Free A Temporary Ghost (The Georgia Lee Maxwell Series, Series 2) by Michaela Thompson

running away as to comfort her. She sobbed, “There’s never anything left for me. Since my father died, it was always Mother and Alex, Mother and Alex.”
    “But surely—”
    “No room for me. Ever.”
    I remembered how Vivien had softened when she talked about her son. “But Alex left home years ago, didn’t he?”
    “He could’ve gone to the moon, and it wouldn’t have made any difference.” Her eyes were streaming. “They’ll always have their secrets, their bonds. And now—”
    She didn’t continue, but she didn’t have to. “And now there’s Ross,” I said.
    She looked away. I went on, “It’s the same thing all over again, isn’t it?”
    She became oddly still, as if my words had paralyzed her. Then she burst out, “Yes! Yes! How does she do it? How does she get him to love her so much? He’ll do anything for her! Lie for her—”
    She broke off. Beneath my arm, her shoulders heaved. And I sat wondering, what does she mean, Ross will lie for Vivien?

RETURN TO MAS ROSE
    She wouldn’t tell me. She clammed up completely, shaking her head to my questions. I was in turmoil. Would Blanche really have jumped, I tortured myself by wondering, or had the episode been an exercise in dramatics complicated by my arrival? Gradually, her sobs lessened. When had Ross lied for Vivien? The night Carey was murdered?
    Blanche moved away from me and sat with her head in her hands. My body was so stiff I might’ve been carrying her on my back. She straightened and blew her nose. She said, “I have to tell you something.”
    “Yes?”
    “I wasn’t going to jump, if that’s what you thought.”
    “Of course that’s what I thought.”
    She shook her head. “I wanted to see how it felt to be so close. That’s all.”
    “I see.”
    “There’s no need to mention it to my mother.”
    Sweat was trickling down my brow. I took off my hat and let the wind cool my damp hair. “I don’t believe you,” I said.
    “It’s true. Please.”
    “No.”
    I could have sworn she looked satisfied. Blanche felt left out and unloved. This episode could have been a twisted way of putting herself in the limelight. The thought infuriated me until I looked at her trembling hands and swollen eyes. The misery was real, whatever it might have driven her to do.
    We left the Cité Mort. In the winding streets below we came across Ross and Vivien, and shortly afterward started home. Blanche was now in possession of herself. I’d wait and talk to Vivien in private. When Vivien asked where the guidebook was, Blanche, without a glance at me, said she’d forgotten it in a cafe. I’d never known people so at home with lies.
    On the road up the hill to Mas Rose, I saw the motorcyclist. He appeared behind us, reminding me immediately of the engine I’d heard the night before. I stared at him through the back window. He wore a faded denim jacket and jeans, a red handkerchief knotted around his neck, a black helmet with a smoked plastic face guard. None of us mentioned him. Blanche, depleted, was dozing next to me. Ross drove in silence and Vivien sagged against her window. When we turned in at the gate, the cyclist roared past.
    I followed Vivien to her room and told her about the episode with Blanche. She listened stony-eyed, standing in the middle of the room, her hands shoved in the pockets of her black slacks. When I finished the story she said, “That’s great. Just great.”
    I had imagined several possible reactions. Bald fury wasn’t one of them. She began to pace. “Do you know why we’re here?” she flung at me. “Here in Provence, on a trip I can’t afford? Because of Blanche. Because Carey, that son of a bitch, wouldn’t pay for Blanche to come to Avignon, and Blanche never got over it. And so now she pulls this emotional blackmail—”
    Maybe Blanche had been right about telling Vivien. “I don’t think—” I ventured.
    She wheeled on me. “You don’t know anything about it! The therapists. The bills for the