“That makes sense.”
“I thought so, too. Figured he got tired of waiting, dialed up to the party hoping to snag a ride. He connected with somebody, the question is who.”
“I’ll put that at the top of my list. Thanks.” Reed ended the call and extricated himself from Alex. “I’ve got to go.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Have you told me everything, Alex?”
“Who was that?”
“Tanner.”
“I see. So did she have some new incriminating evidence against me? Some suspicious thing I’ve held back?”
“She questioned your Sommer tour guide from yesterday. The woman said that on the tour, you brought up the death of Harlan’s first wife and Dylan’s disappearance.”
“Was that a crime?”
He searched her gaze. “Why’d you do that, Alex?”
“I can’t believe this.”
“Why, Alex?”
“I don’t know. I was mad. Pushing a point. In all those pictures in the Sommer museum, not one of me, my mother or Dylan.” She tipped up her chin. “You couldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She didn’t respond. He sensed she was preparing her thoughts, sifting through them to find the truth. Her truth.
Or maybe he was simply naive. The duped homicide detective. Blinded when it came to a woman. He wouldn’t be the first.
She began, speaking softly, “You can’t understand because your roots go deep. You know who you are and where you come from. I don’t have that.
“I feel a connection to this place. Sometimes the connection scares me. Like in the caves.” She looked away, then back at him, expression raw. “This place is part of my history. I want to know the missing pieces. And I want to belong. Did I pass the test, Reed? Am I naked enough now?”
He stood and crossed to her, cupped her face in his palms. “Do you realize how bad all this looks?”
He could tell by her face that she didn’t, not fully. “You being there two days in a row, you asking those questions, your confrontation with Clark-”
“I didn’t leave the doll, Reed. I returned to Sommer today determined to take the tour again and figure out what the hell happened to me in those caves. And since you’re wondering, I didn’t slaughter that lamb and leave it for me to ‘find.’ Nor did I create that altar or kill Max Cragan. I may be nuts, but I’m not that nuts.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy. But I need to know everything. From now on, total, brutal honesty.” He searched her gaze. “The truth is, Alex, whatever’s happening, you’re a part of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Monday, March 15
4:25 A.M.
Alex opened her eyes, fully awake. She held herself completely still, fear thundering through her veins. She moved her gaze slowly over the room. The darkness seeming to swallow it. The absolute and utter quiet.
Someone was in her house.
Slowly, she inched into a sitting position. She reached for her cell phone, resting on the bed stand. She closed her fingers over it, its cool weight reassuring. She let a breath out slowly, then listened some more.
Why was it so quiet? Where were the creaks and moans she had learned to associate with this old house?
She hadn’t been dreaming. Something, someone, had awakened her.
Or had she been? A disgusted laugh slipped past her lips. Another nightmare. Shit. Would she ever sleep through the night again? She looked at the bedside clock and groaned. Four thirty in the morning.
Margo sat up, stretched and blinked at her. “Yeah, I know,” Alex muttered, “I’m certifiable.”
Her voice, the words, brought her and Reed’s encounter crashing back.
She still hadn’t been completely honest with him. She hadn’t told him about her visions. Or her nightmares. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to do it. They either made her look crazy, guilty, or both.
“Whatever’s happening, you’re a part of it.”
But which part? she wondered. And why? She squeezed her eyes shut. Remember, Alex. Remember. They’re only memories. They can’t hurt you.
She breathed deeply, working to relax and let go. She focused on what her subconscious had already freed-the robed figures… the flames licking at her… the faceless baby screaming…
Suddenly, an image flooded her mind. The robed men circling her… Hands holding her down… terror… screams and laughter… a thrumming, thundering drumbeat…
Run… run…
Alex launched to her feet, her scream echoing in the empty house. She took a step, then stopped, quaking, terrified. It hadn’t been real. A memory. Or a hallucination.
It was cold, she realized. A cold, damp breeze licked at her bare feet. She’d left her window cracked open. Alex reached for her robe, hanging on the bedpost, and shivering, slipped into it.
She closed the bedroom window, but still felt a breeze. Funny, she didn’t remember having opened another window.
Goose bumps racing up her legs, Alex followed the breeze. The bathroom. The single window at the far end stood open. The gauzy drape stirred.
Not bothering with the light, she hurried across the bathroom, yanked the window shut and locked it.
She stopped and relieved herself, the toilet seat frigid against her backside, then started back to her bed. Her foot landed on something. Cold and soft. It squished beneath her foot and between her toes.
Fear took her breath. She pictured the slaughtered lamb, eye winking up at her.
With a cry, Alex flipped on the light and was momentarily blinded. Then she saw red. Smeared across the floor. On her foot and between her toes. Her heart leapt to her throat. A series of images played across her mind: the lamb, the bloodied doll in the fermenting tank, the altar, dried blood spilled across its top.
With a squeak of fear, she took a step back. More wet. More red. Bringing her hands to her mouth to stifle a scream, she realized what she was looking at.
Lipstick. The red she and Rachel had picked out.
How had it ended up on the floor?
The scream became an embarrassed giggle. Thank goodness no one but Margo was here to see her make such a monumental ass out of herself.
She bent to pick it up, then stopped. Red on her right hand, a stain. She studied it, frowning. Her writing hand. Along her forefinger, on the ball of her hand and thumb.
Slowly, she straightened. Turned toward the mirror. There, scrawled across it in Light Your Fire red, was one word: Remember.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Monday, March 15
4:50 A.M.
With a cry, Alex turned and ran back to her bed. She flipped on the bedside light and threw back the covers. There, on the sheets, more red.
Alex stared at it in horror. Dear God, had she done this? Could she have?
She hugged herself, feeling as if she might be sick. What was happening to her? Was she crazy? She’d have to be, to have done that-and not remember. Like one of those people with multiple personalities.
She sank to the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. She’d always feared becoming mentally ill, like her mother. Now, it was happening.
No, God no. She’d just been telling herself to remember-had she dreamed it? Had she walked in her sleep? Could she have been? Maybe the someone in her house who had awakened her had been her.
She jumped to her feet, grabbed her cell phone and, clutching it to her chest, ran to the front of the house, flipping on every light on the way.
No more scrawled messages or open windows. Nothing different. Nothing out of place.
Call Reed.
No. He can’t know this. Crazy… he’ll think I’m-
Losing my mind, she thought. Is this what it’d been like for her mother? Had she even been able to recall destroying her art? Or had it played out like a nightmare or a fugue state?
Stop it, Alex. Stop. Think. Get a grip on yourself.