Page 3 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

Yesterday was Jamie’s birthday.

Eerily, as if a dozen children were singing off key, she heard,

“Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday dear Ja-mie—”

Caitlyn’s heart squeezed. Her daughter would have been five.

If she had lived.

She closed her eyes again as raw pain tore through her. Jamie. Precious, precious baby. Sna

tched away when she was barely three—a cherub-faced toddler. Oh, Lord, Caitlyn missed her child. So bad that at times she found it impossible to move forward, go on with her life. Now, on the bed, squeezing her eyes against the truth, she felt the familiar ache of the loss, so deep it scratched at her soul.

“It was your fault, Caitlyn. If you’d been half a mother, this never would have happened!”

Josh’s accusations tore through her brain bringing the guilt, the ever-present sense that she should have done more, that if she’d tried harder she would have somehow saved her child.

Don’t even think about it. Don’t listen to him, and for God’s sake don’t believe his poison! You know you did all you could to save her.

She let out her breath slowly, breathed deeply again, remembered what Dr. Wade had said about letting go of the negative energy, of finding herself, her new purpose. Slowly the grief subsided to a small, dark ache that lay just beneath her headache.

Man, it was a monster. She must’ve really tied one on.

Another sharp image sizzled through her brain.

Josh was in his den, but he wasn’t moving. No. He was slumped over his desk, his arms at his sides, his neck twisted so that he faced the door. Blood had oozed from his arms, staining the carpet. His mouth gaping open, his skin pale, his eyes unblinking as they stared at her.

She sat bolt upright. God, what kind of a dream was that? Her heart slammed against her chest. Pieces of the nightmare slid through her brain only to disappear.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!”

Slow down, Caitlyn. Breathe deep. It was only a dream. Don’t fall apart!

Desperately she gulped air. Remembered all the techniques she’d learned in therapy, forced herself to rein in her galloping emotions. “Never again,” she vowed. Whatever it was she’d drunk last night, she would never take as much as one sip again . . . but what was it? She blinked. Tried to remember. But nothing came except the brittle, jagged pieces of the nightmare.

“Jesus,” she whispered. Once again, she’d lost track of time, hours of her life missing. She didn’t even remember how she’d gotten home. An inkling that something was very, very wrong slithered through her consciousness. She couldn’t name it, but the sensation was strong enough to cause her skin to prickle.

You had a bad dream. That’s all. Get over it. She drew in another long breath. She was in her own bed. Home. Safe.

With a mother of a migraine. Her head throbbed. Her throat ached, and she smelled smoke in her hair from sitting too many hours in the bar. Oh, God, she’d really overdone it last night. She winced against the first rays of the new morning as dawn crept through the open window. A jasmine-scented breeze carried with it the sounds of fresh rainwater gurgling in the gutters. The French doors were slightly ajar, and the lacy curtains lifted and fluttered, shadowed in places, darkened and stained.

Why was the door open? Had she opened it last night before crawling into bed because of the heat? Images of the nightmare stabbed into her consciousness, mingling with blurred memories from the night before. She’d had a few drinks at a bar . . . somewhere on the waterfront. Or was that part of the disjointed dream, too? She remembered the noise of the band, and she could still smell the cloud of old cigarette smoke that had hung over the crowd. She’d drunk a little too much—well, a lot too much, but she’d managed to get home. Somehow. But that part was blank.

The headache no amount of Excedrin would be able to quell throbbed behind one eye and she felt groggy, disconnected, as she glanced at the clock. Red digital numbers flashed. Twelve o’clock. Midnight? Noon? No way. Birds were just beginning to warble. It had to be early. Five or six. A god-awful time to wake up. The power must’ve been interrupted. It was the dream that had awoken her, the ragged, disjointed scenes screaming through her brain.

Her mouth tasted bad. Dry as cotton. Her stomach felt empty, as if she’d lost its contents sometime during the night. Swiping a hand over her sweaty forehead, she brushed back a clump of damp curls and felt something crusty. Her fingers were dirty or . . . or . . . What the devil was that smell? For a second she thought she might have thrown up, but the odor was metallic rather than sour and . . . and . . . oh, God . . . She held her hand in front of her face and saw the stains that had run down her arm. Dark purple. Thick and crusty, having seeped from the slices on the wrists.

What?

Blinking hard, she pushed herself up in the bed, higher against the pillows. Panic swelled. She fumbled for the light switch. Click. In a blinding burst of light, she saw the blood.

Pooled on the sheets.

Scraped across the headboard.

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