Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

The night has waxed into dawn, the finest string of rose gold creeping into my den. I am stiff, and when I rise, I groan.

I love being a writer, the triumph of finishing something that is at once raw and brilliant, almost more satisfying than the thumping gavel of justice. At least with a book, I can write the ending I want; an ending we all want.

This time.

My muse has given me her best. My imagination takes a quick jog and I let the thought settle. I just might have a bestseller on my hands.

When I get up and pad to the door of my office, I notice the voices are gone, but light pulses from the family room. I wander in and see the television has gone to sleep, just the screen saver scrolling up the latest news. Eve forgot to turn off the volume, however, and when I click off the power, the buzz of the late night station vanishes.

I’m tired, but my body hums with the still too vivid memories so maybe I just need a hot shower.

And Eve. But I don’t want to wake her at 5 a.m. Too early. There’ll be time to tell her everything later.

The den used to be a guest room, and the bathroom off the entry is equipped with a shower. I heat it up, get in and stand under the spray, my arms braced against the wall.

Images assault me. Burke, young and with hair, that stupid soul patch.

Asher, and his Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, it’s your funeral. Clearly my imagination is conjuring him up to play a role in my subconscious.

There’s Danny Mulligan and his warning. Maybe a remnant sliver of guilt. I did, technically, get her into trouble.

My mother’s voice, fresh and bright and unslurred on the phone.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Finally, John Booker. Alive, believing in me.

All pieces of my past, shattered, remade. My subconscious crafting a happy ending.

I soap up, rinse off and when I close my eyes, Ramses is there, his knife slicing into my kidneys.

My hand finds its way to where the wound was in the dream, as if it might be real.

I touch a rumple of flesh, and jerk.

What?

No. Not possible.

I twist my body to see it, but it’s behind me, just above my hip. My hand seeks it again, and yes, something is there. A ridge of flesh, puckered up, but smooth.

Turning off the water, I step out into the humid, steamy air. Take a towel, wipe the sodden mirror and turn around, looking over my shoulder.

I just stare, my brain looping round and round, trying to make sense out of the scar. It’s three inches wide, running at an angle from my hip into my back, thick and jagged and old. Nearly faded, reddened only by the spray of the shower.

Definitely a wound that could have been made by Ramses’ dagger thrust just above my kidney.

My pulse has found my throat.

I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist and take the stairs fast. Ashley’s door is closed, and I head straight for my bedroom.

I know Eve is asleep, but how can I not have a memory of being stabbed?

The bed is dark, just a form huddled along her side, Eve, as usual, wrapped up like a burrito. I tiptoe in and sit down on the edge. Put a hand on her shoulder. “Honey? Wake up.”

My hand sinks into the body-sized wad and it takes only a second to realize that these are pillows, mounded up, as if pushed into a row.

I flick on the light.