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But her legs were suddenly wooden and she noticed that the raindrops had turned to rose petals, falling and dancing against the white walls of the church to stain it red and run, like rivulets of blood, to the cobblestones, swirling around her feet, a garish eddy encircling her. She tried to call out to Jay, but her voice was muted.
She spun, turning in slow motion to search for him through the storm, but the figure that appeared was cloaked in black, his arms spread wide, his poncho stretching into wings just as he swooped, his fingers becoming talons, razor sharp and glinting—
Kristi awoke just before the killer struck.
Her heart was racing, sweat collecting at the roots of her hair.
She flung an arm across the wide bed, but it was empty.
Cold.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she sniffed loudly, swiped a hand under her nose in the darkness, and fought the urge to break down. It was a nightmare. The same hideous dream that chased her through her troubled nights. It shifted with slight variations, but essentially, she awoke each night, her heart thudding wildly, the vivid scenes holding tight to her brain as she roused.
A glance at the clock.
4:47.
“Too early,” she told herself as she walked to the bathroom and listened to the house creak and moan in the predawn hours, as if the cottage they’d shared, too, was in mourning.
“Oh, stop it,” she said aloud. “You’re acting like an idiot.”
Still, despite her sudden burst of bravado, she wondered if she’d ever sleep again, if this cozy little house would ever seem like home again. She’d so loved their little cottage and now . . . oh, God, now what?
She saw his aftershave on the shelf to the left of the mirror, reached for the bottle, opened it, and smelled.
Bad idea.
All sorts of images came to mind. All of him. She capped the bottle quickly, considered throwing it away, but replaced it, leaving it on the shelf where it belonged. The thought of getting rid of anything of his was mind numbing. She wasn’t ready. She just couldn’t do it. Not yet. Her throat grew thick and she wished, just one more time, she could feel the touch of his hand against her cheek.
Instead, she thought of the baby—the child he would never see—and she nearly crumpled. Grasping the edge of the sink, she forced herself to stand upright. The hole in her heart was just so, so huge.
Taking in a shaky breath, she stiffened her spine, then splashed cold water on her face. She saw her reflection in the mirror over the sink. Pale and hollow eyed, hair wild, breathing still uneven. “Pull it together,” she told her reflection, then went to the kitchen where she drank a full glass of water and eyed the coffeemaker.
Not yet.
She should try to go back to bed.
Catch up on her sleep, but she knew it to be impossible.
For the time being, this—waking up in ultimate despair and fear before five in the morning—was her new, if unwanted routine.
“You can do this, Kris. Move on.”
She heard Jay’s voice as clearly as if he had been standing in the kitchen next to her and was, as he always did, patting his pockets to make certain he had his phone and keys before leaving for work. She imagined his sheepish smile when he found his phone not in his jacket but on the coffee table where he’d left it the night before. “Someday I’ll figure this out,” he’d say, scooping up the phone, planting a kiss on her cheek, and winking at her. “See ya later, gorgeous!” and off he’d go.
Feeling hollow inside, she walked through the living room where vases of dying flowers and piles of cards had been left on the coffee table, making the place seem like a mausoleum. But she couldn’t deal with them. Not yet. Not this early. In the kitchen she tossed back two Tylenol tablets to fight the headache that had been her constant companion since the attack. Along with keeping up with yoga and tae kwon do, she’d taken up running again, but it was too early to hit the streets and she didn’t have the energy. Then again she couldn’t stay in the house another minute, couldn’t remain where the memories of her husband surrounded her, where she could see him, hear his voice and know it was all in her head, that he was never coming back.
She grabbed her keys and cell, threw a coat over her pajamas, and headed to her car where, once behind the wheel, she drove the city streets. She bought a cup of decaf coffee at a drive-through, then wound her way through the familiar, but now-quiet French Quarter, inching along Decatur Street where she looked through the park to the cathedral, bathed in lights that washed up the tall black spires. And the alley, that dark, narrow street.
There.
There is where he died.
Where my life ended.
“No, Kristi,”he said as if he were sitting in the passenger seat. “Where it begins. Where your new life, and that of our unborn child, starts.”
“Is it?” she asked the ghost beside her. “And how do you know about the baby? I didn’t—I hadn’t told you.”
