The migraine hit as I was pulling into the Andersen driveway.
I blinked hard as spots of white speckled my vision. A jagged crescent of flickering light shimmered at the corner of my left eye and already the pain was tightening its vise around my head, dulling my brain.
Wincing at Darcy and Lizzie’s loud excitement when I entered the kitchen, I filled their food and water bowls, then shut them inside and trudged upstairs, holding tight onto the balustrade because the scintillating arc of light had flared as it crept across my field of vision, leaving me all but sightless to the outer world.
Swallowing a serious dose of painkillers, I made myself drink a full glass of water before drawing the drapes and inching carefully into my bed. I wanted to weep, but knew it would only worsen the headache; wanted to throw up, even though my stomach was empty; wanted to be under the covers, warming away the shivers which raised gooseflesh on my arms and legs, even though it hurt to have anything touch my skin.
My phone rang, loud as a claxon, jangling my brain. I fumbled on the screen, trying to kill the call, but wound up answering it instead. It was Kennick Carter, asking for an update on my investigation. For a brief second, I considered giving him details of who I’d interviewed and telling him I was planning to follow up on some good leads, but my head hurt too much to talk, and my pride was too bruised to spin stories.
“Bottom line, Kennick? I’ve got nothing solid to tell you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, though he sounded more relieved than disappointed.
“Tell me where I can find you, and I’ll pay you back your hundred bucks.”
“I’m going home on Wednesday morning, but you can catch me tomorrow at Dillon’s — that’s where I have breakfast.”
“What time?”
“Between eight-thirty and nine-thirty.”
“Will do. And, again, I’m really sorry.”
“That’s okay. Maybe it’s for the best.”
A corner of my mind wondered why he was suddenly keen to let the investigation slide, but the rest of my brain demanded a cessation of all mental exertion. I slowly lowered my head back onto the pillow, trying to breathe against the pain, pinching the tender spot between thumb and palm on my left hand hard, hoping the counter-pain on the pressure point would distract from the migraine.
I woke up in the late afternoon to the third call of the day. This time, it was the Andersens’ landline ringing. My head still aching dully, and muzzy with sleep, I stumbled into the main bedroom, but before I could reach the phone, it cut off. As I turned to leave, it started ringing again.
“Hullo?” I answered, stifling a yawn.
Mrs. Andersen apologized for calling, said her husband had called her a worrywart, but could she just ask whether the dogs were fine? And check I’d given them their weekly vitamins? And that I’d watered the plants and had been keeping an eye on the thermostat because, as she’d explained in her list of instructions, it tended to go on the blink from time to time. And had the utilities bill arrived yet? No? When it did, please would I scan it and email it to her so she could pay it? And yes, they were having a fabulous time, and Easter Island was next!
As I ran around, watering plants, checking the mailbox and thermostat, and feeding the dogs vitamin drops, I reflected that not only was I an unreliable psychic and useless private eye, but that I hadn’t even managed to house-sit very well.
“I’ve been a bad mommy. I’m going to make it up to you, I promise,” I told Lizzie and Darcy, fetching the cannister of dog treats from the kitchen.
They yipped excitedly at the sight, but when I opened it, there was only one treat left. I snapped it in two and gave each dog one half. They swallowed my meager offering and stared at me expectantly.
“Okay, let’s go for a walk. A long one.”
That, at least, I could do well. I was even willing to bet that I could do it without tumbling over another corpse.
As I fastened the leads onto the wriggling dogs, my phone pinged an alert for an incoming message. Checking it, I discovered my mother had sent three convoluted and confused texts over the course of the day, both apologizing for and defending her disclosures to the Bugle reporter. I had less than zero desire to speak to her; somehow it felt like this whole mess — even down to being in Pitchford at all — was due to her.
I deliberately left my phone behind on the dresser as I opened the front door, but the juxtaposition of my phone and my mother in my mind kindled a memory. I switched on my phone, found the recording function and activated it, then replaced my cell on the dresser.
“Ghoulies and ghosties, if you’re here, announce yourselves by making some noise or leaving me a message while I’m gone,” I said to the house, feeling like a complete fool.
Then I grabbed my jacket, gloves and beanie and set off with Darcy and Lizzie, locking the door behind us.
Jim had been right in his weather forecast — the temperature was dropping. But at least the bracing cold helped to clear my head. Walking at a brisk pace, I led the beagles — or rather, they led me — around the full perimeter of the estate, until all their excess energy was burned off, and I was a little breathless. When we passed the guardhouse, Doug tried to stop me for a chat.
When I refused to engage, he gave me a mean look and said, “You’ll regret it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I challenged.
He mumbled something about there being plenty of women who would be falling over themselves to spend time with him.
“Have at it, dude.”
By the time the dogs and I wound up back at the park in front of the house, my headache had mostly cleared. The sun had set, and the deserted park was lit an eerie yellow by the street lights. Since even the ducks had retreated to the shelter in their enclosure, I let the dogs off the leash to mosey around freely while I sat on one of the swings, lost in a funk of contemplation.
I’d tried my best to figure out what had happened to Laini, but I’d failed. I’d uncovered nothing useful with my visions. Sleeping off much of the day and cancelling the deal with Kennick hadn’t changed anything; I was still stuck somewhere between try harder and give up.
Giving up my “investigation” would come with the upside of causing no further embarrassment to Ryan, while trying harder might merely involve more banging of my malfunctioning head against a brick wall.
But the idea of quitting rankled. It would let what I believed to be a murder go unsolved. But if I pushed on, I risked alienating everyone without any guarantee that I’d ultimately be able to help anyone.
And it was so tempting to just give up. After all, I’d only come to Pitchford to finish my thesis, and I was almost there — would be there by the time the Andersens came back home. If I paid back Kennick’s advance and just kept my head down and my nose in my own academic business until the end of March, then I could escape back to Boston. Hopefully, I’d leave all the crazy stuff behind, too.
“That’s it,” I said into the dark emptiness of the park. “I quit.”
I’d expected that coming to a decision would make me feel relieved. Instead, I felt dissatisfied and empty. And cold — suddenly I felt icy cold, as though I was enveloped in a pool of glacial air. I shivered violently. Time to go.
“Dar-cy! Liz-zie!” I called, my breath coming in puffs of white which hung in the still, frigid air.
Silent and obedient for once, the dogs trotted over to me, but they slowed as they came closer, and halted a good five feet away. Lizzie whined and Darcy growled. Their eyes flicked from me to the empty swing seat on the left of me and back again. The hairs on the back of my neck lifted, and my eyes began to water. I turned to face the empty swing.
“You there, Colby?” I whispered.
Slightly but undeniably, the swing moved.