The Night Before (2 page)

Pain thundered through her head. As if a thousand horses were stampeding through her brain. Her tongue was thick and a bad taste lingered in her mouth and there was something more . . . something bad, a sensation of oppression that seemed to pin her to her bed. Her heart was pounding wildly, her skin soaked in sweat, faint images of her dream . . . of Josh . . . of walking up the brick path to his house cut through her consciousness.

Her shoes crunched against dry leaves. The wind rattled through the branches of the oaks, billowing the Spanish moss. Somewhere nearby a dog barked and the smell of cigar smoke hung in the air.
You shouldn’t be here. Go, run!
Up the steps to the brick house that used to be her home. The door was cracked. A slice of light spilled onto the front porch. An invitation in a dark, sultry night.
Don’t do it. Don’t go inside!

Dear God, what did I do last night?
Caitlyn opened one bleary eye just a slit. She was so thirsty . . . and her entire body ached. Too much alcohol . . . Way too much. She was in her bedroom. The ceiling fan whirred overhead as dawn began to filter past the curtains. Images of the night before were hazy and out of sequence. She’d gone out to meet her sister . . . yes, that was it because . . . she needed to get out, to unwind.

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

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.
Snatched 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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

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.

Wiped on the curtains.

Smeared on the walls.

Every
where.

“No . . . oh, God, no!” Caitlyn bolted from the bed, her legs tangled in her nightgown and she fell face first on the apricot-colored carpet now stained red. “Jesus!” Dear God, what
was
this? She scuttled like a crab over the crusty carpet. It looked as if someone, or something, had been slaughtered in this fifteen by twelve-foot room.
And you slept through it!

Her heart froze as she saw a handprint on the door casing, another wiped on the panels. She had to fight the nausea that climbed up her throat. Scared out of her wits, she scrambled to the bathroom.

Her gaze landed on the mirror over the sink. Red stains smudged her face where her hands had swiped her skin, and her nostrils were caked with blood. Her hair was matted and wild. Had she just had a horrid nosebleed, like the ones she’d had as a child and somehow managed to sleep through? No . . . that wouldn’t explain the nicks on her wrists. Nor the blood smeared everywhere in the room.

She remembered the open door . . . Had someone done this to her? Fear knotted her stomach. Oh, God . . . but why?
Who?
She was beginning to hyperventilate but forced herself to calm down. The blood wasn’t all hers. It couldn’t be. She was alive. Anyone who had lost this much would certainly be dead. No one could have survived such a massacre.

She leaned against the sink and tried to think. She
did
feel woozy, lightheaded, her migraine eating away at her brain.

No, that didn’t make sense. If someone had tried to kill her, he would have finished the job. The blood in her hair, on the walls, in the shower had dried. Time had gone by. So he was either scared off or took off.

No . . . But she couldn’t remember, didn’t know.

“I don’t know,”she whispered.

She glanced at the shower; the frosted glass was cracked, a bloody handprint visible.

Steeling herself, she placed her hand on the glass. She half expected to find a dead body, eyes rolled to the ceiling, tongue lolling, red stains running into the drain. Nervously, she pushed the door open.

No one jumped out at her.

No half-dead body was sprawled over the shower floor.

Dried blood was splattered and ran down the tiles in ragged rivulets. She felt her stomach turn. What had happened here? What? Her whole body was shaking as she raised her hand and found that it was the same size as the print on the shower door.

“Mother of God,”she whispered.
Think, Caitlyn, think. Don’t panic.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again.

How had this happened? Where had she been? Whose blood was smeared everywhere? Her knees gave way. She caught herself on the edge of the sink and leaned forward to splash cold water over her face to keep herself from passing out.

Maybe you’re not alone. Maybe even now there’s someone with you, someone downstairs. Someone waiting.
She looked up quickly at her reflection. White skin, wild hair sticking up at odd angles, panic in her hazel eyes.
The door to the verandah was left open and you don’t remember doing it.
Her gaze moved and in the mirror she saw an image of the door ajar, the curtains billowing and stained. She thought she might be sick.

Had some killer come in and she, suffering one of her black-out headaches, not heard him invade her home? But—there was no body. Nothing but her own hacked wrists and bloody nose . . . no one would come here to slice up someone and take away the body . . . no. Her head was pounding, leaping with wild ideas.

If someone else had even stepped into the house, why hadn’t the alarm gone off?

The door to the verandah isn’t latched, you idiot. Obviously the alarm wasn’t set
.

She leaned a hip against the counter and closed her eyes. This made no sense. None. And it scared the hell out of her.

Maybe you invited someone in.
But who? And why? And if it was an intruder . . . why hadn’t Oscar barked so loudly the entire neighborhood had woken up?

Where was he?

Scared to death, she took another horrified look at the stains on the floor. Not the dog . . . not Oscar! Swallowing back her fear, she mopped her face with the sleeve of her stained nightgown and started for the staircase. She gave a low whistle.

Nothing.

Her throat tightened.

She didn’t keep a gun in the house, didn’t believe in it. Biting her lip, she grabbed a small dumbbell, one she used when working out while watching television, then inched into the hallway.

Ears straining over the frantic beat of her heart, she listened as she moved. The house was still. Quiet. As if all were safe.

Pull yourself together. Do it, Caitlyn. Don’t let fear paralyze you!
Her fingers tightened over her weapon as she peered into the hall bath. It was empty.

Nervous sweat slick on her body, she slowly eased open the door to one of the other bedrooms and her heart tugged as it always did as she looked into the space that had been her daughter’s. Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal, a droopy-eared bunny was propped against the pillows of a double bed covered with a quilt hand-stitched in soft pastels. Luminescent stars and clouds that she had painted for Jamie still covered the ceiling. But the room was empty and, she thought sadly, was starting to smell musty and stale, reminding her that her baby was gone.

“Happy birthday dear Ja-mie . . . ”
The discordant children’s voices blared in her head.

Her sweaty fingers tightened around the weight. Nervously she eased into her den with its drafting table and computer desk, just as she’d left it. Her desk, drafting table, computer all stood silent, the desk slightly cluttered. But no one was hiding in the corners or behind the closet doors. Turning, she spied a figure in the darkness. No! She gasped, before realizing it was her own reflection staring back at her from the full-length mirror she’d hung on the door.

She nearly collapsed.

Silently she edged down the stairs, the fingers of her left hand trailing along the banister, her right fist coiled tightly over the weight. But no dark figure wielding a knife or gun leaped out of the dining alcove at her as she stepped onto the second riser. No gunshot blasted through the house. No—

She heard a quick, loud scrape.

The sole of a leather boot on hardwood?

She froze.

Over the mad drumming of her heart, she heard the hum of the refrigerator, the ticking of the hall clock. She wanted to call out to the dog, but decided to wait. But she forced herself to inch forward, her gaze sweeping the rooms. The living room was just as she’d left it, still smelling of the roses she’d cut and placed in the vase on the coffee table. No trace of blood.