The lies left her speechless. She listened in silence as Alan fielded Toffelmire’s questions with an aplomb she might have admired under other circumstances but instead found disturbing, as if a pet had suddenly learned how to operate a can opener. He placed his palm at the small of her back, a familiarity obviously meant to reinforce his lies. It made her flesh crawl. Somehow, she managed to remain impassive, aware the detective was scrutinizing them both.
The minute the elevator doors closed behind Toffelmire, Elizabeth spun to face Alan. “What on earth was that for?”
He smiled. “I could see you were in trouble, and I wanted to help.”
“I didn’t need your help.”
“You weren’t home yesterday. You weren’t there for the entire weekend. I know that because I tried to get in touch with you several times, and I also dropped by your apartment. You hadn’t even told your personal assistant how to reach you.” His smile turned calculating. “And now the police want to know your whereabouts. It makes me wonder: where were you, Elizabeth?”
“I took some private time.”
“Why would a detective from Willowbank be so interested in your car? Is that where you went?”
“No. Obviously he’s made a mistake. Alan, what possessed you to claim we were engaged?”
“It gave more weight to your alibi.”
She managed a laugh. “Alibi? You’ve obviously been watching too many crime shows.”
“Should I call him back and tell him what I know?”
“There’s nothing to know. All you’ve done is add a needless complication, since he probably didn’t believe you.”
“What I’ve done is prove you can trust me.” He stroked her cheek with the backs of his knuckles. “And you did mention something about rewarding loyalty, didn’t you?”
She tipped her head away from his caress. Her nails dug painfully into her palms. This couldn’t be happening. She was the one in charge. She was the one using him. The power was supposed to be hers. How could it have turned around so quickly?
This was Delaney’s fault. If it hadn’t been for her, Elizabeth would have had nothing to hide.
DELANEY GRIPPED THE PHONE HARD AND LEANED HER shoulder against the wall. Through the back window, she could see Helen taking down the laundry while Phoebe held the basket for her. Late-afternoon shadows were stealing across the yard. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of the lemon chicken she was cooking for supper. Everything seemed so ordinary, it was hard to grasp what Toffelmire was telling her. “You must have made a mistake,” she said slowly. “I’m positive Elizabeth’s car is white. It’s a BMW.”
“Not anymore. She’s the registered owner of a black Mercedes. She purchased it three months ago.”
That would have been while Delaney was in the hospital. “There must be thousands of black sedans in New York. Tens of thousands.”
“I found it has front-end damage consistent with striking a heavy object.”
A heavy object. Like Max. No, John.
Still, Elizabeth? Cold-bloodedly running anyone down? No, she didn’t want to believe it. “I thought you had assumed the accident was a case of drunk driving.”
“Drunks seldom drive straight. All the witnesses at the scene agreed that this driver didn’t swerve.”
“But—”
“Mrs. Graye, I wouldn’t normally be discussing the details of an ongoing investigation with you because I need to be careful about treading on a suspect’s rights. I’m making an exception in this case because I’m concerned for your safety.”
Delaney automatically reached for a denial. “I find it hard to believe that Elizabeth’s grief could have taken her that far. Bringing a lawsuit was understandable. In a way, so was sending the photographs. My stepdaughter is much more emotional than she likes to admit. But harassment is a huge leap away from trying to physically harm me.”
“You just said she was emotional.”
“Yes, but she’s not . . .” She paused as she searched for the word. “Evil,” she said finally.
“It’s true that she has no record of violent behavior, but that’s no guarantee. It’s been my experience that given the right circumstances, anyone can be capable of violence.”
“But you have no proof.”
“Correct. At this stage I’m still checking into the facts and can’t justify giving you police protection. It’s up to you to take precautions. Be aware of your surroundings when you go out in public. Since there is already a restraining order in place against your stepdaughter, we can have her arrested if she approaches you.”
Matters were escalating too fast. Every instinct told her Elizabeth couldn’t have had anything to do with the hit-and-run, but her instincts hadn’t proved all that reliable. She’d also once believed that her husband had loved her. She struggled to think logically. “Wait. Elizabeth couldn’t have known I was at the festival in the first place. No one did. I decided at the last minute to accompany my grandmother.”
“Would you have noticed if someone had followed you from the house?”
No, she wouldn’t have noticed. It had been raining, and she’d had no reason to be suspicious. Besides, she’d been thinking about Stanford, not his daughter, and about what she’d remembered.
“Mrs. Graye?”
“You believe there’s a link between the photographs and the hit-and-run. Elizabeth isn’t the only one who might have sent me those pictures.”
“Please explain.”
“I should have told you about this earlier, but I think that those photographs weren’t meant to simply hurt me; they were to discourage me from recovering my memories.” She cleared her throat. “My husband had been having an affair with one of my friends. There had been other women, too. I don’t remember whether or not I learned who they were. Any one of them might not want that information made public. And for all I know, there could be something else altogether about the night my husband died that I should remember but I don’t.”
There was a pause. A movement outside the window caught her eye. A gust of wind billowed the loose corner of a sheet, sending it above Helen’s head. Phoebe laughed and hauled it down. Delaney hoped Toffelmire would tell her she was wrong, that she was only being paranoid, that he had overreacted and no one would really be trying to hurt her. Because if she truly was at risk, that would mean the people around her weren’t safe, either. They could get in the way as John had.
“Let’s start with your friend’s name. And in the future,” he said, “be sure to tell me immediately if you remember anything else.”
FIRE STREAKED ACROSS MAX’S BACK. IT BURROWED through his skin to the place where the other pain was buried. It was the belt. Virgil had returned. It was starting all over again . . .
Max jerked awake. The stink of burning flesh hung over the bed. Flames curled up the posts at the corners, painting the wood orange and red. This wasn’t his bed, it was Delaney’s. She lay beside him, facing away, her nightgown twisted around her legs, her arms locked around her knees. He grabbed her shoulder. “Deedee!”
She was shaking. Despite the fire, her teeth were chattering. “Max! Help me!”
He slid against her back, spooning his body behind hers to shelter her from the flames. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”
“I’m not. No one is.” A canopy of fire arched overhead. From it came the din of crunching metal. “Max!”
He looped his good arm around her to grasp her hand. “Hang on to me. We’ll go together.”
She twined her fingers with his, her grip fierce. “Where?”
“Hilltop. Pine trees.”
“The smoke—”
“It’s only mist. It’s blowing past us. Smell the pine.”
“It burns.”
“No, that’s only the sunset. It’s orange and red. I painted the sky for you. Look.”
“I want to. The water’s pulling me. The mud won’t let me go. I can’t breathe.”
“There’s no mud, only the bed.” He rubbed his
nose against her hair. “Soft. So soft.”
“He’s screaming. Again. Don’t you hear him?”
“It’s the breeze in the pines. The boughs are creaking and whispering.”
“Max!”
“Let go of the nightmare, Deedee. Hang on to me.”
She curled their joined hands to her mouth, pressing his arm to her breasts as she molded herself to his angles. Her mind opened.
This time the transition wasn’t gradual. She knew how to build their private world and fused her strength with his. Their thoughts fitted together as closely as he imagined fitting their bodies.
The scene burst full-blown in his head. They were still in the bed, but it was on top of a rounded hill. A massive pine tree rose above them, its branches silhouetted against a sky streaked with sunset colors. Dusk hid the valley below in gentle shades of lavender. Mist blurred the horizon.
The nightmare was gone, yet Delaney continued to tremble. Max concentrated on the sensation of holding her, using his thoughts to reinforce his embrace. “It’s okay. It’s over.”
She kissed his knuckles. A tear fell on his thumb.
“Hey.” He stroked her cheek. “The nightmare’s gone. It can’t hurt you. Nothing hurts here.”
“I know.”
“Don’t cry.”
“I tried to deflect it. I understand why I dream about drowning and burning, but it still happens. I hate this. I wish it would stop.”
“You’re safe now, Deedee.”
“I’m always safe with you.” She hugged his arm more tightly. Her shudders tapered off as her body relaxed. For a while, it seemed as if she might slip back into sleep, yet he could tell she was awake because the world they’d created remained vivid. “Max?”
“Yeah?”
“Why haven’t you answered me? Why did you keep away?”
Aw, hell. He’d resisted the temptation for days. He’d almost convinced himself he could stay away from her, but the instant he’d sensed she needed him, the decision had been out of his hands; he’d already been here. “It doesn’t matter. It’s late. Go back to sleep.”
“I’d rather stay with you.”
“Deedee—”
“I’ve missed you, Max.”
“You mean you’ve missed what I can do for you.”
“Haven’t you missed me?”
“Sure.” He withdrew his arm from her grasp and rolled to his back. “Who wouldn’t enjoy getting woken up from a sound sleep to get fried in someone else’s nightmare?”
“Yet you came anyway.”
“I never claimed I was smart.”
The mattress creaked softly as she turned over to face him. She lifted her hand to stroke his hair from his forehead and trace the edge of the bandage. She made no attempt to hide her confusion.
He should have gotten rid of the bandage. He should have lost the elastic cloth that wrapped his wrist, too. It would have been as easy as creating the hill and the pine tree. Only, she’d been responsible for imagining this scene as much as he was. She wanted to see him this way.
“Does it hurt?” she asked, tapping the bandage.
“Not now. Nothing hurts when we’re in this place.”
“How did it happen?”
“You made me up. You tell me.”
She continued her inspection, studying the bruising on his shoulder, touching his wrapped wrist. She got to his waist and inhaled sharply. Her gaze returned to his.
He stretched out and crossed his ankles. “I could imagine some pants, but you’ve seen it all before.”
“And you’ve seen me.” She touched the spot where the scar on her breast disappeared beneath the edge of her nightgown. “Max, did I really make you up?”
“Why are you asking me that? I thought you had it all figured out.”
“So did I.”
He ran his forefinger along her nightgown strap. “The last time I saw you, you asked me to kiss you.”
Her breath hitched. “Max . . .”
“Did you like how it felt?”
“You know I did.”
He traced her neckline to the shadow between her breasts. “Where do you want me to kiss you this time, Deedee?”
“Max, stop. I don’t want sex.”
“We don’t really have sex. We just think about it.”
She caught his hand. “Are you John?”
His pulse leapt. He should have expected the question. In fact, he’d half wanted it after the dance they’d done around the truth when she’d come to his house. “Who?”
“He’s a real man. He has a sprained wrist and a scraped forehead and he looks exactly like you.”
“Poor guy.”
“Yes, he is.”
“You sound as if you feel sorry for him.”
“He’s so alone. I don’t think he really wants to be.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s my guess that he’s been given a hard time by so many people that he’s decided he’d rather push them away than give them a chance.”
“What’s this? You finished psychoanalyzing yourself and you’ve decided to start working on him?”
She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. She walked to the pine tree and braced her palm against the trunk. “I’m a long way from being finished, Max. The fact that I needed my imaginary friend to pull me out of my nightmare again proves it.”
The boughs above her blurred as the sky began to dim. So did the sensation of the mattress beneath his back. He nudged his thoughts closer to hers until the scene regained its substance, then went to stand behind her. He slid his arms around her waist. “What brought on the nightmare this time?”
“Insanity.”
“I told you, Deedee. There’s nothing wrong with having a powerful mind.”
“No, I mean the world. People I thought I knew, I didn’t know at all.”
He rested his chin on her shoulder. “You’re talking about your husband.”
“Him and Elizabeth and Jenna.” She touched his swollen wrist. “That’s probably why I gave you John’s injuries. The hit-and-run was my fault. He was hurt because of me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. Shit happens.”
She shook her head. “It might not have been an accident.”
“What?”
“The detective who’s investigating suspects my stepdaughter tried to run me down.”
“Why the hell would anyone think that?”
“Why do you need to ask? You’re my subconscious. You should already know.”
“Humor me.”
She related what Toffelmire had told her. Max listened in growing alarm. The cop might be a pain in the ass, but it sounded as if he was right to issue a warning. Max’s arms tightened reflexively, though he knew that he wasn’t actually holding her. His thoughts alone couldn’t shelter her from perils in the real world. He’d have to be here in the flesh to do that. “Damn, how could anyone want to hurt you?”
“The answer has to be in my memory.” She thumped the heel of her hand against her temple. “But I’m still blocking it.”
“The cops should arrest your stepdaughter.”
“They don’t have enough evidence, and she’s not the only one who might have done it.” She turned in his embrace. Her eyes shone. “I need to remember. The nightmare won’t end until I do.”
“Deedee—”
“I was wrong.” She ran her palms across his chest. “I do want sex.”
“Let me guess. To help break your mental block, right?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need me for that.”
“Yes I do!”
“Did you remember anything the last time?”
“No, but it’s helped before.”
“And you’ll use whatever works.”
“Kiss me, Max.”
He should be angry. They’d been through this already. She saw him as a tool, a key, not a man.
Yet that was his own choice, wasn’t it? She was right; he’d rather be alone
than risk the consequences of a real-life relationship. He was the one who wouldn’t end the charade.
She slid her hands to his groin. “Please.”
Instinct took over. It made no difference why she wanted this. He was enough of a bastard to oblige.
TWENTY-ONE
DELANEY CARRIED THE STAINLESS STEEL BOWL OF ORANGE peels, coffee grounds, and eggshells toward the compost bin behind the garden shed. For as long as she could remember, Helen had been composting her kitchen scraps, not only for the sake of the environment but because the compost was good for her roses. It was part of the daily routine. Delaney had done it dozens of times since she’d come home and thought nothing of it.
Only this morning, the door of the garden shed was open.
She focused on the shadowed interior, her steps slowing. She didn’t like being afraid. She resented it. Edgar had told her it had probably been kids who had been in the shed before. There was a chance the process server had been watching the house from there before he’d snuck into the house. She couldn’t picture Elizabeth hiding amid the garden tools and the cobwebs, though, waiting to pounce. She couldn’t see any of Stanford’s lovers doing so, either. He’d been too fastidious. He wouldn’t have had an affair with the type of woman who would skulk in garden sheds.
So there was no reason to feel nervous, she told herself, firming her grip on the bowl. She stopped at the shed and poked her head inside.
No one was there. Of course, no one was there, only the lawn mower, some bags of fertilizer, and the garden tools. Nothing more threatening than some rakes and a few shovels that hung from the wall. She was being paranoid, likely due to lack of sleep.
Or did a fantasy count as sleep? After all, she’d been on a bed.
No, there had been nothing restful about last night’s fantasy. Max had managed to stimulate every nerve in her body and every synapse in her brain. He’d wrung one climax after another from her mind with nothing but kisses. Imaginary kisses. Yet this morning she was exhausted and aching as if she’d spent the entire night having sex.
We don’t really have sex. We just think about it.
And now she couldn’t stop thinking about it. What was wrong with her?
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