Page 25 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

So why do you think Kelly will help you now? she asked herself as the walls seemed to close in on her. “Because she has to. She knows what happened!” she said so loudly that Oscar let out a bark. God, she was going out of her mind. Crazy. Just like Grandma Evelyn. In her mind’s eye she saw an image of the old woman, skin pasty white, eyes staring glassily as she lay on the pillow, hands cold to the touch.

Caitlyn shivered, the image that had haunted her for nearly thirty years retreating into the shadows, but just barely. It was always there, ready to appear, mocking. Taunting. “You’ll understand someday,” the old woman had warned her.

Suddenly Caitlyn had to get out, to break free, to get away from these bloodstained walls.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” she said to the dog and took the stairs two at a time. Oscar bounded after her. Ignoring a stack of work on her desk in the den and the eerie sensation that assailed her when she stepped back into her bedroom, Caitlyn refused to notice the places on the walls where she’d scrubbed so hard she’d nearly rubbed the paint off. Nor would she think too hard about the absence of her sheer drapes which were still in the washer, or the discolored nap on the carpet where she’d washed the stained fibers with soap, water and every cleanser she’d found in her cupboard. To no avail. The spot was still visible.

So what? It’s your blood, Caitlyn. Yours! No one else’s. Certainly not Josh’s. She had to believe that.

Had to.

The stains were just part of a huge optical illusion, that was all. It seemed like there was a lot more blood than had really been spilled.

So why then was the water in the pail where you rinsed the rags bright, deep red?

I just lost a lot of blood.

Because you sliced your own wrists and don’t remember?

It doesn’t matte. It only matters that the blood isn’t Josh’s.

How do you know?

I know—okay? So stop it! Just . . . stop! Her head was pounding, echoing with silent accusations and recriminations that gnawed at her guts, making her doubt anything she thought was real. “Hang on,” she told herself. She just had to get out. Walk as far as she could to clear her mind. Get away from here and sweat. That was all. Then she’d be all right. Then she could think straight again. Oh, God, please . . . Her hands shook violently as she twisted her hair up onto her head. Trying in vain to turn off the questions pounding through her brain, she stripped out of her clothes to don jogging bra, long-sleeved T-shirt, shorts and running shoes. Then, on impulse, she walked into her den, ignored the stacks of work and checked her e-mail. Maybe Kelly had sent her a message . . . She was surprised she hadn’t thought of it before. She clicked on her mailbox but saw nothing other than the usual offers of low-mortgage rates, discreet Viagra or a free peek at some porn site. Nothing from Kelly.

“Damn.” She clicked off the computer and with Oscar at her heels, hurried downstairs, where she peeked out the front blinds and saw no trace of reporters on the street. Still, she’d be careful. She slapped a pair of sunglasses over her eyes and added a baseball cap to her disguise, as if she were some high-profile celebrity, for God’s sake, then clicked on Oscar’s leash. She pushed her way through the iron gate of the back courtyard and hit the street at a brisk pace.

Later, she’d deal with her family.

Later, she’d deal with the reporters.

Later, she’d deal with the police.

Later, she’d find out what the hell happened last night.

Adam checked his watch and frowned. He’d intended to stay only an hour and nearly three had passed. He didn’t dare stay any longer. It wouldn’t be long before the police had figured out that Rebecca was Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux’s therapist. Which might be a good thing. Then they’d start looking for her, which, of course, would eventually lead them to him. He didn’t have much time.

Carefully, he took the files he needed, stuffing them into a backpack he found in the closet. A backpack he recognized. One that had hung on a peg near the back door when he’d been in college. He’d thought she’d probably thrown it away, but there it hung, dusty, a few cobwebs clinging to it, empty except for an old parking receipt, a grocery list and a nearly empty tube of lipstick.

An image of her gulping the last of her coffee as she eyed the kitchen clock in their crummy upstairs apartment sliced through his mind. “Oh, God, I’m late. Dr. Connally will kill me!” She’d brushed a coffee-flavored kiss against his cheek, grabbed the backpack from its peg and flown out the door. “Don’t forget to feed Rufus!” she’d called over her shoulder as the screen door slapped shut.

Rufus was their new kitten—snow white and big trouble. Cradling his cup, Adam had walked barefoot to the screen door, stared through the torn mesh and watched as she’d lithely thrown a leg over the seat of his mountain bike and pedaled into traffic. With no helmet, her red hair streaming behind her, she’d headed uphill toward campus while the new kitten had attacked his bare ankles and feet.

Now, in her abandoned office, his throat tightened as he remembered the girl she’d been nearly fifteen years ago. A lot of time had passed. Their lives had taken divergent paths. The carefree twenty-two-year-old had grown up and matured into a woman he’d loved and hated; adored and despised.

It was funny how time had a way of tarnishing even the brightest futures.

So where the hell was she?

He glanced around the room one last time. Not that he wouldn’t be back. He’d found a key ring in the top desk drawer and had pocketed it.

He didn’t figure Rebecca would mind.

Seven

The walk helped.

Caitlyn’s head was clearer than it had been when she’d woken up, but her memory was still fragmented and dull, the night before coming at her in shards of frosty glass, images in murky color and slow motion. In the kitchen she noticed that there were sixteen new messages on her answering machine, and she refused to listen to any of them. Most likely they were all reporters. She checked the numbers on Caller ID. Some were anonymous, others unfamiliar; none

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