Free Water Witch by Deborah LeBlanc Page B

did, she set the drink on the table and
wrapped the fingers of both hands around the can. “What happened to
you back at the Bucket? Did you pick up on the kids?”
    “I really don’t know what happened. A lot of
pain. Stuff I’ve never felt before. I didn’t get a bead on the kids
at all.” I massaged my finger again, but the exercise no longer
relaxed me.
    “I saw how much you were hurting. You had to
have picked up on something.”
    I gave up on the massage therapy, crossed my
arms and settled them on the table, remembering the fear that had
overwhelmed me, the fear about uncovering truths.I didn’t want to
frighten her by trying to explain something I didn’t understand
myself. “Yeah, there was something. I’m just not sure what.” I
fought to keep my voice steady, reassuring. “Look, why don’t you
tell me what’s been going on? Maybe that will help me make sense
out of what happened back at the pier.”
    Angelle bit her upper lip, glanced over at
the stove, then towards the archway that led to the living room
where we’d entered the house. When she looked back at me, I saw
anxiety flicker in her eyes. “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
    I grinned and tried to lighten the mood.
“Girl, I’ve known you were crazy since we were kids.”
    The attempt at humor didn’t work. Instead of
laughing, my sister’s eyes welled up with tears. Feeling like an
insensitive asshole, I quickly reached across the table and placed
a hand over one of her hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
    “You know, me asking you to come here wasn’t
all about Sarah and Nicky.” Angelle glanced over at the stove
again, and I waited for her to continue, my stomach doing a slow
roll. “It . . . it started about two and a half, three weeks ago,
about the same time Poochie moved in here. I was . . . I was
cooking supper, right there at that stove when it . . . it touched
me the first time.”
    The hair on my arms jumped to attention.
“When what touched you?”
    “I don’t know what it was.”
    I stared at her, waiting, suddenly fearful of
what she had to say. When a long, silent moment grew into two, I
prodded gently. “I don’t understand.”
    “It . . . my . . .my . . .” She wouldn’t look
me in the eyes, and her cheeks flushed bright pink. “Something
pinched my right breast . . . h ard .”
    I sat back, startled by her words.
“What?”
    Angelle nodded.“And there was nobody in here
but me. Trevor wasn’t home; he was out running crawfish traps.
Poochie was in her room at the other end of the house.” She drew in
a shuddering breath and finally looked at me. “I was by myself,
Dunny.”
    I gaped, then quickly scrambled for composure
so she wouldn’t be afraid to tell me more, even though a part of me
didn’t want her to. There had to be a logical explanation. Had to
be. “Could you maybe have just pinched yourself while stirring
something? Under wire in your bra maybe, or—”
    “No!” She sobbed and pushed the soda away
from her. The can bobbled, and I scooped it up before it toppled
over. “Because it happened twice more, same place. And . . . and on
the other side, my other breast. Then . . .uh . . .a little later,
I felt something try to . . .try to . . .” She glanced at the stove
again, then leaned closer to me, the tears on her cheeks fat and
constant, and whispered. “Something tried to get between my
legs.”
    “ What ?”
    “I’m serious as a coronary. Dunny, it felt
like a man’s hands. Big hands.” Her words came faster now, a
tumbling avalanche. “They kept touching me, hurting me, only when I
was alone, though, alone and in here. But no matter where I went—in
the house, at school, the store, anywhere, I always felt like
someone was watching me. All the time. Then it started happening in
other places, the touching and pinching I mean. Once when I was
driving back home from the store. Scared me so bad, I damn near
wrecked the car.”
    I sat, too stunned to speak, unable