Page 11 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“Where does he work?”

“Self-employed,” Morrisette said. “Investments. Consulting. Kind of a financial Jack of all trades. Been in trouble with the SEC. I think he’s got an office on Abercorn, just off of Reynolds Square.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Why would I have been there?” she asked.

“During your ‘investigation.’ ”

“ ‘Unofficial’ investigation,” she corrected, her eyes narrowing defensively.

The cop said, “I’ve got the address here. Found it on some letterhead. Abercorn’s right.”

“You check it out,” Reed said to Morrisette. “Talk to the staff. See if anything’s out of place. If Josh was depressed. We’ll need phone records and financial statements, interviews with his neighbors and family and friends.”

“If he had any,” Morrisette said. “And I don’t need a lecture. I know the drill. I’ve been here a while, remember.”

Long enough to know one helluva lot about Josh Bandeaux.

“I’ll double-check with the neighbor, what was his name? Hubert? Maybe he can describe the driver of the white car.”

“Let’s hope,” Morrisette said without much enthusiasm as Reed glanced down at the victim again.

Maybe he could jog the old guy’s memory. Maybe they’d get lucky.

But he wasn’t betting on it.

Three

Caitlyn felt ill, so ill that she’d taken a nap and now was hurrying to make up for lost time . . . lost time . . . forever a problem, she thought as she wrung out her sponge in the pail and noticed how red the sudsy water was, how much blood she’d managed to wipe off the walls, mirrors, headboard and carpet of her bedroom. She’d soaped down the tub and shower, mopped, scraped and scrubbed until her fingernails were broken, the skin on her hands red and stinging from the disinfectant and cleansers. She’d taken down the sheer curtains, and they were working their way through the rinse cycle of her washer. She’d even had to scold Oscar and lock him in the garage when he’d begun sniffing and licking the blood on the carpet.

She couldn’t stand the mess. The reminder. It wasn’t as if she was hiding evidence, she told herself. There was no crime. She’d had a bad nosebleed and even though she didn’t feel as if she’d lost all the blood, she couldn’t call the police.

What is it you’re afraid of?

Ignoring the question, she poured the murky water down the drain in the shower and wiped down the tiles one last time.

A flash of memory sizzled through her brain.

Caitlyn froze.

Papers. Legal papers—a lawsuit—tucked in a corner of Josh’s desk. And blood . . . thick red blood oozing from him as he stared up at her with those condemning, sightless eyes.

“Jesus!” she whispered, shaking. It was the dream. Last night’s horrid dream. She hurried downstairs, stuffed the mop and pail into a closet off the garage, then in the bath off her office washed her hands for the dozenth time and checked the cuts that she’d dressed with surgical glue and butterfly bandages. The cuts hadn’t been deep, just quick little slices. God, why couldn’t she remember the self-mutilation?

That’s what it is, isn’t it? Some deep psychosis. Probably self-inflicted to assuage the guilt for Jamie. Isn’t that what Dr. Wade would say?

If only she could speak to Dr. Wade. Tell her about last night. She would understand. She would try to help. She would . . .

But she’s gone. She left you. Took off on a sabbatical and left you high and dry. To fight your ghosts and demons yourself.

“No!” she yelled, pounding her fist against the wall. From the garage, Oscar let out a sharp, worried bark.

Don’t do this. Be strong. For God’s sake, don’t lose it now or you’ll end up back in the psych ward for sure.

She took several deep breaths, then slowly, refusing to get upset, she applied lotion to her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink. She was pale. Her freckles showed up more distinctly on her skin. Her auburn hair was starting to curl with the sweat she’d worked up. She felt the pressure building in her head, the remainder of her migraine pounding behind her eye, and fought the same panicky feeling that was never far from her. She couldn’t allow the anxiety that lurked just under the surface of her equanimity, couldn’t let in the fear that she could be losing her mind. Hadn’t she assured Dr. Wade she was able to face the world herself?

“Are you certain?” the psychologist had asked in their last session. A petite woman with thick red hair cropped short, she hadn’t been able to cloud the doubt in her eyes. “I could call someone. I have several colleagues who would be glad to help you. Let me give you the number of a couple.”

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