Garden of Darkness by Anne Frasier Page A

three-point turn and headed down the hill that took him past the morgue, where Rachel Burton had lived. Parked outside the Victorian mansion was what looked like the same moving truck he’d seen there before. Was Rachel still in town?
    He pulled into the back driveway, then ran around the brick path that led to the massive wooden front doors. He rang Rachel’s apartment. The front door buzzed to let him in.
    He strode down the dark, carpeted halls, briefly thought about taking the elevator, then decided to sprint up the stairs to her place on the third floor.
    She opened the door, and it was immediately obvious she’d been crying. Her eyes were red; her nose was red.
    And her stomach.
    What the hell?
    “You’re having a baby?” The words just came out.
    “Didn’t you know?” She turned and shuffled away to grab a box of tissues. “I figured everybody in town knew.”
    Holy shit.
    He thought back to the last time he’d seen her. She’d been driving the coroner van. Her stomach had been hidden.
    He didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe this was one of those artificial inseminations. Oh, that was just too bizarre. He felt heat creeping up his face, and he lingered by the door.
    “Come on in.”
    The apartment was empty except for a red retro table and chairs. In the middle of the table were two dead plants.
    “You know what . . . ?” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “I think I should go. . . .”
    “Stay a minute.” She blew her nose and tossed the tissue aside. Now he caught sight of a big pile of wadded-up tissues on the floor next to a chair.
    “I saw the truck outside. What happened? Aren’t you moving?”
    “I can’t get out of here. I have to face it. It’s not going to happen.” She made a useless gesture with her hand. “I can’t leave. Tuonela won’t let me leave.”
    He wanted to ask her about the baby, but how did you do something like that? “I have to go.” He backed up. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. I’m glad you aren’t moving. Well, I’m sorry for you, but glad for me. I gotta go.”
    He gave a little bounce, spun around, and got the hell out of there. Back in the car he pulled out his cell phone and punched in Kristin Blackmoore’s number.
    They hadn’t left for the bar yet.
    He caught up with them at the inn, where Kristin made a fake ID for him. It took only minutes to print it out on the inn’s printer and slip it into a used laminate sleeve. He was twenty-one and his name was Kevin Graham.
    Pretty sneaky.
    The bar was less than a mile away, so they walked. Claire—the person in charge of the shoot— didn’t go. She was working on getting a psychic to come to Tuonela to do a reading on the town. So it was just the four of them—three guys and a girl.
    Until that moment, until they were all walking down the sidewalk together talking about nothing, Graham hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been. Especially since Isobel had left. He knew kids at school, but nobody really hung out with him. Kids his age were afraid of him. He was an outsider. One with an unpleasant past.
    Maybe that was why he found the idea of spending time with the documentary crew appealing. They were outsiders too. And they didn’t know about him. Not everything.
    The fake ID got him inside.
    “Told you there was nothing to worry about,” Kristin said. “They don’t care if you’re old enough to drink, as long as you have something that keeps them from getting in trouble.”
    He got drunk. Wasted, actually.
    Briefly he thought of Alastair, about how truly unattractive a drunk person could be, but he quickly brushed that memory aside. They bought something called Immortal Punch. It came in a giant bowl and knocked them all on their asses.
    He couldn’t sing worth shit, but he got up and sang the Pogues song “Dirty Old Town.”
    The night grew late, and people began to drift away and return to their homes. Ian and Stewart headed back to the inn. Graham and