“Dinner at Witt’s mom’s must have given me indigestion,” she said, hoping Cameron would take that as an explanation for the nightmare. Bad enough eating the TV dinner classics that Ladybird adored, worse snuggling up close to Witt on the couch, the worst dreaming about the night Cameron died.
“If you’d admit to yourself that you’re in love with Witt, your problem would be solved.”
“I’m not in love.” Okay, four-fifths in love, but the nightmare brought her crashing back to reality. She wasn’t over being a widow yet. She sure wasn’t ready to fall in love again, especially not with a cop. Besides, Witt didn’t take well to sharing her with another man, even if that man was a ghost.
Cameron’s tone softened, but, relentless, he returned to the original topic. “It wasn’t a dream, and it wasn’t a nightmare. And I never told you to look for my sister.”
Her eyes snapped open. “I thought you couldn’t remember anything that happened when you were alive.” Including the night he died.
“I remember what you remember.” As if their minds were connected, her memories miraculously became his memories. In this case, Max had never forgotten that night. He was right. He hadn’t whispered anything of the kind to her.
“I didn’t even know you had a sister.” God, had they known that little about each other despite being married?
“We knew the important things.”
She blinked, a hint of sappy moisture at the corners of her eyes. Think about the sister, so she wouldn’t have to feel or hurt ... “So why do you want me to find your sister?”
An early morning bird chirped in the tree outside. From below came the soft thud of someone getting out of bed. She lived in a second-floor studio of a converted Victorian which housed mostly students from the nearby university in the heart of Silicon Valley. Luckily she had her own entrance up a flight of stairs and a small deck where she sometimes sat to enjoy a sunset. At the age of thirty-three, Max was the oldest tenant, in both age and length of stay. Pipes clanged, probably a shower started by the early riser intent on some last-minute cramming for upcoming mid-terms or a project due. She couldn’t remember what hurdle professors threw in front of students during these few days before Thanksgiving.
“You aren’t answering,” she whispered in the dark, searching for Cameron’s glowing eyes. Red sparks in dim lighting was all she ever saw of him, except when she closed her eyes to dream.
“It was your vision, sweetheart. You have to tell me why my sister’s important now.”
She groaned and stretched out flat on the bed, the cat easing against the curve of her waist. She hadn’t missed the use of that dreaded word, vision. “Don’t pull that psychic crap on me. Not about this. Let’s call it a plain old, every-day nightmare.”
“But you know it’s not.”
There was a texture to each of her so-called visions. God only knew why, but she’d experienced them infrequently beginning soon after Cameron’s death. Three months ago, they’d become a deluge. Tonight’s dream bore the same feel. A mixture of reality and symbolism, the visions she’d had in recent months turned out to be a sort of psychic dropping in—some might have called it possession—on someone’s life. Someone who was murdered. Max attempted to solve the crimes in the hopes of exorcising the spirits. The attempts worked. Until the next vision.
She sat up in her narrow bed, wrapping her arms around her knees. Buzzard grumbled and scrambled under the covers. “It’s not about your sister.” She knew ... just knew. “It’s about finding them.”
“Them?”
Scarface, Tattoo ... and Bootman.
She didn’t have to say it aloud. He picked the names right out of her head. “My killers.”
All she could manage was a small grunt of agreement.
“Are they what bothered you most about the dream?”
Besides watching him take a bullet in the head? “No.”
“Then what?”
Max swallowed with difficulty. “Why was I driving my car?”
Silent less than a second, his pause still made her rub her arms for warmth. “I don’t know, Max.”
Some strange trick of death had robbed Cameron of his memories. Except that he loved her. Beyond that, he remembered only what she remembered, his recollection coming back as hers did, as if she were the conduit for his past, his life. There had been moments, though, in the last three months where she could have sworn he knew more than he was saying.
“Tell me why the car bothers you,” he urged.
“Because I don’t know why I followed you there.” She closed her eyes. The image of his death pounded against her eyes, and her lids popped open again. “Why would I forget a thing like that?”
He snorted. “You always have been exceptional at forgetting what you don’t want to remember. It’s time you remembered the before, during, and after of that night.”
She knew all she needed to know. She simply chose not to feel. He was still here with her, so the rest could be ignored. At least she thought it could until the dream brought it back.