by Lisa Jackson
She shined the flashlight’s beam over the dilapidated siding and onto a sagging, battered shutter. “What’re the chances?” she asked herself. She reached behind the broken slats, extracted a key, and looked at it a long moment. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered, inserting the key into the dead bolt.
With a click, the old lock gave way.
As she stepped into the house, he moved swiftly. He had his knife gripped tightly in his hand, and he desperately wanted to use it, to watch as it slit her soft, white flesh. But, just in case, there was always the pistol, a small-caliber one but deadly enough.
A light snapped on inside the cabin.
Through the dusty glass of the kitchen window, he saw her, her hair pulled away from the long column of her throat. His heart kicked into overdrive, and he drew a shivery breath, envisioning the act.
She’d hear his footsteps, turn, gasp when their eyes met. Then he would move quickly, slashing that perfectly arched throat, slicing her jugular, crimson blood spraying.
He drew in a swift breath.
His cock hardened.
He could almost taste her.
Eve.
The original sinner.
Time to pay.
“Roy, are you here?” Eve called into the watery light of the cabin. She didn’t know whether to be scared or pissed as hell as she stepped through the kitchen, where a thin layer of dust covered everything. “You know,” she said, sweat beading in her hair as she spied a half-drunk bottle of beer left on the scarred drop-leafed table, “this is creeping me out. I mean, if this is one of your games, I think I’ll just have to kill you.”
She heard a scrape, turned. Her heart jumped as a small black body scampered across the yellowed linoleum to hide beneath an ancient refrigerator. She bit back a scream with all she had, watching the mouse’s tail slide from sight. “Oh Jesus.” Her pulse pounded in her ears. She shouldn’t have come here, and she’d known it from the get-go. When Roy called, she should have insisted he come to her or that they meet somewhere in public. Being here was creeping her out.
Where the hell was he? “Roy?” He had to be here. His truck was parked in the carport. “Roy? This isn’t funny. Where are you?”
The door to the bathroom gaped open, but it was dark inside. She tried the switch, but the bulb had burned out, and when she raked her flashlight beam across the sink and toilet, she saw only rust, stains, and dirt. Something was definitely wrong here.
She walked three steps to the living room, where a lamp on an old end table was burning bright. Obviously Roy had been here.…no, not really. Obviously someone had been here, though the room itself looked as if no one had inhabited it for a decade. Dust and cobwebs covered the floor, pinewood walls, and ceiling. Even the ashes and chunks of burned wood in the grate seemed ancient. There was a yellowed fishing magazine, its pages curled and tattered. It was as if time had stopped for this dilapidated cabin on the bayou.
So what the hell was she doing here?
To see Roy? To find out what he meant by “evidence”?
What the hell kind of evidence could he mean?
Something to do with Dad, she thought. That’s what Roy meant. You know it. You can feel it in your bones. Roy knows whether dear old Dad is innocent…or guilty as sin.
Swallowing, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. Still no service.
“Royal Kajak, you’ve got about two minutes, and then I’m outta here,” she called to the shadowed corners of the cabin. “I don’t give a damn about whatever ‘evidence’ you think you’ve got. E-mail me, okay?”
Irritated, she took one last look around. Just past the open stairway was a short hall leading to the one bedroom on the main floor. The door to it yawned open.
Steeling herself, she walked toward it.
Shit! She had a cell phone! He hadn’t thought of that. The Voice hadn’t warned him about the phone. The Reviver stared through the window, watched her walking carefully through the house. He knew she’d call 911. The number was probably on speed dial.
He had to stop her. Fast!
Without a sound, he sheathed his knife, flicked open his ankle holster, and pulled out his pistol.
Time to finish this.
Nerves on edge, Eve pushed open the bedroom door. It creaked on old hinges. “Roy?”
She heard the faintest of moans.
The hairs on the back of her neck were raised as she fumbled for the light switch. With a click, the room was instantly awash in light from an ancient ceiling fixture.
She screamed.
Roy lay on the floor by the old metal bedframe. His entire face was covered in blood, and there was a huge gash on his neck spreading a dark stain across the floor.
She stumbled forward. All she could see was blood. Dark. Black. Sticky. Everywhere.
His chest moved ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. Eve amoaned with hope. He was still alive!
“Hang on!” she cried, terror clawing through her, bile rising in her throat. “Who did this? Oh sweet Jesus…” She tried to staunch the flow of blood with one hand while dialing with the trembling fingers of the other. The phone slipped from her hand, sliding through a thick smear of blood. Pressing against the gash in Roy’s throat, she retrieved the bloody cell with her free hand and punched out 911 with sticky, shaking fingers. “Help,” she pleaded, but the screen silently mocked her: NO SERVICE.
Panic welled up inside her. She was frantic.
Calm down, Eve. You can’t help Roy without a clear head. Don’t lose it. Think! Does the cabin have a phone? A landline? The electricity’s working. Maybe Vernon keeps phone service for emergencies…. Her gaze swept the room and skated over the pinewood walls. No phone outlet, but near Roy’s head, upon the yellowed pinewood walls, was a number written in blood:
212
She recoiled in horror.
What the hell did that mean?
Had Roy written it?
Or someone else?…Oh God, was Roy’s assailant still here? Maybe in the house? She thought of the can of pepper spray buried in her purse.
She didn’t have time to waste. She had to get help. The blood seeping against her fingers at Roy’s neck had eased to nothing. Oh God…
Another low moan, and it was over. Roy took one last shallow wet breath.
“No! Oh God, no…Roy! Roy!” But the hand on his neck found no pulse. “You can’t die, oh please—”
A floorboard creaked.
She froze.
The killer was still here!
Either inside the house or on the porch.
Heart thundering in her ears, she tried her damned phone again. Come on, come on, she silently pleaded, listening for any sound, her gaze moving quickly around the room and to the doorway. If only there were a back door, a way to escape.
Another soft footstep. Leather sliding over wood.
Her insides turned to water.
She carefully reached into the purse, bloody fingers scrabbling for the pepper spray as she kept her gaze moving from the doorway to the two windows, to the mirror, to the reflection there of her own panicked face. She risked glancing down, found the spray and had the cannister out of her purse when she heard the footsteps again. Louder. Coming at her!
He knew where she was.
Get out, Eve, get out now!
She shot to her feet, adrenalin fueled by horror pushing her. She reached for the light switch, slapped it off. Darkness blinded.
She turned quickly, her shoes sliding in Roy’s blood. She fell noisily, biting back a scream, holding fast to the canister. Her leg scraped down the iron bedframe. Her head thudded against the wall. Pain exploded behind her eyes.
More footsteps!
Don’t pass out. For God’s sake, don’t lose consciousness!
She flung herself toward a window.
Pitched forward.
She saw him.
In the glass.
He was holding something in his hand. Pointing it at her.
Cole?
The man she loved?
Cole Dennis was going to shoot her?
NO!
Bam!
The noise slammed like a blow.
The muzzle blazed fire!
Glass shattered.
White-hot pain exploded in her head.
Her knees buckled. She crumpled to the floor. The dark room swirled around her, and Cole Dennis’s angry face was the last image burned into Eve’s brain.
CHAPTER 1
Three months later
“This is a big mistake, Eve. Big! You can’t leave yet; you’re not ready.” Anna Maria, in a bathrobe, fuzzy slippers, and no makeup, was chasing Eve down the driveway of her home.
“Watch me.” Eve wasn’t going to get into it with Anna again. Not now. It was morning, barely light, the street lamps still offering some bit of illumination as dawn crept down the manicured street of this suburb tucked between Marietta and Atlanta. Time to leave.
Holding a cigarette in one hand and a cup of sloshing coffee in the other, Anna somehow managed to keep up with her sister-in-law. “You’re not through with physical therapy, you can’t remember jack-shit about the night you were attacked, and for God’s sake, there’s a rumor, probably a good one, that Cole Dennis is going to be released. Did you hear me? The man you think tried to kill you is going to walk!”
At the mention of Cole’s name, Eve’s heart clutched. Just as it always did. And she ignored it. Just like she always did.
“We’ve had this argument a kazillion times. I need to get home.” Lugging a cat carrier, Eve made her way to her Camry as Samson, her long-haired stray, howled from within. “No matter what you think, you’re not dying,” she assured the unhappy animal as she scrounged in her purse for her keys with her free hand. The carrier bobbed wildly, and Samson, freaked out of his mind, hissed loudly. She placed the plastic crate on the driveway near the back tire of her car as she kept searching for the damned keys.
“Eve—”
“Don’t start.” Glancing up at her sister-in-law, Eve shook her head, short strands of hair brushing the back of her neck. “You know I have to leave.” She managed to slide her key ring from a side pocket, but as she did, her cell phone, tangled in the keys, popped out of the purse and dropped onto the concrete, landing with a sickening smack. “Oh great!” Just what she needed; another reason for Anna, supposedly a devout Roman Catholic but as superstitious as anyone Eve had ever met, to find an excuse for Eve to linger. It amazed Eve how Anna was forever seeing “curses,” “signs,” or “omens” in everyday life—so much so that Samson, being a black cat, was nearly banished from Anna and Kyle’s home.
“I saw that!” Anna announced. “God is trying to tell you something.”
“Yeah, like I need a new cell-phone carrier,” Eve muttered through clenched teeth.
“Not funny, Eve.”
“You’re wrong. It was really funny.” She managed a smile and looked up at her sister-in-law as dark clouds, heavy with the promise of rain, moved slowly across a low Georgia sky. Only the slightest breath of wind rattled the spreading branches of a magnolia tree growing close to the drive, but it was enough to cool the sweat that was already sprouting on Eve’s neck and spine. Picking up the phone, she saw that the screen was still illuminated. Hitting the speakerphone button, she heard the familiar hum of a dial tone. “Still working. Guess I won’t have to switch networks.” She tucked the phone more securely into a pocket of her purse, unlocked the door, and slid the cat carrier onto the backseat.
“For the record, I’m against this,” Anna said, her arms crossed beneath her large breasts.
“For the record, I know.”
“You could at least wait until Kyle gets home. He just ran out for milk and cigarettes. He’ll be back any minute.”
All the more reason to leave. Eve and her oldest brother had never gotten along. Having her camp out at his house while recovering from a gunshot wound and trauma-induced amnesia hadn’t improved their relationship.
“You’re not talking me out of this, so don’t even try. Nita says I’m eighty-five percent of normal, whatever that is.”
“Nita’s an idiot.” Anna Maria took a long drag on her cigarette and shot smoke out of the side of her mouth.
“Nita’s a board-certified physical therapist.”
“What does your shrink say?”
Eve paused. “Low blow, Anna.” She’d quit going to the psychiatrist after just three sessions. She hadn’t “clicked” with him and knew enough about psychiatry to realize a patient had to trust in her doctor completely. She didn’t. Dr. Calvin Byrd was too guarded, too quiet, too studious. The way he’d leaned back in his chair, pen in hand, as she’d confided in him had given her a bad feeling. She’d felt as if he were more interested in judging her than healing or helping her. So she’d quit the sessions. She’d been around enough shrinks in her lifetime to know the good from the bad. Wasn’t her own father proof enough of that? Not to mention that she herself had been working on her PhD in psychology before her life had been shattered at that cabin in the woods. Bottom line: no doctor should make a patient nervous.
“He might be able to help you with your memory,” Anna argued.
“I told you, I don’t like him. End of story.”
“He’s well respected. One of the best psychiatrists in Atlanta.”
“I know.” Eve had seen all the degrees, awards, and letters of commendation so proudly displayed in Dr. Byrd’s office. “It’s personal—just a gut feeling.” She was already walking back to the house, to the breezeway, where her luggage was stacked. Eve passed by her brother’s work van—a dirty paneled truck with the predictable words WASH ME scribbled into the dust on the back windows. Obviously he’d taken his Porsche for his morning run to the store. “Look, Anna, I’m not arguing about this anymore. You can either help me load up the car or stand there and rant and rave to no good end. So what’s it going to be?”
“This is nuts, Eve.”
Eve smiled gently. “Oh, come on. Things aren’t that bad.”
“Not that bad? For the love of God! When did you become such a Pollyanna? You were shot. Shot! The bullet hit your shoulder and ricocheted to your temple, and your brain was bruised. Bruised. You didn’t end up dead or paralyzed or God only knows what else, but pul-eeze don’t tell me things aren’t bad. I know better.” Anna took a long drag on her cigarette and glared at her sister-in-law over the glowing tip. “You were almost killed. By that son of a bitch you thought you might marry! C’mon, Eve. Things are definitely ‘that bad’ and probably a helluva lot worse. The problem is, you just can’t remember.”
Done with arguing, Eve picked up a duffel bag and her computer case, then started hauling them back to the Camry, where Samson was crying loud enough to wake the dead. Yes, she had big holes in her memory. But her amnesia wasn’t complete. She did recall bits from that night. Painful little shards that cut through her brain. She remembered being late. She remembered seeing Roy lying on the floor, bleeding out, barely hanging on to life. She remembered the bloody number 212 scrawled on the wall. She remembered reaching for her cell phone, hesitating, her fingers shaking too badly to dial, dropping the damned thing, seeing NO SERVICE in bold letters against a glowing LCD. She remembered seeing the gun leveled through the window before it went off. And she remembered blood. Everywhere. Splattered on the wall, pooling on the floor, making the touch pad of her cell phone sticky, oozing from Roy’s neck and forehead…
She closed her eyes for a second and drew a long breath. Guilt, ever lurking, loomed again. Deep, dark and deadly. It ate at her at night. Cut through her dreams. If only she’d been at the cabin earlier as she’d promised, if only she hadn’t hesitated or dropped her phone before dialing 911, her friend Roy might still be alive…. Shaking inside, she opened her eyes to the somber morning. The clouds overhead seemed even more ominous.
“The doctors think my memory will return,
” Eve said as she reached her car and tossed the duffel onto the floor of the backseat. She slid her computer next to the cat carrier. She noticed Samson, pupils dilated, glaring through the tiny windows of the crate.
“Maybe getting your memory back isn’t a good thing.”
Boy, was Anna on a tear this morning. First one side of the argument, then the other. Eve tossed her purse onto the front passenger seat then turned to find her sister-in-law standing within inches of her.
“Aren’t you the one who told me that the brain shuts down because of trauma, to protect itself?” Anna pushed her long hair from her eyes. She was close enough that Eve smelled the smoke and coffee on her breath, the hint of perfume clinging to her skin. “Maybe you don’t want to know what happened.”
“I want to know,” Eve responded evenly.
Across the street, a door opened. In a striped terry robe and slippers, a balding man pushing eighty stepped onto his porch and shot a glance their way from behind thick glasses. He sketched out a wave then bent to retrieve his newspaper.
“Morning, Mr. Watters,” Anna said, waving back as her neighbor scanned the headlines and disappeared inside. She lowered her voice and moved closer to Eve. “I’m just asking you to wait. A week. Maybe two. ’Til you’re stronger, and maybe by then we’ll know what Cole is up to. Stay here until we’re certain you’re safe.”
“I am.”
“He’s dangerous.”
Eve had already started up the drive again. “Besides, I’m thinking of getting a dog…a puppy.”
Anna Maria took a final hit on her Virginia Slim and sent it to the concrete of the driveway, where she stomped the butt out with her pink mule. “A puppy? Like that’ll keep the bad guys at bay!”
“I’m talking about a really, really tough puppy.”
There wasn’t the slightest hint of humor in Anna’s worried eyes. “Look, Eve, you can laugh and make light about this all you want, but the bottom line is: someone tried to kill you.”
