Something about that article had set me off. But what was it? And why was Cole’s name attached to a thirty-year-old murder?
Cautiously, I got up, hugged the afghan close, and hobbled over to the desk again. Taking a seat, I scrolled to the top and began to read.
At the end of the first page I found Cole’s name. A few months earlier, on the day of the thirtieth anniversary, he’d been asked to comment on the death of his uncle.
“Whoa,” I whispered when I read that part. I’d never known anyone who’d been murdered, not even by extension.
Cole had told the reporter that it was still hard for his family to talk about. He’d been born well after his uncle was killed, but it hung over his mother and his grandmother like a dark cloud. He said he wished that the case would be reopened and looked at again, if only to confirm the general suspicion that Ben had been murdered by his then-girlfriend.
I felt my brow furrow. I read the line again, and something about it seemed off. Like the panic attack, it hit me wrong, but I couldn’t explain why. I read on, even though the details were few.
Ben Spencer had been shot twice in the chest. Police suspected his longtime girlfriend of the crime. A girl named Amber Greeley, who had killed herself four days after Ben’s murder. A note had been found at her home, which suggested that she’d been the one responsible for Ben’s death, and she’d taken her own life, but questions remained. Namely, the murder weapon had never been recovered, and she and Ben had appeared to be a happy couple that was very much in love. There were no signs from their friends that anything had been wrong between them that evening, but both had gone missing from the dance at about ten o’clock in the evening, and a half hour later, Spence was discovered dead in a field next to the high school. The reporter alluded to other inconsistencies, and it wasn’t hard to see that he thought someone else might be responsible.
The article ended with a question, which was: why would someone want to murder the popular captain of the football and track team, a good student, and a boy about to head off to college where even more greatness likely awaited him? What could’ve been the motive?
I sighed and shut the lid to my laptop. The article left me feeling profoundly sad on top of the fact that my eyelids were heavy and my limbs like lead. I was exhausted. Glancing at the clock I saw that it was only a little after five. I could take a nap and still make it to the salon appointment Grandmother had set up for me.
Moving back to the bed, I pulled the afghan over myself and closed my eyes. I was worried about having the dream again, so I focused on happy thoughts. It wasn’t lost on me that over and over my mind kept drifting back to Cole.
A few minutes later, I was sitting on a bed in a strange room. Alarmed by the unfamiliar surroundings, I looked about and realized I did somewhat recognize where I was, but for the life of me I couldn’t place it.
I had the distinct impression I’d been in that room before, but when and where? I wondered. The room itself was spacious, painted a soft, soothing yellow with bright-white trim. The bedspread was dotted with sunflowers, and a large white desk occupied one corner. I sat on the edge of the bed, facing one of two windows, and outside the sun was setting, the last rays of the day bathing the room in a soft blush.
The setting was soothing, and yet, my heart was racing. I felt tense with the knowledge that I was in danger.
Behind me, somewhere deeper in the house, I heard a dog bark, and it, too, sounded familiar, even though we’d never owned a dog.
Could it be one from the animal sanctuary? I asked myself.
As I was trying to sort it all out, I heard footsteps from beyond the door, as if someone in the hallway were approaching. I felt the immediate urge to get up and hide, but instead an unseen force held me there. I was suddenly completely paralyzed. And then, the door behind me creaked as it opened, and footsteps closed in. I was filled with panic but I couldn’t move. Not a limb, not a finger, not even to blink my eyes. It was as if my whole body had been taken over and reprogrammed to sit still and wait for an attack I knew was coming. I tried to scream, but couldn’t get my lips parted. My vocal chords refused to work. Behind me, I felt the bed depress with the weight of an unknown intruder, and then my shoulder was gripped with pain.
I tried to fight that paralyzing sensation, but no amount of strain or effort could break the hold. And then, I saw an arm snake around my other shoulder, and a dwindling ray of sunlight flashed against silver. Too late, I realized the intruder had a knife, and in the next horrible moment, that knife arced up, and then straight down again to plunge into my sternum. In the final second, my whole chest exploded in a fireball of pain as the knife drove mercilessly into my heart.