by Erin Lanter
Tessa’s shoulders drooped. “But why would somebody shoot her in my house?”
“Exactly my point, Ms. James. It only makes sense if you were the shooter.”
63
Machines buzzed and beeped in Camille’s hospital room, sounding a hundred miles away as she drifted in and out of sleep. She was on a rotation of pain killers, staggered, so she was always medicated. She felt better, but now she was constantly tired and could only stay awake a few minutes at a time.
It never occurred to her that the hospital staff had agreed to so much medication so she’d sleep most of the day.
The dreams were bad, too. She was somewhere she knew she wasn’t supposed to be, a shadowy figure chasing her through the darkness. The last dream was about a distorted winged creature, half man, half bird. One dream, though, wasn’t like the rest. Instead of being in the dark, she was surrounded by a golden light. A man walked toward her. Even though she couldn’t see his face, she felt at peace there with him.
Her latest dose of medication had been about ten minutes ago, and Camille was being gently lulled to sleep by the rhythmic beeping of her heart monitor. She felt warm and happy, sure that the golden light of her happiest dreams was just moments away.
“Camille,” a gentle voice said.
She smiled. The was the first time he’d spoken in her dream.
“Camille.” The voice was closer this time, but still muffled.
“Camille,” it said, sharper this time.
She turned her head toward the door. There, she saw a tall man surrounded by a golden glow. “This is such a nice dream,” she said sleepily, allowing her eyes to droop shut.
“Camille, wake up,” the voice demanded.
She forced her eyes open and blinked several times. Finally, as a faint smile touched her lips, she managed to whisper, “Drew.”
He had come. She’d known he would and now he was here. She knew he still cared for her, and his presence at such an awful time proved it. Her smile broadened. “I knew you’d come.”
“Camille, what happened?”
“I got shot,” she slurred, trying to shake off the drowsiness.
“The police came to my house and arrested Tessa. They said you were shot at her house. What on earth were you doing there?”
Camille felt as if she’d been slapped. The voice wasn’t tender anymore. It sounded angry.
Using all the energy she had, she said, “She asked me to come.”
Drew took a step closer and shook his head vehemently. “Tessa swears she didn’t, and they arrested her for attempted murder.” He began pacing around the small room, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck.
“She tried to kill me? I should have known. I knew she was crazy,” Camille remarked with a snort. She turned her head away from Drew. He wasn’t there out of concern for her. His only concern was for Tessa.
“Tessa wasn’t even there. She was at my house, where she’s been for days. At least she was until the police took her away,” he growled.
“Maybe she sneaked out. Ever think of that?” Camille snapped. “All I know is that I got a text from her asking me to come over.”
“How did she get your number?” Drew countered.
Camille shrugged her shoulders into the pillow. “Beats me. Maybe she got it from your phone when you weren’t looking. Or maybe you gave it to her. Either way, you shouldn’t be here yelling at me. I didn’t do anything wrong. You should be yelling at her for doing this to me.”
Drew stopped pacing and dropped into the chair at Camille’s bedside. Even to her groggy eyes, he looked exhausted.
She stretched a weak hand toward him, waiting for him to return the gesture. Instead, he just looked at her blankly. There was no affection in his eyes, only fatigue and suspicion.
“Don’t be mad at me,” Camille whined. “I’m the victim here.”
Taking a slow, deep breath, he said, “Unless you know she didn’t do it and got her arrested for it anyway. In that case, she’s a victim, too.”
“How could you even believe that?” Camille protested. “When have I ever intentionally hurt someone else?”
“Never, since I’ve known you,” Drew admitted, leaning back in the chair. “But there’s always a first time,” he added.
“I’m appalled,” Camille said, placing her hand on her chest for emphasis. “Absolutely appalled that you would even think such a thing about me.” A tear squeezed from the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. “She shot me, and I’m the one you’re mad at? That’s not fair.”
Drew sat there a long minute, obviously considering what she’d said.
It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation, she thought. She fought to keep the dejected expression on her face.
“That sounds possible,” Drew said thoughtfully. “But you’re forgetting one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I know Tessa. I know she’d never do something like this. And I guess, since she’s being held in jail, it’s up to me to prove she didn’t do it.” He stood and walked quickly out of the room.
Moments later, a nurse came in. “Are you alright, Ms. Walker?” she asked, worry etched on her face.
“I’m fine,” Camille grumbled. “Why?”
“We have a monitor at the nurse’s station that tells us if your blood pressure or heart rate gets too low. Since you lost so much blood, we’ve been keeping a close eye on you. This was quite a rapid change,” the nurse said, pointing to the monitor.
Camille glanced at the screen. No, that certainly wasn’t low.
“I just had a bad dream, that’s all,” Camille said, willing herself to believe that her conversation with Drew had been just that. “I’m okay now.”
Camille took a deep breath to relax as the nurse left the room. As she drifted off to sleep, the golden light surrounding the faceless man turned red. The feeling of peace was gone, replaced by the feeling of unshakable fear.
64
Isaac Dunn was hot on Al’s heels as he moved swiftly down the corridor back to the squad room. Isaac broke into a jog as Al turned right and headed straight for his desk.
Something was seriously wrong with his partner. In the two years he’d worked with Al, he’d never seen him as tense as he’d been since meeting Tessa James. Even when a suspect attacked him, he didn’t get this rattled. He usually let even serious offenses roll off his back without so much as a twitch of his eye.
There had to be something else going on. It went deeper than his suspicion that Tessa might have made up a crime to report and then committed her own. From what Isaac could tell, nothing Tessa had said or done during the course of this investigation warranted such suspicion. Before, Isaac had chalked Al’s attitude up to lingering guilt about the Kimberly Hamilton murder. That wasn’t the case anymore.
He slowed his pace as he approached Al’s desk. His eyes wandered to Al’s hands. They were balled into fists and the veins were bulging in his wrists. The young detective’s eyes darted around the large room that was filled with the sounds of ringing telephones, clicking keyboards, and the voices of coworkers. It all combined into a cacophony he feared would send his partner over the edge.
“Why don’t we go somewhere a little quieter to talk?” Isaac suggested in a soothing voice.
“I don’t want to talk,” Al growled.
“I understand that, but I think it would be good for you to get some things off your chest,” he urged.
Without a word, Al stood up from this chair and walked out of the squad room. “You coming?”
Taking long strides to keep up with his partner, Isaac fell into step beside him. They entered an empty interrogation room. Al paced around the room several times before taking a seat on the side of the table usually reserved for the suspect.
Isaac sat down across from him, careful to keep his body language casual. He crossed his right ankle over his left knee, leaned back in the chair, and rested an arm on the table between them. He said nothing, hoping
Al would fill the silence. Instead, Al sat stoically, directing an icy stare in Isaac’s direction.
“You feeling okay today, Al?”
“Yep. Never better,” he snipped.
“Things okay with Darlene?”
“Peachy.”
I’ve got to get him to stop stonewalling me, Isaac thought. Time to come at him from a different angle. He gathered his thoughts and said, “You know, sometimes when I’m working a case, it strikes a nerve and becomes personal. Sometimes the victim, a suspect, or even a witness reminds me of someone I know. Sometimes I like the person I’m reminded of, sometimes I don’t. In those cases, it’s really hard to be objective. Ever feel like that?” Isaac paused, waiting expectantly.
Al leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his barrel chest. It wasn’t the reaction Isaac had hoped for. He’d have to prod. “Does that sound like something that might be going on with you?”
Al snorted. “Don’t waste your psychological tactics on me. I took that class, too. You thought if you shared something about yourself, I’d suddenly feel like spilling the beans about why I haven’t been myself lately.”
Isaac narrowed his eyes.
Al’s body visibly relaxed a little. “Yes, I’m fully aware I’m on the verge of acting like a jerk.”
Isaac smirked. “I’m afraid we’re way past ‘verge,’ buddy.” His tone became more serious. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Just keep alert,” Al suggested. “The reality is, you never know who you’re dealing with or what that person is capable of.” With that, Al rose from his chair, walked past his partner, opened the door, and pulled it shut behind him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isaac muttered.
As he sat alone in the interrogation room trying to make sense of what was going on inside his partner’s head, a scenario formed in his mind. If he was right, Al would never be able to be objective about this case.
Or any one like it.
65
The fire crackled as Harold Raymond stared into the flames dancing before him. Even though it was the middle of summer, he’d found that as he got older it was harder to stay warm. Sometimes, after a particularly stressful day at work, he’d light a fire and stare at it for hours, contemplating how a single choice could impact the way a person’s whole life would turn out.
He’d considered that in his own life, and on the nights he couldn’t leave the concern for his clients at the office, he’d considered it for their lives, too. It had been a long time since a client haunted him the way Tessa James did. It was those eyes. He was sure he’d seen them before. And something about her screamed danger. Not that he believed in any of that psychic mumbo-jumbo, but he’d sensed a darkness around her from the first time she walked into his office.
Here was a woman who’d done the best she could given what must have been a terrifying and lonely upbringing. She was functioning rather well in her daily life, even though she lacked any close and meaningful relationships. She didn’t have the support system she desperately needed, but, even without those relationships, she’d managed to avoid the drama so many of his clients thrived on.
His last client of the week, an aging socialite who seemed to breed drama in her own life and the lives of anyone who came close to her, complained because a friend she considered socially beneath her hadn’t invited her to a party. When he questioned her about why she cared whether or not she’d been invited to a party she thought would be dull anyway, she’d harrumphed and spent the rest of the session sulking.
It was next to impossible to stay focused on her endless complaining about the woes of high society when there were people like Tessa James out there who genuinely needed help and wanted to change.
The kitchen timer beeped, pulling him from his thoughts. His frozen lasagna was done. He rose from the recliner in front of the fireplace and walked slowly to the kitchen.
I’m getting too old for this, he thought. So much drama in so many lives. I didn’t begin practicing for that. I did it so I could help people with legitimate problems overcome their obstacles and go on to lead fulfilling and productive lives. Not so I could play rent-a-friend to people who just want to belly-ache about problems they create in their own lives, then get angry any time I point out their own contribution to their troubles.
He grabbed a potholder from the drawer to the left of the oven, then withdrew the small foil pan and placed it on the plate he had waiting. Carrying it back to the living room, Harold settled back into his chair and decided it was time to cut back on his practice.
No exceptions this time.
Not even for someone like Tessa James, who’d sounded so desperate, almost like calling to make an appointment with him was her last resort. He was getting too old and too tired to keep it up.
He picked up the remote from the small table beside the chair and clicked on the TV. Even though the news rarely did anything but depress him, he felt it was important to stay informed on current events, no matter how horrible they were.
The ten o’clock news was just beginning, and he lamented that he was just now getting around to eating dinner. Cutting a fork-sized bite of lasagna from the pan, he lifted it to his mouth and blew on it. Just before he took a bite, the image on the TV screen stopped him cold. He replaced the fork, put the lasagna on the table and leaned forward, turning up the TV.
“…the woman found shot in a home on Highland Avenue has officially been identified as Camille Walker…” the reporter was saying.
Highland Avenue. A memory pricked Dr. Raymond’s brain, and a bolt of electricity went through him. Tessa James lived on Highland Avenue. Hadn’t she mentioned something about a woman by the name of Camille Walker at her last appointment? Something about her being in a relationship with Tessa’s ex-husband and spying on Tessa through the window?
“…we have just confirmed that an arrest has been made. Tessa James was taken into custody earlier this evening…” the reporter continued.
Harold’s head spun. Tessa James, arrested?
Suddenly glad he’d taken the time to write down his thoughts about her, he grabbed the briefcase containing his notes, stuffed his feet into his shoes, and dashed out the door, the fire still burning in the fireplace, his lasagna uneaten.
66
Drew ran out of his house through the rain with the small overnight bag he’d packed for Tessa.
If they even let her have it, he mused.
This is all so unbelievable, he thought as he climbed into his car and slammed the door. Tossing the bag on the passenger seat, he put the key in the ignition and turned.
Nothing.
He tried again. Again, nothing happened. Not even a sputter.
Cursing under his breath, Drew got out, went back inside, and grabbed the keys to Tessa’s car. After a silent prayer, he turned the key and breathed a sigh of relief when her car roared to life. He backed out of the driveway and made his way to the police station.
As he gripped the steering wheel tightly, he was herded from one red light to another.
“Whoever designed the traffic light system ensured that if you get stuck at one, you’ll get stuck at all of them,” he fumed. I don’t have time wait through them. Tessa needs my help.
How could anyone believe Tessa would try to kill another human being? he wondered. The answer immediately came to mind. To everyone else, Tessa seemed distant, even cold, and when her temper flared, she could be downright mean. The reality was, though, that being cold and detached was her way of protecting herself against the people she was afraid of – which was everybody. But for that detective to believe Tessa had actually shot Camille was ridiculous.
You believe it a little bit, too, though, don’t you? his subconscious whispered.
“No!” he shouted and banged the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Tessa doesn’t have it in her to hurt someone else. She just doesn’t.”
A knot formed in Drew’s stomach. He’d been shocked when he lear
ned that Tessa had a gun, and she had been under a lot of strain lately. Was it possible that she was even more scared than she let on? What if she really had gone to her house and heard someone there, then just freaked out and shot?
Drew shook his head vigorously. There’s no way. He knew Tessa. She had a cool head and wouldn’t just go shooting blindly, even if she was scared.
But what if she wasn’t shooting blindly? the small voice whispered again. Camille did get a text from Tessa asking her to come over.
Drew pounded the steering wheel again. “No! She wasn’t even there. She was at home with me.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “I need her to have been at home with me…”
67
It began raining sometime while Harold Raymond was sitting in front of his fireplace considering the plight of his clients. Now, as he sat behind the steering wheel of his car, he squinted and leaned forward so he could see through the downpour. His wipers swished back and forth across the windshield as fast as they could, but they still didn’t get the job done. With his failing eyesight, he usually tried to avoid driving in the dark, especially when it rained. He and his eye doctor had both agreed he could be a hazard to other drivers.
Tonight called for an exception.
He blinked in an attempt to make the yellow lights reflecting off the slick road go away, but he was out of luck. He never thought it was a big deal that he didn’t live near the police station. In his sixty-plus years, he’d never needed to. Now he had to drive across town in the rain and darkness, praying he’d make it there in one piece.
Whatever it was about Tessa that had been bothering him since he first saw her was nagging at him again. What was it? Why did he keep thinking he knew her from somewhere? Now, more than ever, he felt the pressure to remember. Doing everything he could to coax the memory from his brain, he still came up empty.
A horn blared. Tires squealed on the wet asphalt. Harold turned his steering wheel sharply to avoid sideswiping the car in the next lane.
