Writ on Water Read Free Page A

ran away this mornin’—’ ” Running away sounded childish, though, when your life wasn’t in danger. And it might not help her escape her personal baggage, which had been piling up of late. Especially given the direction she was running, because the travel-trunk of emotional baggage lived in Virginia. But she wouldn’t know until she gave running a try. And surely anything was better than huddling in her bed, doing her best to avoid both the phone and sleep in the long hours that belonged to the street sweeper, and the stray cats who prowled the Dumpsters in the parking lot.
    Forget the blues. She needed a paradigm shift. She wasn’t running away. Instead, independent Chloe Smith was headed for a new—and possibly diplomatically challenging—job at Riverview Plantation. Which was why she wasn’t in any hurry to arrive. There was no need to rush at her fate now that the meeting was scheduled. Didn’t everyone keep saying that life was a journey and not a destination?
    Of course, most people—as her father would say—were so full of it their eyes were brown. And that went double for the advice they gave.
    Chloe consulted her map again, though there was no need. The road was straight and had no forks.
    Her new client was a good buddy of her boss and mentor, Roland Lachaise. She had been thoroughly briefed—and reassured—about the delicate but benign nature of her assignment, but she was still feeling bemused and uneasy. And having super-sized anxiety dreams at night.
    Her granny, a fey old witch who’d loved terrorizing her grandchild with tales of the weird anytime Chloe’s parents were absent, had assured Chloe of the child’s inheritance of the matrilineal curse of second Sight. Up until the week just past, Chloe had never believed it. Her traditional Methodist father had always called his mother-inlaw’s vision rituals “bullshit necrophilia” and would have nothing to do with Gran after his wife died. The taxidermy and dining on roadkill thing hadn’t helped. Dad was a complete urbanite, and his world was not accommodating to certain rural ideas.
    Gran wasn’t a necrophiliac—not in the strictest technical sense of the word. Was there such a thing as a necrophile? That sounded closer, but Chloe had always thought the old woman was morbid and probably delusional. However, now she was beginning to wonder if Granny Claire had been right in her malicious prognostication. Could Chloe be seeing visions, perhaps—please, God, only metaphorical ones warning of future danger?
    â€œNo way,” Chloe muttered. “That is all just
bull
. All you need is about fifty years of psychotherapy to sort out your family problems.”
    These words failed to convince her, though finding a therapist was probably a good idea. Chloe was haunted by her past life, whose ghosts refused to fade away. She had few clear memories of her mother and grandmother together, but those that stayed with her were not pleasant and overshadowed a lot of her life. It was amazing how little time it took to damage a child. The first and maybe worst of their encounters had happened around her fourth birthday. Her mother had taken Chloe to visit her grandmother for the first time then; and it had caused the first and only fight her mother and father had ever had in her presence.
    No one had promised Chloe a cake and presents, but a part of her had half expected that there would be one or the other waiting for her at her mysterious granny’s house. After all, she watched TV and had friends with grandmas: It was obligatory, that’s what grannies did.
    The ride into the backwoods had been a long one, and no cake or gifts were in evidence when they arrived, not even a pink envelope that might hold a card. But Chloe hadn’t fussed. In fact, Chloe had enjoyed herself, in spite of her initial disappointment about not having a second birthday party. Granny