Page 90 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Me, too,” she admitted, then pulled herself together. It was now or never.

“Adam,” she said and her voice sounded unnatural, even to her own ears.

His eyes found hers again, his pupils darker with the shadows in the room.

“There’s something you should know. I don’t think I’m crazy—I mean, I pray that I’m not, but . . .” How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart racing. Slowly, she forced an unnatural calm to settle over her.

“What is it?” Any hint of a smile had left his lips. His expression was wary, his muscles tense. As if he knew what she was about to say.

Still, she plunged on. “Strange things have been happening. Not just to the family, but to me specifically.” Her chest was so tight she had to force the horrid words out.

“Aside from the bad dreams, I have flashes of memory or a sense of déjà vu about certain events, things tied to some of the ‘accidents’ that have occurred. I remember flashes, little glimmers that don’t make a whole lot of sense. Like touching my sister’s car, the one she nearly died in, or seeing my mother’s medication in her room.” She swallowed hard and felt the quivering inside, the feeling that she was about to step into a dark void, like opening the locked doorway to the forbidden cellar stairs and taking the chance that the door would slam behind her and she’d hear the turning of a key, that she’d be trapped forever in the terrifying void.

Closing her eyes, she plunged on. “The morning after Josh was killed, I woke up and . . . and there was blood all over my bedroom. I mean, all over.” She began to shake as she pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. “In the bed, on the curtains, pooled on the floor, in the bathroom . . . oh, God, it was all over. On the walls and carpet, smeared on the sink and tiles. The glass shower door was cracked . . . but I don’t remember pushing my arm through it. And there was blood on the curtains, oh, dear God . . .” Her voice had risen an octave, and she had trouble forcing the words out.

Opening her eyes, she saw that Adam’s face was a mask, but beneath his controlled expression, in the tightness at the corners of his mouth, she sensed his shock. No reason to stop now. Plunging on, Caitlyn said, “I had a nosebleed that night and I discovered . . . these.” She held out her arms, palms rotated to the ceiling, displaying the ugly scabs on her wrists. “I don’t remember making them. I don’t recall a nosebleed, and even if I had done this . . . mutilated myself, I don’t think I bled enough to make all that mess, and I’m afraid . . . oh, Jesus, I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”

Twenty-Two

“You think you killed him?” Adam asked, the skin on his face drawing tight.

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t remember. But the police are saying that my blood type was at the murder scene and then there was the blood all over my room. I kidded myself into thinking that it was all mine, but that would have been impossible.” She took in a long breath, not certain if she’d made the right decision to confide in him.

“What do you remember?” His voice was gentle, not filled with accusations, no hint of judgment in his tone.

She explained everything that she could, from waiting for Kelly at the bar to drinking too much and not remembering if she’d left and gone to Josh’s house, only to somehow wake up twisted in blood-stained sheets.

“. . . It’s been awful. Hideous. I was scared and I couldn’t stand looking at the mess, so I cleaned it up as best I could, washed the linens, walls, bedclothes, sinks, carpets, anywhere I saw the blood. I just had to get rid of it.” She plowed the fingers of both hands through her hair, fought a headache beginning to throb at the base of her skull. “I think I’m cracking up. I think I should go to the police, but I’m afraid to. Detective Reed already has me pegged as his number-one suspect.”

“Do you think you’re capable of murder?”

“No! Of course not.” She shook her head as she pulled the sleeves of the cotton sweater lower on her arms, covering the wounds. “But I don’t know what to think. I have glimmers, little fragments of thoughts, about the crime scene. In my mind’s eye I see Josh dead at his desk—and there’s more.” She related her feelings of déjà vu and her bits of dreams, little pieces of memory that connected her to the accidents and tragedies within her family. “And that’s not all. I feel that I’m being watched and I don’t know if the police have set up a surveillance of my house or if someone sinister is stalking me or if it’s just my own wild imagination.” She let out a weary breath. “I feel like I’m running, but I don’t know where I’ve been and I have no idea where I’m going. It’s disconcerting. Crazy-making.”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Stick around. You don’t know me that well.”

“Well enough to know you’re not crazy, so let’s not even go there.” He was serious as he laid down his pen. “Let’s take a break. This is pretty heavy stuff. Why don’t we go out for real coffee or dinner? My treat and the professional time clock will be turned off.”

She was wary. “I don’t know.”

“Come on,” he said, “I’m hungry. I promise we won’t talk shop.” Setting his notes on the desk, he stood. “There’s a great restaurant just around the corner. Guaranteed authentic local cuisine. We’ll walk.”

“But—”

“My treat. Come on.” He was already walking to the door, jangling his keys.

What could it hurt? So he was her counselor. That didn’t mean they couldn’t get to know each other, did it? Oh, Caitlyn, this is trouble. Big trouble.

But then, it wasn’t as if that was anything new.

Outside, he took her hand and led her through an alley and across a square to a house built two hundred years earlier. Up the front steps to a reception area, where a waitress led them upstairs to what had once been a bedroom and covered verandah outside the glass French doors. Potted plants decorated with tiny white lights separated the tables. From their vantage point, they could observe the square and look down the tree-lined streets. A warm breeze carried with it the smell of the river, the warm scent of baked bread and a trace of cigarette smoke.

“Can I get you something from the bar?” the waitress asked after she rattled off the specials.

“Caitlyn?” he asked and she thought about the last time she’d had a drink. The night that Josh had died. The night her memory was riddled with huge holes. “Iced tea with sugar,” she said.

---