Part II:  Lies

The sound of thunder wakes me. My room is pitch-black and I rub my eyes. The hard sound of rain beating at the walls and the roof drowns out the room's white noise. I can't sleep without some kind of white noise. Never could, not even when I was little. I can hear the wind whipping the trees outside into a frenzy. We live at the end, on a cul-de-sac. Behind the house is a small forest that wraps around the entire neighborhood. I can hear the trees wailing even over the sound of the storm, which is odd.

My eyes roam blearily to the clock. It's 5:47 a.m. Dear God, almost time to get up. Can't believe I agreed to a 7 a.m. meeting of the minds with Dan. It's unheard of to get up this early on a Saturday morning. The alarm is set to go off in exactly thirteen minutes. Do I go ahead and get up or lay here waiting for the alarm to go off? I'm fond of option two. I got into the habit of it around foster home six. You lay half awake, half asleep and just watch the clock. It's weird, but I love it. Your thoughts wander, never resting on any one thing.

There is one thought I can't get away from. Why haven't I seen Sally again? Mary seems to find me without problem, but not Sally. I've only seen her the one time at the party, but not since. I don't know if that's good or bad. Sally never was much of a fighter. What if she just gave up? Is that why she isn't trying to find me now? She thinks everyone has given up on her? That bothers me more than anything. What if it were me? What if I thought no one even cared enough to look for me? I'd be pretty depressed, too. Can ghosts even get depressed? I don't think so, but who really knows?

I've been immersing myself in the world of spooks, reading everything I can get my hands on. I even went to the library. Normally, the only time I visit a library is for school projects like a huge research paper. And even that's pretty rare, since I get most information I need online. There is another reason I avoid the library. It's the smell of the old books; it reminds me of my mom. She loved to read and would read aloud to me every night – even when she was high as a kite. I ended up trying to read the book. It was a tradition for her, for us.

My mom has been on my mind a lot the last couple of days. All the ghost activity makes me wonder why I've never seen her. I mean she's dead and all. It stands to reason I should have seen her, at least once. Right? Is she avoiding me? Ashamed of what she did or just sorry she didn't finish what she started? Some part of me wants to ask her those questions, but another part doesn't. What if I don't like what she'd tell me? Sometimes not knowing is its own kind of hell, but thinking about knowing the truth – would it make things worse or better?  I think I'll stick with not knowing – for now, anyway.

I glance at the clock and smack the alarm button off. 5:59. I yawn and stretch before hauling myself out of bed and heading to the closet. Where is that old UNC sweatshirt? Then I flip on the light and rummage. I find it and yank, causing a small box to fall down and smack me in the head. "Ow." Grumbling, I bend down to pick it up. The contents have spilled out. I freeze as my eyes land on the picture staring up at me. It's the one of me and my mom, the one before she flipped out. Our faces are side by side. I was about two. Strange that we look so normal. I'm all smiles and she's laughing at whoever is taking the picture. I've often wondered if that person was my dad.

She is so beautiful in that picture. I don't look a thing like her. She has blonde hair and brown eyes. I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her coloring is a bit darker than mine too. She used to smile so much, before the drugs. In the end her eyes were dull and lifeless. She looked about ten years older than she really was too. It was definitely the drugs. That stuff burns you out, makes you older than you really are. I won't touch that crap. I've seen what drugs can do. When you see the damage firsthand, you'll never, ever even think about trying them.

And I miss my mom. Strange. I miss the woman who wanted me dead. She wasn't always a bad mom. I have some really good memories. Like when I was four, I decided that for my birthday I wanted to go swimming in a pool of chocolate pudding. We were in New Orleans at the time. She went to Wal-Mart, bought one of those little plastic kiddie pools and a humongous amount of pudding and milk. I played in that pool all day, my mom climbing in with me right before she said it was time to get out. She laughed so hard. It's one of the best memories I have of her. That was before she became a junkie. Sad.

So I guess I do want to kind of see her, maybe. Even though I'm terrified of what she might say, I need to see her. She's my mom and I miss her. Either that or I'm just a glutton for punishment. Sighing, I pick things up and put them back in the box containing what few keepsakes I own. My photo, an old matchbox car from the first foster kid I met – Max. He took care of me while I was with him. I wonder sometimes what happened to him. The movie ticket from mine and Jake's first movie. I chuckle softly. I'd put it in my box of treasures even before I knew how much I liked him.

The frame slips from my hand and falls to the carpet, coming apart. Dang it. I scoop everything up and flip it over to fix it. That's when I see the writing on the back of the photo. Curious, I pull it out and read the short message. 

For my darling from both of us, Mattie and Claire.

My darling? Who was she referring to? I flip the picture back over and just stare at it. The more I stare, the more I can see things I didn't before. There are spots all in the picture, little things you don't normally notice, but it's like sunlight reflecting off the lens of the camera. Wait a second. Could those lights be... ghosts? I remember reading about them showing up in pictures as distorted images or blots of light. Had the ghosts been a part of my life even then?

My mind keeps going back to the "my darling" phrase. She looks so happy in the photo, so maybe it is my dad who took the picture. Normally, I don't even think about it, but all this stuff with Mary, Sally, and the other ghost kids are making me very nostalgic for some odd reason. I keep thinking of my mom, who my dad might be, if I have grandparents, aunts, uncles. The things I normally refuse to think about are now haunting me. I never really cared before, but I do now. Maybe it's Officer Dan's influence. Him and his talk of family.

Shaking my head in, I put everything away and take a shower. Officer Dan will be here shortly. With my hair pulled back into a ponytail, my UNC sweatshirt over a purple tee and faded jeans, I grab my jacket and bag and head outside to wait for him.

It's cold. That's the first thing I notice when I step outside. Usually October in the Carolinas aren't that cold. We really only ever see cold weather from late December through February. Snow is non-existent down here too. That's one thing I don't miss about Jersey—the snow and the cold. I have every intention of moving to a state that stays warm year round when I am old enough. I've already started researching good colleges in the warm zones.

The rain lashes at the porch and I shrink back. Dan pulls up in a rickety old Chevy truck just as I start to head back inside. I frown – gotta do this, then make a run for it. He has the door open for me. Good man, and I jump in. I start to fuss at my wet clothes. He just chuckles and turns on the heat full blast.

"This is not funny," I fume when he continues to chuckle.  "I hate getting wet."

"It's just a little rain, Mattie."

"How far is it to your house? Am I going to dry out before I meet your mother?"

"Don't worry. Wet or dry, she'll love you."

"I'm not worried," I deny airily. "Everyone loves me."

"Uh-huh. Sure. That's before they hear your mouth." He grins.

"Exactly so."

"Then they'd want to wring your neck." He chuckles and I settle back as he drives.

For some reason, Dan makes me comfortable, complacent almost. It's quite disturbing, this effect. I can't even flirt with the guy. It just feels wrong. And when I end up arguing with him, it's not romantic. It's like he's just a good buddy, not a boyfriend. And that's weird. But in a good way. I think.

Dan pulls up in front of what I deem is the typical family house. It's in one of those neighborhoods that had been constructed years before the massive housing complexes started cropping up. He actually had a yard and lots of space between his house and the ones around him. The walkway is stone and there are shrubs in front, with flower beds around the big oak trees shading the property. Gnomes smile at me from within the hidden folds of the garden. The house itself is a two-story brick with shutters and yes, I kid you not, a white picket fence. It's so homey I could gag if not for the envy tearing through me just then. This was a home, a real home, like Jake's.

"Dan, why did you invite me to your house instead of some place public like the library or something? I figured you'd be all professional, considering you're a cop and all. So why bring me here?"

"I don't know," he mumbles and ducks his head. "I just did."

I shake my own head and sigh. Nothing ever makes sense when it comes to Dan.

"You sitting here all day, Hathaway?" Dan gives me a crooked grin, recovering from his moment of awkwardness. "We might as well run for it while the rain's let up a bit."

"Ohhhhh." I shake myself. More rain. Why can't it have stopped already? The garage door is going up as I debate sitting here all day just as he asked. At least it's a short sprint this time. Grabbing my bag, I scoot out and sprint. The wind catches my bag and I tuck my head down and push forward into the dry garage.

"You two look like drowned rats."

My head snaps up and over to where a woman is standing in the door frame. She's tall and willowy. Hair that's the color of roasted chestnuts, is cut short around her face and makes her look younger than she really is, like in her thirties, but I'm guessing she has to be in her forties at least. Her eyes are blue, not brown like Dan's. An apron covers her jeans and NC State sweatshirt. She sorta does remind me of June Cleaver, just a modern-day version.

"Hey, Ma." Dan hits the button to shut the garage door. "This is Mattie."

She smiles at me a little hesitantly. "Hello, Mattie. Dan said he was bringing a friend by for breakfast. I hope you're hungry. I made a small mountain of pancakes."

Pancakes. Wow. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good, now you two get those shoes off before you come in." She disappears back into the house. I'm not sure she's happy to see me. I get the feeling she thought Dan was bringing by one of his guy friends or maybe a girl he has been dating. Seeing me shocked her a bit. I know the signs as I've shocked more than my fair share of adults.

"Shoes, Mattie," Dan reminds me. "Mom will make us mop the floor if we get mud on them."

"Me?"

He laughs. "You. Anyone who dares mess up her floors is in for it. She'll make me help you, but you won't get out of it."

I think he means it. I kick off my tennis shoes and grip my bag harder. It's not often I go to other people's houses. It makes me nervous. I never know how to act. The few times I've gone to Jake's, we mostly hung out in front of the TV until supper –which was weird for me too. They always eat together and I was nervous since I don't normally eat in a family setting. I usually grab something and eat in my room.

"Relax, we don't bite, promise," he whispers. I force my fingers to uncurl from around my bag's strap. I hate it when anyone can tell that I'm nervous.

The kitchen is right off the garage. It's bright and airy, done in soft blues and whites. Stainless steel appliances are worked into the beautiful oak cabinets lining two of the walls. A breakfast table done in the same soft honey color of the cabinets is piled high with mountains of pancakes, eggs, and bacon. Orange juice and milk complete the ensemble. She really has gone all out. This much food tells the story of a woman expecting to feed the bottomless pits of two boys growing stomachs. No one else could eat this much.

"Well, hello."

Dan's dad. It has to be. He's a very tall man, even taller than Dan. Salt and pepper gray hair, cut short, is standing up on all ends. His wire rimmed glasses are perched on his nose. Eyes as blue as Lake Norman on a clear summer day stare at me with a hint of laughter. It looks like he's just managed to crawl out of bed. He's still in his pajama bottoms and a tee shirt.

"You didn't tell us you were bringing a young lady to breakfast." He turns reproachful eyes on his son. "I'd have gotten dressed." Dan definitely learned some of those guilt and trust stares from this man.

"Sorry, Dad," Dan grins at him. "Want me to go put my pajama pants on so you won't feel completely embarrassed?"

"Don't tempt me," he smiles back. "I'm sorry, let me go change..."

"No worries, Mr. Richards. It's Saturday and you weren't expecting me. No need to change your routine because of me. I would've been lounging in mine if Dan hadn't hauled me out of the house at an ungodly hour."

"It is at that," Mr. Richards agrees and motions for us all to have a seat at the table. "So what are you two up to at such an early hour?"

"I'm helping Mattie with a project." Dan slides into the seat next to mine and grabs the bacon. His mother promptly gives him a stare that would cause even Mr. Winter's, the meanest teacher in the world, to freeze up.

"Would you like to say grace, Mattie?" Mrs. Richards asks me.

"Er..." They pray at breakfast? I have never said grace in all my life and don't even know where to begin. Sure, I had one summer of Sunday school, and I picked up a few things like not cussing, but do I believe in the whole greater power? I still don't know.

Dan sees panic in my eyes and tells his mom he'll do it instead. I'm only half listening, startled at the thoughts of prayers. I hadn't pinned Dan for being the religious type.

"Bless this food we are about to receive and give us the courage to get through the day," Dan mumbles quickly.  "Amen."

His dad laughs out loud when Dan and his mom vie for the plate of bacon. Dan wins and grins before handing it back to her. She smiles. It's something they probably do all the time. It has that family feel to it. Something I've never been privy to. This is why I hate going to people's houses. It makes me miss all the things I've never had, gets me sad and feeling just a little sorry for myself. Sadness and self-pity: Two feelings I hate with a passion. Usually I get really snarky, but I will try to control myself. Maybe. Depends. Only if I let self-pity win today.

"So, Mattie, what grade are you in?"

Dan's dad startles me out of my little mental tirade. "I'm a junior," I tell him and take the plate of bacon Dan passes me.

"And you and Dan are working on a project?" His eyes stray to his son and stay there. Oh, great. I hope they're not getting the wrong idea here.

"Yes, sir," I tell him. "I'm doing an assignment on crime scene investigations for my science project and Dan is helping me create a mock crime scene and all the boards I'll need for the investigation. I'm doing it from a rookie's point of view and since Officer Dan here is so new to the force, I thought he might give me the best input."

Dan's eyes widen at the lies that roll off my tongue without hesitation. Yeah. I really am a good liar.

"Officer Dan?" His dad grins. "I like that, Mattie, indeed I do."

Dan groans. "Great. Now see what you started, Squirt? He'll never let that name go."

"Squirt?" My eyebrows shoot up into the hairline. "I am not a squirt by any means, Dan Richards."

"Keep calling me Officer Dan and I'll keep calling you Squirt," he counters with a wicked grin.

His dad chuckles.  "Now, children..."

This earns him a glare from both of us and he hastily takes a drink of coffee. His dad is definitely smarter than the average bear. I like the guy.

"Dan, be nice," his mother tells him.

"Sure, sure," Dan says and starts breakfast in earnest. "You mind if the guys come over later? We have a Rock Band tournament coming up in a couple days and need to practice."

His mom sighs. "Dan, last time you boys had a practice for one of your tournaments, I ended up cleaning up the most god-awful mess..."

"We'll clean up this time, promise."

I hide a grin. He sounds like a little boy who is promising he'll be good all year if Santa will bring him that one special toy. It's easy to forget he's a cop, easy to forget he isn't just another teenage boy at times like this.

"I suppose..." she half-smiled.

"Thanks, Ma."

She shakes her head and turns her attention back to me. "So, Mattie, do we know your parents? I don't remember meeting any Hathaways."

"No, ma'am," I say the same time Dan says, "Mom, don't ask..."

She and his Dad give us both questioning looks and we sigh together.

"Just how did you two meet?" his dad asks at last.

"My foster sister went missing," I say. "Dan was one of the officers who took the initial report."

Surprise flicker across their faces. "You're in foster care?" His mom frowns. Again, I get the feeling she isn't comfortable having me here for some reason.

"Yes," I nod. "My mom died when I was five and I don't know who my father is so I grew up in the system."

"I'm sorry, honey," Mr. Richards tells me and there is an honest sincerity in his voice that is missing from his wife's.

I grin a bit devilishly.  "No need to be sorry, Mr. Richards. It's made me into the brat that I am."

"Brat is an understatement," Dan mutters.

"Hey!" I shot him a glare.

"You two crack me up." Mr. Richards laughs. "I swear if I didn't know better, I'd say you've known each other for years."

"She'd of killed me by now, Dad. She's got a mouth on her like you wouldn't believe. Don't let those pretty eyes of hers hide the devil behind them. The girl's got claws."

"Officer Dan..." I start.

"Squirt..." He grins while trying to swallow.

"I'm trying to be nice," I say, eyes narrowed. "Do you know how hard that is right now?"

Dan laughs out loud.

"Finish your breakfast, you two," his dad says, before we start in again.  "Mattie, we must have you over more often. I haven't had this lively a morning since Dan's brother lived at home."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Earl, did you see this?" Mrs. Richards sounds exasperated. "It's Ethel's obituary.  They misspelled her last name.  R-o-w-b-e-r-t-s instead of Roberts." She passes him the paper and I glance at the picture accompanying the obituary. My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. It's the old woman from the diner. The one screaming about Ollie.

"Poor Ethel," he sighs. "Fell over into her morning grits at the diner from a heart attack. Terrible way to go." Mr. Richards said, clucking softly.

"Earl!"

"What?" he asks mildly. "Well, would you want to die in a bowlful of grits, Ann?"

"Well of course not," she huffs "But..."

"But it was funny as he...heck," Dan hastily corrects himself and his dad winks at him. He'd caught the slip-up. "Mattie, you okay?"

I put down the fork and nod. "Yeah, I'm not that hungry. Sorry."

His dad glances at my face and the paper and frowns. "Here we are going on and on about someone dying and your foster sister is missing. I'm sorry, Mattie. I didn't even think about it."

"No, it's okay..." I mumble.

"Dan, why don't you and Mattie go and start your project?" he suggests. "Your mom and I can handle the dishes."

"Thanks, Dad." He stands and then steps back so I can do the same before leading me up the stairs.

"Leave the door open!" His dad's shout comes from the kitchen. Dan rolls his eyes and I chuckle.

Time to work.