Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 129001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“No idea why she’s coming to visit, except she’s probably bored and curious about her new neighbor.”
“Thank you, Mo.” My reply was a whisper.
Because Celeste Bohannan, the Girl in the Mist, was not out in my pine-needle strewn yard.
She was on my deck, at the glass doors, staring at me.
“Are you all right?” Mo asked.
We had code, and to tell Mo I was not all right, I would say, “I’m perfectly fine.”
Obviously, I didn’t say that, even if I did have this uncomfortable feeling, watching that girl as I walked through my new house to the back doors, that I was what that phrase meant to say.
The opposite of perfectly fine.
Something was wrong.
Very.
I might be fine, but something was not right.
Even though I felt that keenly, I said, “I’m good, Mo. Thank you.”
“Take care and call if you need anything.”
“Thanks again.”
“’Bye.”
“Good-bye.”
I said this as I opened the door.
And looked, without barrier, into the eyes of Celeste Bohannan.
A wave of such melancholy struck me, I instantly longed for the uncomfortable feeling I’d just been experiencing.
My life had just changed.
The world had just changed.
With one look in the wounded, haunted, lost eyes of Celeste Bohannan.
“Hello,” I greeted.
“Hi,” she whispered.
Shy or affected, I did not know, but her fragile voice played its part in the overall delicacy that was so very her, it permeated the air around her.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked.
A brief pause and then, “That’s why I’m here.”
I didn’t understand, tipped my head to indicate that, and backed it up with words. “I’m sorry?”
“To see if I can help you.” Another pause before, “Move in.”
When I didn’t immediately allow her entry, she turned at the waist, lifted a lethargic arm and pointed to the green, corrugated metal roof down the way.
“I live there,” she said, dropping her arm and turning back to me. “With my dad and brothers.”
It hit me belatedly she lived there with her father and brothers.
Behind a rather daunting gate.
A gate that had, on either five-feet high column at the sides, plaques—not signs, plaques— that read, Private Property and Trespassers will be Prosecuted.
Again, two of them, one on either side.
Along these columns was a stone fence, also five-feet high, that extended well into the woods.
I had been informed by Joe Callahan there were cameras located in random places in the woods.
Not only that, those places were changed, randomly, so anyone who would think they could clock those areas and avoid them so they could find lake access or a free campground would eventually be disabused of those notions.
Finally, she lived with her dad and two brothers on a property that was one of only four in perhaps a ten-mile radius, sitting behind a daunting gate with threatening plaques affixed (twice), a fence and cameras. All of this approved by the Federal Bureau of Investigations as a good, safe place for me to be because the garden-variety stalker myself and my former costars were experiencing had done things—done such terrible, terrible things, and was still doing them—and we now knew he was not-so-garden-variety at all.
And here she was, wounded, lost, for some unusual reason suspended from school, a good kid who got good grades, on my back deck offering to help me unpack.
It was without a doubt the mother of two beautiful daughters that had me asking a question the answer to which I knew.
“What’s your name?”
“Celeste.”
With that, I stepped aside, saying, “Hello, Celeste. I’m Delphine. Please come in.”
Three
Foundation
Clearly, for a project to do with Celeste, we couldn’t be wandering around the house, haphazardly unpacking boxes.
This wasn’t about her (entirely), or the situation I was facing which brought me there.
I was accustomed to protecting my privacy.
After all these years, it had become habit.
I offered Celeste a drink, something she declined.
It was then I had to make a decision.
The kitchen was large.
To the side off the kitchen there was a dining area, complete with a truly vile, smoked glass seventies chandelier (please don’t worry, I’d not only found its replacement, I’d already ordered it).
This was part of a great room that was either by design of the original house, or an indication of clairvoyance by its now-dead owner who had lived there for fifty-seven years, and thus he’d torn down walls not knowing one day the chandelier would be woefully dated, but knowing that compartmentalized living would be a thing of the past.
There was a small study and a large mudroom/laundry tucked on the other side of a set of stairs that rose to the upper floor off to the side of the living room area.
But the remainder of the lower floor was one large room.
And an entire wall of that room was built-in bookshelves.
These, I would not be altering.
Though, I would be relieved that the glut of boxes stacked around them would be gone.
On that thought, I made a decision and I led her to the shelves.