Chapter 8
Luke
It was a lot darker night than I’d expected. And suddenly, my cell had no service, so I couldn’t even hire a Ride Along. Or Lola, for that matter.
I was stuck wandering the winding hillside road of Stony Brook Lane. And of course I was wearing a black shirt and dark gray pants, like I actually wanted to get run over by a half-drunken after-party reveler.
My head hurt. A lot. I should’ve taken my painkillers before I left home like a good pain-management patient. Worse, Lola was probably going to flip out when she woke up after the TV show ended and I wasn’t there. Knowing my sister’s tendency to overreact, my name would be all over the police scanners any second now.
I stumbled over a stone and landed knee-first in a shallow brook. Sure enough, the lane’s name supported truth in advertising. Futilely wiping off the wetness, I continued my perilous journey—one I should not be on.
But … at least finding the house and the anniversary party in full swing proved I wasn’t crazy.
I am so crazy.
Or was I? There were so many coincidences. I pulled out my phone and found the checklist I’d made, the list of things I’d seen in my dream. Dog dish, Jasper, Bluebird Chocolates, the color of her sheets, the smiley face on the toaster, everything I could remember after I’d awakened from the dream.
Next to the lines with her parents’ names, the address, the anniversary, I placed little checkmarks.
My finger hovered over the line with her kiss.
Yeah, I was so crazy.
Or was I? Something was happening. Something I definitely couldn’t tell Lola about. I shouldn’t have mentioned it in the first place.
Sheridan Chandler, huh? Still a pill. A total pill. But her reaction when I accused her of sending that ski-masked jerk after me looked wholly innocent and utterly shocked—enough that I couldn’t tell myself anymore that she’d ordered the attack on me. Not that I had actually believed that. Not really. It had only just occurred to me as we talked on the back porch.
But she also certainly wasn’t the warm, tender, sweet-voiced woman I’d awakened beside the other morning. The one whose halo of auburn curls had spread out on the soft white fabric of the pillow of our shared bed, who’d looked at me like I was the one who hung the moon. And who’d kissed me like I was her possession.
No, tonight, she’d basically called me a jerk and threatened again to bring a lawyer into the picture. In fact, she’d had her lawyer right there at the party, as if she’d lain in wait for me.
Okay, I was seriously so insane.
At least I knew what miz meant now, though. So, yeah. One curiosity satisfied.
And not in a good way. How gauche could I be? The widow answer totally shut me up.
Honestly, I should pretend my dream and this night had never happened—and hope I never see Miz Sheridan Chandler again.
But that kiss. That feeling. That love.
Those demanded I rediscover them, reclaim them, or at least experience them one more time. Frankly, I craved that feeling more than my painkillers.
More than I craved air.
Car lights loomed up behind me, and a horn honked. I nearly took my second tumble into the brook, but I caught my balance on a tree trunk as the sedan swerved in my direction.
What? Another hit out on me? I dodged behind the tree now, but its trunk wasn’t nearly substantial enough to stop the weight of a car. Did somebody seriously want me dead?
The car screeched to a halt, spitting gravel from the side of the road. The window rolled down, revealing the face of—
“Hey, you’re walking?” A female voice muttered one of those pseudo-curses. “At least you’re not driving. But you shouldn’t be walking either.”
“Ms. Chandler?”
“Sheridan, please. Get in. You can’t walk home.”
Well, I couldn’t argue with that, but I also would rather have hitched a ride on the back of a Hell’s Angels dude’s Harley. He’d wish me less harm than she did. “I’ll be fine.”