Sam struggled out of bed and crossed over to him. Hesitantly she placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t like fighting either. And I’m sorry if it brought back bad memories.”
He turned and Sam saw the stress on his face. Silently she promised herself to be more understanding. Jackson had suffered an unhappy childhood. His mother had died when he was sixteen and left him with a storm of conflicting emotions. He’d loved his mother, but he’d also hated her for the way she’d used him against his father. And any time conflict erupted between Samantha and him, he always brought up the bitter experiences of his past. She rubbed her forehead. Now she did have a headache.
Jackson’s face cleared. “You’d better take something for your headache. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Moving to the bed, Sam crawled under the covers and waited.
He returned a few moments later, but instead of a glass of water, he held the picture from the nightstand.
Sam sat up. “What are you doing with that?”
“I found it hidden in a drawer.” He jabbed the picture toward her. “Why did you hide it?”
The muscles at the base of her skull tightened and her head began to throb. “I didn’t hide it.”
“No one else has been in the bedroom, so how did it get into the bathroom?”
“Ah . . . ah,” she stumbled, “Mom was . . . after I cut my hair . . . maybe she moved it.”
“Sam, I was with her the whole time . . . She never touched the picture.”
Drawing her knees to her chest, Sam rested her forehead against them as the blood pounded at her temples. “Then I don’t understand how it wound up in the bathroom.”
“Neither do I,” he said in a tight voice.
She raised her head and stared at him.
His lips tightened in a thin line. “Obviously you don’t want it, so I’ll take it with me.” He glanced down at the picture. “I think Dr. Weissinger needs to know about these periods of forgetfulness.”
“I remember exactly what I did this morning and it doesn’t include—”
A sharp rap at the door stopped her.
“Jackson, we need to leave if we’re going to beat the traffic back . . .” Her father paused as he picked up on the tension in the room. “What’s wrong?”
Jackson glanced down at the picture in his hand. “Nothing.” His gaze moved toward Sam. “I’ll call you this evening.” Pivoting, he left the room.
Her father’s eyes followed him. “Do you want to explain?” he asked Sam.
“No,” she said, lowering her head and massaging her neck muscles. “I’m sure Jackson will tell you all about it on the way home.”
He moved to the bed and stood looking down at her. “Don’t worry, Princess,” he said with a pat to her head. “Once you’re better, things will smooth out with Jackson. I’ll reason with him.”
Sam raised her head. “I think it would be better if you left it alone.”
“Nonsense.” He gave his hand a careless wave. “Jackson is perfect for you, and if I can help you two through this rough patch, I will.”
“Dad—”
“Shh,” he said, bending down and placing a kiss on her cheek. “Everything will be fine.” He straightened and wagged a finger at her. “Remember your promise, Samantha. I expect to get good reports from Anne.”
Too tired to argue, Sam simply nodded.
Crossing the room, he turned at the doorway. “Get some rest. Anne will be here if you need anything.”
After her father softly shut the door, her eyes traveled around the empty room. Maybe he was right. All she had to do was cooperate and everything would be fine. The nightmares would be gone. Her relationship with Jackson would be back to normal and they could finally proceed with the wedding. She’d have her old life back. Working with her dad . . . married to Jackson. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
But what about the picture? How did it get into the bathroom? Did she pick it up without realizing it and carry it in there with her? The thought scared her and made her head pound. Her gaze settled on the antianxiety pills sitting on the nightstand. She did need to calm down. Opening the bottle, she shook one of the small pills into her hand and stared at it. She really hated these little blue pills. She hadn’t been lying when she’d told her father they left her feeling numb, but maybe numb was better than the way she felt now. Popping the pill into her mouth, she swallowed it without water.
Sliding back down in the bed, she closed her eyes and let oblivion claim her.
W
hispers . . . I hear whispers.
The thought woke Sam up with a jerk and her eyes flew open, staring into the darkness. She glanced at the illuminated clock. Midnight. Was Anne still there, talking to someone? Was the TV on? In the glow from the clock’s lighted face, she spied a piece of paper propped on the nightstand. Flicking on the light, she scanned it quickly. Anne had been gone for two hours. She was alone. It had been another dream.
Then she heard it again . . . the soft, sibilant whisper that had jarred her awake. She scooted up in bed and quickly shut off the light. A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat.
Anne forgot to lock the doors.
The spit dried in her mouth and she wanted to cough, but didn’t dare. She didn’t dare alert whoever was in the cabin. She listened hard as she grabbed the pillow and squeezed it tight to her chest.
The sudden call of a loon echoed across the lake, and Sam shoved her face in the pillow, stifling her cry. She couldn’t stand the uncertainty and lowered the pillow, craning her neck as she struggled to hear. Nothing. The overwhelming urge to bolt from the bed and tear through the cabin, inspecting all the windows and doors, fought with the need to stay still, stay safe. The muscles in her left leg twitched while she battled the need to move.
She lost.
Grabbing the Maglite lying on the nightstand, she crept out of bed and across the room. With the light in one hand, she slowly turned the knob with the other and opened the door a crack. Holding an ear to the small opening, she listened.
Silence.
Carefully, she eased the door open and slipped into the hallway. The tile on the floor felt cool beneath her bare feet as she flattened her back against the wall. Slowly, with her hands trailing the wall for balance, she edged down the hall toward the living room. At the end of the hall, she half turned and sneaked a look around the corner.
Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains covering the patio door, casting silver light across the floor. She drew back while anger melded with her fear. Damn, Anne hadn’t pulled the heavier drapes closed. She had gone off and left Sam exposed. Shutting her eyes, Sam inhaled deeply and steeled herself to take another look. Slowly she shifted until she could peek into the living room with one eye. No shapes lurked in the room, but shadows obscured its edges. Someone might be waiting in those shadows, waiting just beyond the moonlight, ready to pounce if she made a move. Clutching the light with sweaty palms, Sam caught a faint whiff of cigarette smoke and snapped back around the corner. The intruders had taken the time for a smoke while ransacking the cabin? In spite of her fear, the idea seemed ridiculous.
She looked again. Nothing had changed. No glow of a burning cigarette bobbed in the dark. And the scent of smoke was gone. Still huddled in the hallway, she felt along the edge of the living-room wall until her fingers found the light switch. She flipped it up.
In an instant, the shadows disappeared and soft light filled the main part of the cabin. The room looked exactly the same as it had always looked. The pillows on the plaid couch facing the fireplace were right where they’d been earlier. The dark wood doors of the kitchen cabinets were shut and the drawers were closed.
Sam limped from the hallway, across the living room to the doors leading out onto the deck, and snapped the drapes shut.
“Better,” she breathed softly. No one could see into the cabin now.
She crossed to the kitchen door and rattled the doorknob. It was firmly locked. She checked the catch on the window above the sink. Still in place.
Hobbling back to the living room, she went to the French doors and lifted the drapes back just enough to check the lock. The door was latched and the safety bar was in place along the bottom track. She found the other switch and turned off the lights, throwing the room back into darkness. Grasping the edge of the drapes, she stayed half hidden in its folds and stared out over the lake.
The reflection of the full moon glowed on the quiet surface of the lake, while the tall pines ringing the lake masked the far shore in inky black. To the north, the hulking shape of a small island guarded the entrance to the bay where her cabin was located. From her position, Sam saw the boathouse and the dock protruding out into the lake. Its weathered boards looked pearly in the moonlight.
Her hand tightened on the drapes.
At the end of the dock a lone woman stood with her back toward the cabin. The moon seemed to act as a spotlight shining down on her. Too short to be Anne, she had red hair that cascaded down her back and over white, white shoulders and arms. She was dressed in a long lavender nightgown, thin enough for the light of the moon to reveal the shadow of her legs even at this distance. Sam saw the bright red ember of a cigarette move in a lazy arc toward her head as she lifted it to her mouth. A thin plume of smoke drifted above her and out across the lake when she exhaled.
Had she been the one Sam had heard whispering? Had she been close enough to the cabin for her cigarette smoke to drift inside? The thought made Sam’s breath hitch. The drapes had been open. She could’ve been standing on the deck, watching, and Sam would’ve been oblivious to her prying eyes. She dropped the drapes and clutched her hand at her side. What in the hell was some woman doing wandering around the lake in her nightgown at this time of night? And on
her
dock?
She inched the edge of the drape aside.
The moonlight still reflected off the placid water and the dock still looked shaded in soft grays, but the woman had disappeared.
Dropping the drape, she flicked on the Maglite, then grasped it with both hands like a weapon and shambled back to the bedroom. Once over the threshold, she shut the door, locking it. Crossing the room, she crawled into bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and turned on the bedside lamp.
She fell asleep clutching the Maglite to her chest.
T
he lights of the city spread out below me and a beautiful sense of freedom bubbles deep inside. I’ve escaped, at least for a little while. The opera I’d enjoyed tonight had made my spirits soar, and now I’d finish my perfect evening with a perfect late-night supper at one of the finest restaurants in Minneapolis. When I’m seated, I’ll order the best wine they have to offer, a thick steak, and asparagus done just right. My mouth waters at the thought and a faint smile tugs at my lips. Moving away from the plate-glass window, I turn to where the maître d’ waits at his station, in his starched white shirt, black jacket, and impeccable bow tie. He gives me an appraising look, and suddenly nervous about my own appearance, I flick an imaginary piece of lint from my sleeve.
Picking up a menu, he gives me a smooth smile. “Will anyone be joining you?” he inquires with a note of superiority in his voice.
I resent it.
Who does he think he is? He’s nothing more than a glorified waiter.
If she had allowed me to follow my destiny, this man would’ve been fawning all over me. He would’ve been honored to have someone of my stature choose his establishment. Instead he looks at me as if I were ordinary.
Masking my irritation, I assess him with a cool eye. “No, I’m alone.”
His shoulders sag under the weight of my stare, and turning, he motions toward the half-empty dining room. “Right this way.”
I follow two steps behind as he leads me to a table near the doors to the kitchen area. Placing the menu on the table, he pulls out a chair.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” he says as he begins to glide away.
With a light touch to his arm, I stop his retreat. “This table is unacceptable,” I say in a low tone, and point to an empty one by the window. “I want to be seated there.”
“But due to the late hour, that area is closed,” he replies swiftly.
“Then open it,” I say, turning away from him and moving toward my selected table.
I hear a slight hiss as he follows in my wake, but ignore it. Reaching my destination, I wait patiently for him to pull out my chair. He does, and with a nod of my head, I smile tightly and take my seat.
“I’ll send someone right over.”
Satisfied, I pick up the menu to peruse the selections. Glancing over the top of it, I see the maître d’ engaged in a hurried discussion with one of the waiters. The man frowns as his eyes settle on me, while the maître d’ spreads his hands in a helpless gesture. With a shake of his head, the waiter picks up a water pitcher and heads my way. Returning my attention to the menu, I allow myself a triumphant grin. Maybe now they’ll see I’m not ordinary.
I make my selections quickly, then settle back to enjoy the view of the city. I belong here . . . I really do. If only there were some way to escape . . . to have this sense of freedom every day instead of satisfying myself with these stolen moments. Suddenly bands of tension tighten around my chest. If I tried to leave my old life behind, it would hurt financially.
At what price freedom, eh?
I think bitterly, and take a big gulp of my Merlot, not tasting it as I swallow.
My steak arrives and I try to shove my dark thoughts away and enjoy these last moments. I cut into the tender meat with the precision of a surgeon, and as I do, a thin, watery line of red oozes across the pure white china plate. Stabbing the meat with my fork, I place the morsel in my mouth and chew, but it seems to have no flavor. I wash it down with wine and try again. Dry as dust.
Snapping my fingers at the waiter, I point to my now-empty glass of wine. He scurries over and refills my glass.
“Is your steak to your liking?”
“It’s fine,” I answer, waving him away and grabbing my wineglass. Another long drink while I stare at the red liquid seeping over the plate.