Annabelle rolled over and hugged the pillow closer. She blinked, yawned, and then blinked again. Her vision de-blurred and a black framed photograph on the wall came into focus. A single raven, caught in mid-flight filled the frame, its blue-black body in stark contrast with the white matting surrounding it. Annabelle blinked again. She peered into the raven’s eye, taking in the yellow iris, the bottomless pool of inky mystery at its center.
And then, as if coming fully awake from a dream, she realized that she had no such photographs in her home. At least, she didn’t think she did. Her thoughts were still somewhat fuzzy. Did she? No. No ravens.
She blinked once more and rolled back over, taking in her surroundings as she did so. King size bed with black bed sheets, thick and soft. White walls, with black framed photographs or paintings; simple, minimalist and clean cut. Ten foot ceilings, but in here it was recessed so that they were even taller. Black curtains.
At once, everything came back to her. She knew where she was. She recognized the style, even if she had never been in this room before. She knew whose room it was and why she was there. Painfully, her heart slammed hard, once, against her ribcage and she gasped.
Instinctively, she clutched at her chest and curled into herself, closing her eyes.
Max.
Murdered.
She was at Jack’s place. Not his home, because Sherry would be at his home. This must be one of his apartments… Annabelle drew in a tight breath, tensing against the trembling that began to take over her small frame. A flood of memories from that afternoon slammed into her.
She’d had a panic attack and been drugged by the EMT’s. Jack had come. They’d taken Cassie away…
Nausea roiled in her belly. There was something she needed to do. Something she needed to tell Jack. It was why she hadn’t spoken to the cops. She had been in shock, yes, but not as badly as she’d led them to believe. She just needed to see Jack.
“Jack…” she got the word out, through clenched teeth, and then moaned into the blankets beneath her. The world spun. She clutched at the mattress.
Somewhere in her periphery consciousness, a door opened and a man entered the room, quickly moving to the bed, sitting beside her.
“Bella.” A soft but commanding tone. A British accent. She felt strong hands on her arms, pulling her to the edge of the mattress. “Bella, relax. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
She allowed Jack to pull her against his chest. She pressed herself into him, trying to absorb his strength through osmosis. Her body trembled, even as it still felt numb and prickly from the residual effects of the drugs she’d been given.
And then she remembered what she’d needed to tell him.
“Jack, Max’s hands-”
“Shhhh. I’ve got you, Bella.”
“Jack, listen to me.” She pulled away from him and he hesitantly let her go. His blue eyes bore into hers, his attention fixed. She continued, quickly, trying to get it all out at once. “Max is left-handed. The pills were in his right hand.”
Jack was silent for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, his eyes remaining locked on hers, his face expressionless.
“And Klonapin doesn’t work that way, Jack. I know, because I’ve taken it before. It’s for anxiety – it works slowly.” Tears began to stream from her eyes, but she wiped at them absently and continued, going so far as to grab Jack’s shirt front in desperation. “Jack, can you even think of a drug that works so fast that it knocks the person out while they’re still holding the open bottle in one hand?”
Again, Jack said nothing. However, after a few more tense, silent moments, he shook his head. Once.
“He asked me to dinner, Jack,” and then, quickly, as if she were afraid she would stop speaking before it was all out, “he has a son.” At this point, her voice had risen a few octaves and, likewise, she’d lifted herself onto her knees so that she was at eye level with him. “And I got a message from him. A text message. Cassie and I read it at Taco Bell in St. Paul and it freaked us out so much that we rode back to the office right away…”
Jack blinked then, as if processing some new bit of information and filing it away for later. And then he straightened. Annabelle let go of his shirt. Jack pulled a cell phone from an inside pocket. He looked down at the screen, pushed a few buttons, and cleared his throat. In a deep, emotionless voice, he said, “Forest pink pastel.”
“You took my cell phone.”
“I took everything, Bella. Look for yourself.”
For the second time that day, Annabelle looked down at her own body and found that it was barely clothed. She wore only her underwear and t-shirt, beneath which, she could feel that she still wore a bra. She couldn’t exactly blame him for removing the jeans. They were constricting.
“Forest pink pastel,” he repeated, drawing her attention back to him. “Does it mean anything to you?”
“No,” she answered, her brow furrowed. “Not yet anyway. I have to think about it. And, I’m having trouble thinking.”
“Why did it frighten you so much to receive this message?”
“Because that isn’t like Max. He doesn’t do the cryptic thing. He’s straight-forward and to the point and-” She cut herself off, realizing what she was saying. And then a strange kind of pain, like a combination of heat and cold, assaulted her from somewhere deep inside her chest. In her mind’s eye, she saw Max sitting at his desk, smiling at her, his green eyes sparkling. He was inviting her to dinner. And then he was on the floor of his office, all limp and not breathing and wrong –
“Bella, did you call him after you got this message?” Jack was pulling her out of herself, drawing her to him, keeping her from descending into something awful.
“Yes. I tried his landline,” she said softly, swallowing against the lump that had formed in her throat. Her chest ached. “No answer. So,” she swallowed again, “I tried his cell. It went to voice mail.” Her head began to ache, a throbbing in her jaw that told her she was holding it too tight.
“Bella, look at me.”
She pulled her gaze from the spot at the end of the mattress where she’d gotten lost and forced herself to stare up into Jack’s eyes.
“Can you do this?” he asked. His tone was gentle, his question simple. She knew he was referring to the questioning. Jack was trying to help her. And if she wanted help, if she wanted to figure out what happened to Max, this was how it would have to be done.
She nodded, just once, and closed her eyes. She licked her lips, which had gone very dry. As opposed to her eyes, which were plenty wet.
Jack nodded as well and gave her a moment. Then he asked, “Did you see him this morning?”
“Yes. When I went in. He gave me some jobs.”
“And he asked you to dinner.”
“No, that was later. Before I went to lunch.”
Jack paused for a moment and then asked, “This morning, after you’d gotten in, did anything out of the ordinary occur?”
“No, not that…” Her voice trailed off. Something strange had occurred. A coffee pot hadn’t been where it was supposed to be. “Actually, yes. Max had a laptop. It was Teresa’s. He said he found it in a coffee pot box.”
Jack’s gaze intensified and she knew he was paying extra close attention. “Tell me exactly what he said.”
Annabelle closed her eyes. Her head was sort of spinning. Too much information, too quickly. She tried to sort it out, set it right. What had Max said? “Um…” She licked her lips again. When she opened her eyes it was to find that Jack was holding a glass of water out to her. She stared at it. And then she took it in shaking hands and took a few very difficult swallows. It helped a little.