudden need of a librarian, something for which she held a master’s degree. The part-time librarian prepared to begin her maternity leave, and Trinity had been hired to replace her. The only thing she could think of that would bring her more joy would be the woman’s resignation after deciding to be a stay-at-home mom. That became her new dream. I’ve missed my work so much, Maisie.

I know you have. You’ll be the best damn librarian this town’s ever seen.

She’d do her best, but she didn’t need to be the best. Just a librarian: That was all she wanted. To be able to focus on that, she had stopped taking research jobs as a freelancer. She’d either go back to it once her stint at the library ended or quit it altogether if her dream came true and she ended up being hired permanently. In her mind, she crossed her fingers.

They cleaned the table and did the dishes together. Then, they retired to the living room, each propping herself up against a couch end, their legs intermixed.

I love you, Trinity said. Thanks for dinner. It was delicious.

I’m a good little farmer’s wife?

The best. She leaned forward and gently swatted her leg. Now, tell me what was so important that I had to go running for the TV in your study.

"My parlor. It’s a parlor. The blueprint says it’s a parlor."

You’re very hoity-toity for a farmer’s wife.

Shush up, or I’ll cut off your tail with a carving knife. She laughed. Isn’t that a nursery rhyme or something?

It’s a song. ‘Three Blind Mice,’ and it’s really a horrible thing to be singing to children.

And librarians.

She rolled her eyes. "Will you please just tell me what I was supposed to see? Does Hogan Hardware have a commercial now? Does your dad sound like a used car salesman, or did he make you do it? Do you sound like a used car salesman—saleswoman?"

It’s not a commercial, she said. It was something on the noon news show. Her eyes narrowed, and that made Trinity nervous. You’re not going to like it, she warned, but I think you need to see it.

Is it about Charlotte? The sheriff had brought her to her mind again, and his interest in the grave had made her wonder whether he had an official but unspoken reason to do so.

No, nothing about Charlotte.

Then, what? It’s obviously something bad or you would’ve told me a hundred questions ago.

She grimaced. Please, just watch, she said, handing her her cellphone, and listen to your gut when you do.

Her hand reached for the phone and immediately retracted. Maisie shoved it closer, and she reluctantly took it.

She stared at the large white triangle that seemed to taunt her into pressing it. She glanced to Maisie, who simply taunted in her own way: her head repeatedly pointing at the phone.

With utter dread, she touched the button.

A man behind a desk straightened the stack of papers he held as he said, From our sister station in Belding, here’s reporter Kath Kincaid with an in-depth report, aired there this morning.

The scene switched to a brunette woman in a dark blue blazer sitting in front of a lighter blue backdrop. Good morning, Belding. I hope you have plans to enjoy our warm spell while it lasts. Instantly, the smile left her face, and she turned her head to a different camera. In the newsroom with me this morning is Hawthorne Lake resident Abigail Lathan...

Trinity stabbed the stop button. Abbie! she shouted and sat straight up. Why the hell didn’t you warn me? I don’t even want the thought of her in my head. Why—

Slow down, she ordered as she grabbed Trinity’s arm. It’s news. I wouldn’t doubt if it goes national. You’re going to hear about it—now or later. Now seemed the kindest.

Warning me would’ve been kindest!

She shook her head.

What the hell is she in the news for anyway?

She snatched the phone from her and fiddled with it. "Just watch it, librarian—from the beginning and listen to your gut."

Very reluctantly, she accepted it back from her and tapped the triangle. Butterflies swarmed in her gut when she heard the reporter prepare to say Abbie’s name again.

In the newsroom with me this morning is Hawthorne Lake resident Abigail Lathan, who has astonishingly directed authorities to yet another location containing human remains.

Trinity’s jaw dropped, and she glanced wide-eyed at Maisie, who simply thrust her finger toward the phone to force her to pay attention.

Abigail—

Please, call me Abbie.

All right, Abbie. She paused, and after leaning closer to her, she said, Abbie, you told the authorities that you’re psychic and that your knowledge of the locations containing human remains came to you from psychic sources. Could you please explain to our audience exactly what that means?

The close-up of Abbie’s face made Trinity’s stomach lurch.

Well, first, let me say that I’ve been a psychic medium since I was a child, and as an adult, I’ve numerous times given the authorities information that helped them with missing persons cases. These are the first incidents that pertain to murder victims, two women who were murdered by the same man.

I’ve spoken with state authorities, Abbie, the reporter said, and they’ve yet to confirm that either person is female or that they had been murdered.

"They will confirm; it’s just a matter of time, she said, vigorously nodding, an eyebrow raised. For the same reason I knew where they were, I know they’re women, and I know they were killed by the same man."

The reporter bobbed her head and asked, "How do you know? I think that’s what our viewers would really like to understand. Was it a gut feeling? Did you communicate with the victims? Did you see their murders? How do you know?"

Actually, I’m convinced I’ve connected with the killer himself.

The reporter’s eyes grew wide. Connected as in communicated with him?

Not your typical communication she answered. I can be in his mind. I can hear some of his thoughts. I can see some of his memories, which is exactly how I knew where these victims were.

That’s incredible, Abbie. She leaned closer to her, and the camera zeroed in on both their faces. So, do you think they are more remains? Do you believe he’s killed more than these two women?

"While I have no proof yet to offer the forensic people, as I said, I do believe these two victims were killed by the same murderer, and yes, I believe there are more. The police, however, will not consider him a serial killer until there are more than three victims tied to him, and I think ever since they reported finding the first body, that our killer is trying very hard to block me. He’s threatened, and he should be. I believe he’s a serial killer, and I believe he will kill again."

That would seem to mean people in the area are at risk, that—

Abbie interrupted, That’s why I told authorities they need to act quickly. Lives are at stake. She looked directly at the camera. Please, everyone who’s watching, you need to be careful, especially young women. Keep yourself safe. Watch out for others.

Abbie, if you’re a psychic medium, that means you can communicate with the dead. When Abbie immodestly nodded, she asked, Is there any way for you to simply communicate with these victims and get clues to their deaths that way?

I wish it was that simple, she replied, not taking her eyes off the camera. I get what I get, and I’m staying with this connection so maybe I can identify him to police and stop him from killing anyone else. She returned her gaze to the reporter. But, if the least I can do is this, bringing closure to the victims and their families and keeping people safe, I’ll know I did something very valuable with my gift.

The reporter said, Thank you, Abbie. She turned to the camera. Again, that was Hawthorne Lake resident and psychic medium Abigail Lathan who yesterday led authorities to a second body in as many weeks. We will keep you posted on any further developments. She smiled and said, Back to you, Bob.

Trinity stared at the screen as the video stopped and the white triangle reappeared.

So? What do you think? Maisie asked. What’s your gut say? Is she full of shit?

Forcefully, she blew air out her nose. How can she be full of shit, Maisie? They found two bodies right where she told them to look. That’s like saying we were full of shit for finding Charlotte and Jack.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Well, I get that, Trinity, but Joel says she tells people she found that missing hiker when it was you who found him. That’s what I mean by being full of shit. Is she getting this stuff from someone else—from a kid, and then making herself look all powerful and shit?"

She thrust the phone back to Maisie. I don’t know, she said, and I don’t care. When Maisie didn’t take the phone quickly enough, she simply dropped it onto the couch and stood up.

Jesus, don’t walk away. Talk to me.

"I’m not walking away, she brusquely said as she took wide strides to the entryway. I’m going to put on some clothes. I’m cold."

Are you coming back? she called after her. Want me to start a fire?

No. I’m fine. I just want clothes on. Indeed, she did; she felt unbearably exposed.

In the bedroom, she traded her robe for sweatpants and a red and black flannel shirt she had begged off her brother Cameron when he visited last Christmas. After grabbing socks from her dresser, she sat on the bed to put them on. Instead, though, she flopped backward and simply stared at the glass moon hanging over their bed—the moon, meant to protect. Instinctively, her hand went to her jade moon necklace. It, too, was meant to protect, and it had, faithfully. And then Maisie just invites Abbie into the goddamn living room! Those seething words in her mind made her realize not only how angry she was with Maisie for having shown her the video, but how angry she was with Abbie. For simply existing, she figured.

Her mind went back to the last time she had gone to the membrane—a place she hated, a place she feared—and how Abbie’s voice had come there, so crystal clear: Trinity, this is Abbie. I’ve been waiting to connect with you. I need your help.

Remembering that made her aware that beneath her anger existed fear. She was afraid of her, but that acknowledgement simply fueled her anger—at her and Maisie.

Trying to stop her mind, she rocketed upright and thrust her foot into a sock and then the other.

Chapter 3

Trinity realized she had dawdled too long when she heard Maisie’s footsteps on the staircase. Hurriedly, she removed one of her socks, and as Maisie entered, she pretended to be putting it on for the first time.

Hey, slowpoke, Maisie greeted. I thought you said you were coming back downstairs.

I am, she replied, but then she found herself removing the sock again and correcting, I was, but I think I’m too tired. I think I just want to call it a day.

Sounds good to me. I’ll go lock up.

Alone again, she removed her other sock and whipped both toward her dresser. They slapped the second drawer and tumbled to a heap on the floor. She slipped out of her sweatpants and flung them to the same heap.

Then, she stood, unmade her side of the bed, and propped her pillows against the oak headboard. She slid in and covered herself. With the sides of her hands, she chopped the blue comforter until it formed a tight cocoon around her legs and torso. She stretched her arms and retrieved her mother’s Wuthering Heights from the nightstand drawer. The green cloth bookmark attached to its binding did its job perfectly, leading her to where she had stopped the last time she had read from it. She couldn’t even remember when that was and thought to begin the book again, for perhaps the thousandth time. She knew Brontë’s book almost word for word, and while she loved it, she knew it was more the connection to her mom that repeatedly brought her there: consuming the words she had consumed, perhaps a thousand times herself.

The thought of her mother, dead over seven years, made her hand race again to clutch her jade moon necklace, given to her by her mother, made by the man who had fathered her, and somehow empowered to protect her. And, it had been empowered by Abbie. Abbie! The name made her body tighten with anxiety.

After pulling a deep, calming breath, she leaned her head back, and her eyes went to the glass moon hanging above the bed. Maisie and she had hung it there months ago, trying to infuse it with the belief that, just as the moon around her neck, it would protect them. If it had any power whatsoever, she believed that Maisie would simply slip into bed beside her and say not a word about anything serious—and especially nothing about Abbie.

Hearing Maisie’s footsteps on the staircase once more, she frantically raised the book, propped it on her chest, and began to read Chapter XIV.

Does the overworked farmer require a back rub from the farmer’s wife? Maisie asked upon entering.

She peered at her over the book and simply shook her head.

Seriously? she challenged as she headed to her dresser. You’ve got to be sore, and I am more than willing.

Thanks, she said, but I think I just need a good night’s sleep. She returned to reading. Rather, her eyes raced page-edge to page-edge to mimic reading.

Peripherally, she watched Maisie remove her wristwatch, and then she listened to it skid across the dresser’s top. When she witnessed her shirt being pulled off, she averted her eyes, and this time, she genuinely began to read.

Soon, a naked Maisie reclined beside her, on her side, her head leaning against the fist of her crooked arm. She stared at Trinity a moment before asking her what was wrong.

Nothing, she said, but her tone failed to make it a convincing denial.

Something is, she said and then tilted her head. You always read your mom’s book when something’s wrong.

Reflexively, she snapped, And you always polish and rearrange all your paperweights. She fathomed just how juvenile that sounded, how utterly stupid and beside the point, and simply served to prove there was indeed something wrong.

Maisie laughed. You’re right. I do. It gives me something to do while I think things through. She paused before asking, Is that what your mom’s book does for you?

She didn’t answer, for the truth was the polar opposite. It blotted out everything so she didn’t have to think.

With a sigh, Maisie rolled face down. She lay there through a full two-paragraphs read before she shot upright. Is it the Abbie thing, or are you mad at me?

Is there a difference? she almost asked aloud. The question, though, readily brought her anger to the surface, and she lent her voice to the words.

Then talk to me, librarian. Please. She patted Trinity’s thigh. Didn’t we make a deal never to go to bed angry?

She snapped shut the book and simply looked at her. Fine, she said, but if you dare accuse me of humming like a second-grader, I will be much more than angry.

I won’t. I promise, she replied and resumed the position of reclining on her side. Just tell me.

The fact that this even required an explanation increased her anger. I’ve been working with Joel. I’ve done everything he’s asked me to do.

She nodded.

And he’s never once even insinuated that he thinks I’m ready to deal with the whole Abbie issue, and yet you—

Made it an issue by showing you the video.

The admission—her last-second admission that nixed the requirement of an explanation, seemed to lower her defenses a bit. "You just waltzed her right to the forefront. You brought her here, right into the house. I don’t want her here, Maisie."

I’m sorry, she said, and again, she sat up. Touching Trinity’s hand, she continued, I didn’t think, I guess. I just thought you should know.

"Why?" The word came with great force, hurled there by another wave of anger. What possible difference could it make to me?

"Because maybe she is hurting someone, a kid, like she hurt you."

"We don’t know that she hurt me. She shoved the covers off her and swung her legs out and to the floor. As she carefully returned the book to the nightstand drawer, she said, I don’t remember what she did. Maybe it was nothing."

She placed her hand on Trinity’s back, and when she recoiled, she removed it. She moved to lay next to her. "Librarian, I am sorry, but it’s too late for it not to be an issue. It is an issue. She paused before saying, I meant that she hurt you by telling people she found the injured hiker when it was you who did."

She shook her head. I don’t think it would’ve been better if she had told everyone I found him. I never wanted anything to do with the clairsentience crap anyway.

No, you didn’t, and you still don’t.

She expected a lecture to begin, and when a long moment of silence proved it wasn’t forthcoming, she rose and headed to the bathroom. She took her glass by the sink and filled it halfway with water. After taking a sip, she turned and moved into the doorway. She leaned against the frame and took a drink as she looked at Maisie, still in the same position, still looking at her, her eyes imploring her to continue.

Calmly, she said, Maisie, there’s one library in this town.

She squinted, raised an eyebrow, and unconvincingly nodded.

"One library. One job. One chance. It’s that important that I let nothing, not one damn thing, interfere with my life right now. This is my one and only chance to have the life here that I want."

Smiling, she nodded with what Trinity figured was complete understanding. She patted the bed.

Hurrying into the bathroom, she emptied and relinquished her glass. Then, she returned to the bed, where Maisie held up the covers for her. She climbed in and leaned against the headboard.

Maisie lay over Trinity’s lap, a propping elbow on one side of her, and her body’s lower half on the other. Keep talking to me, she encouraged, slightly smiling.

That’s it, she said. Quickly, she did a gut-check to make sure her anger at Maisie had subsided, that there indeed wasn’t anything left unsaid. The negative feelings that remained pertained to Abbie, and she imagined shoving a hundred worms back into the can Maisie had opened.

All right, Maisie said, patting Trinity’s belly. But, be clear here for me—very clear. When Trinity apprehensively agreed, she asked, If Abbie ends up in the news again, you want to know nothing—absolutely nothing about it, no matter what she says?

Absolutely nothing. She repeated the words, and suddenly, tears filled her eyes. She latched onto Maisie’s arm. I really want this job. I really want a boringly normal life.

And, you still want that boringly normal life with me?

Of course, I want it with you! Playfully, she swatted her head. Jesus, Maisie, I love you. She paused to collect her thoughts before she explained, "Everything has been so screwed up since we met. The whole Aunt Ronnie thing. The Charlotte thing. The Miles thing. It’s been one horrible thing after another. But, here I am, ready to go back to being a librarian, and Joel says I’m stronger, that I’m getting better at controlling this stupid clairsentience. We’re together and doing just fine most of the time. I mean, it’s all coming together. Finally, it’s all coming together. Please, please, please, let’s not let anything screw this up—for me and for you."

I hear ya, she said. "I want you to have that boringly normal life. You deserve that boringly normal life. She took her own turn to pause in thought. I have my own issue with that woman, she admitted. It’s different than yours, though. I do know that and that yours trumps mine. I just can’t stomach the thought of anyone hurting you, but here I am hurting you. I really didn’t mean to upset you. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want you blindsided. It was protective on the surface. She narrowed her eyes at her and admitted, But very selfish underneath. From here on out, I’ll keep it zipped. I promise."

She thanked her and then assured, "I will deal with Abbie. I promise. Just not now, and certainly not until Joel thinks I’m strong enough to keep her out of my head. She sat upright and stroked Maisie’s head. Thoughts and feelings are energy, Maisie. That’s what psychics pick up on, and that’s exactly what we create when we think about her or talk about her and get upset. We’re giving her something to pick up on. We’re broadcasting. We’re letting her in. For right now, be as selfish as you can be by protecting our life here. Keep her out of our house and your head."

Well, when you put it that way. She laughed. I accept permission to be as selfish as possible. She wiggled off her lap and kneeled on the bed. All right, let’s stop broadcasting. Which would you rather do: read or take me up on the offer of the backrub?

Neither, actually, she answered. Let’s just be close.

She told her she liked the idea and raced to the light switch.

Trinity lay toward the center of the bed and raised the comforter and sheets for her, and she eagerly slid right in. She coaxed Maisie into facing away from her, an atypical sleeping position for them. When Maisie finally complied, Trinity attached herself to her back and gently stroked the side of her body. She hated it when they were at odds, and despite her initially juvenile attempt to avoid the issue altogether, she was glad they had talked. After the fact, she always realized how expressing her feelings to Maisie was never the earth-shattering thing she feared it to be. One day, she figured, she’d finally learn to trust it before the fact.

All right, librarian, you’ve got four days before you start your job at the library. Two of those days I have off, so tell me how I can help you get all these things off your plate that are driving you mad.

For the next twenty minutes, they made plans that Trinity knew had more to do with getting ready for a Midwestern winter than simply a part-time job at the library. She felt foolish, but the need to have everything at home in order did not subside. They would secure a delivery of firewood, wash and hang storm windows, put away the hoses and gardens tools, and make a stock-up trip to the grocery store.

Then, she’d start her job, and they’d adjust to a new routine.

Boringly normal, she thought, as the conversation ceased and sleep slowly crept up on them.

Chapter 4

Trinity hated Halloween. She always had—even as a child promised a bucket overflowing with candy. The day not only brought out droves of people, but it made them even more menacing with masks and costumes. To her, that was the trick, and one for which she would not fall.

Today, though, her hatred simply proved how much she truly wanted to be a librarian at Hillmon Point Public Library. Her first day of work was to begin at 4:00 on Halloween and coincide with the start of the trick-or-treating hours. On top of that, the quaint little town went all out, including having the librarian hand out candy. Thankfully, Joe VanElzen, the head librarian, had shown her mercy and agreed to dispense treats at the front door, keeping the ghouls at bay.

She figured all residents would be too busy to utilize the library for its true purpose, and that would allow her time to get acclimated, to absorb the building’s every nuance and nook and cranny so she could confidently answer any question posed to her. She had been able to do that at a library many times the size. She reminded herself, though, that she had been new there once, as well, that it wasn’t an innate knowledge, that it came from experience. It would take time.

As she parked outside the library, she teemed with both excitement and nervousness at the experience before her. She locked her pickup and made a point of not looking