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DELANEY’S SHADOW
a thrilling new romantic suspense
novel by Ingrid Weaver
Coming August 2011 from Berkley
Sensation!
He came back
to her in a dream. Yet even as Delaney sensed his presence in her head, the watchful, grown-up part of her knew he couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be happening. He was the boy of make-believe.
“Max?” Her lips mouthed the name. She hadn’t spoken it aloud since her childhood. It belonged to the past, to the girl who used to sleep in this ribbons-and-bows room, to the days of laughter in the kitchen and bees in the roses and sheets snapping in the sunshine.
She couldn’t remember when he’d first appeared. It seemed as if Max had always been with her, in some corner of her mind. Whenever she’d needed him, he would show up, the skinny little boy with dark hair and a crooked front tooth.
Oh, the times they’d had, the games they’d played. Racing along the lane, their arms extended like airplane wings, they would fix their gazes on the horizon and pretend to soar. Or quietly, so quietly, they would creep past Grandpa’s room to the attic for rainy afternoon treasure hunts. There had been safaris in her grandmother’s garden, elaborate banquets on the playroom floor, and gleeful, giggling slides down the curving oak banister.
But the best times, the very best ones, had been when he’d taken her to their own special world, the place they made up together, where nothing bad happened and nothing ever hurt.
She breathed his name again. Max. He’d been her partner in mischief, her secret confidante, the imaginary friend she had created to become her playmate. The first time she’d insisted on setting a place for Max at dinner, Grandpa had banged his cane on the floor and had told her to quit making up stories or by God she would turn out as flighty as her mother. Grandma had just winked at her and slid an extra plate beside the butter dish.
But then Delaney’s mother had died, and her father had returned for her. They’d moved to the city. She’d tried to bring Max, too, but there hadn’t been a banister or extra plates in the apartment, and Mrs. Joiner said that imaginary friends weren’t allowed at school.
And eventually Delaney had stopped believing. She’d grown up and left Max behind.
Yet if she’d left him behind, how could he be here?
It was a dream, she reminded herself. And unlike the other ones, this dream wasn’t filled with images of twisted metal and death.
Why hadn’t she realized it before? Max would be able to keep the nightmares away. He could do anything.
“Max,” she whispered.
His presence strengthened until the air around him seemed to reach out in a welcoming smile. He stood in the shadow beside the bedroom doorway. A stubborn, wayward lock of hair hid one eye, but the other sparkled in a conspirator’s grin.
What would they do today? Where would they go? What games would they play?
It didn’t matter. As long as he kept her safe from the nightmares.
She had always felt safe with Max.
He shuffled forward, his sneakers making stealthy squeaks against the floor. As usual, he wore jeans that looked a size too large, the denim hanging loosely from his hips. His T-shirt bore a smear from the mud pies she’d made him the morning she’d left Willowbank. He had the same hopeful smile, the same livewire sizzle of energy, that clean, fresh-air feeling of sunshine and summer breezes . . .
The watchful, grown-up part of her stirred once more, but she kept her mind focused on Max. He was a part of the past that it didn’t hurt to remember, part of the days of innocence, when life stretched out before her in endless possibilities, and pain was no worse than a skinned knee. Sleep hadn’t been something she dreaded then.
She splayed her fingers, reaching toward him. “Let’s play, Max.”
His image wavered.
“No, Max. Stay!”
Like a shadow glimpsed on the edge of vision, like the dream he was, the little boy faded.
She fought the return of consciousness. “Not yet,” she urged. “Not yet.”
Through the open window came the cheerful lilt of a robin, as persistent as an alarm clock. Against her closed eyelids, Delaney could feel the tentative warmth of sunrise.
The presence that was Max trembled, then silently flickered out.
Sighing, Delaney rolled to her back and opened her eyes.
Something was wrong. Where was the shelf with her dolls? What had happened to the lacy canopy that sheltered her bed?
It took a few moments for her brain to catch up with her senses. Books lined the shelf, not toys, and a dieffenbachia filled the corner where there had once been a rocking horse. The dolls and the lace were gone. They had been packed up decades ago, along with her fairy-tale books and her frilly socks. The canopy bed had been replaced by a cherry wood four-poster. A matching, grown-up-sized dresser stood beside the plant. Her grandmother had redecorated the house when she’d converted the front half into a bed-and-breakfast.
Delaney sat up and raked her hair off her face. Instead of the typical sleep-tangled lengths, she felt stubby chunks slide between her fingers. There was another one of those moments of puzzlement. What had happened to her hair? She slipped her hand beneath the neckline of her nightgown. Scar tissue ridges as fine as stretched crepe paper slid beneath her palm. The burns no longer hurt. She could barely feel her own touch.
Full wakefulness hit her, bringing a spurt of panic. It had been more than six months since the accident. The changes to her life were so enormous, she still had trouble absorbing the full scope of them. She understood what had happened to her body, just as she was aware of what had happened to her husband. The doctors at the clinic had explained it. So had the police. But it wasn’t the same as
knowing
.
Maybe today would be the day that she actually remembered.
After all, she had remembered Max, hadn’t she?
Ah, Max. She’d had such a vivid imagination when she’d been a child; her make-believe friend would have been able to help her.
Too bad she’d grown up and was beyond all that.
“Those muffins smell
delicious, Delaney, but you know I don’t expect you to cook.”
“I like to cook, Grandma, and besides, I have to do something to earn my keep.” Delaney picked up a quilted potholder and started transferring the muffins from the cooling rack to the napkin-lined basket she’d prepared. “These are apple oatmeal. I left out the walnuts in case any of your guests have sensitivities to nuts.”
“No one alerted me about any allergies, but I’m glad you left out the nuts anyway. There always seems to be one piece that gets under my dentures. It’s so annoying. It isn’t very good for business, either, since for some reason the customers don’t like seeing me take out my teeth at the table and give the underside a good swipe with my thumb. Seems to spoil their appetite.”
Delaney rolled her eyes at her grandmother’s humor. “I can’t imagine why.”
At seventy-two, Helen Wainright had the same twinkle in her gaze that she’d had at fifty, although her long, once-blonde hair was totally white now. Today she had styled it in what she called her Katharine Hepburn poof. It suited her. She had the kind of presence that would have dominated a stage if she’d chosen to pursue acting. But Helen’s passion was people—she would have balked at the separation between performer and audience. Besides, Delaney couldn’t picture her assuming a role. She was far too honest to be anyone other than herself.
Helen pointed to the basket. “I hope you’re going to have some yourself. You made more than enough.”
“Maybe later.”
“You should eat more, honey. You’re too thin.”
“Haven’t you heard?” She transferred the last muffin to the basket and covered them with another napkin. “There’s no such thing as being too rich or too thin.”
“If that were the case, you’d be turning cartwheels out in the yard instead of baking muffins and looking as if you haven’t slept in a week.”
“Grandma, I always look like this before my coffee kicks in.”
“The weariness I see has nothing to do with caffeine addiction.” She motioned toward the stools that were tucked beside the work island in the center of the kitchen. “Sit.”
“The muffins will get cold.”
“I can heat them up.”
Delaney glanced at the swinging door that led to the dining room. The low murmur of voices came through the wood panels. “But your guests—”
“They’ve got yogurt and a fruit platter. That should hold them for a while. Please, Delaney. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine. Really.” She crossed the floor and perched on the nearest stool. “Please, don’t worry.”
Helen took the stool beside her and reached for her hand. There was a breath of hesitation as her fingers closed over the patches of new skin. She recovered quickly, turning the motion into an affectionate pat instead of a squeeze. “Leave the cleanup for when Phoebe comes in.”
“I made the mess. I can manage.”
“It’s what I pay her for. The girl’s already lazy enough. No point spoiling her.”
Delaney did another eye-roll. From what she’d seen, her grandmother treated the college student she’d hired for the summer more like another granddaughter than an employee. “You’re not fooling anyone with that tough talk, you know.”
“Rats. How did you sleep?”
“Fine. That new bed is really comfortable.”
“I heard you down here at dawn.”
“I’ve become an early riser,” she said, trying for a casual shrug. “Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Was it a nightmare?”
“No, just a dream this time.”
“That’s good.”
“Mm-hmm. I’m making progress. Not ready for the loony bin yet.”
Helen withdrew her hand. “There’s nothing crazy about needing a rest. Give yourself time to heal, Deedee, both inside and out. Grief doesn’t work on a timetable.”
The sound of her childhood name brought tears to her eyes. She’d had more than six months to mourn, but there was something about coming home that lowered the defenses. A kind word, a loving gesture, and years of adulthood collapsed. “Stanford had always been afraid of growing old. He used to joke about how he would prefer to go out in a blaze of glory. God, it still seems unreal.”
“Of course, it does. It takes years to accept the fact that someone we love is gone. The sorrow does fade eventually, and you’ll remember the joy instead.”
Helen spoke from experience. She had outlived not only her husband but her daughter as well. Delaney wished she had a fraction of her strength. “I’m sorry, Grandma. You’ve gone through so much more than I have. I shouldn’t be leaning on you.”
“That’s the wrong way to look at it. What I’ve gone through has made me a good listener, so don’t give it a second thought.”
“If only I could remember.”
“Oh, honey, what difference would it make? Accidents simply happen sometimes.”
Yes, the official ruling was that the car had left the road and struck the utility pole by accident. For lack of solid evidence to the contrary, that’s what the police had concluded when they had closed the investigation last week.
Unfortunately, the ruling hadn’t satisfied everyone. Only ordinary people died in accidents. Stanford Graye, the billionaire director of Grayecorp, hadn’t been ordinary. Neither was the Jaguar XK that he’d died in, so there had to be more to the story. The rumors had been impossible to ignore. They’d run the gamut from a murder conspiracy to a foiled contract killing to a failed suicide pact. “I don’t think that Elizabeth’s going to let it rest.”
“She’s grieving, too, Delaney. He was her father.”
“Of course, and I understand how she feels. Losing him would have been devastating under any circumstances, but the unanswered questions only make things worse. It must seem suspicious for the only eyewitness to claim amnesia, especially in light of Stanford’s will.”
“She wants someone to blame,” Helen said. “She might be behaving like a spoiled brat at the moment, but that’s how she’s handling her grief.”
“I guess so.”
“You both need time to heal. Be patient.”
Delaney rubbed her eyes. Be patient
.
Right. That had been the motto of her life. It seemed as if she’d always been the one to let things go. If something hurt to look at, she looked at something else.
Helen took Delaney’s hand and eased it away from her face. “This is about more than the memory loss, isn’t it?”
“That’s just it, Grandma. I’m not sure. I feel as if there’s something more I’m missing that I should know.”
“You and Stanford were happy, weren’t you?”
She didn’t pause to think about the answer. It was the one she always gave. “Yes. Of course we were.”
“But?”
