Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

favored jeans and basic blue, Lyric’s clothes had been recycled from the sixties. Psychedelic patterns, fringed jackets, and plastic jewelry the size of dinnerware were Lyric’s staples. She changed her hair color as often as her shoes. Yet the roots of their friendship ran deep, stretching all the way back to fifth grade. Laughter was the cord that bound them.
    “A word of advice,” Lyric said. “You have to remember that your dad’s opinion of Hannah is biased. I love him to death, but this is a competition. You’re the prize.”
    “Some prize. I’m so messed up I can’t think straight.”
    “Science-heads such as yourself are sort of messed up by definition.”
    “Excuse me, science-heads deal in facts. This woo-woo-touchy-feely stuff is your domain, which is exactly why I needed you to tell me how to do this thing with Hannah. How do you make someone talk?”
    “You say, ‘I know this is hard, but understanding what happened in my past is important to me.’ And did you just call me ’woo-woo’? ”
    “Your hair is purple. I think you qualify.” From the front seat of her Jeep Cameryn scanned the upper floor of the Wingate, the bed-and-breakfast where her mother had set up house. Leaning forward, she peered over the steering wheel so that she could see the top of the home. Beneath a gable she saw her mother’s window, lit from within. With a start, Cameryn realized Hannah’s outline was clearly visible, a dark space against the light.
    “She’s watching me, right now! ” Cameryn cried. “Hannah knows I’m here.”
    “Good! Honestly, if you can deal with a headless corpse, you can handle your own mother. Just talk to her! It’s not that hard.”
    Peering anxiously, Cameryn chewed the edge of her cuticle.
    “What can I do, Cammie?” Lyric asked. “You want me to light a candle? That’s supposed to help, isn’t it? It’s a Catholic thing, right?” Cameryn could hear something rattle in the background. “I’ve got a whole box of birthday candles in my hand. I’ll light the bunch if it’ll help. Whatever works.”
    With a weak smile, Cameryn said, “No, just send me your good karma.”
    “That you’ve got. Now get in there. I’m babysitting and the rug rats are restless.”
    With that, Cameryn ended the call and dropped her BlackBerry into the pocket of her jacket. Stepping out of her Jeep, she looked up at the bright blue building.
    The Wingate House had been painted the color of a clear blue Silverton sky. Built in 1886 by a Russian spiritualist named Emma Harris, the home was rumored to be haunted, although Cameryn had never accepted those wild stories. But now, as she looked at the moon-white face pressed into the glass, she half-believed. This ghost, though, was her own mother. Hannah was a different kind of spirit, but she haunted, just the same. Cameryn could read her mother’s lips through the glass: “Come in,” Hannah was saying. Then, like an apparition, she disappeared.
    Cameryn entered the Wingate parlor, careful to shut the heavy door behind her. The owner had put Hannah into a room named the Adam and Eve Room, located on the second floor. Up the steep staircase Cameryn climbed, past a wall of old portraits. The door to her mother’s room had been left open, and she stepped inside. An easel was set up at a right angle to the window, to capture the best light. And there, perched on a metal stool, sat Hannah, holding a paintbrush to her mouth. She wore jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt speckled with colorful paint like bits of confetti. Although she seemed intent on her painting, she said, “Hello, Cammie.”
    “Hi, Hannah,” Cameryn answered.
    “‘Mom,’” Hannah corrected. She smiled, flashing teeth. “I missed you today. I was up all night painting, and I kept thinking how much better it would have been if you’d been here to keep me company. There’s something about this place that gives me energy. I feel like I can do anything!”
    It still startled Cameryn to see her mother. In the mirror of Hannah’s features she didn’t see her own face, exactly, but an older version of herself, a Dorian Gray portrait in reverse. They shared the same high cheekbones and the identical large, dark eyes, the color of earth itself. Both of them were petite. Her mother, now forty-two, had kept her slender figure, her wiry frame. Gently curling hair that had only the beginnings of gray hung past her shoulders.
    “Whether you realize it or not,” Hannah said,