bitch. I need to see you. I want to know
He hung up.
Her lips curled into a smile. She wondered if he suspected what she had stolen from his files. What a fool he was, cuckolded by that blonde bitch. How could he tolerate that woman in his bed? A woman who barely moved as he made love to her and then had the nerve to give her body to someone else.
He could have had her, Regan. They could have been together. It was his mistake to choose so badly.
'How does it feel?' she growled at the machine. 'How do you like having the whole world turn against you? Even your pretty little wife.'
The second message was time-stamped an hour ago, but the message was blank. Empty. It went on for a full minute with nothing but silence on the machine. Her face twisted with concern as she listened. The longer the dead air stretched out, the more threatening it became.
She got up and checked the log of callers on the phone. The last call was labeled PRIVATE.
Regan replayed the message and leaned close to the machine. This time, she realized that she could hear someone breathing in the background. Whoever it was let the call drag out without saying anything, but he or she breathed near the phone, loud enough for Regan to hear it.
She deleted both messages. Maybe it was Marcus again, playing with her head. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being afraid.
Regan poured another shot and finished it in one swallow and then went upstairs. She thought about leaving the downstairs lights on, but she told herself that she was overreacting. The house was empty. The doors and windows were locked and secure. In her bedroom, she removed her scrubs and dropped them down the laundry chute to the basement. She brushed her teeth and took a shower and then slid into bed with her body warm and damp.
She reached out with her right hand. Next to the bed, propped against the wall, was a shotgun. Two cartridges loaded. Pick it up, point, and shoot. She stroked the glossy wooden shaft with her fingers, and she felt better. She reached for the lamp on her nightstand and turned it off, throwing the room into complete darkness. Only the green glow of the clock gave any light.
She closed her eyes. Moments later, she was dreaming.
Regan had no idea how much time had passed when she started awake.
Her eyes flew open. She glanced at the clock, but the face was dark, and the absolute silence of the house told her that the power was out. With the furnace shut down, the bedroom had already grown cold. Her bare arms and shoulders lay above the blanket, chilled. Her dream faded as her mind wrapped itself around the real world again. She stared blindly at the ceiling.
Regan shivered. Something was wrong.
The sensation of eyes in the darkness was back, but it was inside now, with her, in the room. She lay frozen, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She thought about closing her eyes again and pretending that everything was fine. Go back to sleep. Dream. It was nothing but her imagination.
Maybe she was dreaming right now. But she knew she wasn't.
Her right hand came alive. Inch by inch, her fingers crept along the edge of the blanket, moving invisibly in the black bedroom. No one could see. Her hand nudged over the side of the bed, and she reached out, hunting for the barrel of the shotgun, ready to yank the gun into her arms. She knew exactly where it was, had measured the distance in the darkness countless times in the last month, had practiced and rehearsed in case this moment ever came.
The gun was gone. It wasn't there.
Her heart jumped with panic. She bolted up in bed, not pretending any more. The blanket slipped down. She took open-mouthed breaths, and her chest heaved in fear. She leaned down and felt desperately along the ground with her hands, thinking the gun had slipped to the floor.
But no. She heard a noise. Someone was in the room, across from her, settled into the armchair, watching her. She eased against the headboard and tried to see. Her eyes grasped for a beam of light, but everything was dark.
A voice came from across the room. Bitter and intense.
'Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut?'
She understood. Everything made sense now.
'You're making a mistake,' Regan said in her calmest voice. 'You don't have to do this.'
They were sweet, persuasive words, but they didn't work this time. The voice split the silence again.
'You lied to me.'
Regan wondered if she had any hope of escape. She had gone to sleep with the bedroom door open, but now, staring at the dark wall, she knew the door was closed. In less than five seconds, she could be out of bed and in the hallway, and from there, she had a chance. She searched for the right moment to run.
There was no time.
Regan heard the noise of someone shifting in the chair. Getting up. The wood and metal of the gun moved.
She threw back the cover and sprinted for the door, but she wasn't fast enough. On the third step, in the middle of the plush carpet, the shotgun spat lead and flame and lit up the darkness. She howled as the shell ravaged the flesh and bone of her hip and spun her around. Her legs stopped working; she sank to the ground. She dragged herself toward the door, but the six feet between her and the hallway was infinite.
Warm liquid ran on her skin. She grimaced as pain radiated outward from its hot core at her middle. There was blood in her mouth where she had bitten her tongue. She smelled burnt powder hanging like a cloud in the room.
She heard someone coming closer. Standing over her. As she writhed, the cold metal of the barrel sank into the skin of her forehead. The dead weight sat there, pressed against her skull, as the person holding the gun hesitated.
Regan found herself laughing. Blood bubbled out between her lips. All she could think about was that damn song by Duffy, as if she could hear its beat thumping along with her heart, spilling blood on the floor. It occurred to her to beg for mercy, but that was pointless. It was too late for that. She didn't expect it, and she didn't get it.
A flash of flame erupted again.
At the speed of light, the brightness reached her eyes a millisecond before the shell detonated inside her brain. No mercy.
PART THREE
SILENT SCREAM
Chapter Thirty-one
Valerie opened her front door on Wednesday morning and found her sister Denise standing on the porch. She cringed, watching the stony expression on Denise's face that covered up wounds of betrayal and humiliation. Valerie would have felt better if Denise had screamed at her, but instead, her sister marched past her into the house without a word.
'Where's Marcus?' she asked after Valerie closed the door.
