By Vicki Lane
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At first the idea seemed pretty ghoulish, but the more I thought of it and imagined the different answers there could be, the more it nagged at me. So I’m going to give it a go. It would be awfully helpful, Mum, if you would check at the Ransom library for articles in the local paper about the tragedy. It was Halloween of 1986. Maybe you could make copies of the articles and send them to me. I really think this is something I need to do. No big hurry— just when you have the time. Haven’t heard from Laur or Ben recently.
Footsteps on the porch announced that Kyra and Ben were returning from their walk. As the two came blinking into the bright light of the kitchen, it seemed to Elizabeth that some essential change had taken place. She looked from Ben to Kyra, trying to pinpoint the elusive shift in demeanor, but there was nothing concrete, nothing beyond a fleeting expression. Kyra thanked them both again for their help and, yawning, announced that she was going to bed. Ben too made his good nights and headed for his cabin.
Her face, framed by dangling beaded earrings and smiling up at Elizabeth, was pretty in an old-fashioned way. ” She pressed her palms together just under her chin and bowed slightly. “I am Willow. ” Her expression saddened and a single tear tracked its way through the 31 kohl. Elizabeth hesitated. She started to put out her hand, stained and sticky from the tomato vines, reconsidered, and wondered if she should instead bow in return. ” She studied the smaller woman briefly. As Laurel said— aging-hippie type.
Art's Blood by Vicki Lane