Her hand brushed his as she headed for the door. His skin was cold—colder even than hers. As cold as the dead. She shivered and shoved her imagination back in its box. It was natural for his hands to be cold. The night was bitter, and he’d spent a good amount of his time out on the verandah, watching her.
She kept her eyes averted from the living room as she ran up the stairs. Her bedroom was the first on the left, Helen’s on the right. Helen’s door was open and the bed still made. She and Ross had obviously been making out on the sofa again.
Swallowing hard, she headed for her wardrobe and grabbed a backpack. She shoved whatever came to hand into it—sweaters, jeans, and a couple of T-shirts—then headed over to the dressing table to collect underwear. And saw, on top of the dresser, a small, gift-wrapped package.
She stared at it for several seconds without moving. Helen had known, she thought. Or at least had sensed that she might not be around for Kirby’s birthday, in two days. Tears blurred her vision, and a sob caught at her throat. She grabbed the present, shoving it into the pack, then opened the drawer, grabbed a handful of underwear, and stuffed that in as well.
She turned and found the young officer standing in the doorway, watching her closely. Though his stance was casual, there was a coldness in his eyes that sent another chill down her spine.
“Ready to go?” he asked, pushing away from the door frame.
She hesitated—then felt stupid for doing so. He was here to help her, not hurt her. She bit her lip and walked toward him. He didn’t move, forcing her to brush past him again. Once more her vision seemed to blur, and it was leathery, scaly skin she was brushing past, not the uniformed presence of the young police officer.
“Want me to carry that backpack for you?” he asked, reaching for it.
She stepped away quickly. “No. I’m okay.”
He frowned again, then shrugged. “This way then, Miss Brown.”
He led the way down the stairs. Another officer, a blond-haired man in his mid-forties, joined him at the base. “Constable John Ryan,” he said to her, his voice as kind as his brown eyes. “Constable Dicks and I have been assigned to keep an eye on you for the night.”
Her fear stirred anew. “You think the murderer might be after me as well?” She knew he was, but it was not something she wanted to say out loud—as if by voicing her fears she would invite the presence to step further into her life.
“Just precautionary measures, that’s all.”
His smile never touched his eyes, and she knew he was lying. He motioned her to follow the young officer. They stepped into the wind and rain and sloshed their way across to the nearest squad car. Constable Ryan held open the back door and ushered her inside.
“It won’t be long,” he said. “Then you can finally relax.”
Relax? Knowing death was out there, waiting for her? But she forced a smile, knowing he meant well.
Constable Dicks climbed into the driver’s side and started the car. It took only five minutes to get to the motel. Dicks stopped near the front office, while Constable Ryan climbed out and collected the key.
The motel was L-shaped, the rooms all single-story. Her room was number thirteen. Unlucky for some, she thought, though up until now she had never considered it so. Dicks parked the car in the room’s allotted space and Ryan got out, quickly opening the door and inspecting the room. He came back moments later and opened the squad car’s back door. Kirby grabbed her pack and climbed out.
The room was basically a small suite—there were two sofas and a couple of armchairs in the main room, along with a kitchenette, a table, and TV. A bedroom lay to her right, with the bathroom next to it.
She headed for the bathroom. She needed a shower, needed to wash the smell of death from her skin. She wished she could do the same with her memories.
“Need anything to eat, Miss Brown?” Constable Ryan asked, picking up the phone. “I’m going to order some pizza.”
The thought made her stomach turn. She shook her head, then closed the bathroom door. Leaning her forehead against the wood for a moment, she took a deep, long breath. She wanted—needed—to be alone.
But she wasn’t, so she couldn’t let go just yet. Couldn’t allow herself to feel the pain. A bad habit, Helen had once told her.
She dumped her backpack on the edge of the bathtub and reached into the shower, turning on the hot-water tap. The water was icy, so she let it run, and hunted around for the little packets of soap and shampoo. She found several of both in the cupboard under the sink, and shoved a couple in the shower. Out of habit, she put the rest into her pack. “Never waste anything” had been their motto for as long as she could remember.
From the living room came an odd sound—a gurgling sort of cry that was quickly cut off. Goose bumps chased their way up her arms. There had been fear in that cry, and the recognition of death.
Swallowing heavily, she opened the bathroom door and peered out. Constable Ryan sat in one of the two armchairs, but he didn’t react in any way to her reappearance, and there was something decidedly odd about his posture. Something that sent a chill through her soul—a sensation that only increased when her gaze met Dicks’s.
“Something wrong, Miss Brown?”
The coldness she’d noticed earlier was deeper in his eyes, almost inhuman. She clenched a fist, resisting the impulse to slam the door shut. “Did you call out? I thought I heard someone call my name.”
The lie tasted lame on her tongue, and amusement gleamed briefly in Dicks’s blue eyes.
“Maybe you heard the TV.”