Dark Corners READY FOR PRC (12 page)

Chapter Seven

The words took residence; I lost track of time and space. My days were divided by time spent writing and time spent not writing—and anything done during that latter time was irrelevant. I had found the zone again, and I wasn’t letting it go. Nothing could distract me, not flickering lights, not unexplained noises, not harassing phone calls. I fired away blindly, not bothering to take the time to read what I was writing. Exhilaration filled me. My skin tingled with life, my hands ached, and my mind was blessedly quiet as it listened to the words pour from my muse.

Gabriel continued with his periodic stops by my house to “check on things.”  Sometimes he brought dinner.  Other times he came by late, simply walking through and leaving. Tonight was one of the latter. And as he was walked through the house I realized I was getting used to having him around. There was something lonely I recognized in him. That loneliness bonded us together in ways I could not explain. He didn’t drain me of energy or patience. He could simply be there, a rare quality in a person. He was about to leave when I impulsively stopped him.

“Do you want a drink?” My offer surprised me more than it seemed to surprise him. He followed me back into the family room. I made a beeline to the bar, which was still better stocked than my kitchen, but I was getting there. I poured myself a drink and tried not to think about what I was doing.

“Name your poison?” I said over my shoulder

“Uh, scotch, neat”

The detective sat on my couch looking tired and worn, but completely comfortable in my house. And now that he’d stayed, I had no idea what to do.

“What are you doing here?” I blurted, unable to think of anything else to say.

“You invited me,” he said, wariness in his eyes.

“No, that’s not what I meant.” I handed him his drink and started pacing. Why on earth did I feel so awkward all of a sudden? “The case has been closed for what, six months? Why did you keep coming by the house?”

“The case isn’t closed.”  He frowned, then added, “But it hasn’t been under active investigation for closer to a year.”

“That long?  Really? God, it doesn’t seem possible.” I felt a little melancholy at the notion that time was leaving me behind.

“I’ve made a point to drive past your house on my way home from work every night since the murder—even the nights I didn’t stop.”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

We were silent for a few moments, both of us lost in our own thoughts.  When he spoke again, his voice was rough.  “If you didn't do it, someone else did. I’m not convinced you’re safe and I can’t let go of this one.  It’s always in the back of my mind.”

“And you’re not convinced I’m innocent.” I was almost afraid of his answer.  By trusting him, I let myself believe he believed in me. What would I do if I found out he didn’t?

He shook his head.  “I never really thought you were guilty.  I was doing my job. Following the leads.”

“And your investigation led you to me?”

“No, but the spouse is always a person of interest. Had the investigation led me to you, you would have been charged. Instead it led me to one wall after another. Nothing makes sense in this case.” He sounded honest.

“If it were to lead you to me now?”

“I would arrest you,” he said, without looking away.

I nodded. “Good.”

“But it won’t, will it?”

“No. I could have left ages ago, moved on with my life. I wish it were that simple.”

He watched me for a moment.  “I don’t.”

The room felt like it was a thousand degree.  My cheeks were on fire. I changed the subject. “You really think I’m in danger?”

He nodded.  “I wish I didn’t, but the killer is still on the loose and has to be feeling pretty confident at the moment. The perpetrator either had a key or was already in the house. He didn’t steal anything so it wasn’t about money. It could have been a random occurrence, but that’s unlikely given the level of planning and preparation that had to have gone into it. There have been no similar murders in the state, so we can rule out serial killers. It could have been about something else, something like you. You have a certain level of fame, but there were no other indications, so I’ve been waiting. . . . ”

“For what?”

“For signs that you’re not alone.”

“Have you found any?”

He simply shook his head.

“You know what I think happened?”

“I do,” he said, taking a drink of his scotch and looking doubtful.

“So you admit that nothing makes sense and every possibility is just as remote as the next, yet you’re unwilling to explore my theory.”

“I feel you may be too close to the situation.”

“The situation is my life. Look, I know how it sounds, but it makes sense and given everything that has happened and what continues to happen, there are no other explanations. You think my mind created a story to make sense of the situation, or perhaps my newly rampant alcoholism has something to do with it. But I swear that isn’t the case.”

“People aren’t killed by ghosts.”

“My husband was.”

“Well, I can’t arrest a ghost, can I?”

I rolled my eyes and jingled the ice in my glass. “Just admitting ghosts are possible would be enough for me. I know they aren’t supposed to be real, but …” I trailed off, seeing I wasn’t going to change his mind. There was no point in continuing this conversation. “I’m tired and maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” I waggled my glass to show him what I meant and stood up. “But I respect the fact that you are still looking for his killer, it means a lot to me.”

Gabriel got to his feet too. “I’ll be on my way then.”

I closed the door behind him feeling unsatisfied. I don’t know why, but I desperately wanted him on my side. Maybe I just needed someone to sympathize with me or maybe I saw a like mind and kindred soul in the weary, obsessed detective. I had another fitful night. The dream was always same.

Getting off a plane, completely drained from my latest signing tour, I collect my luggage in a sleepy trance. I solicit a cab that was waiting in front of the airport, which was unusually quiet.

Eerily so.

I laugh at myself for being ridiculous. Obviously it was quiet, I took a red eye. But lecturing myself didn’t stop my stomach from back flipping or goose bumps from appearing on my arms. Obviously I am overly tired. I never could sleep on planes.

The cab pulled up in front of the house. And as much as I hated the physical building, it is nice to be home. The idea that Danny was inside waiting for me filled me with happiness. I no longer feel so tired. I pay the cab driver way too much, because I don’t want to wait for change. I open the door, call for Danny.

I’m met with silence. The feeling from the airport floods back . . .  and there is a smell, a sweet coppery smell. It makes me feel sick to my stomach. I look upstairs first. There is nothing except an unmade bed. I come back down stairs and head towards the kitchen. The smell gets stronger, filling my nostrils, making me gag the closer I move towards it.

My walk slows.  I don’t want to see what is around the corner. I force myself to go around the corner, everything inside of me screaming not to. . . . I walk into the kitchen and what I see changes my life forever.

     Danny is pinned to the wall with every knife we own protruding out of him. Each is jabbed through his flesh up to the hilt. The floor is covered in an enormous pool of blood which still seems to be growing. The room spins, fades to black. . . .

I sat up, drenched in sweat and tangled in the sheets, tears filling my eyes. Why did that dream still hurt so damn much? The pain hadn't eased over the last year; it was still a knife, twisting away at my soul. My entire body ached for Danny, for just a moment of once more feeling the safety and security I had with him—

My fresh mourning was cut short. A shadow blocked out the light beneath my bedroom door as something moved passed. My insides went cold and my eyes dried. Mustering up all my courage, I climbed out of bed.

There was no noise from the hallway when I pressed my ear to the door. I opened it just a crack so I could see if anything was immediately on the other side. There appeared to be nothing. I opened the door far enough to stick my head out to look down both sides of the hallway.  Again, I saw nothing. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door all the way and tiptoed in the direction the shadow moved. There was only one room that direction, the master bedroom.  I had not been able to go into our bedroom since the morning I found Danny. The door was shut, just as it always was.  I put my shaking hand on the doorknob. There was definitely something on the other side. I listened more intently, but couldn’t tell what it was: perhaps some sort of scratching or sliding.

Fear locked my legs and choked out any sound I would make. I couldn’t move.  I could only listen to whatever was in the room. My heart thudded so loudly in my ears that I worried whatever was there would hear it. Whatever was on the other side moved closer; a whimper escaped me. Everything went very quiet. I could hear what sounded like someone breathing on the opposite side of the door. I knew I should open it and see it once and for all. The handle rattled beneath my hand unfreezing my body and mind.

I bolted back to my bedroom and grabbed the phone.  My better judgment was telling me to call someone, but the more pragmatic voice in my head kept asking who I was going to call. I could trust no one. Nothing, however, was stopping me from getting the hell out. I put on shoes, hesitated at my bedroom door for a brief second, then flung it open and ran for the stairs. I couldn’t tell you if it was fear or panic that drove me more, but I have never moved so fast in my life. I was at the front door, fumbling with the lock when a ringing sound halted my feet.

I stood at the door, frozen and listening. It took me a few seconds to realize it was the phone, not some supernatural force stopping me. I felt like I should answer it.  The fear momentarily lost its grip on me as something new took hold. Butterflies danced in my stomach.