She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth and stared dry-eyed up into the leaves of the elm outside her window. “Yes.”
She hated admitting that sex had come so easily with a man she hardly knew. She hated admitting that sex with Witt would have been just as easy if he wasn’t a cop and if she knew she could walk away unencumbered the next morning. Psychiatrists labeled a woman like her promiscuous. Men called a woman like her something else.
It hadn’t bothered her before. Well, not much. So why now?
“Because you care about him.”
She covered her ears with her hands and spoke with her mind. Please, please, please don’t do this to me now. I’m not ready.
“Just because I died doesn’t mean the next man you fall in love with will, too. Witt might very well outlive you.”
“I’m too tired for this.” She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep for a long time.
“The time is coming when you’re not going to be satisfied with what you’ve got, Max. Don’t blow your chance with Witt because you’re afraid.”
If she’d been a crying woman, she would have cried then. But she hadn’t cried the day she’d picked out Cameron’s coffin, nor the day she chose the suit he’d wear for all eternity, even though she’d had him cremated. She wouldn’t cry now, even though he told her in subtle ways the day of his leaving was near.
“I only vowed till death do us part’.” But he hadn’t gone then either.
The awful truth was that sometimes, when she was at her lowest, she wished she’d died with him. Life, or rather death, would have been so much easier if she had.
“Don’t be so weak, Max.” He’d read that thought like all the others. He was never happy when she had such dismal ones.
“Just help me with the vision, Cameron.” And lay off the questions. “Help me to solve the murder.” As if that would help her solve the puzzle of her life. And his death.
“Dream it again. Push it to the end and see what happened to him.”
She took a deep breath then exhaled, expelling all the scary feelings with it. She’d done that before, directed a vision in small ways. She didn’t know if she could do as much as Cameron was asking, but it was sure a helluva lot better than talking about the mess she’d made of her own life. Her mind and body, however, weren’t even close to cooperating. “I can’t seem to fall asleep yet.”
“You don’t have to sleep. Try a little relaxation. Meditation.”
“You mean self-hypnosis?” The word hypnosis was kind of frightening, synonymous with loss of control.
“You can’t lose control if you’re the one doing it.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Lay flat on your back and close your eyes.”
She glanced over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes on the glowing embers of his gaze. “Have you done this before?”
He sighed. “Do what I tell you. I’ll talk you through it.”
“What am I supposed to do once I get there?” If she got there.
“Roll the vision forward. Find out what happened to him.”
On her back, her legs stretched out, she put her hands at her sides and closed her eyes.
“Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.”
She bolted up on the bed, fingers fisted in the bedclothes. “I just thought of something. What if the woman is dead and they haven’t found her body yet? Maybe they were both killed.”
When he spoke, there were equal amounts of pride and exasperation in his voice. “Good thinking, my sweet. But neither of us is going to find out unless you try controlling that damn dream.”
She lay back down, the brief adrenaline burst making her antsy. “All right. I’ll try.”
“Now, breathe the way I told you to.”
She did, deeply, several times, from her abdomen. Her head started to spin.
“Picture a long staircase made of plush blue carpet.”
Blue. The color of Witt’s eyes. Plush. The texture of his hair.
Cameron should have snapped back with a response to her wayward thoughts. He didn’t, which said a lot to his need to hold her concentration. His words droned on. “You’re going to walk down those stairs, and with each step you’re going to count backwards from twenty-one. Your feet are sinking into the carpet.”
His voice faded. One part of her mind knew he was still directing, the other part went along as if the voice were her own. With each step and each count she felt more relaxed. The dizziness waned. The fear withered. At the bottom of the staircase was a door, a gold plate screwed to the wood. She stood on her tiptoes to read. “The truth about Lance.”