“So, you’re lying in bed at night thinking of this man who assaulted you. And your mind drifts to happy thoughts of your father to make you stop.”
“That was my take on it, too. But it still frightens me. Especially the way he seems to be asking for Jack.”
“What does Jack say about that?”
“I haven’t told him that part. Why freak him out?”
“Exactly. And why freak yourself out? Esteban is dead. Whatever he did to you, he can never do it again.”
“I know that.”
“You can’t let him creep into your dreams this way.”
“It’s not that I let him. I just can’t stop him.”
“You have to force yourself to stop.”
“I can’t control my dreams.”
“You must.”
“Can you control yours?”
“Sometimes. Depending on what I read or think about before I fall asleep.”
“But not all the time.”
Evelyn seemed ready to argue the point but stopped, as if realizing that she wasn’t being honest. “No, I can’t always keep them under control.”
“No one can. Especially when dreams are trying to tell you something.”
“Cindy, don’t spook yourself like that. Dreams are a reflection of nothing but your own thoughts. They don’t tell you anything you don’t already know.”
“That’s not true. This dream I’m having about Daddy and Esteban is definitely trying to tell me something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ve had the same dream in the past, and every time I have it, something bad happens. It’s a warning.”
“Don’t do this to yourself. It’s only a dream, nothing more.”
“You don’t really believe that.”
Her mother just lowered her eyes.
“Before Daddy died,” said Cindy, “you had that dream. You knew it was going to happen.”
“That’s overstating it, sweetheart.”
“It’s not. You saw his mother carrying a dead baby in her arms. A week later, he was dead.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Aunt Margie told me.”
Margie was Evelyn’s younger sister, the family big-mouth. Evelyn blinked nervously and said, “I didn’t see it. I dreamed it.”
“And why do you think you dreamed it?”
“Because I was worried about your father, and those worries found their way into my dreams. That’s all it was.”
Silence fell between them, as if neither of them believed what she’d just said. Cindy said, “I get this from you.”
“Get what?”
“The ability to see things in dreams. It’s something you passed on to me.”
“Is that what you think? You have a gift?”
“No. A curse.”
Their eyes locked, not with contempt or anger, more along the lines of mutual empathy. Her mother finally blinked, the first to look away.
“Don’t stay here too much longer,” she said. “Try to get some sleep tonight.”
“I will. As soon as Jack gets home.”
Her mother cupped her hand along the side of Cindy’s face, then kissed her on the forehead. In silence, she stepped outside the glow of the spotlight and left the room.
Cindy was again alone. Her eyes drifted back toward the photographs before her, the shots she’d taken of a little girl and her dog. She was relieved that her mother hadn’t asked any more questions. She wasn’t sure how she would have explained what she’d been doing. Lying never worked with her mother, and telling her the truth would only have heightened her worries. The dreams alone were strange enough.
One last time, Cindy ran the magnifying glass across the enlarged image before her and held it directly over the flaw. An amateur might have been puzzled, but she was looking through a trained eye. In Cindy’s mind, there was absolutely no mistaking it. She extended her index finger toward the photograph-slowly and with trepidation, as if putting her hand into the fire. Her fingertip came to rest in the lower right-hand corner.
It was there, in this one photograph out of ninety-six shots she’d taken outside her studio, that a faint shadow had appeared.
A chill ran up her arm and down through her body. She’d examined it from every angle, at varying degrees of magnification. This wasn’t a cloud or a tree branch bending in the breeze. The form was definitely human.
“Daddy, please,” she whispered. “Just leave me alone.”
She tucked the photograph into an envelope and turned out the light.
12
•
Jack and Cindy went out for dinner Friday night, a neighborhood restaurant called Blu, which specialized in pizzas from wood-burning ovens. It was a bustling place with a small bar, crowded tables, and smiling waiters whose English was just bad enough to force patrons to talk with their hands like real Italians. The chefs were from Rome and Naples, and they dreamed up their own recipes, everything from basic cheese pizza like you’ve never tasted to pies with baby artichokes, arugula, and Gorgonzola cheese. It was Jack’s version of comfort food, the kind of place he went whenever he lost a trial.
“How bad was it?” asked Cindy.
“Jury was out all of twenty minutes.”
“Could have been worse. Your client could have been innocent.”
“Why do you assume he was guilty?”
“If an innocent man were sitting in jail right now, you’d be kicking yourself all over town, not stuffing your face with pizza and prosciutto.”
“Good point.”
“That’s the truly great thing about your job. Even when you lose, it’s actually a win.”
“And sometimes when I win, it’s a total loss.”
Cindy sipped her wine. “You mean Jessie?”
Jack nodded.
“Let’s not talk about her, okay?”
“Sorry.” He’d told her about the latest confrontation with Jessie, though Cindy hadn’t seemed interested in the details. The message was pretty clear: It was time to put Jessie behind them.
“Do you think I made a mistake by leaving the U.S. attorney’s office?”
“Where did that come from?”
“It ties in with this whole Jessie thing.”
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about her tonight.”
“This is about me, not her.” He signaled the waiter for another beer, then turned back to Cindy. “I used to think I was good at reading people, whether they were jurors or clients or whoever. Ever since Jessie, I’m not so sure.”
“Jessie didn’t just lie. She manipulated you. This latest episode proves what a total wack job she is. You said it
