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“Billie Jean is not my…”
Who had taken this video?
She didn’t remember…
Drip. Drip. Drip.
So loud.
Like rolling thunder in her aching head.
Liquid warmth splashed on the tops of her bare feet and she looked down quickly. Her eyes rounded as she saw the blood dripping from the long blade of knife in her hand, the red stain spreading into a pool.
What?
No!
She tried to scream but couldn’t and as she looked toward the open french doors, she saw her father lying on the floor near the coffee table. He stared up at her, eyes unblinking, a jagged gash on his forehead, a spreading stain on the front of his rumpled white shirt.
Gasping, blood gurgling from the corner of his mouth, he stared up at her, then, struggling whispered in a wet rasp, “Why?”
Transfixed, her hand now sticky with blood, she started to scream—
¤ ¤ ¤
Jules awoke with a jerk. Heart pounding, head splitting, she sat bolt upright in bed. It was freezing in the bedroom of her condo, the sliding doors open wide, wind rushing inside.
The rain beat a quick-paced tattoo against her deck. She threw on her robe, disturbing her cat in the process. Curled into a ball, Diablo mewed in protest as he lifted his head.
“Sorry,” she said as she yanked the door closed and snapped the lock, then looked at the clock. “Seven forty-three? Really? Holy crap!” She was late. Because of the damned nightmare, the recurring dream that came in times of st
ress, which, lately seemed just about every day.
Although usually Cooper Trent wasn’t in the shattered montage of frightening scenes that filled her fitful sleep. “Great. One more piece to the great unsolved puzzle of my psyche.” The less she thought of the son of a bitch, the better. “Get out of my life, off of my cloud, out of my way and all of the above,” she muttered, angry that her subconscious had dredged him up to make him a player in her own personal nightmare.
She didn’t have time for a shower, much less a jog. Instead, she threw water over her face, tossed down a couple of extra strength Excedrin, washing them down by tilting her head under the sink. After yanking on her jeans and tossing an oversized sweatshirt over her head, she found an old Trailblazers cap, then searched for her keys, scrounging in her purse and in the pockets of the jacket she’d worn the day before.
Her cell phone rang and she found it on the floor, uncharged.
She flipped it open and saw Shay’s face on the small LED screen along with her sister’s phone number. “Hi!” she said.
“Where are you?” Shay demanded.
“I’m on my way.”
“It’s too late. We’re almost there!”
“Now?” Again she glanced at the clock. “I thought you were leaving at nine.”
“The pilot called. There’s a storm or something. I don’t know. He has to fly out earlier.”
“Damn!”
“She’s really doing it, Jules,” Shay said and some of the toughness in her voice disappeared. “She’s getting rid of me.”
That was a little overly dramatic. But it was Shay. Through and through.
“Tell her to wait,” Jules said.
