Kimberly paced the trailer, normally her refuge and sanctuary, feeling like a caged animal. A hard knot of fury stewed in her stomach. She wanted to be out exploring Guthrie, watching footage review with the rest of the crew, or driving back to the inn for a nap. Anything that would actually be productive and useful.
Most of all she was furious with the man in the street continuing to scream and accuse her of witchcraft, disturbing everyone in the neighborhood. She prided herself on discretion and professional behavior. The sideshow outside mortified her.
Rosie had gone back into the Johnsons’ house for a private phone call. Sterling had left in his car hours before without telling her where he was going. Which left her alone to endure Ezekiel Jackson’s continued harassment.
She was meant to be resting but the periodic yelling kept her on edge. She should ask Michael to take her back to the Stone Lion Inn. At least she could collect her thoughts and perhaps nap a bit there. Unless Ezekiel followed her. If his main intention was to harass her, he very well might trail after her no matter where she went.
Her phone rang. Glad for the diversion, she lifted it from her purse. The caller ID informed her it was Angela, the woman who lived in her house back in Albuquerque, a house sitter and caretaker while the show was on the road. Angela usually only called if she had a problem to report.
“Hey, Angela,” she answered the call. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” Angela’s voice assured her. “But something strange happened last night. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes, of course. Did you hear a voice again?”
“No. This time all the family photos shifted suddenly.”
“Shifted? What do you mean?”
“The photos on the wall moved so that they now hang crooked. Pictures sitting on shelves or dressers tipped over face down. All at once. Startled me, but nothing broke except the glass in one of the frames. It’s an old school picture of you.”
“Oh, wow. That’s definitely significant. Someone or something is trying to get your attention.”
“I thought so. But the way the glass shattered over your face scared me a little. Almost seems like a threat. Maybe they want your attention.”
Angela normally didn’t voice concerns about disturbances. Her house sitter usually seemed fascinated by the glimpses and hints of paranormal activity. Which made her the perfect woman for the job. “Maybe. Are you okay? Do you need a break from the house?”
“No. I don’t. I’m okay. Do you want me to burn some sage or anything?”
Her heart skipped a beat at the idea. If her mother’s spirit lingered in the house, she wanted the chance to connect with her. Anything that purged spirits from a dwelling could send her mother away. She strongly suspected a demon lurked in the house too, but as it wasn’t hurting Angela, she couldn’t risk such measures. “Please don’t. I have permission to investigate the house. Finally. That will be this season’s finale. If you can hold out a little longer, I’ll handle whatever entity I find.”
“That’s so exciting! I’ll be fine. Glad to help any way I can. Do you want me to keep calling with updates?”
“Yes. Anything out of the ordinary. We can keep a journal and try to get a handle on what we’re dealing with. Thank you so much!”
“Talk to you later.”
She hung up and dropped into a chair. Last week, Angela had called to report smelling floral perfume and hearing someone say Kimberly’s name. This week the family photos were disturbed. Such markedly different disturbances seemed to indicate different presences in the house.
The door opened, startling her from concerns about her house. Sterling entered, balancing a pizza box on one hand.
She rushed to his side. “Where have you been?”
“Aw, shucks. You missed me.”
She accepted the outstretched box and read the top. “Hideaway Pizza?”
“Yeah. Famous place here in Oklahoma. Highly recommended and reviewed on Yelp. I got one of the veggie options for you.”
“It’s here in Guthrie? Darn. I wish I could have seen it. I hate being stuck here. We all planned to wander around Guthrie and enjoy the history here. Now I’m trapped. Next time take me with you when you go on an all-afternoon outing.”
“I thought you’d need to rest and relax.”
“Impossible with that fringe lunatic out there.”
“I’m afraid it’s lunatics now. I noticed on my way in that he’s acquired a friend.”
“What?” She peered out the window.
“Hideaway isn’t in Guthrie anyway. The original location is in Stillwater but now they’ve opened restaurants elsewhere in the area. I stopped by the one in Edmond, just down the street from the University of Central Oklahoma. I met an environmental professor. He agreed to test samples for me.”
She opened the box, savored the mouth-watering aroma, and lifted a slice. “What samples?”
“Air. Water. Soil.” He bit into a piece and groaned his approval. “We will rule out environmental contaminants that could cause hallucinations and rashes.”
“You won’t find anything.” She inspected the dipping sauce. “Ranch? Ugh. Marinara is better for you.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Marinara is concentrated tomatoes so you have the benefit of antioxidants. Ranch is all fat.”
Sterling cracked open the container and dunked his crust into it. “Mmmm. Delicious fat.”
She shook her head but smirked regardless. “You are such a nut.”
“Out of curiosity, what would you do if something tested positive for dangerous toxins?”
She swallowed before answering. “I would suggest the family get it cleaned up.”
“Would you admit that’s what caused the girl’s illness?”
She selected a second slice. “If the house showed no signs of activity, sure. I’d absolutely consider that. But this location has a presence. How would you explain only one person in the house is affected by an environmental toxin?”
“Perhaps the younger girl is more sensitive. Perhaps children are more susceptible.”
“Perhaps. But right now, that’s speculation. Let’s see what results you get from your samples. Even you looked shocked by the girl’s behavior earlier.”
“I’ll agree she didn’t look like she was pretending. That was odd behavior.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “You don’t mind?”
“Mind what?”
“Running tests to check for toxins?”
“Why would I?”
He shrugged. “I thought you’d balk. Feel threatened.”
“Nope. I’m not anti-science. I’m . . . alternative inclusive.”
He stared at her a moment before bursting into laughter. “Okay. I can work with that.”
His gaze shifted to the look that always sent an electric quiver through her nerves. She squirmed. “What?”
“You’re fascinating. Always a surprise. I like it.”
The quiver burst into a full-blown case of butterflies in her stomach. She ducked her head and tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, I like having you around too.”
“Oh, hey. The UCO stadium carries your name.”
She did a double take. “What are you talking about?”
“I saw it when I was on campus. Wantland Stadium. It’s not that common a name. Seemed unlikely to be a coincidence. Maybe you have some history here like Rosie?”
He was correct that a coincidence seemed like a stretch. She’d never met anyone else with her last name. Then again, assuming she shared common ancestry with every single person with the same last name struck her as equally far-fetched. “Not to my knowledge, but . . .”
But how much did she really know about her extended family? She knew her dad’s sister, Aunt Dolly. Her grandparents had all passed on either before she was born or while she was too young to remember them. But she’d never even seen pictures of them growing up. Those family photos Angela reported toppling over or skewing on the walls were only of herself and her parents. Why no grandparents? Or anyone else? Why no photo albums of other branches of her family tree? Why no Bible diligently recording the names of those before her?
Why hadn’t she ever asked her dad? Growing up, that was her only reality. And the relationship with her father had been strained at best after Mom’s sudden death. She should have thought to ask, though, before it was too late.
“Hey. Where’d you go?” Sterling touched her knee.
“How far back can you trace your family history?”
He blew out a puff of air. “Oh, gosh . . . generations. I don’t really know.”
“So can the Johnsons. So can Rosie. I know nothing. How can that be?”
“No one told you anything?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“Have you dug through all the stuff in your house since you bought it back? Maybe there are boxes of records somewhere? Maybe in the attic?”
“It didn’t even occur to me to look. I haven’t stayed there much. I’m always so busy with the show.” She met his gaze and allowed herself a moment to relish the concern there.
“We’ll find out. Honestly, I think you should pursue this from a medical history standpoint if for no other reason. Your aunt is your dad’s sister, but your mom died young. You need to know if she suffered from a genetic anomaly you could have inherited.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Good point. Wantland is my dad’s name of course, but that could at least help me—”
Sterling’s phone lit up, pinging repeatedly in rapid succession.
“What is it?” She jumped up and peered over his shoulder.
Sterling turned his phone toward her. “The five o’clock news story broke. We’re taking hits left and right.”
“I thought you were going to post that video of Ruth.”
“I did. It helped drown out Jackson for a bit. Your fans supported you, as always. Left lots of negative comments about this guy. But now his supporters are fighting back. And the local news is reaching people nearby.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “And people nearby can come join him.”
She watched his thumbs flying over his phone, fighting for her and her show. Their show.
“I’m posting again. You should retweet and encourage your fans to do the same. See if we can shut this down.”
She flushed, unwilling to admit the truth. “I don’t know how.”
His thumbs stopped moving. He raised his gaze to meet hers, dark eyes below furrowed brows. “Don’t know how to what?”
“Use Twitter. Usually Rosie posts for me. If anyone does.”
“A smart, independent woman like you? I would’ve thought that would make you crazy.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want an account, but my contract mandated it. So, I created one. But I don’t like to share anything.”
His adorable smirk quirked the corners of his mouth. “Now that makes sense. I’ve noticed your rebellious streak.”
“I—”
He held up a hand. “Don’t defend yourself. It wasn’t a criticism. Rebellious hellions are sexy.”
“Hellion? I—” She closed her mouth so quickly her teeth clicked. Sexy? Her? Had anyone ever called her sexy? Well, other than the creepy pervs who stalked her online and probably referred to anything with two X-chromosomes as sexy. “I’m not . . . any of those things. I’m just normal and ordinary.”
One eyebrow cocked, that teasing look danced in his eyes. “By definition, a psychic is paranormal and extraordinary. And I love your fiery temperament when you get worked up. As I said, not a criticism. My life has only improved since you entered it. Way more exciting and satisfying.”
Her mouth worked to produce words but had apparently become disconnected from her brain, which no longer issued command over anything. Her heart galloped out of control. Her stomach turned upside down. Her hands shook and sweated. Coherent thought escaped her. “But you . . . I thought . . . we don’t . . . ” She took a deep breath. “Thank you. I like having you on the show. You . . . you make things better. I appreciate it.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Progress. Slow, but progress. I’ll take it. I wish you were as fiery and passionate about everything in your life. Come here.”
Before she knew what was happening, he grabbed her waist, turned her around, and pulled her close, resting his chin on her shoulder. She could barely breathe. “What are you—”
He took her hands in his, raised her phone, and opened Twitter. “Instead of relying on Rosie or me to handle this for you, why don’t I teach you how to Twitter? Then you can be in control.”
His chest vibrated against her back as he spoke. His cheek brushed against hers. Hyperaware of the nearness of his lips, she gulped. “Okay.”
“Super simple,” he instructed. “See my tweet here? This button with the arrows is to retweet. And actually, you can set your account to automatically retweet anything I tweet, plus anything we tweet from the show’s account. Let’s do that. You won’t be able to add your own message to the post, but I’m rather skeptical you will anyway.”
At the moment, with Sterling pressed against her, she was skeptical she would remember anything he was saying. She nodded anyway, aware she would probably agree with anything he said right now.
“There,” he said. “I have the video of Ruth ready to retweet with a comment. Go ahead and type in something to your fans. Tell them this guy is harassing you and ask them to retweet the video of Ruth. Something like that.”
The door opened and Rosie hurried into the trailer, accompanied by continuous shouts from the protestors. Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Sterling is just teaching me to tweet,” she said, face flushed.
“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Rosie’s mouth curled into a smile. “I truly hate to interrupt but we have company out there.”
“Yes, I saw,” Sterling said. “He has a friend.”
“He has more than one,” Rosie corrected him.
Kimberly extracted herself from Sterling’s arms and peered out the window again.
A car had parked at the curb. Several people clambered from the doors, cameras and phones in hand. They all wore matching red shirts and ball caps.
“What is happening?” she asked, opening the trailer door for a better look.
The newcomers joined Ezekiel, increasing his presence to seven people. A neighbor jogging by watched the small cluster of people. One of the new arrivals shoved a camera in the man’s face.
The jogger slowed his pace. “What are you doing? Why are you recording me?”
“We’re allowed to be here,” the man with the camera yelled. “This is a free country. We have a right to be on public property!”
The jogger swatted at the camera. “This is my neighborhood. Get that out of my face.”
“You can’t silence us!” the man yelled. His fellow red-capped compatriots joined in.
Kimberly heard bits and pieces of the uproar, all of them concerning freedom of speech and the right to be on public property.
“These new guys don’t seem to care about Kimberly at all,” Rosie noted. “They’re just harassing the neighbors and yelling ‘First Amendment’ over and over.”
“Great,” Kimberly said. “That will endear us to the neighborhood. We’re the ones who attracted them.”
“Oh, no,” Sterling said, typing on his phone. “We’re being targeted by these guys.”
“What does that mean?” Kimberly leaned against him to view his phone screen.
“Your own phone would be blowing up if you turned on notifications. That will be the next lesson. This new group is targeting the show, claiming we’re trying to silence Ezekiel Jackson and keep him from voicing his religious opinions, therefore violating his freedom of speech, as guaranteed by the Constitution. They’ve sent out a call to arms to all members of their group.”
“What does that mean?” she asked again, still confused.
“It means things are about to get really nasty around here.”