Free Shadows At Sunset by Anne Stuart Page B

of her, never glancing to the right or left, or even looking overhead. That was the safest way. She never saw them head-on—it was always a shift in the shadows, a whisper beneath the wind, a hint of perfume on the air or the scent of Turkish tobacco in a house full of nonsmokers.
    They didn’t want to hurt her, the ghosts of La Casa, she was sure of that. But she had too much going on in her life to make room for them. Back when she was younger she’d see them sometimes, and never think twice about it. But in the past few years she’d grown increasingly unable to deal with them, watching her, judging her, their pale, transparent faces full of sympathy.
    They were dead, she reminded herself. A figment of her drug-damaged, overactive imagination. Brenda de Lorillard and Ted Hughes had been buried for close to fifty years—they weren’t roaming La Casa, watching her.
    By the time she reached her bedroom door she was practically running, and she slammed it shut behind her, leaning against it, trying to control the panicked shudders that washed over her. At least she was safe in here. They never came in here—she didn’t need garlic braids or crucifixes to keep them at bay. For some reason her room was the only place she’d never seen them, and she took a deep breath, letting the sense of safety wash over her.
    She turned on The Weather Channel, her constant companion, stripped off her clothes and lay down on the twin bed. Jilly had removed her old, king-size one when she was in treatment last time, which was a good thing. Too many memories in that bed, too many men. And too much blood.
    She looked down at the scars on her wrists. Three different sets—you’d think she’d finally learn to get it right, she thought. Her father wanted her to have plastic surgery to cover the marks, but she’d stubbornly refused. A major victory, since she seldom refused Jackson Meyer anything. But she liked her scars. To her they weren’t a sign of defeat, but of victory, a part of who and what she was and what she’d survived. She couldn’t imagine wanting to get rid of them. She only hoped she wouldn’t come to the point where she had to add to them.
    The hurricane season was in full force, and The Weather Channel reporters were speaking in hushed, awe-filled tones about the devastating force of Hurricane Darla. Stupid name for a hurricane—it made her think of The Little Rascals, that old black and white serial with the precocious children.
    She lay on the bed and watched, rapt. She had no cash, but her credit cards had been paid up. She could get a cash advance, take a plane and fly to the middle of the hurricane. She’d never experienced that kind of storm, wind and rain lashing all around, the sea climbing higher and higher, taking everything in its wake. She wanted to be there, naked, arms outstretched to the heavens, letting the storm howl around her.
    But she was too tired to go anywhere.
    Tired of meetings, where everyone talked in platitudes that made no sense. Let go and let God. What if there was no God? Or if God found you so unworthy He’d abandoned you years ago, and there was no way you could find your way back? The God of Rachel-Ann’s childhood was Catholic, inflexible and unforgiving, and she had too many mortal sins on her soul to ever hope for comfort.
    It didn’t help that she’d seen Skye at the meeting tonight, looking disgustingly happy. She’d been in detox with her some five years ago, and she’d known immediately that Skye wouldn’t make it. She’d overdose the next time, or the time after that.
    But the Skye at the meeting had been clean and sober for five years—unless she’d lied, she’d never had a slip since that time in the hospital. And Rachel-Ann had been back in three times.
    It wasn’t that she was competitive. She was truly, deeply happy for Skye. Skye looked years older, but the lines