“Please!” Mo whispered.
Aidan was busy reading another tomb. “‘Death’s hold shall not my spirit still, For I shall rise as is His will, I rest not here, nor should ye weep, For I live now in my Lord’s gentle Keep.’”
Mo ignored him and moved quickly toward the woman. “Lizzie?” she said softly.
The woman paused. She had beautiful features and a gentle smile and she was young—or had been young when she died.
“Lizzie?” Mo repeated.
“I am Lizzie, yes. I am Lizzie,” the young woman said.
*
At first glance, Mo appeared to be talking to herself. The dog lay attentively beside her.
Aidan stood completely still, just watching her. But, as he did, he began to see something. A faint outline in the air, white and misty. He blinked, but the image remained.
He found himself looking around the cemetery.
Yes, that’s right. He was looking around, he admitted to himself, to see if anyone else was watching. To see if he needed to be embarrassed because he and Mo probably looked as if they’d lost their minds. Talking to imaginary friends from childhood, perhaps.
He closed his eyes, fighting something inside him. Was that it? Had that been the problem his whole life? He’d been embarrassed? He’d become an agent because he believed in the law, in his country—and in helping victims. But he’d thrown away what might have been his biggest asset because, at heart, he’d been a coward. Afraid of what others would think. Afraid that he couldn’t shrug it off and just go his own way. Still, as Logan had made clear, the Krewe had recognized in him what he hadn’t wanted to recognize himself.
He focused on the wispy form and on Mo. He decided not to move forward; he was going to let her discover what she could. His stumbling half sight might ruin everything.
Mo spoke softly now and then. He wasn’t sure what she was saying. He noted, though, that when she wasn’t speaking, she was listening. Really listening, as few people did anymore.
She turned suddenly, beckoning to him. He walked toward her, thinking that the cloudlike image would vanish completely when he came too close.
But it was still there.
“This is Lizzie—Elizabeth Hampton,” Mo said.
Even though he felt a little stupid, he didn’t allow himself to look around. Not this time.
He nodded politely. “How do you do?”
Mo, he realized, knew that he wasn’t seeing the woman as distinctly as she did.
“She’s going to ride back with us. I’ve told her where I’ve seen John Andre and that John has been searching for her. She’s desperate to see him. And I saw him at the Haunted Mausoleum, so if you don’t mind, we’ll take her there.”
A hitchhiking ghost! Aidan thought.
“We’ll leave right away,” he said aloud.
“She confirmed that she had a daughter, also named Elizabeth. Elizabeth—this Elizabeth, Lizzie—kept out of sight—stayed in, and no one ever knew she had a child. A second cousin, Lizzie’s best friend, helped her, then took the child and raised her. Lizzie never let on that she’d had the baby. She was too afraid someone might figure out that her child had been John Andre’s. Back then, she didn’t dare admit the association.”
“I understand,” he said.
“Lizzie was killed by Ashley Gunter, her onetime suitor, and two of his friends. They claimed they executed her for being a traitor. Lizzie tells me they were cowards who weren’t with an army themselves—either army—and she knows she was killed because Gunter was bitter that she’d rejected him. And,” she added, “Lizzie says that the brief time she shared with Andre was sweeter than a lifetime with any other man. But if we could connect the two of them now...well, that would be wonderful.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Shall we go, then?”
They walked to the car. He wondered if he should be opening the door for the ghost, but it wasn’t really much of a question. He had to open the door for Rollo, anyway. The indistinct white shape seemed to move past him; he felt as though a hand rested on his for a brief moment. Mo was watching him and she smiled.
“That was a thank-you,” she told him.
He nodded, let Mo in and got into the driver’s seat.
“Tell her I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry about what was done to her. I hope her killers were caught and punished.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror. Lizzie was there, a gentle, wafting shape lingering beside Rollo.
“Lizzie said they weren’t caught. Too many people still felt so bitter about the British army at the time. If they knew—or suspected—they didn’t speak up. But Gunter didn’t last long. He was killed in an accident with a wheat-grinding stone. Crushed to death. And his two accomplices drowned in the Hudson River. So perhaps they were judged. And punished. All Lizzie really cared about was her daughter—and the child was loved by her cousin and well raised.”