WILLIAM GREY NOBIT
Remembering that Bruce’s obituary had cited a deceased son, Isobel frowned at the short dash separating the birth date from the death date. Letting her fingertips trail over the numbers, she wondered what could have ended the boy’s life at just seventeen.
Though there was an epitaph inscribed below, the sad message held no answer.
Isobel mouthed the words silently to herself.
BARELY A MAN, YET SCARCELY A LAD,
OUR DEAR BOY, GREY, HAS GONE AWAY.
Recalling the heated argument she’d overheard little more than a month ago between the bookshop owner and Varen’s father, Isobel tilted her head at the stone, and she began to grasp that there had been a deeper layer to the friendship Varen and Bruce had shared than she had originally perceived. One she could never have fully appreciated until that moment.
Suddenly the term “best friends” no longer seemed like a fitting label for the unlikely pair. Family. The two had been family.
A makeshift father to a stand-in son.
That thought brought with it sharp pang of remorse, and a cavernous sense of pity for Varen.
Despite the pain he had caused her, the fear he now instilled within her, Isobel also knew he’d suffered enough loss already. Enough to make him choose darkness.
Enough for that darkness to feel like a sanctuary. A home.
Wherever he was, whether he was there watching her right that instant, or somewhere wandering the woodlands alone, she hoped this final blow wouldn’t drive him further into the despair that had already stolen him from her reach. But considering what she’d found in the hall that morning, Isobel feared it was too late—that Bruce’s passing had done exactly that.
“Uh, Isobel,” Gwen said, shooting to her feet. “We’ve got some stranger danger bringing up the rear here.”
“What?” Isobel turned her head quickly—and then wished she hadn’t.
Standing at the foot of Bruce’s coffin, a familiar blond woman watched them from behind an enormous pair of sunglasses. Dressed in a neat black pantsuit and a wide-brim feathered hat, she seemed to be waiting for them to notice her.
For Isobel to notice her . . .
Isobel rose and took an instinctive step back, already aware that it was too late to make a break for it without causing a scene.
Especially since running was exactly what she’d done the last time she’d encountered Darcy Nethers—Varen’s stepmother—face-to-face.
7
Echoes
“Do you know her?” Gwen leaned in to mutter. “Oooooor, does Funeral Barbie just have a staring problem?”
Glancing away from them, Darcy placed one hand on the side of Bruce’s casket. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I won’t try to chase you this time.”
Gwen aimed a thumb at Darcy. “Is she talking to us? Or the dead guy? I know grief does funny things to people, buuuut—”
“She’s talking to me,” Isobel said. “I . . . know her. Sort of.”
“Actually, we’ve never formally met,” Darcy said. She took two slow steps toward them but stopped again, her shielded gaze returning to Isobel. “You know who I am, that is, but . . . I still don’t really know who you are.”
Isobel folded her arms, uncertain of how to respond.
Ever since Varen’s stepmom had seen her in his car the night before Halloween, the night before he’d disappeared, Isobel had known the woman wanted to speak with her—to find out who she was to Varen and what she knew. Darcy must suspect, Isobel thought, that she knew everything.
“Just an FYI,” Gwen leaned in to mutter. “I do carry pepper spray. Though the Lady Gaga goggles kinda pose a problem if that’s the route you want to go.”
“Gwen, it’s . . . okay,” Isobel whispered.
“The offer stands,” Gwen said, clutching her patchwork purse.
“You know, I saw you there,” Darcy said, gripping one elbow as though discomfited by her own words. She glanced to the coffin again. “On the other side.”
Isobel stiffened, already knowing what Darcy was referring to.
While searching for Varen in the dreamworld, Isobel had entered a distorted duplicate of his family’s old Victorian house. In the parlor, she’d discovered an oval-framed portrait of Varen’s birth mother, Madeline. The image within the frame had been the same as the photo from the jewelry box Isobel had found hidden beneath the stairs in the bookshop. When she had picked up the portrait, however, the picture had transformed, shimmering into a mirror, her reflection bleeding through until her own face replaced Madeline’s. Startled, Isobel had dropped the frame and the glass had shattered. In one of the scattered shards, for a single instant, she’d seen Varen’s stepmom looking up at her in shock, each viewing the other from separate realities.
