Chapter 3

Sunlight glares through the curtains surrounding my bedroom window. My skull aches. There’s a deep scar in the wood of my headboard from last night’s fight, stained with fresh blood. What the hell happened last night? Reaching for the back of my head, I notice my hair is wet and I’m dizzy. The red-stained pillow doesn’t help settle my stomach, either. Think I’m gonna vomit.

Damn. Damn. Damn! A concussion. How’d I get so sloppy?

I’m gonna need stitches. Better call Sarah, tell her I won’t be in. Then, shower the filth from my body. I can still feel his hands on me and in me.

Staring at my face in the mirror, I wonder how I’ve allowed myself to sink so low. Instead of going into the dream, taking out the degenerate soul and waking like I did when I was younger, I play with him. I want to drag out the inevitable, let him think he can win then take him out. Sometimes, I have a hidden yearning to be killed by one of the demons I meet at night. If only pride would get out of the way to allow the desired ending to my existence here. Too bad that same pride doesn’t notice the self-loathing permitting me to let a serial killer soil my body with his touch. The game, the yearning to mind-fuck someone who's already sick beyond repair; it’s the obsession I can’t exorcize from my perverted soul.

Decades have passed since I’ve felt anyone gently caress my shoulder or stroke my hair in a moment of kindness. I crave the touch of another but fear the commitment of a relationship. Oh, God, I’m so fucked up. Why is it I’ve settled for trading the warm comfort of tenderness for a fierce thrill from a killer’s hands? Some angel I’ve turned out to be.

My greatest fear is I’ll someday become one of them. I fear the idea of giving in to the darkness, becoming a rogue angel. The thought makes me cringe. Can I find something to make me want to live again before that happens?

Thankfully, I’m able to make an early appointment with a doctor who’s fairly new to this area. The clinic isn’t far from my home so I have time to clean up as best I can before leaving.

When I arrive, the nurse scrubs my cut and disinfects the surrounding area with iodine. She regards me as if I’m a weak woman, battered, victimized by a man I profess to love while making excuses for his crime. I let her patronize me. This wouldn’t be the first time someone assumed they understood my troubles.

Nearly half an hour passes before the doctor walks in and takes a look at me, shaking his head. I’m surprised at how handsome he is, but mostly at how familiar he seems. I’d expected someone older and more weathered. His hair is light brown with a touch of gray peppering his temples. Soft blue eyes peer down at me, smiling even though he’s frowning, like someone I once knew, long before I came here. But it is a ghost of a memory, one I can’t grasp.

“How’d it happen?” His voice is emotionless while he examines the torn flesh.

“I fell, hit the corner of the counter.”

He stops touching my scalp and sits on a stool in front of me with the expression of a parent who knows they’ve been lied to. “A blunt object cracked your skull.”

I can only stare back at him with little more to say. “Blunt counter,” I defiantly replied, anyway.

He had me. Questions about my husband and his occupation.

Does he drink?

“I’m single.”

Am I in a relationship?

“No. I live alone. I’m completely alone.” Pathetic.

He regards me as if I’m lying.

“Come home with me if you don’t believe me.”

He’s good looking, but that’s not the point. It’s not like I want to have sex with him. Just want to prove my point.

“Much more of this, young lady, and soon they’ll pick you up in a body bag.” As if I didn’t already know. Surprisingly, he isn’t impressed by the sarcastic rise of my brow. Hm.

The whole time he’s stitching my head, I think about Collin Leary, wondering if he’s the type to ambush someone while hiding in the shadows. But then again, cowardice didn’t seem his style. I remember the night in his gallery, how he smiled as he circled me. The confident grin on his face, the way his eyes tracked mine, showed he knew fighting me was a risk and he was willing to carry through regardless of the consequences. No doubt he saw the challenge in my eyes as well while I stared him down, waiting for the first throw. But then, I don’t remember what he did after that. All I know is he locked the door. The rest is gone, not even a blur. Why can’t I remember? Even with a skull injury I recall everything from last night, right up to the point where I was cold-cocked. At least I think I remember everything. Did anything else happen last night—between the time I went down and the instant Phillip took his last breath—the moment before waking? Did the second attacker—Collin Leery, maybe—take advantage of me? If he did, I’ll be sure he suffers before he dies.

Then, I begin to wonder if there’s a correlation between the one who hit me last night and why I can’t remember the fight at the crystal boutique? The sole person who recalls the dream is Sarah. Hopefully, she still remembers. She did yesterday morning. I’ll need an excuse to get her alone and find out what she knows.

Fifteen stitches and a prescription for painkillers and I’m finally on my way. The crumpled script is tossed in the trash on the way out. I stopped allowing pain to control me long ago. Figured I deserved every aching moment I’ve experienced in this life.

I’m home long enough to call Sarah and pull on a clean pair of jeans. The white scoop-neck top is easier to sneak over my head. My face is pale, dark circles under my eyes. I’d lost a bit of blood, which reminds me. I have to take care of my bedding.

Torn sheets, bloody pillow and pillowcase, all tossed into the fireplace. Something I’ve done since that night in the mountains. I was only fifteen and still traumatized. Couldn’t bring myself to wash my blood out of the sheets, so I burned them instead.

Watching the blaze devouring 600-thread Egyptian cotton reminds me of that hidden campsite and two boys pulling me from their car, throwing me to the ground in front of the glare of headlights. Closing my eyes, I push the thought from my mind once again. Why must I remember them every time I burn my sheets? Why can’t I get beyond that night?

Soon the evidence of last night’s fight is purified. As the flames flicker down, I come to the conclusion no amount of fire could purify my soul.

After putting my hair in a ponytail, I grab my purse and car keys and head out to meet Sarah at the mall. The drive is too long with my head still aching. Passing cars are a mere blur in my peripheral vision. Maybe I should’ve kept that script for painkillers after all. Might be a good reason to go back and see that handsome doc. What in the hell is wrong with me? First a demon, now my doctor. I may be losing my mind.

Since it’s Thursday, the place is fairly empty, exactly what I was shooting for. Sarah is late as usual, so I wait, ignoring the different scents of those around me, thinking only of Phillip Bradley. Remembering the scenario, the office, his appearance, I ponder more on what happened afterward. What I smelled last night was familiar but brief. There was no opportunity to discern the origin. They waited until I’d finished the kill. My mind was preoccupied with Phil and the tie I’d wrapped around his throat, turning from blue to purple with his blood. I was imagining his wife finding him in the morning with a deep hole in his neck, the one I gave him in his sleep. Of course she would cry and try to shake him awake, never realizing he’d intended to kill his secretary. He’d hired her for solely that purpose. Boss of the Year.

When I turned away, there was the new scent and something more. The feeling was of a breeze rushing through a thick section of trees, pine and ferns. Whoever it was had been in the state of Washington. Had they followed me from there? Was it Collin Leary? Doesn’t seem likely, but there are many unknowns about this man.

Sarah suddenly plops down on the bench beside me and I’m immediately assaulted by the sickly strong odor of cologne. “Run out of perfume yet?” Choke.

“No, silly. Still have plenty. Why? You liiike it?” She swipes a strand of hair from her eyes and waves her wrist in front of my nose. I usually like her perkiness, but lately, it seems to grate on my nerves. Maybe I’m getting too old for her nonsense.

“Hate it. Makes me sick.” The only way to repel the nausea is to breathe solely from my mouth. If she just understood the repugnance of her scent, she’d destroy the bottle to save us all.

Sarah laughs at me as if I’m joking. She’ll never get me. “Why’d you wanna meet anyway? I thought you were sick.”

“I need your help.” As expected, her eyes center on me like she’s interested. “I need a dress.”

“What kind of dress?” She finally becomes serious.

“The kind you wear to an art gallery event.”

I hadn’t expected her to bounce up and down on the bench, clapping her hands. Chagrin. Serious moment ended. I don’t remember her ever being this perky. Something’s up.

After grabbing hold of her hands, I hold them tightly together. “Stop. You didn’t just win the lottery.”

“I knew you’d change your mind. He’s so hot, isn’t he? I had a feeling you liked him, too.”

“What d’you mean, too?”

She scoffs at me. Annoying. “You mean to tell me you didn’t notice him staring at you? I thought he was gonna drool on the desk while you were looking into his account.” Abruptly standing, she puts her hands on her hips. “You’ll need something black.”

Hmm, perfect metaphor, I think.

“And sensual. Short and tight,” she adds, reaching for my hand, pulling me to my feet.

“Not tight or short. Nothing sensual.” Maybe this was a big mistake.

“Low cut is a definite.”

What? “No.”

“Do you want to get his attention or are you planning to bore him to death, hmm?”

Hmm, hadn’t thought of that tactic. One of these times I’ll try boring my demons to death. Maybe I can get them to kill themselves out of pure desperation.

She grabs my arm. “Leave it to me.” I may have lost control of this situation.

With a death-grip on my bicep, she pulls me down the corridors of the mall. My head is still aching, partly Sarah’s fault with her incessant chattering and the gag-inducing perfume. Reconsidering my decision to meet with her, I begin to think I should’ve taken the doctor’s advice and stayed in bed. My curiosity could have waited another day. I may regret this.

Once we reach the upper floor, Sarah stops in front of a store obviously geared for teenagers.

“No.” My expression of distaste isn’t enough.

“Why not?”

Without saying a word, I give her the look.

She narrows her eyes in contemplation and a show of disapproval.

“Sarah, I’m a woman, not a child.”

Reminiscent of a sixth grader, she heaves a sigh and rolls her eyes as if to say whatever.

Turning in place, I start surveying the stores in my general area. Cooking supplies, cheap jewelry, sporty shoes, fine jewelry, department store. I stop in place. Department store. Ladies fashions. Looks classy. That’s the one.

Reacting as if she’s my teenaged daughter, Sarah scrunches her nose at me. “No way. That’s for old ladies. Are you an old lady, yet?”

If she only knew. “Yes.”

“No, you’re not. Come on.”

My voice is nearly pleading as I try to convince her. “It’s a classy store. Look, they have designer clothes.” When I move toward the entrance, she grabs my arm. I had no idea Sarah was so strong.

“I can’t let you do it, James. You’re dressing hot for Mr. Hottie or you’ll embarrass me.” This time I sigh and roll my eyes. My response doesn’t stop her from grabbing my hand and dragging me away from the one viable store I can see in this mall.

For more than an hour, we rummage through several boutiques and small chain stores, searching for the perfect dress. Sarah and I have very different tastes in clothing, I’ve come to realize. In fact, there are few things we have in common. I wonder how we became friends. Perhaps I was looking for something sunny to accent my dark side.

Eventually, we find the right dress, back at the department store I’d wanted to try in the first place. We compromise on one with long sleeves to hide my scars, slightly snug, but not breathlessly tight and above the knee, but not too high. A slight amount of cleavage is visible, more if I bend over. The only time I’ll bend over Collin Leary, though, is to check his pulse, ensuring there’s none.

Sarah chooses one for herself that is slightly less revealing; long sleeves because she’s always cold and a high neckline because she doesn’t like her chest. Ah, I see her game. She’s trying to look frumpy so I’ll be the most interesting choice in Mr. Glassblower’s gallery tomorrow night. She’s setting me up, the little vixen. If Sarah knew the truth about Irish Eyes, she might reconsider her plan.

Before leaving the store, I replenish my dwindling supply of bedding. Four pillows, five sets of sheets. This should get me by for another week.

“Starting a boarding house?” Sarah is growing curious about my personal business. Not a good sign.

“Yes.”

She recognizes my sarcasm and laughs at me. I should consider purchasing in bulk.

When we’re done spending our money, we migrate to a quiet restaurant and I sit across from her in the booth. Sarah orders a daiquiri while I stick with water. Normally, I’d go for Tanqueray and tonic, but with as much blood as I’d lost last night, I can’t afford to thin what I have left with alcohol.

Taking a sip from my glass, I lean forward on the table. Sarah does the same. Her expression turns sly, almost devious. I’m curious what that means, but my focus is elsewhere. I’ll store this visual information for later.

“So, we’re alone, now. Tell me about your dream.” I look her in the eyes as she sips from her drink again.

“What dream?” She stops and looks at me oddly, like she’s keeping something from me.

Am I overly suspicious of everyone in my life? Rather than start any drama, I ignore it, realizing it’s just flaky Sarah. “The dream you had about me. You said you wanted to tell me about it, now’s your chance.”

Her eyes suddenly light up. “Yeah…Yeah, that’s right. Oh, my gosh, it was incredible. You were with me and we went to this place. I can’t really remember much about it except there was this guy and he was so hot you could barely move, kinda like that glass guy in the bank yesterday. Then, it got weird.” She takes a sip of her drink and smiles at me.

“What do you mean it got weird?” Growing curious over her comment, I lean closer, knowing this is what I was waiting for.

“He hit you. I was shocked and was about to jump on him like a wolf spider. Didn’t see that coming. Guy hitting a girl for no reason doesn’t happen every day.”

Our server interrupts with a plate of mozzarella sticks. Sarah seizes one with her fingers and starts nibbling on the end, crumbs falling in her lap and clinging to her lips and chin. She’s already forgotten our conversation. I want to reach over and smack the crumbs off her face and the food from her grasp. My impatience grows beyond any harried moment in my past and I wonder why.

Watching her chew like a starving rodent causes a repulsive reaction within me. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten with her before. Suddenly, I’m grateful for that. Can I get her mind off that cheese nugget and back to our conversation before my stomach weakens again?

“And then?” I prod.

She’s still distracted by the food, causing me to roll my eyes again.

Why’d I pick Sarah to be my sole confidant? Because she usually doesn’t ask too many questions about my private life, I guess. She doesn’t get overly inquisitive about my scars, either. Most people pretend they’re concerned and dig deeper to try to save you. What they don’t realize is I’m saving them. I have a job to do. That’s all. I go to sleep, go in, kill and get out. No trouble at all. I can’t explain to them what I’m doing and I can’t tell them why I don’t share my deepest secrets with them. Makes friendships awkward if they’re attentive and emotionally involved. Most people can’t move beyond the idea I don’t have the same troubles they do and they’ll never be able to understand the ones I have.

Sarah, well, it’s simpler with her. She worries about everything in her own little world so she hasn’t the time for my problems. And, I prefer it that way. I have a chance at a relationship with someone who isn’t trying to kill me or save me. Refreshing. So, although I may get annoyed with her lack of attention, it’s the attribute I need most from her.

“Sarah!”

“What? I’m eating. You could use some food, too. Size one-half? Really?”

“Sarah, you were telling me about your dream.” I sound too impatient, too anxious.

“Why are you so interested in my dreams all of a sudden?”

I had to think of something. The last thing I need is to stoke any suspicions in her. Good excuse… Thinking… Got it.

“Sarah. You left off with some hot guy hitting me. Wouldn’t you be interested, too?” Yeah, that’s it. An eyebrow raises a smidge. The other follows.

“Oh, yeah.” She leans forward. “I was about to throw something at him when all of a sudden you swing back and you totally kicked his ass.”

“And then…”

“That’s pretty much it.”

What? Not possible.

“Did I kill him?” Crap. Why did I ask that?

“I swear, James. Sometimes you’re so morbid.” She laughs at me and I feel my jaw tighten.

Now I’m furious because I can’t ask the question again without looking suspicious. Or psychotic. Unless she offers, I won’t know if I killed him without asking again. Not knowing the answer will drive me crazy. Can I reach across the table and shake her without drawing unwanted attention to myself? But I have a thought.

I may be a respected branch manager of a small bank, but I’m also human. At least they see me as human and I am part mortal. Wouldn’t I want to kill someone if they attacked me first? Isn’t that a normal reaction? Maybe not normal for normal people, but Sarah knows me as a super-tough martial arts expert. That would make me a force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t it?

“Sarah, I have skills that would make me a dangerous person when challenged or attacked. Wouldn’t it make sense that I’d rip out someone’s trachea if they hit me?” I’m making sense to her without being morbid. I. Am. Clever.

“Okay.” She’s eating again.

I wait, impatiently drumming my fingers beneath the table where she can’t see them. “So?”

“What?”

“Did I kill him?” I’m waiting, watching her trachea, gritting my teeth.

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

She shakes her head.

“You remember me beating the shit out of him, but you don’t remember if he’s dead?”

“Why does it matter? I told you the most important part. You kicked his trash.”

True. It was important to know I fought back. If I hadn’t killed him, Sarah and I wouldn’t be here to discuss this right now. Somebody died that night. I’d be safe in assuming it was him since he punched me and I took him to town. No demons have ever hit me in the mouth and lived to laugh about it. So why was he in my bank yesterday? Is there another one of him? Did Collin Leary have a twin who died in his sleep two days ago? There’s only one way to tell. I’ll be at his gallery on Friday. Perfect opportunity to find out what he knows and if his inner demon has any plans for retribution.