Page 57 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Atropos’s heart nearly jumped from her chest. This was no good. No good . . . Sweating, she reached into her pocket again. Found her cell phone and, glancing at the illuminated dial, pressed a preset number.

The dog was advancing, its beady eyes centered on the thicket, her white teeth bared.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, get in here” Sugar said, but her eyes were trained on the thicket and dawn was offering a little more light. Soon Atropos would be visible. “You see somethin’ in there?” Sugar asked, her gaze centered on the tiny copse.

Come on, come on. Ring, damn it.

“Caesarina?”

From inside the trailer, Sugar’s phone jangled loudly.

“Who the hell—?” Sugar wondered, but then turned, expecting, no doubt, to hear her lover’s voice on the phone. She hurried out of the doorway and Atropos started backing away, inching out of the thicket and toward the low slope and fence she’d have to vault to get to her car parked on a seldom-used lane. Never once did she take her eyes off of the advancing dog. But she dropped her phone into her pocket and searched again with her fingers . . . it was in here . . . surely she hadn’t forgotten . . .

“Hello?” Sugar’s voice could be heard on the phone. Atropos was backing up faster and the dog, head low, was starting to break into a lope. Closing the distance.

“Hello? Who is this?” Stupidly Sugar called her lover’s name. Fool! Atropos ha

d the scissors pointed at the mutt and the fingers of her other hand found the canister.

The dog leaped, its huge maw wide. Teeth like razors. Atropos pushed hard on the spray button.

“Hey! Who is this? Hello? Hello?” Sugar was yelling, angry now, her voice muffled in Atropos’s pocket.

Mace hit the dog square in her eyes. It squealed.

“Die, bitch!” Atropos struck. Her scissors were a dagger. She plunged the deadly weapon into the side of the beast’s huge neck. Once. Twice.

Caesarina gave off a pained yip and fell back.

“What?” Sugar screamed, her voice muted.

The dog, whimpering, trailing blood, ran back to the double-wide, and Atropos took off running toward the car.

“Caesarina? Oh, God . . . what happened?” Sugar’s voice was suddenly concerned. Panicked. “Did you get into a tussle with a possum? Jesus, you’re bleeding! Oh, God . . . we’ve got to get you to the vet!”

As if that would help.

As the first light of dawn spread over the fields, Atropos raced over a final rise and saw her car. She’d made it. The dog was probably dead, but that was good. It would give the Biscayne bitch something to think about.

Rapping lightly on the door to Adam’s office, Caitlyn steeled herself. This is necessary, she told herself, you need to talk things out. She was here to get help, not because she thought Adam Hunt was the slightest bit attractive, or sexy, or even a tad interesting. This was a professional meeting, counselor and client.

“Come in,” he called as the door, already ajar, inched open.

She walked inside and found the desk pushed out at an angle, Adam on his knees behind it. He looked over the corner of the desk and smiled as if he were a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. “Excuse me.” He stood and dusted off his slacks. “Something fouled up with the computer. I thought the surge protector might have switched off. No such luck.” He edged the desk back against the wall with his hips and she couldn’t help but notice his buttocks. Nice. Tight. Damn it, what was she thinking? “Now, before we get started, can I get you something?” He motioned distractedly toward the small table with its pitcher and carafe.

“Coffee, if you’ve got it. And, yes, instant’s fine.”

“Good.”

Within seconds she was cradling a warm mug and sitting on a corner of the couch. Adam slipped his glasses onto his nose and leaned back in his desk chair, a pen in one hand, a legal pad balanced on one knee.

“I called you because I’m having bad dreams.” She blew across her mug and didn’t let her gaze linger on the lines of his face, didn’t want to wonder where he’d gotten his high forehead or straight hair, dark as the coffee crystals he’d poured into her cup.

He waited. Clicked his pen.

“Sometimes they recur. Other times they’re new, but they’re always horrible, always nightmares.”

“The same, or different?”

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