Page 108 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

The girl squeaked pathetically.

It was time to end this.

Atropos opened the forceps.

Twenty-Seven

Rolling over, Caitlyn opened one eye and squinted at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty? Was that possible? She glanced at the French doors to the verandah, where shadows were lengthening over the flagstones, promising night. She must’ve dropped off after the drinks with Kelly and . . . oh, the heart-wrenching phone call from a child. Dear God, she’d thought it was Jamie. Who would play such a sadistic trick on her? Who would derive pleasure from making her think even for a fleeting moment that her daughter was still alive?

Someone who hates you.

Someone who wants you to crack up.

Someone who knows you intimately.

Unless you dreamed the whole damned thing. Maybe you imagined it.

Groaning, she reached for the handset and checked Caller ID, but there were no numbers in the memory bank. As if she’d erased them. Had she?

Think, Caitlyn, think!

She remembered coming back from the run and she remembered showering . . . and . . . and . . . and what? What?

“Damn it all to hell.” Try as she might, she couldn’t recall the last few hours. Not clearly.

She did recall that Detective Reed had shown up on her doorstep, though. Right? Yes . . . she was certain and she remembered slamming the door shut, telling him she needed to see her lawyer, but she didn’t doubt he’d return. It was only a matter of time before he’d come with handcuffs. Oh, Lord, how had she gotten herself into such a mess? Everyone in her family was dying . . . one by one they left this world. Sadness stole over her when she thought of her daughter and her mother and even, a little, about Josh. He had been a bastard, but he didn’t deserve to die so horribly . . . at his desk. She blinked. Remembered the tiniest bit of conversation.

“Wine, Josh?” she’d teased. “But you’re allergic . . .”

“Not to this kind. Now get the hell out.” He’d smiled, so sure of himself as he’d drained his glass.

What a fool.

Now her skin crawled.

What had she done that night? She’d been there, at Josh’s home, in his den . . . but he’d been alive . . . So the blood . . . how had the blood gotten here?

Maybe you brought it back here, you crazy loon. You’re just about nuts enough to do something like that. Didn’t the bloody handprint fit your own?

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Her heart thundered, and she imagined the room as it had been: the sticky sheets, dark smudges on the tile and carpet, cracked shower door.

Fingers scrabbling on the bedside table, she knocked the remote control for her television to the carpet, then snapped on the bedside light. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she took a quick look around just to make sure there were no half-open doors, no smeared bloodstains, nothing out of the ordinary. But all seemed quiet. Maybe too quiet.

Don’t start this, Caitlyn. Don’t start jumping at shadows.

The dog lying beside her stretched and yawned, displaying his black lips, pink tongue and sharp teeth. “Lazybones,” she said, scratching him behind his ears as she tried to quell the rising panic clawing at her. “Both of us. We’re just two lazybones.” But her pulse was leaping erratically, her nerves jangled, her peace of mind stretched beyond its limit. Forcing herself from the bed, she managed to make her way to the bathroom, where she caught sight of her terrified expression. “Get hold of yourself,” she growled, her fingers curling over the rim of the pedestal sink. “Don’t fall apart. Don’!” Shaking, she ran cold water, leaned forward and took a drink, then splashed her face, hoping to shock herself out of the panic attack. Then she slammed her eyelids shut and dragged in several deep breaths. Slow down, don’t listen to the voices in your head . . . don’t.

Slowly opening her eyes, she glowered at her reflection. So weak. So scared. So frail. Pull yourself together! Determined not to succumb to the fear, she brushed her teeth and finger-combed her hair. She began to calm down, saw her reflection in a different light. A little lipstick would help. She opened the medicine cabinet and sifted through the tubes. Only three. Not the usual four. And the pink shade she liked best, the one that was sold exclusively at Maxxell’s, was missing. Was she right? A little disconcerted, she sorted through the cupboard, decided it wasn’t worth the stress and settled for a soft berry shade. The lipstick had to be in her purse, that was it.

Lately she was always losing things, misplacing her cell phone, her makeup, her favorite pair of shoes . . . “Comes with the territory, nutcase,” she grumbled as she threw on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. The marks on her wrists had faded enough that she didn’t need to be so careful, she decided, as she walked past the door to Jamie’s room. It was closed . . . how odd. Caitlyn didn’t remember shutting it; in fact, she rarely did, but kept it ajar so that she could look in and remember.

But then Kelly had been over, right? Or had she? She opened the door and was instantly assailed by memories of her daughter. “Mommy, Mommy, read me a story. The bunny one!” she had insisted, all smiles and ringlets and bright eyes. Caitlyn’s heart wrenched and she started out the door when she glanced at the bed . . . it seemed wrong somehow . . . something was missing . . . the bunny. Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal wasn’t on the bed, or on the bookcase or . . . Caitlyn felt a breath of fear slide down her back.

Mommy? Where are you?

Again she heard Jamie’s frightened voice resonating through her mind. Had her daughter . . . No, had someone posing as her daughter really called, or was it all in her mind? What had Lucille said once? “You hear ’em, too, Caitlyn, I know you do. The ghosts, they talk to you.” Well, Lucille was a bit off, everyone thought so, that’s the only reason she stuck it out with Mother. Or had stuck it out. But Jamie’s voice had been real. She’d called . . . Caitlyn ran back to the bedroom, checked Caller ID, but all the old numbers had been erased. She froze. Someone had been in here. Someone had done it. She hadn’t. She would have remembered.

I told ya, Caitie-Did, you’re crazy as a fuckin’ loon! How many times had she heard Kelly’s recriminations thundering through her brain. Hundreds? Thousands? Way too many to count.

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