“I love you too.”
He kissed the inside of her forearm and closed his eyes. She ran her fingers through his hair and waited for him to say something more, but his breathing became deep and even and she knew he’d drifted off.
She rose and went to the bathroom, pausing on the way back to bed to look at herself in the mirror. How many times had she studied her reflection, wondering if she really was who she was? Clare Murdock. PhD in sociology. A consultant with clearance in the FBI. Respected in her field with many future prospects, and an absolute mess on the inside.
Back in bed she cuddled close to Eric, nestling into his warmth, the safety of his body. Lying next to him or sitting across from him at dinner was when she felt most like herself. The disassociation consuming her now would be less in the morning. She needed rest and a reset.
Sleep came and drew her downward without her awareness. As she slipped into its depths a cloud slid across the curved bone of the moon and the night deepened.
Chapter Four
She woke as if catapulted from a nightmare.
Clare shoved herself upright in bed, hair hanging down in sweat-soaked stringlets. A cry was locked behind her clenched teeth and it took several seconds of looking around the room and associating everything before she was able to assure herself she wouldn’t scream.
The dream was nearly gone, only a blurred impression like an unspeakable painting doused with turpentine, but she could still feel it clutching at her, trying to reveal itself fully. She didn’t want that. Didn’t want to see, to remember.
Gray storm-light coated the room. Eric’s side of the bed was empty. There was no familiar clatter in the kitchen signaling he was making breakfast and the door to the bathroom stood open. Maybe he’d gone for another run.
Clare donned a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt before padding down the stairs to the living room. The TV was a dark rectangle and when she stepped in the kitchen it was as it had been the night before.
“Eric?” Her voice died in the still air of the house. The ashen morning light was caustic, skewing the shape of everyday objects, making them unfamiliar and ugly. Outside, the cul-de-sac was quiet and empty. No usual bustle from the neighboring houses, no sound of lawnmowers or children laughing on a Saturday morning.
Nothing.
For some reason she thought of the compact handgun she kept in the bedside table upstairs. She could feel its heft in her hand and she longed for the real thing. Part of her, a strong part, told her to retrace her steps and retrieve the gun. She needed something to defend herself with. Defend against—
What?
The doorknob was frigid, as if January waited outside instead of a cool fall. She stepped onto the porch, and took in their yard along with both vehicles, parked where they’d been last night. The air was brisk but not cold, and the lead-lined sky appeared low above the sea. She imagined she could see the water and air angling into one another somewhere miles away from shore, the world folding in upon itself.
A wind chime jangled down the street like something had brushed against it. Clare moved down the steps and onto the pavement, aware she hadn’t stopped to put on her slippers beside the door. She scanned the clean sidewalks and tidy yards, hoping at any second Eric would appear at his steady jog from down the hill. The Millers’ dog wasn’t barking when she passed by their yard. An empty collar lay in the manicured grass at the end of the dog’s chain.
Something else began bothering her as she made her way down their street toward the nearest intersection. Something elemental missing she couldn’t name and didn’t want to. It was when she turned her attention toward the ocean the realization came to her. Her pace slowed, then stopped.
The sea wasn’t moving. Wasn’t making a sound.
She should’ve been able to hear the beat of the tide as an intermittent rush. Should’ve been able to see the waves whitecapping beyond the shore. But it was motionless. As still as a painting.
Newly fallen leaves scuttered along the gutter in the opposite direction, as if they were fleeing something. Clare turned in a slow circle, looking for life. Anything to signify she wasn’t alone. Eric’s name perched on her lips and the urge to shout it was cut off by the idea that if she yelled, something would hear her and come looking.
Home. She’d go back and wait for him there. He would come home and they could lock the doors and windows together and keep watch on this silent new world. Watch for what might be out here stalking the streets. They would be okay if they had each other.
She started back the way she’d come and stopped.
A girl stood facing away from her in the center of the lane.
She was small and wore a red nightgown hanging nearly to her ankles. Dark hair draped over narrow shoulders and bloodless hands poked from the ends of her sleeves. A sound carried to Clare—the girl was humming. The tune was familiar and sent a bolt of dread so strong through her it stole her will to breathe.
The girl turned, and as she did, her hair began to smoke and smolder. By the time she was facing Clare, flame licked across her shoulders and chest, growing in intensity with each second.
“Shanna,” Clare whispered, one of her arms reaching out to her sister.
The world dissolved even as she felt the heat of Shanna’s immolation on her own skin, reigniting the old scars there.
She woke crying, clutching her pillow tightly to her face, the fabric wet with tears. So many times it was like this coming out of a nightmare. No dramatic screams or leaping from bed. Just the wreckage of the psyche trying to mend itself together again within sorrow.
Eric slept on. Her emotion hadn’t woken him. She gradually got control of herself, sobs coming in hitches and gasps. It was still very dark and when she stabbed her phone with a finger the feeling of unrest was confirmed by the time.
3:38 A.M.
Clare swung her feet to the floor and crossed to the bathroom. She drank two glasses of water, washing down a single tablet of Buspirone with the second. The medication had been her bedrock for years, rounding the edges off the anxiety and panic attacks enough to function almost normally. The drug would begin working soon enough, but in the meantime she sloughed away the dream’s miasma with the same tactics she used to break free of intrusive memories. She touched the sink’s cold surface, counted the holes in all the electrical outlets, focused on the subtle mineral taste of the water. Here and now. Here and now.
When she felt mostly grounded again she returned to the bedroom only to grab the thick robe Eric had bought her for Christmas last year before heading downstairs. Sleep wouldn’t come without a fight and the thought of returning to it made her uneasy. The dream could still be lurking just beneath consciousness, biding its time until she succumbed.
No, right now a cup of tea and something to snack on. Maybe she’d turn on the gas fireplace in the living room. She decided against the last option, still able to imagine the lick of flame on her hands as she reached out to—
“Stop.” Her voice sounded even and strong in the silence of the house. It bolstered her and she pushed back against the encroaching anxiety.
After filling the kettle with water she set it on a burner and listened to the comforting ticking as it begin to heat. She wandered over to the tall dining room window and looked out at the neighborhood.
The cul-de-sac was a three-quarter circle of well-kept houses, lawns trimmed every other day, and the odd tree bordering yards where children ran barefoot for many months of the year. Quiet during the day, their street was absolutely devoid of activity at this hour. The stillness tried returning her to the dream but she brushed it away. This was just their neighborhood at night, no different than in the morning or afternoon. But the childlike idea that darkness changed things wouldn’t leave her. If anything it caused her to scan the street more intently, searching for anything out of place.