Sleep No More (17 page)

Could it have been more than a dream? Could it have been scraps of memory from the accident? Had she swerved to miss a deer?

There was only one person she knew who might help her figure it out. But first she had to go and check on her dad. Courtney would no doubt have a fit because she hadn't made it there before the wedding. With the break-in and the police, there just hadn't been time. Abby
had
called him on her way to the church and he'd sounded his old chipper self.

She found him in the back yard, fertilizing the azaleas.

When he saw her he smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Abby, my girl, glad you're here. I'm starving."

She'd been bracing herself for the litany of accusations that Courtney had passed along yesterday. But it was as if nothing had changed since Abby left him yesterday afternoon.

Relieved and just a little confused, she went inside and made them a late lunch. Had Courtney made it all up? Was it her sister's anger and not her dad's that was the whole issue? Or had her father made those accusations and forgotten them?

While they were eating, she broached the subject of further testing.

"Jitterbug, I told you I'd do it."

Should she ask him about calling Court?

No. It would upset him either way. It'd either dredge up emotions he'd forgotten, or it'd make him angry with her sister.

He went on, "Whatever it takes to smooth away those worry wrinkles of yours." He ran a forefinger between her brows and then tapped the tip of her nose. "You'll never catch a husband if you look like a prune." He winked.

"I'm not looking for a husband and you know it. I live alone for a very good reason."

He sighed. "Abby, you can't let what happened ruin the rest of your life."

"It ruined Courtney's." Her sister lived like a hermit in a cement block house filled with smoke detectors. Abby would not take the chance of sleeping under the same roof as another person. One burn victim on her conscience was enough for a lifetime. God, when she thought of the horrors her sister had been through, those months in the hospital...

"Your sister is making her own choices."

"Choices she wouldn't have had to make if
I
hadn't set that fire." Those were words she never uttered. Never. Hearing them come from her lips was like the sting of whip strikes on her soul.

"You aren't responsible. It was the same as a lightning strike, no one could have predicted or prevented it. It just happened." Her dad reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. His capacity for forgiveness constantly amazed her. She'd nearly killed her sister, had put their entire family at risk, and had destroyed the family home.

He added in a soft voice, "That's in the past, Jitterbug. Let it go. You haven't been sleepwalking for years--"

She stood abruptly; her chair scooted noisily across the tile. "I have to get going. Do you mind if I keep the Explorer a few more days?"

"Of course not."

"Do you need anything from the store?"

"Can't think of anything."

She put her plate in the dishwasher, and then leaned down to kiss his cheek. "Just give me a call if you do."

He grabbed her hand before she walked away. "You be careful out there, Betsy."

She stopped cold. "I'm Abby, Dad."

He blinked. "Of course you are. Why are you telling me?"

She gave him a fierce hug and left.

As she got in the car, she assured herself that her father had been perfectly normal all through her visit--until he'd called her Betsy. It probably wasn't a big deal. Mom used to call Courtney and Abby by the other's name all of the time. Occasionally she had even called Abby Scooter, the dog's name.

It was a natural slip of the tongue. That was what she kept repeating all the way to her car.

On the way to Jason Coble's house, the radio gave a news update that struck her like a fist in the gut.

"... police are now looking for the driver of a third vehicle in the investigation of the early Thursday morning accident that took the life of nineteen-year-old Kyle Robard, son of Senator Ken Robard. Police stress that at this point they are only looking to question that driver.

Services for Kyle Robard are scheduled for Wednesday at Randall and Roberts Funeral Home in Preston, the senator's hometown."

Abby switched off the radio as she pulled to the curb in front of Jason's house. For a long moment she sat there, staring at the tree-lined street but seeing the wreckage of a motorcycle illuminated by a flashlight beam.

She dry swallowed two extra-strength Tylenol in the useless fight against a fatigue headache. Her eyeballs felt as if they were swollen to twice their normal size and covered in flannel. Twice today her heart had started beating so fast that it felt like a hummingbird in her chest.

Would she be able to sleep when she got home? Or would images of twisted motorcycles and visions of burn scars appear every time she closed her eyes? Would memories of dreams join with her newfound fear of intruders to keep her awake?

Abby buried her face in her hands and rubbed her eyes.

When she lifted her face and reached for the door handle, she saw in the side mirror the tail end of a gray Impala cross the intersection behind her.

She spun to look, the quick movement making her a little queasy.

The car had passed from view.

God, you
are
getting paranoid. There have to be dozens of gray Impalas in Preston.

Someone broke into your house. Nothing imaginary about that.

Enough! She smacked the steering wheel with both hands. This was getting her nowhere.

She got out of the car and immediately the world began to swim before her eyes. She took two staggering steps and bent at the waist, laying her head on the Explorer's warm hood.

The last thing that registered before the world went black were hands grabbing her shoulders.

A
bby could hear before she could see. A man was saying her name.

"Breathe deeply, Abby." She obeyed. "There you go," he said. "And again. Now open your eyes." He was patting her hand--not gently. She was sitting, leaning back against something warm and uneven.

The Explorer tire, she thought. She was sitting on the street.

The face before her was a blur. But the voice had already registered. Jason.

Her eyes began to focus. He was hovering close. His hazel eyes were concerned, but his lips curved in a slight smile. "Hey there." He stopped slapping her hand, but continued to hold it.

Abby heard a car roll slowly by and a man's voice call, "Y'all need help?"

Jason called back, "Thanks, we're okay."

The man called more loudly, "Miss? You all right?"

"Oh, boy," she mumbled. Could this get any more humiliating? "Fine, thank you, sir."

It was a moment before the car moved on.

Just over Jason's right shoulder a smaller face appeared, haloed in blond curls.

Oh yeah, it could get more humiliating.

Beneath a pink visor, Brenna's hazel eyes were replicas of her father's. "Is she okay, Daddy? She looks really white."

"I'm okay," Abby said and started to gather herself to stand.

"Whoa, there. Just sit for a minute," Jason said.

"I'm in the street."

"Not a busy one. Bryce is right there making sure all the cars know you're down here."

Abby rolled her eyes. "Fabulous."
Wouldn't want anyone to miss me lying on the street in front of the shrink's house.

Jason laughed and the sound of it began to bring warmth back to her body.

"Okay, now, Bryce, you get on Abby's other side." Jason moved to one side and got a good hold on her upper arm, as if she was going to need serious hoisting to get off the pavement.

She cast him a discouraging look. "I can get up on my own."

"Well, you certainly got down there on your own," Jason said. "Why not let us just make sure you don't have a repeat performance?"

Another car rolled slowly past with a woman looking wide-eyed and curious out the passenger window.

She sighed. "Just get me off this street."

Bryce moved to her side. His grip was much more tentative than Jason's, and he stepped quickly away once she was vertical. From the corner of her eye, Abby saw him wipe his palms on the legs of his jeans.

Jason held tight, and hooked one arm around her waist so she had no choice but to lean against him.

"Head rush?" he asked quietly, his breath close enough to tickle her ear. That hint of intimacy sent a shiver over her body that he must have felt--and misinterpreted--because he tightened his grip.

"No food. No sleep. Bump on the head. I'm okay now."

"Uh-huh." Jason turned and said, "Bryce, can you pull my car in the drive?"

She now saw that Jason's Altima was pulled crookedly to the curb behind the Explorer, as if he'd swung to the side of the street in haste.

She thought of those hands on her shoulders as her world had started to fade. If he hadn't grabbed her, she'd probably have split her head open on the pavement.

"You've certainly got good timing," she said, looking up at him. His face was as close as a lover's; the late afternoon sun showed the slight stubble of his beard coming in much lighter than his brown hair.

"Nobody's ever accused me of that before." He leaned to her ear and whispered, his hand squeezing her waist slightly, "I'm damn glad I had it this time." He started moving them toward the sidewalk. "Bren, would you carry Abby's purse?"

Abby straightened. "I don't want to intrude." She hadn't even thought about the possibility of him having his children. She hadn't been thinking about anything except discovering if her dream would reveal the truth about the accident. "I should have called first. We can talk later."

Bryce said, "Um, I really need to get home. I have plans."

Jason shot Bryce that same glare she'd seen in the hospital lobby.

The boy turned wordlessly and walked to the driver's door of Jason's car.

"Really, Jason," Abby said, trying to put a little space between them. "I'm fine now. I just got a little dizzy."

"We're going inside." Jason's voice took on a take-no-prisoners alpha-male tone, a tone Abby normally wouldn't tolerate. But the way Jason used it, it made her feel safe, looked after.

Bryce slammed the door on Jason's car--hard. Abby felt the slightest tightening of Jason's muscles in response.

Once they were inside the house and Abby and her purse were seated on the loveseat in the living room, Jason went to get them something to drink. He disappeared through an old-fashioned swinging door between the dining room--which was across the entry hall from the living room--and the kitchen.

Brenna sat on the sofa with her arms crossed over her chest, looking at Abby with curious eyes. "Are you a friend of my Daddy's?"

Abby thought of the evening at Jeter's, and the possibilities that had hung in the air between them--before her life went completely out of orbit. "Yes, I guess I am."

"You guess?" She wrinkled her brow.

"Yes. We're friends, your dad and I."

"Oh," she sounded disappointed. "I thought maybe you were here because you're sick. Daddy's a doctor, you know."

The sound of the back door slamming was followed by harsh whispers coming from the kitchen. Glasses clinked, masking the words.

"Yes," Abby said. "A very good doctor."

Jason came into the room with a tray. On it were two glasses of iced tea, a juice box, a can of Coke, and a sugar bowl. He held it in front of Abby. "Take your pick."

Brenna's gaze was on the juice box. She looked a little nervous, but she didn't say a word.

Abby lifted a glass of iced tea from the tray. "Thank you."

"As un-Southern as it may be, it's unsweet," Jason said, nodding at the sugar bowl.

"I'll keep your secret. You might be run out of town." She knew he'd been living in Savannah before moving to Preston, but before that? "You're not a Yankee, are you?"

"Half, but only by blood," he said. "My father was from Michigan."

"Grandpa died before I was born," Brenna said.

Abby looked at the little girl, who immediately looked away. "I'm sorry to hear that," Abby said. "One of my grandpas died before I was born, too."

Brenna kept her eyes averted and started fidgeting with one of the toss pillows on the sofa.

When Jason offered the beverages to Brenna, she looked adoringly at him and took the juice box. Abby remembered being that age and thinking that her father could fix anything, like he was super-dad.

"Peanut, would you mind taking this Coke back into the kitchen? Have Bryce get you some graham crackers to go with your juice."

Brenna shot a mistrustful glance toward Abby. "It's almost time for us to be home. Mother doesn't like us to be late."