by J. R. Ward
She went into her parents' room first, seeping through the closed door on the left in a way that creeped her out.
The first thing that registered was her father's snoring. Rhythmic. Low. Like an engine revving.
And then she saw her mother's hair, messy on the pillow, highlighted by the illumination from the security lights outside.
"Mom ...?" she heard come out of her mouth.
Her mother stirred in her sleep, head rotating back and forth, matting things further.
Sissy had to cover her mouth and look away.
On the nightstand, in front of the alarm clock that her mom set every night and turned off every morning, there was a book, a Bible ... and a picture frame facedown.
Sissy went over and, without thinking of all the reasons she might not be able to move the thing ... picked it up. The face that stared back at her was her own, and she remembered just where and when the picture had been taken--at a field hockey game while she'd been on the bench, thanks to a sprained ankle. She was staring at the action, her brows down, her profile sharp, one hand up by her chin.
It was hard to imagine now getting that jazzed over some dumb-ass high school game. In fact, she couldn't access those feelings at all, failing utterly in the attempt to step back into that old, familiar laser focus about a ball being paddled around by a bunch of chicks with sticks. Such a silly pastime, running around on the grass for no good reason, squads of teenage girls getting hyped over their score, their plays, their team's progress in their division and the rival they'd just had to beat...
All those sleepless nights before big games, the rampant joy after a win, the stinging, lingering burn of a loss.
Such bullshit, she thought as she put the frame back as it had been. Such manufactured drama to exercise the emotions of people whose lives were steady and secure enough to require artificial tension and stress and "big deal" moments.
Starting in the center of her chest, anger curled up inside of her, ushering out the sense of loss and replacing it with ... something that was foreign to her, but oh, so very vivid.
In the flush of that new sensation, Sissy stood over her parents for the longest time, hands on hips, head down, eyes tracing the pattern of flowers on the bedspread.
She knew why the image of her was facedown. It wasn't because she had been forgotten. Just the opposite, in fact.
"God ... damn this whole thing," she whispered.
Eventually, she knew she should go, and gave her mother and father a last look. They were aware that she was here, she thought. Just in the same way Chillie had stopped short when she'd screamed, her mother was getting more and more agitated in her sleep, and her father had stopped snoring, his brows cranking down hard over his closed eyes, his head, too, tossing back and forth.
No reason to torture them by sticking around. Besides, she wasn't sure it was healthy for her, either. She was just getting more and more pissed off.
Leaving the room the way she'd come in, she found that her savior had come up the stairs and was waiting just outside the door. Too jazzed up, she stepped past him without a word and went across the way to her own room.
Her door was shut as well.
On the far side of it, Sissy stood stock-still, hands on her hips, anger surging even further. Just as in her parents' room, light penetrated the thin draping over the windows, bringing out of the darkness her twin bed, her desk, her bookcases, the posters on her walls, a bluish hue tingeing everything, thanks to the color scheme.
How strange, she thought.
Instead of feeling some huge overload of emotion, some visceral connection to herself ... all she did was remember her senior class trip to Italy. She'd gone on it because her friends were going and her parents had told her this was one of the most important opportunities of her life ... yada, yada, yada. When she'd gotten there, she'd liked the architecture, sure, and the food had been nice, yes, but the museums? God, the museums. Endless corridors and high-ceilinged rooms filled with statues and paintings and artifacts, the lot of it all populated with people so reverent, it was like they were in church.
Those tour guides and the docents and the chaperones from school had spoken names like da Vinci and Rembrandt and Van-something-or-another like they were quoting the prophets.
Sissy had made an effort to get into it all, but hadn't been able to go much further than noting that, yup, it was a painting. Or, yup, that was another marble sculpture that was missing an arm.
Her prevailing sense had been that none of it related to her life--and the same thing was happening now. The big difference, of course, was that these were her things, not relics of a vast past lived by strangers.
Had been her things, she corrected.
She went over and opened her closet door.
The waft of flowery perfume and body lotion made her recoil as if it were a bad smell. And as the overhead light came on automatically, the shirts and dresses and pants that hung in an orderly row off the dowel were like items in a retail store, not anything that she'd ever worn.
She couldn't take any of these, she thought as she rifled through her old wardrobe--and in retrospect, it had been ridiculous to think she could. If she raided this closet, someone would notice what was missing--and that was a theft, wasn't it.
No, these were not her things. Not anymore.
Pivoting away, she thought, no, not her bed, her desk, her room, her clothes.
Still her family ... but she didn't belong with them, either.
She left without a second glance, and out in the hall, she met the eyes of the silent man who was clearly guarding her. "I want to say good-bye to my sister."
As he nodded, she thought, wow ... was this really good-bye?
Was she never returning here again?
Sure felt like it.
Going to the door that was cracked open, she pushed the wood panels with her hand. Her sister's room was on the back side of the house, and as such, there wasn't as much light. So dark inside. Too dark.
Choking back a feeling of panic, Sissy crossed the soft carpet and stopped at the base of the bed.
Shit, she thought. All this stuff with her death? What was it going to leave her sister--
"Sissy?"
Sissy jumped in her own skin, hands flying up to her mouth.
"Sissy? Is that you?"
Her sister rolled over, the slice of light from the hall falling on her face. Her eyes were closed, but like their father, those brows were down tight--and agitation was sending her legs back and forth, as if she were running under the covers.
"Answer her," that deep male voice said behind her.
"Sissy?"
Sissy opened her mouth. Croaked. Cleared her throat. "Yes, it's me."
Instantly, her sister settled down, the tension releasing, a breath exhaling as if she'd let go of a great weight.
"I knew you'd come back," her sister mumbled as she turned to the door and rubbed her face with a floppy hand. "I knew it."
Sissy wiped her eyes as tears came. "I'm ... here. But I can't stay."
More with the frowning. "Why not?"
"I just can't. But I wanted you to know ... I'm okay."
"Don't sound okay."
"I am." She looked at her shaking hands, and told them to be still. "I am going to be fine. Tell Mom and Dad that, all right? I want you to tell them that I came to you, and we talked, and I want you to remember this. Promise me, Dell. You remember this."
Her sister's tone went into little-girl territory. "Don't go."
"I don't belong here anymore, I'm so sorry."
"Sissy--please, no--"
Without thinking, she placed her hand on her sister's foot. "Shhhh ... rest now. Shh..."
Instantly, her sister eased.
"Dell, you will remember this. You will hear this in your mind when you are worried about me, you will tell this to Mom and Dad when you see that look in their eyes. Promise me? I am ... okay."
"Only if you come back."
Always a negotiator, her sister was. "Dell--"
"Only if I see you again."
"Fine. I promise."
"When?"
"I don't know."
"At your funeral?"
At her ... oh, God. "No, not then. But I promise. Go back to sleep. And remember that I will always love you, Dell."
Sissy all but stumbled out of her sister's room. And in the hall she was caught once again by the man who had brought her here and had witnessed the temporary return to a life she didn't--couldn't--be a part of any longer.
As he led her down the stairs and out through--literally--the front door, Sissy held herself, her arms straining around her own rib cage. So hard to come here, so hard to leave. The emotions were too big to name, too heavy to bear.
Out at the street, the truck's door magically opened for her--oh, wait, it was her savior doing the duty.
Getting up into the seat, she focused on the house as the door was shut. The people under its roof were not like her clothes or her bed or her books. They were still a part of her, even though the tether felt so weak and strained.
"Put your seat belt on."
Sissy jumped. "Oh, right."
"You want to eat something?"
Food ... food? Was she hungry?
"McDonald's," he announced as he started the truck's engine and hit the gas.
Sissy just kept an eye on that house until it wasn't possible to see it anymore. Then she wrenched herself back around and stared through the front windshield.
The loudest thing inside the vehicle, apart from the muffled growl of the engine, was the tick-tock of the directional signal as he took lefts and rights to get them out of the neighborhood.
She supposed she should thank him.
Turning to him, she could only stare.
"Why are you looking at me like that," he asked abruptly.
"I don't know."
Funny, that halo that glowed around his head wasn't something she'd noticed before--but it made sense that as an angel he'd have one.
Guess all the depictions in church had been accurate.
"I just ... can't believe this," she mumbled.
Covering her face with her hands, all she could do was shake her head back and forth.
"Look, I know where you're at," he said roughly. "I've been there. The only thing I can tell you, and it's not going to help ... is that just because you can't believe it, doesn't mean the shit's not real." There was a long pause. "Unfortunately."
Chapter
Sixteen
"Blah-blah, blah, blah!"
As Cait stopped screaming, she had to struggle to make her hearing work over the din of the alarm--and her adrenaline gland. Too much input in too tiny a space with too little air to breathe.
And maybe that was her brain along with the elevator.
"Police!" came a holler on the other side of the closed doors.
"Ms. Douglass? What's happening?"
Oh, right, and the 911 call was still live in her ear.
"Ah--the police say that they're here--but I'm not opening these doors until I know for sure."
"Hold one moment." Like this was a catalog call and they were verifying her credit card. "Ms. Douglass? The officer's name should be Hoffman. Peter Hoffman. Ask the individual who they are."
"What's your name!" she yelled over the alarm.
"Hoffman! Pete Hoffman--badge number ten forty-one!"
She addressed the phone. "Ten forty-one? The badge?"
"That checks out, ma'am. Open the doors."
"I'm staying on with you if I do."
"I'm right here."
Cait watched as her hand went forward and her fingers tripped the red switch downward. Instantly the alarm was extinguished, but the ringing continued, her ears struggling with the sudden silence.
She did hear another ding, however, like the elevator was clearing its throat and preparing for a redo. Then the doors slid to the left, stacking in on top of each other.
The navy blue uniform and the shiny badge on the other side? Best. Thing. Ever.
She nearly launched herself at the guy. Wait--actually she did. "Oh, thank God."
"Ma'am?" The cop grabbed her arm and hoisted her up. "Let's sit down."
Yes, let's, shall we?
The shaking was pretty unparalleled, as if her insides had come to a rolling boil. And nothing much registered, not whatever Peter Hoffman, badge 1041, was saying to her, not the cold, hard concrete her butt was on, not the words she was apparently speaking in response to questions. The largest part of her was still in that elevator, lunging for the alarm, praying that the locking mechanism of the doors held, wondering how the evening had mutated into nightmare.
"... didn't see them clearly," she heard herself say. "Someone was rushing toward me. They were coming from the ramp, walking quickly--then breaking into a run."
"And then what happened?"
"I raced into the elevator and hit the button." Every time she blinked, she saw her fingers in the strobe lighting, punching, punching, punching. "I just ... and then I called nine-one-one. Oh ... God ... I can't stop this shaking."
"You're in shock, ma'am."
Guess so. The thing was, talking about it to law enforcement made everything concrete, any vague fantasy that this was just a bad dream concocted while she was asleep in her own bed dissipating into the cold air.
The good news was that the officer was calm and even-toned, and that--along with the gun holstered on his hip--made her feel a lot safer. "Backup has just arrived and they're going to search the perimeter and the floors. But whoever it was? They're probably gone. I hate to say this, but a woman alone in this part of town? We get a lot of these calls--and unfortunately, the aggressors are very good at disappearing."
She was inclined to agree with the get-gone theory. Seemed only logical. Trouble was, the lack of closure was a black hole for her--and now that the primary wave of anxiety had passed and she couldn't see her attacker, she was stuck wondering whether she had overreacted.
Or had she just saved her own life?
Pickpocket or violent mugger?
Rapist or just someone trying to tell her she had toilet paper stuck to her shoe?
No, she decided. As she remembered the wave of menace, she knew the answer--and had to wonder yet again how God made the choice between who survived and who didn't. Who was granted a lickety-split save ... and who ended up in a living hell.
Strangely, the prospect of that decision making made her feel bad for whoever was up there in the clouds watching all the drama on Earth. If you went on the theory that God was a beneficent creator of all things? You had to assume He felt the pain of victims as they didn't so much cross into the afterlife, but were thrown over in pieces.
Horrible...
As two other officers appeared and reported that there was nobody in the parking facility, things took a turn for the paperwork, the whole event downshifting sharply into procedural territory--confirming her statement, receiving a case number, a business card, an escort back to her car.
Normal. So amazingly normal that she was nearly as rattled as she had been while in full panic mode.
After she had belted herself in and started her SUV, the police officers, all three of them, watched her back out of her space--and their expressions were like those of parents watching a sixteen-year-old go off alone for the first time.
Fragile optimism backed up by a whole lot of hope-she-calls-if-she-needs-us.
Cait barely remembered the drive home, but the one clear part was checking and rechecking that she'd locked the Lexus's doors. Then, when she parked in her garage, she waited for the panels to come back down before she got out--and she threw the dead bolt as soon as she was in the house.
Shower was the first and only goal--after she initiated her ADT alarm. And when she got into her bathroom? She turned the lock on her loo as well.
Wonder how long that habit was going to last.
Cranking the shower on, she und
ressed, and for the first time in recorded history, left her clothes where they lay: shirt in the sink, loafers and socks kicked off around the base of the toilet, pants sloughed onto the bath mat in front of the tub. Usually she stripped in her closet by her three wicker laundry baskets, one each for whites, darks, and delicates/colors--the last a twofer because she had few colors. Oh, and her dry-cleaning bag was in there, too.
Amazing how fearing for your life could prioritize things.
As she got under the spray, she wrapped her arms around herself and hung her head. The water was a balm inside and out, as solid and warm as a blanket over her shoulders and back, as calming as an ocean breeze as the steam rose up and went down deep into her lungs.
It wasn't until she had dried off, gotten into her robe, and gone downstairs to make herself some tea that she realized...
"Shit."
Going over to the counter by the stove, she did another dive into her mangled purse. Pulling out her phone, she called up G.B.'s number out of her Received List and hit send. As it rang, she ran through her apology in her head.
I'm so sorry, but I was nearly ... mugged?
Not really accurate.
I'm so sorry. I ... was chased in the parking garage, and ended up trapping myself in an elevator and calling 911 and having a chat-up with the police--such nice guys, by the way ....
Flustered, she ended the call before he picked up.
Pacing around in her bare feet--which, P.S., kind of grossed her out even though she'd cleaned the floor on her hands and knees the day before--she tried to pull things together.
Cursing again, and thinking that it was a rare night for her to have dropped so many R-rated words at all, much less in the matter of an hour, she tried to get her brain working.
What a no-go that was. It was like she had a hangover, everything clogging up, moving slow, making little sense.
But that was no excuse to leave G.B. hanging. How long had he waited for her in that lobby?
Feeling awful about so much, she brought up her phone, and--
She had a voice mail. From G.B.
It had just come in, but she'd put her phone on mute because she'd assumed she'd be in the theater all night long.
Bracing herself to feel even worse than she did, she initiated the recording, putting the phone up to her ear.
His voice sounded so rich and deep. "Cait? Oh, my God, I'm so sorry--I hope you didn't wait very long for me? I got tied up backstage, and I couldn't get free forever--they were doing publicity shots, and interviews, and I tried to send someone out there for you, but everyone who was affiliated with the show was running around like crazy. Please ... give me another chance? I blew it. I know I did." As he exhaled in frustration, she pictured him dragging his hands through that long hair of his. "I'm really, totally sorry. I'm going to finish up with the other folks now, and then ... I guess I'll go home. Call me if you feel like it, okay? Again, I'm so sorry."
