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Authors: Lisa Jackson
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“Mmm?”
“If the police stop by again, don’t talk to them. Not without your lawyer present.”
Her good mood was shattered. The claustrophobic sensation she’d pushed aside was suddenly all over her and she felt as if she was being suffocated. She should never have trusted Troy. Knew better. “You think I killed him, don’t you?” she whispered, disbelieving. “You think I killed my own husband.” Inwardly she cringed. And what do you think, Caitlyn?
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Caitlyn, but for the record, no. I don’t think you’re capable of murder. You have your problems—well, hell, we all do—but I don’t think you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, stung.
“I’m just warning you, that’s all.” He adjusted his tie. “For Christ’s sake, don’t wig out on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She folded her arms over her chest and walked him to the front door where, thank God, no reporters were camping out. But she knew that her empty front garden with its hummingbirds hovering near her feeder and a dragonfly skittering through the vines wouldn’t be peaceful for long.
This was just the calm before the storm.
She glanced at the sky.
Clear and blue.
Deceptive.
As Troy climbed into his Range Rover, she waved and felt the burn and tightness in her wrists, the scratches that were healing . . . how in the world had they gotten there? All she had to go on were the horrifying flashes—sharp-edged bursts that sizzled through her brain like lightning bolts.
Disjointed pieces of a dream?
Some kind of ESP?
Coincidence?
Or horrific bits of a memory too terrible to remember?
Five
Adam Hunt picked the lock deftly. Anyone watching might have thought he owned the key to this thick wooden door because the latch sprang so easily. But he’d been careful. He was alone. No one was in the hallway of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house that had been converted into an office building. Nobody had seen him enter silently, swinging the door closed behind him.
Inside, the room was hot. Cloying. Dust had settled on every surface; a potted palm was brittle and dead near the window, the soil surrounding its roots bone dry. He looked around the office as he cracked a window, and the smell of Old Savannah slipped into the tiny office with its worn wooden floors and haphazardly placed rugs.
A leather recliner, sofa and rocking chair were grouped together. Positioned catty-corner to the seating area was a tall armoire that held video equipment. Beneath the window a short, glass-fronted bookcase contained a small library on human psychoses, sexuality, morals, hypnosis and every human frailty or depravity known to man. Some of the books had belonged to him. So had the rocker. But no longer.
His jaw clenched as he crossed to the rolltop.
Her desk was locked.
Of course.
Not that it was a problem.
Her desk chair squeaked as he sat in it, and he noticed where its rollers had worn a path on the carpet, a small arc, so that she could turn to her computer or notes, then face her clients again. Jaw tightening, he quickly pried the desk open and rolled the top up. Inside, the cubicles and drawers of stamps, paper clips, envelopes and the like were neat. Tidy.
Just like the woman who had so recently sat in this scarred chair.
So where the hell are you, Rebecca? Absently he rubbed his knee. It was starting to bother him again, the result of a recent motorcycle accident.
He turned on the computer, tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair and glared at the dusty screen as it clicked and hummed, the monitor glowing bright. He found her files, skimmed them, his lips flat over his teeth. Was it his imagination or did he smell a faint trace of her perfume lingering over the musty odor of the office?
Wishful thinking, nothing more.
Fingers moving skillfully, he scrolled through her patient files, getting quick peeks into the problems,
“Mmm?”
“If the police stop by again, don’t talk to them. Not without your lawyer present.”
Her good mood was shattered. The claustrophobic sensation she’d pushed aside was suddenly all over her and she felt as if she was being suffocated. She should never have trusted Troy. Knew better. “You think I killed him, don’t you?” she whispered, disbelieving. “You think I killed my own husband.” Inwardly she cringed. And what do you think, Caitlyn?
“It doesn’t matter what I think, Caitlyn, but for the record, no. I don’t think you’re capable of murder. You have your problems—well, hell, we all do—but I don’t think you’re a cold-blooded murderer.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she said, stung.
“I’m just warning you, that’s all.” He adjusted his tie. “For Christ’s sake, don’t wig out on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She folded her arms over her chest and walked him to the front door where, thank God, no reporters were camping out. But she knew that her empty front garden with its hummingbirds hovering near her feeder and a dragonfly skittering through the vines wouldn’t be peaceful for long.
This was just the calm before the storm.
She glanced at the sky.
Clear and blue.
Deceptive.
As Troy climbed into his Range Rover, she waved and felt the burn and tightness in her wrists, the scratches that were healing . . . how in the world had they gotten there? All she had to go on were the horrifying flashes—sharp-edged bursts that sizzled through her brain like lightning bolts.
Disjointed pieces of a dream?
Some kind of ESP?
Coincidence?
Or horrific bits of a memory too terrible to remember?
Five
Adam Hunt picked the lock deftly. Anyone watching might have thought he owned the key to this thick wooden door because the latch sprang so easily. But he’d been careful. He was alone. No one was in the hallway of the hundred-and-fifty-year-old house that had been converted into an office building. Nobody had seen him enter silently, swinging the door closed behind him.
Inside, the room was hot. Cloying. Dust had settled on every surface; a potted palm was brittle and dead near the window, the soil surrounding its roots bone dry. He looked around the office as he cracked a window, and the smell of Old Savannah slipped into the tiny office with its worn wooden floors and haphazardly placed rugs.
A leather recliner, sofa and rocking chair were grouped together. Positioned catty-corner to the seating area was a tall armoire that held video equipment. Beneath the window a short, glass-fronted bookcase contained a small library on human psychoses, sexuality, morals, hypnosis and every human frailty or depravity known to man. Some of the books had belonged to him. So had the rocker. But no longer.
His jaw clenched as he crossed to the rolltop.
Her desk was locked.
Of course.
Not that it was a problem.
Her desk chair squeaked as he sat in it, and he noticed where its rollers had worn a path on the carpet, a small arc, so that she could turn to her computer or notes, then face her clients again. Jaw tightening, he quickly pried the desk open and rolled the top up. Inside, the cubicles and drawers of stamps, paper clips, envelopes and the like were neat. Tidy.
Just like the woman who had so recently sat in this scarred chair.
So where the hell are you, Rebecca? Absently he rubbed his knee. It was starting to bother him again, the result of a recent motorcycle accident.
He turned on the computer, tapped his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair and glared at the dusty screen as it clicked and hummed, the monitor glowing bright. He found her files, skimmed them, his lips flat over his teeth. Was it his imagination or did he smell a faint trace of her perfume lingering over the musty odor of the office?
Wishful thinking, nothing more.
Fingers moving skillfully, he scrolled through her patient files, getting quick peeks into the problems,
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