Page 84 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“I know, but it’s Jamie’s birthday,” she said aloud as she stared up at the house. Three stories of red brick, trimmed in white, accented with narrow, paned windows and black shutters, the house stood quietly, its lights glowing warmly in the darkness.

Jamie’s house. Caitlyn’s throat was thick as she conjured up her daughter’s cherubic three-year-old face But she didn’t cry. Had wept her buckets of tears years before. Quickly, before the morbid thoughts got the better of her, she pocketed her keys and slid from behind the steering wheel of her Lexus.

The night was warmer than she’d expected, the air a gentle kiss on her cheeks as she made her way up the walk to the wrought-iron gate. She thought it would be locked, but the latch gave way and the old hinges creaked. Mist rose from the ground like smoke, swirling at her feet and wafting eerily through the lacy branches overhead. In front of the home that used to be hers, her doubts mushroomed and she second-guessed herself. She was alone. But then she always had been, hadn’t she? One of seven children, but alone. A twin, but alone. Married, but alone. A mother and now alone.

The wind was gusty, tugging at her hair, hot as midday, though it was night. She was vaguely aware of the sound of a car’s engine as it drove past and the yapping of a neighbor’s dog over the sound of the steady, painful drumming of her heart.

It was now or never.

Either she was going to face Josh or let the marriage die.

Forcing starch into her spine, she walked along the brick path just as she had hundreds of times during the short span of her marriage. Up the three steps to the wide front porch, where baskets of petunias hung and the scent of honeysuckle was strong. She raised her fist to rap on the door, but it was open, hanging ajar.

An invitation.

Don’t do it! Don’t go in there! She heard Kelly’s voice as surely as if her sister were standing next to her in the shadows.

Seduced by a sliver of light spilling onto the dark porch from the cracked door, she stepped inside, her footsteps echoing on the smooth marble foyer with its twenty-foot ceilings. The grandfather clock began to chime over soft music playing from hidden speakers . . . something haunting and classical, coming from the den.

She stepped over the threshold and saw him, slumped over the desk, one arm flung over the edge of the desk, blood dripping from his wrist, pooling onto the plush pile of the carpet.

“Josh!” she cried as the phone began to ring.

One ring. She stared at the phone on the desk near Josh’s head.

Two rings. Oh, God, should she answer it?

Three rings.

Caitlyn’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding wildly, her skin soaked in sweat. She was home. In her own bed. But the horrid image of her husband lying dead across his desk still burned through her mind.

Josh dead in his den with the wrongful death papers, the wine and open verandah door. She knew without asking to see photos of the crime scene that she’d duplicated it in her subconscious. But how? Unless she’d been there? Unless she’d actually witnessed his death? But that was impossible. It had to be!

The phone blasted. She scrabbled for the receiver. “Hello?” she wh

ispered.

Nothing.

Her skin crawled.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Not a sound. Not even a dial tone.

Terrified, she slammed the receiver down. Dear God, what was happening? She wiped a trembling hand over her forehead.

What she’d experienced was just a bad dream. A really bad dream.

So who had called at three-fifteen in the morning?

Who had refused to answer?

A wrong number?

Forcing herself to calm down, she took several deep breaths. Oscar was lying at the foot of her bed, yawning and stretching. “Come here,” she said, patting the pillow next to her, and he slowly inched upward to curl against her. There was something calming in stroking his bristly fur, in listening to the whirring of the ceiling fan moving overhead.

The bedside phone rang again.

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