The Hidden

Even Jane’s face—usually so beautiful and animated—seemed different. There was something eerie in the way the candlelight caught her reflection.

Scarlet couldn’t help thinking that she was about to announce that someone among them had been stricken by the curse of the werewolf.

But Jane didn’t speak like some gypsy in a horror movie. She smiled at everyone and said, “None of us knows what, if anything, we may learn here tonight. But so far, every clue we have leads to a dead end. The purpose of a séance is to connect—to connect with the dead. I know that many of you at this table doubt the possibility of such a thing, even thinking about the dead creates a connection with them. And of course, beyond connection and communication, we want justice for them, so even though we may not connect with the dead, we may connect with our own deepest thoughts and memories, and come up with an idea that could help in the quest for truth.”

“We didn’t even know the Parkers,” Gigi said, shaking her head as if she felt she had truly been drawn into insanity.

“Are we all supposed to close our eyes and concentrate?” Trisha asked.

Gwen giggled. “Or stare into the flames and think deep thoughts?”

“Nope,” Jane said. “Just hold hands loosely and think about helping those who need help—and being helped in return.”

There was silence for a moment, and then Gwen whispered, “The guy who was killed up on the mountain—his last name was actually Kendall?”

“Yes,” Trisha said. “Hush now.”

“Kendall,” Charles Barton said, and shivered. “I’m glad I’m not a Kendall.”

“You could be,” Gwen said. “So could I. It’s not like we ever checked into any of those ancestry sites.”

“Well, I am a Kendall,” Terry muttered. He suddenly didn’t seem to be having fun. “Maybe I should check out and go home.”

“I’m thinking we all should,” Gwen said.

Scarlet cleared her throat and suggested, “How about we stop worrying for now and see what happens?”

There was silence again.

“Okay, let’s keep holding hands and concentrate on the flame burning in the center of the table,” Jane said.

“Isn’t this kind of a big table for a séance?” Gwen asked.

“Concentrate,” Jane said. “Candace, Larry, we’re all here in hopes of helping you. Your lives were lost not far from where we sit, cruelly stolen from you. If you can help us, please make yourselves known. Cassandra Wells, we want to be there for you. And Daniel Kendall...you were taken first, but we swear to find justice for you.”

“Do the cops even know if Daniel Kendall’s death was a murder?” Clark Levin asked. “I haven’t seen anything about that in the media. Maybe the guy was just a klutz, and he fell down and hit his head or something.”

The table shook violently. Scarlet had to lower her head so no one saw her smile. She hadn’t seen Daniel in the room earlier, but he was there now, his hands on the table as he stood between Jane and Terry, his expression angry.

“What was that?” Gwen gasped, jerking her hands free.

“Just a trick,” Charles told her.

“Oh, my God,” Gigi breathed.

“Someone kneed the table, that’s all,” Charles said.

Ignoring them, Jane lowered her head and said, “Daniel, is that you?”

Of course, Jane knew perfectly well it was Daniel, Scarlet thought.

“If so,” Jane went on, “would you kindly let us know—without doing anything with the table?”

Scarlet looked up to see Daniel staring around speculatively. He grinned suddenly and moved over to the doorway, where Linda Reagan stood and rapped the wall hard, right next to her head.

She jumped. “What the hell?” Angry, she stepped into the room. The candle glow caught her face, turning her into an evil queen out of a fairy tale. “You rigged this house!” she accused Jane.

“Turn on the lights,” Jane said calmly. “Let’s see if this place is rigged.”

Ben turned on the lights as the others got up and started looking around the room.