The Abandoned. Amanda Stevens

      Finding herself unaccustomedly tongue-tied, Ree pointed toward the gate.

      Amelia bit her lip. “I must have forgotten to shut it. I’d better go lock it before Papa finds out. Come on. I’ll walk you back.”

      But Ree held her ground, her curious gaze taking in all the stone angels. She’d never seen so many. It was like a silent, weeping army.

      “They’re magic,” Amelia said. Her eyes took on a dreamy, faraway look. “Sometimes just before dusk, when the light hits them just right, they come to life.”

      Ree finally found her voice, and much to her chagrin, her practical side emerged. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

      “Of course there is. There’s magic all around us. You just can’t see it.”

      “Can you?”

      “Sometimes.” Amelia’s smile disappeared and she glanced away. “But I’m safe here.”

      “Why?”

      She waved an arm, encompassing the crumbling angels and the surrounding cemetery. “Because these are my guardians,” she said. “And this is my kingdom….”

      The memory faded as Ree rounded a corner and almost skidded into Trudy McIntyre. She was escorting Alice Canton, a young woman with paranoid schizophrenic tendencies, back to her room. Alice was pale and fragile with an emaciated body and wide, tragic eyes.

      She stopped dead in her tracks to gape at Ree as they passed in the hallway.

      “Come along, Alice,” Trudy coaxed. “Let’s get you settled in for the night.”

      But Alice refused to budge even when Trudy urged her forward. “Who’s she?”

      “That’s Ree,” Trudy said. “Don’t you remember? She brought you a new book last week.”

      “Not her,” Alice insisted. “The other one.”

      And then Ree noticed that she was looking—not directly at her—but at a point just beyond her shoulder.

      A chill shot through Ree as she resisted the urge to glance back.

      “There’s no one else here,” Trudy said. “Just us three girls.”

      Ree smiled reassuringly and took a step forward so that Alice could see her better in the dimmed lighting. Alice flinched away, bunching her shoulders and drawing her fists up to her face as if trying to protect herself. Or hide herself. “Don’t look at her,” she whispered.

      Trudy patted her arm as Alice peered over her fists. “Can you see her?” Her voice rose in agitation. “Why can’t you see her? Why can’t you see any of them? They’re everywhere!”

      There’s magic all around us. You just can’t see it.

      Ree shivered again though she tried to put on a good face for Alice.

      “This one’s angry,” Alice warned. “She scares me.”

      “You’ll be safe in your room,” Trudy soothed as she took Alice firmly by the arm and pulled her down the hall.

      Alice went reluctantly, muttering under her breath, “That poor girl. That poor, poor girl…”

      Ree had the discomforting notion that Alice was talking about her.

      Abruptly, she turned and made her way up to the front desk. A couple of orderlies milled about in the lobby, but other than a quick nod, they paid Ree little attention. She didn’t know how long Trudy would be busy with Alice, but she was tempted to slip behind the desk and access the computer. If she could locate Violet’s file, she might be able to figure out why Dr. Farrante felt so threatened. What kind of power could Ilsa Tisdale—long dead, no doubt—still have over the living?

      Wisely, Ree tempered the impulse. Not only was the blackmail scheme none of her business, but also hacking into patient records could earn her jail time. She pacified herself by returning to Miss Violet’s suite. Not to snoop, she told herself firmly, but to pay her final respects.

      No one had been in yet to collect the body, and as Ree stood at Miss Violet’s bedside, the strangest feeling came over her. The old woman looked peaceful in repose, but Ree found no comfort in the viewing. She wasn’t squeamish about death and she didn’t believe in ghosts. But as she gazed down at the corpse, she felt the chill of something unnatural in that room.

      Which was crazy. She was just letting her imagination get the better of her.

      Ree tried to shake off the sensation as she picked up the book from the nightstand where she’d left it earlier. Flipping the cover open, she ran her thumb over the inscription. And the hair at the back of her neck lifted.

      She wouldn’t look behind her. She wouldn’t. No one was there. She was alone in the room with a dead woman and the dead couldn’t hurt her. Nor could they come back. There was no such thing as ghosts. No such thing as magic of any kind. A stone angel couldn’t come to life and neither could a corpse.

      An icy draft blew down her neck and unable to resist, Ree half turned. From her periphery, she caught a slight movement in the farthest corner of the room. Heart pounding, she watched it for the longest moment before she realized that what she’d spotted was nothing more than the shadow of a tree branch moving outside the window.

      Faint with relief, she put a hand on the bed to steady herself. What a strange, strange night.

      Her nerves were shot. That was the only logical explanation. The stress of finishing her master’s thesis coupled with her work at the hospital and her mounting student loans had taken a toll. Now Miss Violet’s death. The blackmail scheme. Dr. Farrante’s secret. A woman named Ilsa Tisdale who apparently had the power to destroy lives even from her grave. It all sounded so melodramatic and sensational, and Ree told herself she’d be laughing at her overreaction come morning.

      But she wasn’t laughing now. As she replaced the book on the nightstand, something cold brushed against her hand. She gasped and jerked back.

      “Go home, Ree.” She spoke the command aloud, hoping the sound of her voice would chase away that unnamed fear.

      Forget about the blackmail. Forget about Miss Violet. None of this is your concern. Just…go home.

      She might have done exactly that if not for the swoosh of the outer door. Reacting purely on instinct, Ree tiptoed to the bathroom and slipped inside just as Dr. Farrante stepped into the bedroom. And for the second time that night, she found herself eavesdropping on the formidable psychiatrist.

      He went immediately to Miss Violet’s bedside and stood gazing down at her. The light was lowered in her room, but Ree could see his face clearly. She still thought him the most handsome, charismatic man she’d ever met, but now there was something aberrant about his too-perfect features. Something cold-blooded about the way he clasped his hands behind his back and observed the remains so passively.

      And suddenly one of the blackmailer’s taunts came rushing back to her. The Farrantes have always taken such good care of my aunt.

      As she watched the psychiatrist with the body, she became more and more convinced that some atrocity had been committed and a cover-up perpetuated for generations. Something terrible had happened to Ilsa Tisdale. Ree was certain of it.

      And she wondered if, after all this time, a clue might still be buried in Oak Grove Cemetery.

      It was misting when Ree left the hospital a little while later. She hurried across the damp parking lot to her car, turning only once to glance back at the stately white columns and gleaming façade. She’d always thought the historic building a fitting symbol of all that three generations of Farrantes had accomplished in the field of developmental psychology. Now she saw only darkness and secrets.

      Shivering in the wet gloom, she climbed into her car and started the engine. Once she left the parking lot, the security lights faded and a canopy of live oaks shrouded