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Hippie Chic

Ashlynn Lawson, Four Months Later

I'm standing in Marianne del Marco's kitchen—in the midst of the strangest dinner I have ever attended. That says a lot, considering whom I'm married to and who he's married to, in terms of his band family. But yeah, this is the weirdest night I've ever had.

It was strange to start with, but now it's even stranger, because of the deja-vu I'm now experiencing. I call it deja-vu, but it's nothing like real deja-vu except for the kitchen sink, the blood, the posture of the person leaned over it, and the feeling of necessary destiny that I'm experiencing right now.

Everyone else is outside to watch Trace throw Lane in the pool. As much as it might be valuable for me to see that interaction, considering that my husband feels led to become a better surrogate big brother to Lane than either one of his actual brothers seems to be suited for, I didn't go to watch how Lane reacts to Trace's lesson in respect. I came here to the kitchen instead, called by a faint impression that is probably nothing more than a glitch in my brain.

Perhaps it was just the old skip that hardly ever happens anymore, but I felt something. One word, really, that came through strong.

Lost.

Then an image—an inky version of a photograph of a girl on a cheaply printed flyer. A flyer that captured my entire existence, many, many years ago.

A missing girl.

A lost girl. Help her, my brain whispers.

I did help Megan, as best as I could. I helped Varrick Von solve the mystery of her disappearance. I helped him and her mother Laurie find her consecrated grave and say goodbye. I helped her loved ones find peace, and I helped put her killer where he could never hurt anyone ever again.

So why is Megan Davis pressing on my brain and leading my spirit now?

I don't know, but while I ponder that question, my feet lead me to the del Marco's immaculate and professionally staffed kitchen, and that's when the deja-vu happens.

When I was nineteen years old, I met my destiny, bleeding into a kitchen sink, after cutting himself chopping limes. Now I see Bridget del Marco standing in just the same defeated stance as Leed took in his tiny dirty kitchen— broke and wounded and lonely. She is squeezing her finger with the exact same attention he gave his injury. The rush of the water in the sink sounds exactly the same as I remember from Leed's old apartment. Then she turns and looks at me, and it's not the memory of Leed imposed on her gesture.

Her face disappears, and Megan Davis' face supercedes her.

Lost.

Help her.

My eyes water at the echo of pain I feel. A pain deep and visceral. A gut punch. Or worse. For a second, I associate the feeling with what I imagine Megan endured thirty years ago, when Viggo Von stabbed her to death. Then her presence fades and all I see is Bridge del Marco, barely more than an acquaintance to me.

But the pain remains.

And it's much much more pain than she could have possibly taken from the splinter she caught running her hand on the bottom of a half-cracked dining room chair.

To my utter shock, she drops to the floor on her knees, hands and face pressed to the cabinets beneath the sink. The faucet water streams above her. Below her, tears fall.

My own eyes dry instantly with decision.

I walk over to her and crouch. "I'll help."

She looks up at me, shock and confusion and embarrassment flooding her. She shakes her head and puts out her hand to ward me off. I reach for her injured index finger with the half-inch splinter embedded deep, cupping her hand softly in both of mine.