He nodded. 'Only upstairs. The kitchen and living rooms are still out of bounds, I'm afraid.'
And would be for some time—for her, at least. It was doubtful whether she'd ever be able to even enter the house without remembering. She rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. Though she was wet through to the skin, she knew it wasn't that. It was more the sense that death was out there—and that it had made a major mistake. That it wasn't Helen who should be dead, but her.
'Ready when you are, Miss Brown,' the young officer prompted when she didn't move.
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 veranda, 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. They'd obviously been making out on the sofa again.
Swallowing heavily, she headed for her wardrobe and grabbed a backpack. She shoved into it whatever came to hand—sweaters, jeans and a couple of T-shirts—then headed over to the dressing table to collect underclothing. And saw, on the 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, due 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 and grabbed a handful of underclothing, adding them 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, and 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.'
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 hear out loud. It was as if by voicing her fears she would invite the presence of death 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.
'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 only took five minutes to get to the motor inn. 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. Their 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 unit—there were two beds in the main room, along with a kitchenette and TV. A second bedroom lay to her right, 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 second, 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 tap.
The water was icy, so she let it run, and hunted around for the little sachets of soap and shampoo. She found several of both in the cupboard under the sink, and she 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 arm. 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, his blonde hair just visible above the headrest. Dicks stood just behind him, but turned as she opened the door.
'Something wrong, Miss Brown?'
The coldness was deeper in his eyes, almost inhuman. A chill crawled over her skin. 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' blue eyes.
'Maybe you heard the TV.'
And maybe it was all in her imagination. Maybe she was finally going mad, as one of her many foster parents had insisted she would. But they'd been devout Catholics and had believed magic to be the devil's work. She still found it amazing that she and Helen had lasted three months under their care.
But as she stared at Dicks, she knew it wasn't imagination nor madness. Something odd was happening in the room. The feel of magic was in the air.
'I'll just go have my shower, then,' she said, closing the door.
There were no locks on the door. She bit her bottom lip and looked quickly around. There was a towel rack on the wall next to the door. Better than nothing, she supposed. She grabbed a sweater out of her pack and roped it between the handle and the towel rack, knotting the arms as tightly as she could. It wouldn't hold for more than the time it took to scream, but for some reason, she felt a little safer.
She stripped off her jacket and thrust a hand through her wet hair. What she needed was a drink. If nothing else, it would calm her nerves and perhaps help her forget, if only for a few hours—another bad habit of hers, according to Helen.
But to get a drink, she'd have to leave the bathroom, and instinct warned her that might not be a good move right now. Over the years, she'd learned to trust that inner voice, and in doing so, she had saved both hers and Helen's lives more than once.
She wished it had spoken up earlier tonight and saved Helen for her.
Tears stung her eyes. She wiped them away with the heel of her hand and noticed the steam was beginning to fog the room. She frowned and flicked the fan switch up and down a couple of times. It didn't seem to help.
In the other room, the doorbell rang. Constable Ryan's pizzas had obviously arrived. Her stomach turned, and she wondered how he could eat, especially after what he'd seen at her house. Maybe a lead-lined gut was a prerequisite for a copper. She walked across to open the window.
The voice sounded so close, the warmth of the speaker's breath seemed to brush past her ear. Her heart leapt to the vicinity of her throat, and she spun, fists clenched against the sudden rush of electricity across her fingertips. But there was no one in the room with her.
Now she was hearing things, on top of imagining them. Great. Just great . She took a deep breath, then
