A Deep and Dark December (2 page)

Dusting the dirt from the key, she revealed a floral pattern. It was one of those novelty keys Fine’s Hardware had started carrying some time back. Erin had one herself. She dug her key ring from her pocket and compared the near identical house keys. The irony wasn’t lost on her. If it wasn’t for her job with Kavender Investments, Austin or Ramie himself might have knocked on her door with a check to exchange for the key to
her
house.

She pocketed her keys once again and fit the dirt-smudged key from the planter into the lock. It fit, turning easily in the knob. The door creaked on rusty hinges, the curse of coastal living.

“Hello? Mr. Lasiter?” Her voice echoed off the walls of the near empty room.

Daylight made a weak effort to invade the space, casting no shadows. It was colder here, but not cold enough to mist her breath. The air lay still and ripe with wariness, as though the house had not yet made up its mind to accept her. Or maybe she was the one who refused to accept what had been so clear in her vision. She didn’t want to go into the house, didn’t want to be the one to make the discovery.

The layout was different from what she’d seen in her mind. Almost a mirror image, except for a door where there should have been a hall, and a fireplace where there should’ve been none. The differences were disorienting. It took her a moment to get her bearings. Different. Everything was so
different
from what she’d seen.

Why? What does it mean?

She called out for Greg again. No answer. She should leave. Right now. But her feet propelled her farther into the room as if controlled by someone or something else.

She swallowed at the lump of dread in her throat. She’d been drawn to the door at the far end of the room just like her vision and now there, standing before it, she couldn’t seem to stop her shaking hand from reaching out to open it. A noise from the other side made her flinch.

She swung the door open slowly, revealing the room inches at a time. “Greg? It’s me, Erin, fr—” She let go of the knob, clamping both hands to her mouth. The door continued on its own, exposing the scene.

Greg knelt over the body of a woman sprawled out on the floor in a thin pool of blood.

Behind him, the kitchen wall was dotted and streaked with more blood. He slowly raised his gaze. “I didn’t do it.” He swayed back and forth. His eyes, dull with shock, stayed on Erin’s. “I didn’t do it.”

Erin lowered her hands, resting them over her pounding heart. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Greg was the one who was supposed to be dead. “Who… who is she?”

He looked back at the woman, squinting down at her as though he was trying to figure that out. “Deidre,” he finally answered. “My wife.”

She knew that.
Didn’t she?
Yes, Deidre. She’d met her a few times. But it was supposed to be Greg lying on the floor. “Wh… what happened?”

He stood and held out his hand to Erin, watching her now as though she had the answers to her own questions. That’s when she noticed the gun resting in his bloodied palm. She started, knocking a shoulder into the doorframe behind her. They stared at each other across the kitchen. Thin beams of light filtered through the blinds, slashing everything in the room. The air was thicker here, so thick she could barely breathe, her chest heaving with the effort. The raw scent of blood and death filled her lungs, making her nauseous.

“I didn’t do it,” he insisted again.

“O-okay.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do.”

She’d answered too quickly. His eyes widened a fraction and then he looked around wildly as though searching for a way out. His fingers flexed over the gun, drawing her attention to it. She reached for the doorframe, needing its solidity. Her vision tunneled on the weapon.

The feeling of being sucked back, then jerked out of her body and dropped into another time made her clutch for the wall that wasn’t there. She saw Deidre, whole and well, here, sitting at the kitchen table. She was waiting for someone, a neat stack of paperwork in front of her. She’d dressed carefully, her makeup just so. Something important was about to happen. Erin could feel Deidre’s excitement. At a knock on the back door, Deidre stood, smoothing out her skirt. She opened the door, smiling.

A gun was thrust at Deidre, forcing her to move back into the room. Deidre gasped, her hands going to her mouth. Sunlight crowned the head of the person holding the gun, shrouding his identity. Erin could feel Deidre’s shock turn to confusion, then fear. The same fear burned in Erin’s chest. This was someone Deidre had loved and he’d come to kill her. Erin stared at the gun as Deidre did and then the room exploded in blinding light.

“I didn’t do it!” Greg wailed, plunging Erin back into the here and now. He swung the gun in a wild arc. “I didn’t do it!”

She sucked in air. Real and not real blurred for a moment.
What was happening?

“I know you didn’t,” she answered, placing a hand over her stomach, trying to staunch the nausea.

She was sure Greg hadn’t done this. Even though the murderer’s identity hadn’t been revealed to her through Deidre, Erin was sure it wasn’t Greg. The clothes, the body type, and overall sense of the person were very different from the image she’d seen in her vision. Her vision couldn’t be wrong a second time.
Could it?
She shook her head rejecting that thought.

Greg looked down at his wife as if noticing her for the first time. His face contorted, his eyes clamped tight. His hands went to his head. The gun thumped dully against his skull. “No one’s going to believe me.”

“I believe you.”

“Why did they kill her?” he sobbed, dropping to the floor. His knees dipped in his wife’s blood. “Why… Why… Why…?” He smoothed a hand over Deidre’s face and hair, smudging them red. The light in the room changed with the waning daylight, bathing them gray.

His grief over his wife’s death filled the room, pouring from him into Erin. Her chest ached with it. This wasn’t right. None of this was right.
Why?
Why her? She wasn’t made for this, didn’t have the capacity to deal with…dear God…murder. This was
murder,
not the suicide she’d seen.

They needed help. Erin pulled her cell phone from her purse, her hand shaking so bad that she almost dropped it. “We need to call 9-1-1.”

“No! You can’t. You can’t.”

“Please, Greg. We need help.”

“Don’t.” He came up kneeling, his hands clasped over his chest. “They won’t believe me. They’ll think I did it.”

“Greg…”

Tears lined his face, falling in fat drops like the rain just beginning outside. “She was going to leave me.” He sank back down on his haunches. Deidre stared blankly at the ceiling as her husband caressed her once again. “I don’t blame you, baby. I was an asshole. I can’t believe you stayed as long as you did. God, you’re so beautiful. What am I going to do without you?”

Erin spoke quietly into her phone, her heart beating so hard she could hardly get the words out. “Can you send the sheriff to—”

Greg whipped his head toward her, jerking back as if she’d slapped him.

“—321 Amiable Lane.”

Erin recognized the police dispatcher’s voice. Mabel Johnson was a lot of things, including a good friend of her aunt’s, but discreet wasn’t one of them. Erin would set the phone tree ablaze with her next words.

“There’s been a…murder.”

“A murder!” Mabel exclaimed.

Erin could hear Jessica, the sheriff’s secretary, in the background, rushing over to where Mabel sat at the dispatcher’s desk. “Who’s murdered?” Jessica asked Mabel.

“I don’t know yet,” Mabel told Jessica. “Let me ask Erin. Erin, honey, who’s been murdered?”

Erin didn’t like the glee in Mabel’s voice or the fact that Jessica probably had her ear pressed to Mabel’s so she could hear everything Erin said.

Erin’s gaze fell to the woman on the floor. She was so young. “Deidre Lasiter.”

Greg stood, glaring at her as though she’d betrayed him, the gun balanced in his shaky palm. She’d managed to keep the panic from her voice, but it made her lightheaded and sick.

“Are you sure she’s dead, honey?”

“Yes.” Erin wanted to scream. “Can you please just send the sheriff?” She punched the off button on her phone and shoved it into her coat pocket, trying to hide her trembling hands.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Greg said, inching closer.

“I’m sorry. I-I had to.”

“Deidre’s killer will go free.”

“It’s going to be all right.”

“No, it’s not! You don’t get it.” His eyes held wild violence, like the sky churning and spitting outside. He put the barrel of the gun to his head and cocked it. Snot dripped down his lips and chin. “All you Decembers are supposed to be some kind of fucking clairvoyants, aren’t you?”

“No. Not me.”

“Did you predict this?”

Shaking her head, she put her palms up. “No, Greg. Don’t. Please don’t.”

He held her gaze for a moment and then he closed his eyes.

“Noooo!”

He pulled the trigger. Blood shot out, splattering everywhere. Erin knocked into the doorframe behind her. Greg crashed to the floor next to his wife. His blood mixed with hers. A fine red mist covered Erin from head to toe. She gasped for air—her head reeling—and almost dropped to her hands and knees. Righting herself, she scampered backwards. Into the living room with its grayed walls and orphaned furniture. To the porch with its pumpkins that no one would carve. Over the walk to the rotting gate. And out onto the deserted sidewalk.

Lightning flashed overhead. Rain pelted as if a thousand accusing fingers poked at her, each one blaming. She lurched into the street and turned to look at the house. It glared back with its black-windowed eyes and fat, picketed mouth. It, too, condemned her. She should have seen this.
Why hadn’t she seen this?
Her chest heaved, her skin prickling in the cold damp air. In the distance, a siren wailed over the pounding of the rain.

The house blurred and she swiped at her eyes. Pink tinged water mixed with the black of mascara on her hands. The shaking started with a jolt. She wrapped her arms around herself to control it.
Greg.
Bile bubbled at the back of her throat until she bent over and let it all out, heaving into the cracks in the pavement.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, stumbled over to the curb, and dropped onto the wet cement. The trembling wouldn’t stop.
Why didn’t I see this?
She slammed her fists on her thighs. Damn it! Why had the vision been so wrong?
What could she have done differently?

The sheriff’s patrol car slammed to a halt in front of 321 Amiable Lane. She watched him climb out and look around. A second patrol car screeched to a stop at the curb, then another and another. San Rey’s entire police force had shown up. This was big news. There hadn’t been a murder in this town since 1943 when one brother had accidentally run over his twin, knocking him into a ditch where he’d hit his head and died.

The sheriff directed his men to search the property, guns drawn. Three went to the back while the sheriff picked two more to go with him through the front. The leftover few stood around, looking at each other like they’d just won the lottery. Moments later, the sheriff came back out and scanned the street. His gaze halted on Erin sitting on the curb across the street. She stood up, careful to avoid the mess she’d made. Shoulders hunched against the downpour, she retraced her steps to the house.

The closer she came to Sheriff Graham Doran, the deeper his frown grew. She came even with him, then just stood there, not knowing what to do or say.

“
You
called it in?” he asked, taking in her appearance.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you have an umbrella?”

She looked up at his curt tone into eyes a shade or two bluer than the blackened sky. He was annoyed with her, and not hiding it. What was wrong with him? What had she done to irritate him?

“Sorry.” She was on the verge of crying, but she’d be damned if she’d cry in front of him.

He made a rough noise at the back of his throat, then stomped off toward his cruiser, muttering under his breath. He came back with an umbrella, popped it open and thrust it at her.

She frowned. “I’m already soaked.”

He folded his arms over his chest. Rain dripped off the bill of his sheriff insignia baseball cap into the space between them. He wasn’t the sheriff his father had been, opting for a more casual look than his father’s brass-buttoned jacket and flat-rimmed Mountie hat.

“Why did you come here?” he demanded.

“To do my job.”

“Yeah, I’d heard Cadaver Investments was circling Greg’s house. Come to pick the bones clean?”

She pulled in a breath. “It’s
Kavender
Investments and I came here to give Greg a check. We had an appointment.”

“Oh, I’m sure you did.” He looked around at the other empty houses. “You’ve had a lot of appointments in this neighborhood already.”

“My company has, yes. It’s what we do.”