She was in a trance, so he probably shouldn’t ascribe too much meaning to her words, but his fear subsided nonetheless, replaced with a brief stint of joy. His thanks, regarding her saving his life, had been genuine, but until now, Simon’s hadn’t properly worked out through the absolutely insane idea thatShanna had literally raised him from the dead. She’d not only saved his life—she gave him a new one.
And all he wanted to do was bury his head in her soft, warm lap, and ask her to protect him always.
“Twenty years, yes,” Shanna continued. “A lot like me. Same eyes, same hair color. Oh, really? Where?”
She stood up and headed for the door, walking smoothly, even with closed eyes.
Simon hurried up and opened the door for her. Ghost-vision or not, he assumed she couldn’t walk through solid objects. Down the stairs she went, with no problem, even though he shadowed her and was ready to catch her if she stumbled, and into the main room. Luckily for them, it was midday, so the bar wasn’t in full party mode yet, and only one patron threw a curious glance at Shanna as she reached for the dartboard above the piano, removed it, and picked at the wall behind.
“Monthly inspection,” Simon said to the patron, stepping into his line of sight so he wouldn’t see what Shanna was doing.
Speaking of which—“Shanna,” he whispered, “what are you doing?”
She kept picking at the wall. There was a rectangular crack in it—a hidden compartment.
“Hold on, let me help you.” Simon hopped across the room to the open kitchen counter, picking up a knife from the utensil holder. He returned to Shanna and ran the edge of the knife around the crack until the compartment sprung open.
It was a tiny space—an inch between the wooden panel and the stone wall foundation—but still enough to hide a paper envelope wrapped with a string.
Shanna picked it up. “That’s the one? Thank you so much.”
“No problem,” Simon replied, before he realized she was talking to the ghosts and not him.
With a sharp intake of breath, Shanna opened her eyes. She looked around, orienting herself, gaze finally landing on him. “Hi! I got this!” She lifted the envelope.
“I know.”
“Oh. Of course.” She giggled. “The ghosts remembered! Well, there was one ghost, Nelly. She died here at the end of the gold rush and—never mind. What’s important is that she remembered Mom and told me she’d left something here for me.”
“Not to rain on your parade or anything, because obviously, someonedidleave something here,” Simon said, “but how did the ghost know that one woman was your mother?”
Shanna pressed the envelope to her chest. “Because Mom got in contact with Nelly and told her to wait for me and tell me where to find this.”
“What?”
“I know.” Shanna’s voice shook. “I don’t understand.”
“Let’s look at the envelope, then. Unless you’d like to do it alone?”
“No, I …” A light blush spread across her cheeks. “I’d like you to be there.”
They went back to her room, where Shanna unwrapped the package. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. Simon only saw the handwritten words “Behind the waterfall” before Shanna turned the paper around, showing him the image on the other side: a photo of a long, thin waterfall, flowing into teal-colored waters from a steep, vividly green mountainside.
“I think that’s Milford Sound again,” Shanna said. “Which would fit with her itinerary.”
“And mean that might be the last stop, or at least a significant stop,” Simon said. “If she’s telling you to go there.”
“But how did she know I’d come? And did she knowwhyI’d come?”
“I don’t know.”
“I have to call Gran. Maybe she has something written down from Mom that would explain this.”
She pulled out her phone, dialed the number, and put it on speaker. After the required small talk about food, the weather, and a greeting from Jinx, Shanna got to the point. Simon stayed silent, not wanting to interrupt the consultation of the witches, but grateful he was kept in the loop.
“No, nothing I have written down explains it,” Dolores said. “And you’re certain this was your mom?”
“Nelly said so. And the coincidence is too big.” Shanna ran a hand through her hair, leaving it gloriously ruffled, as if it’s been hit with a good dose of static electricity. “We’ll go on to Milford Sound, then. Mom’s postcard and her message coincide.”
