The town where Nightshade had been born wasn’t the kind of place where the FBI turned up on a regular basis.
“Gaither, Oklahoma, population 8,425,” Sloane rattled off as we stepped out of the rental car. “In the early days of Oklahoma’s statehood, Gaither thrived, but its economy collapsed during the Great Depression, and it never recovered. The population has dwindled, and the average age of residents has risen steadily for the past sixty years.”
In other words, Gaither had more than its share of senior citizens. “Three museums,” Sloane continued, “thirteen historical landmarks.
While local tourism is a substantial source of income for the city proper, the surrounding rural communities rely primarily on farming.”
The fact that there was tourism in Gaither meant that we could get the lay of the land without announcing our intentions—or the fact that Agent Sterling was carrying a badge. Agent Briggs had stayed behind in Quantico. I didn’t fool myself as to why.
April second. Today was a Fibonacci date, and Laurel’s disappearance was almost certainly a harbinger of things to come.
Judd had accompanied us to Gaither, as had Agent Starmans. My gut said that Briggs had sent the latter to protect Sterling as much as the rest of us.
Don’t think about that, I told myself as we began the walk down historic Main Street. Think about Mason Kyle.
I tried to picture Nightshade growing up in this town. The storefronts had a Victorian charm to them. Stone signs detailed the town’s history. As I laid a hand flat on one of them, an odd feeling came over me. Like something was missing.
Like I was missing something.
“You okay?” Agent Sterling asked me. In an attempt not to look like a cop, she’d chosen to wear jeans. She still looked like a cop.
“I’m fine,” I told her, glancing back over my shoulder, then forcing my eyes to the front. As we turned a corner, a wrought-iron gate came into view. Beyond it was a stone path, landscaped on either side with all manner of plants.
For a split second, I couldn’t breathe, and I had no idea why. Dean walked ahead and stopped at the sign in front of the gates.
“Either Redding is constipated,” Michael said as he took in a subtle shift in Dean’s body posture, “or things are about to get interesting.”
I walked toward Dean, overcome with the uncanny sense that I knew what the sign was going to say. Poison garden. Those were the words I expected to see.
“Apothecary garden,” I read instead.
“Apothecary,” Sloane said, coming to stand next to us. “From the Latin word meaning repository or storehouse. Historically, the term was used to refer to both the historic version of a pharmacy and to the historic version of a pharmacist.”
Without waiting for a reply, Sloane bopped past the gates. Lia followed
her.
Dean slid his gaze over to me. “What do you think the chances are that it’s
a coincidence that Nightshade grew up in a town with an apothecary garden and”—Dean jerked his head toward the building next door—“an apothecary museum?”
A chill spread slowly down my spine. Nightshade’s weapon of choice had been poison. There was a thin line between knowing the medicinal properties of plants and knowing how to use them to kill.
“I can sense this is a romantic moment for the two of you,” Michael said facetiously, patting us each on the shoulder. “Far be it from me to ruin it.” He strolled past us into the garden, but the way he glanced back tipped me off to the fact that he recognized the unsettled feeling twisting in my gut.
“If you folks think that garden’s something,” a voice called out, “you should venture inside.”
An older man—my guess put his age in the neighborhood of seventy— came to the door of the apothecary museum. He was small and compact, with round spectacles and a voice at odds with his appearance: deep and scratchy and utterly uninviting.
A much younger guy came to stand behind the old man. He looked to be nineteen or twenty and wore his white-blond hair combed back, accenting a widow’s peak hairline.
“The garden is free for all to enjoy,” Widow’s Peak said tersely. “Visitors to the museum are asked to make a donation.”
He may as well have stuck a giant NO TRESPASSING sign over the building’s entrance.
Agent Sterling moved to stand beside me. “I think we’re fine with the garden for now,” she told Widow’s Peak.
“Figures,” the boy muttered, retreating into the building. There was something about him that gave me the same unsettled feeling that had coated
my body the moment I’d seen the wrought-iron gates.
“You folks stay cool,” the old man advised us, his gaze lingering on Sterling. “Even in spring, Gaither heat has a way of sneaking up on you.” Without another word, he followed Widow’s Peak back into the museum.
Agent Sterling preempted any comment from Dean or me. “Walk through the garden, pretend you’re enjoying this lovely spring day, and think about what you’ve learned,” she advised.
You want us to take this slow. To avoid tipping our hand.
I did as instructed. St. John’s wort. Yarrow. The alder tree. Hawthorne. As I passed each labeled plant in the garden, I parsed my first impressions. My gut said that the older man had lived in Gaither all of his life. Widow’s Peak was protective of him—and of the museum.
You don’t like tourists, but you work in a museum. That spoke of either a contradictory personality or a lack of employment options.
I turned on the path, following the loop back to the iron gates. As I reached them, I got that same sense of déjà vu I’d had when I saw the garden for the first time.
I’m missing something.
As I scanned the surrounding street, I pegged a pair of tourists, then turned my attention to a local walking her dog. She turned around a corner and disappeared. I didn’t mean to do more than follow her around the corner to see what was on the next block, but once I started walking, I couldn’t stop.
I’m missing something. I’m missing—
Dean caught up to me. The others weren’t far behind. I caught sight of our protection detail out of the corner of my eyes.
“Where are we going?” Dean asked.
I wasn’t following the dog walker anymore. She’d gone one way, I’d gone another. Gaither’s historical charm had melted away blocks back. Now there were houses—most of them on the small side and in need of repairs.
“Cassie,” Dean repeated, “where are we going?” “I don’t know,” I said.
Lia fell in beside us. “Lie.”
I hadn’t realized that I was lying, but now that Lia had called me out, it was clear. I do know where I’m going. I know exactly where I’m going.
The niggling feeling of déjà vu, the deeply unsettling something that had fallen over me the moment we’d stepped foot in this town, solidified into something more concrete.
“I know this place,” I said. I hadn’t been sensing something off about Gaither. I’d been sensing something familiar.
I know, my mom whispered in my memory. You liked the town and the house and our little front yard—
There had been so many houses over the years, so many moves. But as I came to a stop in front of a quaint house with blue siding and a massive oak tree that cast shade over the entire lawn, I felt like someone had tossed ice- cold water directly into my face. I could see myself standing on the front porch, laughing as my mom attempted to throw a rope over a branch on the oak tree.
I made my way to the tree and fingered the tattered rope swing that hung there. “I’ve been here before,” I said hoarsely, turning back to the others. “I lived here. With my mother.”
