Page 49 of Little Shattered Dreams

She was beginning to sound a lot like Karl and Grace.

“I don’t like talking about it,” I said.

“Why not? It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone. I’m dead.”

“This isn’t about me,” I said. “It’s about you.”

“And yet, you came to the retreat too. Why?”

“I didn’t know what this place was all about when I made the decision to come here.”

“Yes, you did. A detective like you. You seem like the type of woman who would be on top of a thing like that, a woman who does her research.”

It was the second time a comment like this had been said to me.

“This was meant to be a relaxing getaway,” I said. “I do my research when it matters.”

“When does it matter?”

“It matters now.”

“Part of you wants to be at the retreat, but you can’t admit it to yourself.”

This dream was different than the ones I’d had before. A lot less informative, and a lot more combative. Perhaps my sessions with Karl had affected me more than I liked to admit. Perhaps I was off my game.

Perhaps.

I couldn’t shake the feeling there was more to this dream, something I had yet to figure out. Before I could delve into it any further, Quinn slammed on the brakes, the car coming to an abrupt stop. My head smacked against the dashboard. I tried to move but couldn’t. My head throbbed in pain. Time passed, blurring together, fragments of memories coming and going, flooding my mind.

Sit up.

Sit up now.

I grabbed the dashboard with both hands, forcing myself into a sitting position. I turned toward Quinn. She was beating her fists against the steering wheel, staring out at the street. She looked at me, sobbing, and said, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

CHAPTER25

“Georgiana? Wake up.”

I opened my eyes and turned to see Simone hovering over me, clutching a cup of coffee between her hands.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

“I think you were having a bad dream. You were talking, well, more like mumbling a bunch of gibberish. I couldn’t make sense of anything you were saying.”

“Sorry,” I said.

She raised a brow and said, “It was one ofthosedreams, wasn’t it?”

Several months back, I’d admitted to Simone and Hunter that I often experienced strange dreams at times when I worked a homicide case. Simone thought it was fantastic, which wasn’t a surprise. She believed in all kinds of things—spirits of the dead still lingering around after death, reincarnation, communicating with the other side. Hunter, on the other hand, saw things in black or white. If it couldn’t be explained, she didn’t believe it. And yet, she still indulged the possible interpretations of my dreams when I had them.

“Yes, it was one of those dreams,” I said, “but also different. It was just so weird.”

“Weird, how? You want to talk about it?”

“I think Quinn was in a car accident, and I think someone was in the car with her when it happened. Whoever it was, I think they died.” I glanced out the window. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven.”

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