Fifty

“That must have been some nightmare,” Mike said softly.

“It was, and I’m glad it’s over.”

But though the nightmare images were gone, my breathing was still labored, my skin felt clammy, and my heart was galloping like a Triple Crown contender.

“Maybe I should get up,” I said. “I need to sleep but I don’t want to close my eyes again. I don’t want to go back there—”

“Then just hold on to me until you feel better. I’m not going anywhere.”

Under the bedcovers, Mike pulled me close. With his arms around me, my heart rate began to slow and my breathing gradually returned to normal. As they did, Mike reminded me how he’d suffered nightmares about the darker cases he’d worked.

Sometimes his dreams painted images that were bloody and violent, other times minute and mundane. He said it was his mind attempting to process all the little details—the people and evidence—as a way of trying to make sense out of things that made no sense.

“Dreams are like that,” he said. “Puzzles with pieces missing. Somewhere there’s a complete picture, but you can’t make it out.”

“Not yet, anyway,” I said.

“Do you remember the details of your dream?”

“Some of them,” I said and told him. “So, what do you think?”

“Well, I can’t explain what the duck was trying to tell you,” Mike said, “or why your Fire and Ice ladies were fighting, but I’m pretty sure I know why you saw Tucker in that shallow grave.”

“Why? Is he in danger?”

“No, Clare. I doubt that he is.”

“Then why did I see Tucker lying dead in a vacant lot?”

“Because he’s an actor.”

“An actor,” I whispered. “Of course. My mind substituted him for the young actor who was killed all those years ago.”

“And discovered buried under debris in a vacant lot in Brooklyn. Obviously, your head won’t let that cold case rest.”

I pulled away from Mike’s arms and propped myself up to meet his eyes. “That unsolved case is the key to the attack on Mr. Scrib. I’m sure of it. If we could find out more about what really happened all those years ago, I’ll bet it will shed light on who attacked Mr. Scrib and why.”

“You know what? That’s something I can help you with.”

“You can?”

“I can request the file. Because it’s an older case, it will take a few days to get my hands on it; but, like you said, it’s unsolved, and I can certainly review it.”

“That would be a huge help.”

“All right, then. How’s this? You tell me what you discover at brunch today, and when I obtain the cold case file on the actor’s death, I’ll share what I learn. Deal?”

“Deal. Thank you, Mike. I could kiss you.”

“You could—” he began to reply, but I didn’t give him the chance to finish his quip. My lips were already covering his.