Ghost Aria by Jeffe Kennedy Page A

sandpaper. The very worst part of being treated for mental illness was the way you learned not to trust yourself. Every thought could be a fraud, a decoy leading you away from reality and into the ever-shifting realm where everyone looked at you with sideways concern and believed nothing you said.
    You were never crazy. Stop that.
    Every explanation for her behavior led back to that place, though. Christy didn’t think she could bear to go through that again. The careful sympathy and casual dismissal. Worse—she began to wonder if she had dreamed it all up. That colorful carousel of a room and a masked man who intrigued and lured her.
    Lights flared from the stairwell and the sounds of stomping boots came clattering down. A dog barked with excitement, his furry shape lunging down the tight spiral. He’d caught her scent and soon would be upon her. The game was up. She stepped out into the middle of the dark corridor and walked back the way she’d come, shading her eyes when the lights flashed on.
    The German shepherd came leaping at her, full of doggy joy. She’d once read about how search dogs in major disasters became depressed, finding dead body after dead body. Their handlers would have to hide themselves in the rubble so the dogs could find a living person to restore their hope. She knelt down and scratched under her collar, letting the dog lick her face.
    This, at least, was real.
    â€œChristine Davis?” A man in uniform approached. She nodded, and he spoke into a radio. Better reception than her cell, she noted with some irony. Perhaps she should suggest them to Charlie. “Do you need medical attention?”
    â€œNo—I’m fine. I, um—” Moment of truth. What excuse will you use? “I’m afraid I got lost and, well, I fell asleep. All the noise woke me.” Ah, yes. The too-stupid-to-live defense. Never underestimate the power of seeming to be an idiot. Far better than crazy.
    â€œWell, let’s get you out of here. You worried a lot of people.”
    â€œI’m sorry.” She tried to sound meek and sorrowful. If her hair were long still, she would have twisted a lock around her finger.
    â€œNever mind that. Though Detective Sanchez will want to talk to you.”
    Upstairs, the prop shop had been taped off and crime-scene types were closing up their equipment cases. No need to check for evidence now. Detective Sanchez met them outside the door, arms folded, suspicious eyes looking her up and down as she repeated her story. He didn’t buy it for a moment, that much was clear.
    As she spoke, she desperately wanted to see past him, to crane her neck to peer around the corner, to see the chandelier. Would it be perched high on the shelf, covered in dust? Or would it be a jumble of broken crystal on the floor?
    Her heart pounded with the need to know, her neck tense from restraining the urge to push him aside so she could see for herself what was real.
    â€œSo, even though Ms. Donovan expressly told you to wait for her return, you decided not to?” At Christy’s frown, he clarified, “Carla Donovan, your boss.”
    As much as she wanted to say that Carla wasn’t her boss—and who knew her last name was the same as Charlie’s?—she bit her tongue on that and concentrated on being silly. Surely they would have mentioned the chandelier?
    â€œI was worried about her. She was gone a long time, so I went looking for her.”
    The detective checked his notes. “Ms. Donovan says she returned in five to seven minutes.”
    â€œOh.” Christy turned big eyes up at him, pleading. “It seemed longer. And with all the scary stuff going on, I . . .”
    â€œYour story doesn’t hold water, frankly.” Detective Sanchez kept his hard gaze on her. “If you were frightened, why would you go down to the same level where a murder victim’s body was found?”
    â€œI—” It was a good