Page 17 of Dead Rattled
“I’m all ears.” Natalie’s hands shook as she reached for the bottle of water she’d brought with her, before taking a sip.
“Our daughter, Everly, has similar gifts to my own, only hers are more powerful,” Ten began.
Natalie’s eyes widened. “How old is she?”
“Seven. Everly’s in the second grade.”
As Ten spoke, Ronan was struck by just how young his daughter actually was. When he was that age, he read comic books and played with He-Man and Skeletor action figures. “We went to Angel of Mercy Cemetery to visit Amanda’s grave. Not only was her grave empty, but for the casket you witnessed being interred, but all of the graves in the St. Agnes House section were empty as well.”
“What?” Natalie gasped. “Just how many graves are there?”
“Fifty-seven,” Ronan said. “Everly checked every one. There are no bodies buried in any of them.”
“What does that mean? How is this even possible?” Natalie asked, looking horrified.
“We have several theories,” Fitzgibbon added, his voice gentle, “but I think speaking to Amanda and her adoptive parents, if they are alive and willing to have a chat, would go a long way toward figuring out what happened at St. Agnes House all those years ago.”
“I agree. How do we go about finding Amanda’s phone number?” Natalie’s voice shook as she spoke.
“I already found it,” Jude said. “I’ve got a Hope Simons who lives on Lime Street in Newburyport.”
“That’s her,” Natalie said, her eyes filled with tears that weren’t as happy as when she’d first arrived.
“Are you okay?” Ten asked, reaching out a hand, which Natalie grasped like a lifeline.
Natalie shook her head. “I’m terrified. What if she hates me? Or doesn’t want to speak with me? Or curses the ground I walk on?”
“We’re not going to think like that,” Ten said, giving her hand a squeeze. “We’re going to think positive, happy thoughts about this reunion that you’ve waited your entire life to have. You and I will keep breathing together, while Ronan dials the number, okay?” Ten’s eyes were on Ronan as he spoke.
“O-Okay,” Natalie muttered, not letting go of Ten’s hand.
“I’ve never done anything like this in my entire career.” Ronan smiled at Natalie. “I’ve made dozens of death notifications and was never half as nervous and scared as I am to make a life notification.” Ronan took a deep breath.
“I trust you, Detective O’Mara.” Natalie offered Ronan a smile.
Nodding, Ronan dialed the number and hit the speaker button. The sound of the phone ringing filled the room.
“Hello?” a tentative voice asked.
“Is this Hope Simons?” Ronan asked.
“Yes, who’s this?” Hope sounded ready to hang up at any second.
“My name is Detective Ronan O’Mara. I’m calling from the Salem Police Department.”
“Salem Police?” Hope gasped. “Is it Tim or my boys? Has anything happened to my granddaughter?”
“Everyone’s fine, Mrs. Simons. I’m not calling in my official capacity, at least not yet.” Ronan grimaced as he spoke.
“I’m confused. If you’renotcalling as a detective, why are you calling me?” Hope asked, sounding wary.
Ronan took a deep breath. He could do this. He could reunite mother and daughter. “I’ve had a conversation with a woman named Natalie Fairchild, who has spent decades looking for a way to reunite with an infant she was told died at birth back in 1972.”
“What?” Hope asked, sounding equal parts curious and scared.
“This is going to sound odd, but my husband is a psychic. His name is Tennyson Grimm.”
“I know him,” Hope said. “Well of him, anyway. He did a public reading at PsychicCon a few months back. I was hoping he’d connect with me, but that didn’t happen.”
