TWENTY-FOUR
“They must have gone next door,” Aunt Paulette surmised about the police car. “Guess they had a few more questions to ask Mr. Manning.”
Jessie and her aunt walked back up the driveway. “I just wish they’d find who did it so we could put all of this in the past,” Jessie said, shivering suddenly.
Aunt Paulette stopped walking. “You know, Jessie,” she said, reaching out and taking her niece’s arm. “I think . . . I think I see an end to this.”
“What do you mean?”
“The killer . . .” Aunt Paulette gazed over toward the trees that surrounded John Manning’s stone mansion. “They’re about to find him.”
“You mean . . . Manning?” Jessie asked. “Are you getting some kind of vision or something?”
“I can’t be sure,” Aunt Paulette said. “It’s just a feeling or a sense I have. They’re close to him. They’re closing in.”
At that very moment a whole squad of police cars suddenly arrived out front, parking in the street. At least a dozen of detectives, most of them in plainclothes, got out of the cars and swarmed up to John Manning’s front gate. Jessie couldn’t resist a small laugh.
“Well, Aunt Paulette,” she said, “maybe you’re on to something.”
It was her aunt’s turn to shiver. “Well, let’s hope so,” she said.
They resumed walking up the driveway.
“Do you think Mr. Manning could have had anything to do with it?” Jessie asked. “I mean, all those police cars . . .”
“It’s probably just a search of his house,” Aunt Paulette replied. “I understand he refused to let police in—whereas we let them come and go, look anywhere they wanted.”
“I hope he didn’t do it,” Jessie said. “I’d hate to think that I let Inga go over there and then he killed her.”
“You couldn’t have known, sweetie.”
Jessie bit back the tears. She had cried so often since Inga’s death. She didn’t want to let loose another waterfall.
Back in the house, she started dinner, trying to put whatever was going on in the house next door out of her mind. She’d make baked macaroni and cheese. Mom’s recipe.
“Stay and eat with us?” she asked Aunt Paulette.
“Sure, baby.”
Abby came through the back door.
“Have fun on the swings, Ab?” her mother asked her.
“Yes,” the little girl replied, noticing the block of cheddar Jessie was slicing on the chopping board. “Are you making mac and cheese?”
“I sure am. Your favorite.”
“Gramma’s recipe?” Abby asked.
“That it is,” her mother replied.
“I wish you had known your grandmother, Abby,” Aunt Paulette said. “How she would have loved you.”
“I wish I had known her, too,” the little girl mused, snitching a piece of cheese and placing it in her mouth.
“Abby,” Jessie said. “I notice when you play on the swings you talk to somebody.”
Abby nodded.
“Is it a friend of yours?” Jessie asked.
Again Abby nodded.
“What’s her name?”
“It’s not a girl.”
“Oh?” Jessie asked, cutting the block of cheese into small cubes that she planned to melt in a pan with some seasoned milk. “Then what’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
Jessie smiled over at Aunt Paulette. “He’s just your friend, I guess.”
“Well, actually,” Abby said, seeming to consider her mother’s statement, “he’s more than a friend.”
Jessie smiled wider. “Oh, really? How is he more than a friend?”
Abby looked up at her with her big round eyes. “He’s my brother.”
The knife in Jessie’s hand suddenly sliced down into her finger, drawing blood, and she gasped out loud. Not from any pain, or from the blood that now dripped onto the chopping board.
But from Abby’s words.
He’s my brother.
“Jessie!” Aunt Paulette cried, jumping up and running over with a dishtowel. “Are you all right?”
The older woman immediately used the dishtowel to wrap Jessie’s finger in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood.
“It’s okay,” Jessie managed to say in a small, shaky voice. “It wasn’t very deep.”
“Mommy, are you okay?” Abby asked.
Jessie gave her a smile. “Yes, sweetie, I’m fine. Just cut my finger a tiny, little bit.”
She walked over to the sink and, removing the dishtowel, ran water over her finger. The wound was really just superficial.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Abby asked.
“Yes, baby. It’s all better now.” She smiled over her shoulder. “Go wash up for supper, okay, Abs?”
“Yes, Mommy,” the little girl said, and hurried upstairs.
“Jessie,” Aunt Paulette said, suddenly at her side.
“Did you hear what she said?” Jessie asked her aunt. “She said she was playing with . . . her brother.”
Aunt Paulette knew all about the dreams she’d had, the visions, the terrible guilt she carried with her about her lost twin son.
“Sweetie,” Aunt Paulette said, “little children often play with imaginary siblings. It’s nothing to be alarmed about.”
“It was just the way she said it.” Jessie was wrapping a Band-Aid around her finger. “So matter-of-factly.”
“Right now, Abby’s going through a difficult time at school. She feels she doesn’t have any friends. She sees the Pierce kids, little Piper and Ashton, and she wishes she had a brother, too, someone who would always be with her, and play with her.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Jessie said. “Oh, my poor baby.”
“It’s just a simple child’s game,” Aunt Paulette said.
Jessie nodded. But she couldn’t get the image of that swing out of her mind—the way it had seemed to move, entirely on its own.