“I have no idea, Delanie.”
It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. I had no recollection of inviting anyone over, but it wasn’t the first strange man I’d had in my bed this month …
My mind raced, back to the last thing I remembered … I was online again, that stupid Plenty-of-Fish site. I hadn’t wanted a profile in the first place, but Pam and Jerry, my two friends from work, had set the whole thing up for me.
Did I invite one of the guys I met online to come over to the house last night? Was I drinking again … is that why I can’t remember?
Suddenly, it was starting to make sense—I rarely drank alcohol, not until recently, and not since my early twenties. If I’d had a few beers last night, or even a little wine, then maybe … maybe I had blacked out completely.
But a quick scan of the room revealed no empty cans or bottles. No evidence that I’d been drinking at all …
How could I be so irresponsible? What the hell was I thinking, inviting a man over with my teenage daughter across the hall?
“Go, Lanie. Go to your room. I’ll wake him up and ask him to leave.”
When she didn’t budge, I raised my voice a few octaves: “You have school in the morning. Now, go!”
The hurt expression on her face came and went so quickly, I almost wondered if I’d imagined it.
“Screw you,” she huffed, then turned and walked out of the room. She slammed my bedroom door behind her.
In the silence of my bedroom, I crept over to the window and sat down on my favorite reading bench that overlooked our suburban street. It was almost morning, the dark mountain ridges in the distance tipped with dusty browns and burgundy reds.
How long has it been since I watched the sun rise?
When Delanie was young, she loved the outdoors. But I was still with her father then, Michael. Most of my memories of her early years were corrupted by memories of fights with Michael and sleepless nights as I thought about Dillan.
Here’s the thing: when you bring a baby home from the hospital, you’re supposed to be happy. “It’s a miracle that one of the twins survived,” the doctor had told me. “At least you have Delanie,” my friends had told me.
But having a beautiful baby girl didn’t make me any less sad about the son I’d lost. The room with blue borders I’d never use, and the drawers of blankets and onesies I’d picked out specifically for him … no, those things couldn’t be forgotten, even if I did love Delanie with all my heart.
Michael left us when Delanie was five. He didn’t go far.
Less than two miles from here, he lived with his new wife, Samantha, and baby son, Braxton, in a Victorian mansion they had restored. Delanie had a room there—she loved that room—and she visited them every other weekend.
Apparently, Michael’s not verbally abusive with his new family, and he gave up drinking years ago … how convenient for them.
The drinking and the dating … I’d only started that recently, with the nudging insistence of my two best friends. It seemed good for me—healthy, even—but incidents like this couldn’t happen. I had no recollection of what happened last night, or who this strange man was. This went way beyond normal socializing … I’d obviously blacked out and lost control.
I scanned the street below. My Rav 4 was parked at the curb in front of our house, as usual. A navy-blue Camaro was parked behind it. I didn’t recognize it as belonging to one of my neighbors.
Well, at least this mystery man drives a nice car. That’s better than the last guy I went out with. He didn’t have his own car, or steady employment.
If only I could remember who he was or what we did last night …
“Excuse me.” Sighing, I tiptoed over to the bed.
I poked his shoulder, and when he didn’t budge, I pushed the blankets away from his face. “I need you to go. I don’t mean to be rude … but I think I had too much to drink last night. I don’t usually let guys stay overnight. And my daughter … well, she has school in the morning. So, can you please head home?”
But the strange man didn’t respond. No breathy snores, not even a slight twitch. No movement, whatsoever …
“Excuse me!” I knew I was being a bitch, but I didn’t care. My daughter had just discovered a strange man in my bed. My daughter who was already troubled enough to begin with …
Since joining the site, I’d invited a few men over, but only when Delanie was at her dad’s. Inviting a stranger from the internet to my house on a school night while Delanie was home … well, that was totally out of character for me.
But ever since I’d started dating and drinking, I’d stopped acting like myself.
Suddenly, it’s like I’m a teenager again, wild and free … a side of me I’d long since tried to forget.
I need this man out of my bed … and now.
I placed both hands on his chest and gave him a sturdy shake. “I need you to wake up, please.”
When he didn’t react, I gripped the plain white sheet in my fist and tugged.
“Jesus!” I leapt back from the bed, covering my mouth and nose.
The stranger was completely naked, but that wasn’t the shocking part. It was the dark-purple stain in the center of his abdomen.
And beneath him …
“Oh. Oh …” The floor beneath my feet became watery and strange, the walls spinning like a tilt-o-whirl. My backside made sharp contact with the dresser, and a picture fell to the floor, as I tried to scoot as far away from the bed as possible …
Covering my mouth so I wouldn’t scream and alert Delanie, I tiptoed like a ballerina back over to the edge of the bed.
Above my bed was a ceiling fan. It was turned off, but I pulled on the light string to illuminate him better.
I bit down on my own hand, muffling a scream.
The stranger’s face looked peaceful enough, his eyes and mouth closed as though he were sleeping. His hands lay flat at his sides. But he was rigid, too rigid … almost like he was laying inside a casket instead of my bed.
It might as well be a casket … because he’s dead as fuck, I realized in horror.
I bit down harder on my hand, my body trembling in fear.
Holding my breath, I moved in as close as I dared, studying the wound. It was a hole above his belly button, jagged and red, with a dry purple stain blooming out like a flower around it. Dry streaks of blood stained both sides of his waist from where he’d bled out in the bed beside me.
The sheet beneath him was stained dark red with blood, so red it was almost purple.
So much blood! It had probably soaked all the way through the mattress and box springs.
There was blood on my side too.
Realization sinking in, I looked down at my own blue nightdress.
No way would I have let a man see me in this old, worn-out gown. So, why am I wearing it? Something about this doesn’t make sense.
How the hell did he get here? Who is this man?!
Tentatively, I dabbed at a big, crusty stain on the side of my gown. The color of the gown was too dark to tell, but I knew without a doubt it was blood.
His blood.
He was bleeding in the bed beside me … and I had no idea.
Placing my hand over my mouth again, I gagged on vomit tickling at the back of my throat.
How the hell did he get here in the first place?
And, most importantly, how did he wind up dead?
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank my editor, Charlotte Ledger, and my agent, Katie Shea Boutillier, for championing this book. I know I already mentioned you both in the dedication, but I really can’t thank you enough …
I’d like to thank the entire HarperCollins team for taking this little story on my computer and bringing it to life so that readers can enjoy it (or hate it). Specifically, thank you to Claire Fenby for tirelessly promoting my books.
Thank you to Shannon, Violet, Tristian, and Dexter for giving my life a true purpose, and meaning.
Thank you t
o YOU, dear reader, for taking a chance on my books. Finishing a book you’ve been writing is an awesome experience; seeing it as an actual book is even better. But NOTHING, and I mean NOTHING, compares to knowing that there are people like YOU out there, reading my words and enjoying (or hating) these stories that, once upon a time, only lived in my head. So, thanks for spending your time reading my words—it means more to me than I can ever express.
About the Author
Carissa Ann Lynch is the USA Today bestselling author of My Sister Is Missing, Without a Trace, the Flocksdale Files trilogy, the Horror High series, Searching for Sullivan, This Is Not About Love, and Shades and Shadows. She resides in Floyds Knobs, Indiana, with her husband, children, and collection of books. With a background in psychology and corrections, she has always been a little obsessed with the darker areas of the mind.
Website: https://carissaannlynchnovels.com/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/carissaannlynch
Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/2bKQCyz
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CarissaAnnLynchauthor
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