The Night Before (27 page)

“Well, let’s try to keep you out of the hospital, okay?” He offered her a smile that somehow cut through all of the shadows in her mind.

“I’m all for it.”

His gaze held hers, maybe a second longer than necessary, and she experienced that little jolt of excitement, the sizzle in her nerve endings, whenever she met a man she found interesting.

“You said something about your mother being in the hospital,” he prodded. His voice seemed a bit rougher than it had been.

“Because of all the anxiety over Amanda’s claims that someone was trying to kill her, I think, she had an angina attack as she climbed the stairs for bed. It was touch and go for a while, but she’s stabilized.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Me, too,” she admitted, then pulled herself together. It was now or never.

“Adam,” she said and her voice sounded unnatural, even to her own ears.

His eyes found hers again, his pupils darker with the shadows in the room.

“There’s something you should know. I don’t think I’m crazy—I mean, I pray that I’m not, but . . .” How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart racing. Slowly, she forced an unnatural calm to settle over her.

“What is it?” Any hint of a smile had left his lips. His expression was wary, his muscles tense. As if he knew what she was about to say.

Still, she plunged on. “Strange things have been happening. Not just to the family, but to me specifically.” Her chest was so tight she had to force the horrid words out. “Aside from the bad dreams, I have flashes of memory or a sense of
déjà vu
about certain events, things tied to some of the ‘accidents’ that have occurred. I remember flashes, little glimmers that don’t make a whole lot of sense. Like touching my sister’s car, the one she nearly died in, or seeing my mother’s medication in her room.” She swallowed hard and felt the quivering inside, the feeling that she was about to step into a dark void, like opening the locked doorway to the forbidden cellar stairs and taking the chance that the door would slam behind her and she’d hear the turning of a key, that she’d be trapped forever in the terrifying void.

Closing her eyes, she plunged on. “The morning after Josh was killed, I woke up and . . . and there was blood all over my bedroom. I mean, all over.” She began to shake as she pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. “In the bed, on the curtains, pooled on the floor, in the bathroom . . . oh, God, it was all over. On the walls and carpet, smeared on the sink and tiles. The glass shower door was cracked . . . but I don’t remember pushing my arm through it. And there was blood on the curtains, oh, dear God . . .” Her voice had risen an octave, and she had trouble forcing the words out.

Opening her eyes, she saw that Adam’s face was a mask, but beneath his controlled expression, in the tightness at the corners of his mouth, she sensed his shock. No reason to stop now. Plunging on, Caitlyn said, “I had a nosebleed that night and I discovered . . . these.” She held out her arms, palms rotated to the ceiling, displaying the ugly scabs on her wrists. “I don’t remember making them. I don’t recall a nosebleed, and even if I had done this . . . mutilated myself, I don’t think I bled enough to make all that mess, and I’m afraid . . . oh, Jesus, I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”

“You think you killed him?” Adam asked, the skin on his face drawing tight.

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t remember. But the police are saying that my blood type was at the murder scene and then there was the blood all over my room. I kidded myself into thinking that it was all mine, but that would have been impossible.” She took in a long breath, not certain if she’d made the right decision to confide in him.

“What do you remember?” His voice was gentle, not filled with accusations, no hint of judgment in his tone.

She explained everything that she could, from waiting for Kelly at the bar to drinking too much and not remembering if she’d left and gone to Josh’s house, only to somehow wake up twisted in blood-stained sheets.

“. . . It’s been awful. Hideous. I was scared and I couldn’t stand looking at the mess, so I cleaned it up as best I could, washed the linens, walls, bedclothes, sinks, carpets, anywhere I saw the blood. I just had to get rid of it.” She plowed the fingers of both hands through her hair, fought a headache beginning to throb at the base of her skull. “I think I’m cracking up. I think I should go to the police, but I’m afraid to. Detective Reed already has me pegged as his number-one suspect.”

“Do you think you’re capable of murder?”

“No! Of course not.” She shook her head as she pulled the sleeves of the cotton sweater lower on her arms, covering the wounds. “But I don’t know what to think. I have glimmers, little fragments of thoughts, about the crime scene. In my mind’s eye I see Josh dead at his desk—and there’s more.” She related her feelings of
déjà vu
and her bits of dreams, little pieces of memory that connected her to the accidents and tragedies within her family. “And that’s not all. I feel that I’m being watched and I don’t know if the police have set up a surveillance of my house or if someone sinister is stalking me or if it’s just my own wild imagination.” She let out a weary breath. “I feel like I’m running, but I don’t know where I’ve been and I have no idea where I’m going. It’s disconcerting. Crazy-making.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Stick around. You don’t know me that well.”

“Well enough to know you’re not crazy, so let’s not even go there.” He was serious as he laid down his pen. “Let’s take a break. This is pretty heavy stuff. Why don’t we go out for real coffee or dinner? My treat and the professional time clock will be turned off.”

She was wary. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he said, “I’m hungry. I promise we won’t talk shop.” Setting his notes on the desk, he stood. “There’s a great restaurant just around the corner. Guaranteed authentic local cuisine. We’ll walk.”

“But—”

“My treat. Come on.” He was already walking to the door, jangling his keys.

What could it hurt? So he was her counselor. That didn’t mean they couldn’t get to know each other, did it?
Oh, Caitlyn, this is trouble. Big trouble.

But then, it wasn’t as if that was anything new.

Outside, he took her hand and led her through an alley and across a square to a house built two hundred years earlier. Up the front steps to a reception area, where a waitress led them upstairs to what had once been a bedroom and covered verandah outside the glass French doors. Potted plants decorated with tiny white lights separated the tables. From their vantage point, they could observe the square and look down the tree-lined streets. A warm breeze carried with it the smell of the river, the warm scent of baked bread and a trace of cigarette smoke.

“Can I get you something from the bar?” the waitress asked after she rattled off the specials.

“Caitlyn?” he asked and she thought about the last time she’d had a drink. The night that Josh had died. The night her memory was riddled with huge holes. “Iced tea with sugar,” she said.

One side of his mouth lifted, a hint of a smile touching his eyes. “I’ll have scotch. Neat.”

As the waitress disappeared, he glanced at the park where a few people strolled through the pools of light cast by the street lamps and the oaks grew tall and dark. Caitlyn wondered who lurked in the shadows, if anyone was watching. She opened her menu, realized she had no appetite and scanned the list of entrees without much interest.

“Do you think I should go to the police?” she asked, pretending to study the appetizer choices.

“I thought we were leaving all that talk back at the office.”

She lifted a shoulder. “I’d like your opinion.”

“I don’t have a law degree.” He snapped his menu shut and dropped it onto the table. “I think you might need a lawyer.”

“I’m getting one. My sister’s an attorney, remember, not criminal law, at least not anymore, but she gave me some names and I’ve got an appointment with one of them the day after tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“This is such a mess.” She felt that pressure again, the one that felt like a two-ton weight on her chest, the one that didn’t allow her to breathe.

Adam reached across the table. Placed one hand over the back of hers. His eyes were dark with the night, his pupils dilated. The hand over hers was warm. Calloused. Strong. It gave her more comfort than she expected. More than she wanted. “It’s time to relax,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Will we?”

“Yeah.” Again the hint of a smile in a jaw that was darkening with beard shadow. He was handsome, not in a bold, rugged way, but more quietly good-looking. Not the first man you would notice in a room of strangers, but one you might gravitate toward, one you would trust, one, if you looked beneath his aloof veneer, was a strong, passionate man with a few secrets he kept locked away.

“Do you have any other patients?” she asked, withdrawing her hand as the waitress, a slip of a girl with streaked blond hair and a mouth too big for her face, returned with their drinks.

“Have you decided?” she asked.

Adam motioned to Caitlyn. “What would you like?”

“Red rice with shrimp and fried okra.” Caitlyn managed a smile. “My father’s favorite. Real Southern cooking.”

Adam chuckled. “And I’ll have pork chops with corn bread and country gravy.”

“Anything else?” the waitress asked.

“Wine?” Adam lifted an eyebrow in offering, but Caitlyn shook her head, couldn’t take the chance. “Maybe a slab of praline pecan pie for dessert,” Adam stage-whispered to the waitress as he handed the girl their menus.

“I’ll see to it.” She sauntered to the next table.

For the first time since Josh had been killed, Caitlyn felt safe. Could unwind a bit. Adam made a couple of corny jokes, caused her to laugh, and she managed to quit worrying, at least for a while. By the time the waitress returned with steaming platters, Caitlyn’s appetite had returned and she dug into the plate of spicy rice and succulent okra.

“I think I owe you an apology,” Caitlyn said when she caught him observing her.

“For?”

“Being a wet blanket. This”—she gestured to the verandah and restaurant—“was a great idea.”

“I thought so.”

“I think I could make it even better,” she said as she sipped her iced tea.

“How so?”

“We could play doctor.” She lifted her eyebrow in a naughty invitation, and when she saw him turn serious, added, “I’ll be the doctor and you be the patient.” He set down his fork.

“Caitlyn?”

“I’m talking about the kind of doctor you are. You know, a Ph.D. My turn to psychoanalyze you for a change.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “You did that on purpose.”

“Gotcha!” She laughed. “I do have a sense of humor, you know, though the past week or so it’s been pretty much dead.”

Setting his utensils down, he cocked his head and studied her. “You’re a fascinating woman, Caitlyn.”

“You think?” she teased, but was flattered.

“Complex.”

“Uh-uh. I’m the doctor, remember? My turn.” She pointed her fork at his chest. “Turn it off for a while. You know, the trouble with psychologists is that they’re always working. Every time they meet someone, it’s like a new case study ready to be pounced upon.”

“That’s a pretty general statement.”

“But true.”

He lifted a shoulder and she saw the amusement in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, the intelligence etched in the features of his face. “Okay,
Doctor,
what do you want to know?”

“First of all. Have you ever been married?”

The smile tightened. “Once.”

“Hmm.”

“It was brief. A long time ago. As I said before, no kids.”

“You ever see her?”

“Rarely.”

“Any steady girlfriend?”

“At the moment?” He shook his head. “No. Remember, I just got into town.”

“But I thought there might be a woman waiting for you at home.”

“In the Midwest? No. No woman waiting.”

“I thought you might have been running from something; some deep, dark, shady past, and that’s why you’re here.”

“Maybe I was running
to
something.”

“What?”

“That remains to be seen now, doesn’t it?” he teased, his smile stretching more widely now that they were out of dangerous conversational territory. “Maybe it was kismet, or fate, or the alignment of the planets.”

“You think?” she asked, amused.

“Who knows, but I am here and right now I think it might have been one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. I mean, how great is it to be sitting outside in Savannah, eating fabulous food and spending time with a fascinating, beautiful woman?”

“One who told you she can’t remember if she was involved in her husband’s death,” she reminded him, and some of the magic of the evening seemed to dissipate.

“Hey—for the rest of the meal, let’s put that aside.”

“It’s not as easy as that.”

“Try.” He motioned to the waitress and ordered the pie with ice cream and two forks. “Just a few more minutes.”

“Okay.” And she did her best. Laughing, joking, letting him feed her a bit of the sweet confection, looking into the dark square across the street and trying not to imagine hidden eyes staring at her from inky hiding spots. She was safe with Adam. She trusted him, and when he paid the bill and refused to let her help, she didn’t fight him. Together they walked to his office, and when he took her hand as they cut through a back alley she didn’t fight him. They reached her car, and she felt a little disappointed that the evening was over.

“Maybe you should come by tomorrow,” he suggested. “We can discuss anything you want. And you have my home number, right?”

“On your card in my purse.”

“Good. You can call me any time.” They were standing beneath a security lamp for the small parking area. He squeezed her fingers. “Any time.”

“You might regret those words.”

“I don’t think so.” His teeth flashed white against his dark skin. His eyes found hers, and her breath stopped short in her lungs. He was going to kiss her. She was certain of it. A tingle of excitement swept up her spine, and he leaned down and brushed his lips against her forehead. “Take care.” He opened the car door for her.

“You, too.” Ignoring the open door, she stood on her tiptoes and put her face next to his. “Thanks for a lovely evening.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then slid into her Lexus. While he was still standing there, looking stunned, she slammed the door shut, jabbed her key into the ignition and put the car in gear. She backed up, waved, then nosed into the alley. She was grinning at her reflection in the rearview mirror when she glanced back and saw him standing just where she’d left him under the street lamp. Kissing him had been a bold move. Unlike her. But, then, she was doing a lot of things that weren’t like her these days.

And she loved it.

 

 

Berneda opened a bleary eye. For a moment she was confused by the quiet surroundings. The only light was from a few backlit fixtures in the outer hallway. Then, slowly, she remembered that she was in a hospital, sleeping on an uncomfortable bed, tubes running in and out of her body. Her mind was sluggish, her thoughts not running in any particular order, except that she wanted to go home. To the big plantation home that spoke of more genteel times, to her own room, her own bed.

She wanted Lucille to wait on her. Lucille was patient and kind, unlike some of the snippy young things that poked and prodded her all in the name of health care.

What was she doing here in this private room? Another spell? Yes . . . that was it. Or was it? Her brain was moving at far less than light speed. She reached for a tissue on the stand but couldn’t make her hand obey her mind. She realized that her vision was distorted, that the shiny fixtures in the room were out of proportion, stretched to impossible shapes. She licked her lips, and her tongue was thick. Whatever they’d given her was powerful.

She needed more sleep. That was it. She started to close her eyes when she noticed a movement near the door. Without a sound, a figure appeared as if on cat’s silent paws. A woman. Maybe another nurse. More torture. Berneda half expected some pert young thing to try and take her temperature or blood pressure, but as the silhouette of the woman loomed closer, her face in shadows, Berneda sensed something was wrong. Squinting against her blurred, distorted vision, she started to say something, but as swiftly as a cottonmouth striking, the woman pulled something from behind her back. A pillow. Berneda opened her mouth just as it was covered. She tried to scream, but only managed to flail like a marionette. The woman was strong, surprisingly so, and Berneda was weak and drugged.

Help me,
she silently screamed as her lungs burned, feeling as if they would burst. Pain screamed through her body and the angina kicked in, the heavy oppressive weight on her heart reminding her of her condition. She tried to gasp for air and felt the cotton cover of the pillow pushed down her throat. No! This couldn’t be happening! Who was trying to kill her?