She was afraid of sleep. Afraid of dreaming.
She had to sleep sometime, of course. She knew that. Even so, she fought against it for hours, until, inevitably, sleep won.
When she awoke, it wasn’t because of a nightmare.
Something in the room itself had disturbed her, and she didn’t know what.
The little colonial house, with its Victorian gingerbread add-ons, was extremely charming. She hadn’t fully inspected it yet, but the bed was pleasant, not too hard, not too soft, and the heavy comforter was wonderfully cozy. The old mahogany furniture had been stained to a warm and welcoming shade of light brown. So what was bothering her?
She was certain that Jeremy had locked the door behind them. He was an ex-cop. He would be careful that way.
But she felt as if someone else was there with them.
She stared at the ceiling, afraid to look elsewhere, and reached out, then realized that she was alone in the bed.
Where was Jeremy?
She heard him then. He was saying something, but she wasn’t sure what.
She struggled to a sitting position as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
He was standing at the foot of the bed, his hand outstretched, as if it were resting on someone’s shoulder—but there was no one there. He spoke again, soft, reassuring words. “It will be all right. I won’t leave you. You’re going to be all right.”
She stared at him, afraid to move. There was no one in the room with them; Jeremy was talking to the air.
And yet…
Goose bumps were crawling over her flesh. She was icy cold.
No. The air was icy cold. Freezing.
It had to be her imagination, she told herself. It was fall, and no doubt the temperature outside had dropped and the house’s heating hadn’t kicked in yet, but there was no way on earth it could be freezing cold in here.
She gripped the covers, wondering if she should speak to him, startle him out of whatever scene he was playing out in his sleep.
At last she found the courage to speak.
“Jeremy?”
He didn’t seem to hear her. But then, she’d barely managed to draw a real breath, much less create any sound.
He smiled, then laughed softly, staring down at his imaginary friend. “It’s okay, pal, I’m here. I told you I wouldn’t leave you, that I’d see you through till the end.”
“Jeremy!”
She’d said his name far more loudly than she had intended, maybe because she was so spooked by the chill that was cutting bone-deep.
His hand fell, and he turned to face her, then blinked and smiled.
“You all right?” he asked her.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “But you…you were…”
He got back in the bed, lowering himself suggestively over her. “I was just—”
He broke off, frowning.
“Jeremy, you were—”
“I woke you up, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I guess I must have gotten up for some water. I can never get used to the heating systems up here. I’m always thirsty,” he said.
She realized that he had no idea that he had been standing at the foot of the bed, talking to someone who wasn’t there.
“Damn, you’re cold,” he told her suddenly, levering his weight off her and pulling her against him. “Some northerner,” he told her.
“I’m…fine. Really.” She curled in against him, grateful for his warmth and knowing she wasn’t fine. She was still freezing. It was long minutes until the chill began to fade, and all the while he held her, cradling her tightly.
“Do you dream?” she asked him at last.
His hands, which had been caressing her back, went still. “Everyone dreams,” he said.
“True. Do you ever remember your dreams?”
“Sure, sometimes. Everyone does.” He moved away from her, rising and grabbing his robe from a nearby chair. “I’m going for that water now. Do you want some?”
“Sure,” she said.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs and looked around the empty room.
She didn’t want to be alone there—maybe because she couldn’t quite convince herself that it was empty.
Leaping up, she found his discarded shirt, slipped it on and raced down the stairs after him.
She noticed a weak gray light trying to seep past the edges of the front-hall drapes and realized it was early morning. Very early morning.
But it was morning nonetheless, and she was grateful.
He was worried about Rowenna, Jeremy thought, as he looked across the kitchen table to see her drinking coffee and looking back at him—and apparently he wasn’t the only one.
He’d been surprised when Joe Brentwood had called him—he’d thought he would have to jump through hoops to get hold of Brentwood and convince him that he needed to be fully included in the investigation. Instead, Brentwood had called him early, only a few minutes after Rowenna had joined him downstairs and they’d decided to go ahead and make coffee.