pretty—with a creamy complexion and wavy, dark hair. She was an improvement over the rather sickly, pale woman she’d seen in the mirror for the last few days. Claire looked happy in the photograph, which had been taken in a beautiful garden. The lean, silver-haired man with Claire in the picture stood nearly a foot taller than her. Though handsome, his smile seemed forced, a bit stiff. That was her husband, Harlan Shaw, a little bit stiff, a little too serious.
She remembered him now. He was a good man. But he wasn’t Charlie. He wasn’t the husband she’d desperately wanted to see again. With Harlan due to see her in a couple of hours, she felt as if the wrong guy was coming by to take her out on a date. But at least she had a little time to prepare herself, work up some enthusiasm and act happy to see him.
Brian wasn’t coming along. Dr. Beal had braced her for that. According to Harlan, Brian was fine, but couldn’t come to the hospital tonight. The eleven-year-old boy Claire had remembered in her dream was actually seventeen now. His father had been dead for five years.
Claire now knew what had happened in those intervening years. But she didn’t want to think about Charlie’s death, and how awful it had been to be poor again—without him. She didn’t want to recall the struggles, the loneliness, and all the trouble Brian had given her.
Meeting and marrying Harlan Shaw had been like a godsend—at least, for a while. They’d been together eighteen months now.
And he was coming for her.
Claire said hello to the guard at her door. Yuvraj helped her from the wheelchair into her bed. Someone had just changed the sheets, starchy with tight hospital corners. Claire set the photo on her nightstand, then sank back on the pillow. She thanked Yuvraj as he dimmed the light. He quietly closed the door behind him.
Claire turned on her side, and slid one hand under the fresh pillow. Something sharp stung her fingertip. Snatching her hand away, she noticed the blood on her finger. Claire flipped over her pillow to find a slightly crushed, long-stemmed red rose—complete with thorns.
Bewildered, she stared at the rose for a moment, then finally picked it up. She wondered who could have left it. The person who had made her bed? Someone on the hospital staff who felt sorry for her? Sherita?
Claire set the rose in her water glass on the nightstand. Laying back on her pillow, she sucked at the blood on her pricked fingertip, then stared at the single, long-stemmed rose—beside the photo of Harlan and herself.
She’d gotten her wish for flowers and a photo on her nightstand—and a husband coming to visit. Only none of it seemed quite right.
The husband was nearly a stranger to her. As for the rose, she had to consider the possibility it was from someone who didn’t wish her well.
“Well, I didn’t give it to you, honey,” Sherita admitted. She was changing the dressing and bandage on Claire’s chest wound.
Claire tried not to look down at the sutures and the swollen, shiny patch of torn flesh between her breasts. She kept staring at the rose on her bedside. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked.
Finishing with the bandage, Sherita shrugged. “I don’t know. One of the orderlies probably who has a crush on you. Listen, you’ve got about forty-five minutes to start looking pretty for your husband. And from his photo, I’d say he ain’t hard on the eyes.”
Claire sighed. “This Rembrandt killer, he might have left the rose—to show how close he is to me.”
“He couldn’t have gotten past the guard—”
“Well, maybe he did,” Claire argued. “Maybe this is his way of letting me know how vulnerable I am.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Sherita said, helping Claire readjust her nightgown. “You think he’d sneak past the guard and leave you a flower—as some kind of threat? He’d have to be crazy.”
“That’s just the point, Sherita. He is crazy.”
“I’m telling you,
She remembered him now. He was a good man. But he wasn’t Charlie. He wasn’t the husband she’d desperately wanted to see again. With Harlan due to see her in a couple of hours, she felt as if the wrong guy was coming by to take her out on a date. But at least she had a little time to prepare herself, work up some enthusiasm and act happy to see him.
Brian wasn’t coming along. Dr. Beal had braced her for that. According to Harlan, Brian was fine, but couldn’t come to the hospital tonight. The eleven-year-old boy Claire had remembered in her dream was actually seventeen now. His father had been dead for five years.
Claire now knew what had happened in those intervening years. But she didn’t want to think about Charlie’s death, and how awful it had been to be poor again—without him. She didn’t want to recall the struggles, the loneliness, and all the trouble Brian had given her.
Meeting and marrying Harlan Shaw had been like a godsend—at least, for a while. They’d been together eighteen months now.
And he was coming for her.
Claire said hello to the guard at her door. Yuvraj helped her from the wheelchair into her bed. Someone had just changed the sheets, starchy with tight hospital corners. Claire set the photo on her nightstand, then sank back on the pillow. She thanked Yuvraj as he dimmed the light. He quietly closed the door behind him.
Claire turned on her side, and slid one hand under the fresh pillow. Something sharp stung her fingertip. Snatching her hand away, she noticed the blood on her finger. Claire flipped over her pillow to find a slightly crushed, long-stemmed red rose—complete with thorns.
Bewildered, she stared at the rose for a moment, then finally picked it up. She wondered who could have left it. The person who had made her bed? Someone on the hospital staff who felt sorry for her? Sherita?
Claire set the rose in her water glass on the nightstand. Laying back on her pillow, she sucked at the blood on her pricked fingertip, then stared at the single, long-stemmed rose—beside the photo of Harlan and herself.
She’d gotten her wish for flowers and a photo on her nightstand—and a husband coming to visit. Only none of it seemed quite right.
The husband was nearly a stranger to her. As for the rose, she had to consider the possibility it was from someone who didn’t wish her well.
“Well, I didn’t give it to you, honey,” Sherita admitted. She was changing the dressing and bandage on Claire’s chest wound.
Claire tried not to look down at the sutures and the swollen, shiny patch of torn flesh between her breasts. She kept staring at the rose on her bedside. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked.
Finishing with the bandage, Sherita shrugged. “I don’t know. One of the orderlies probably who has a crush on you. Listen, you’ve got about forty-five minutes to start looking pretty for your husband. And from his photo, I’d say he ain’t hard on the eyes.”
Claire sighed. “This Rembrandt killer, he might have left the rose—to show how close he is to me.”
“He couldn’t have gotten past the guard—”
“Well, maybe he did,” Claire argued. “Maybe this is his way of letting me know how vulnerable I am.”
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Sherita said, helping Claire readjust her nightgown. “You think he’d sneak past the guard and leave you a flower—as some kind of threat? He’d have to be crazy.”
“That’s just the point, Sherita. He is crazy.”
“I’m telling you,
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