“I certainly hope not. But I’ve noticed you do sleep better afterward.”
She couldn’t really argue with that. Not only did she sleep better, it was a very deep and restful sleep. And no nightmares, not when she slept in his arms.
“Sounds great to me,” she told her partner, adding briskly, “Where’s the room service menu?”
* * *
? ? ?
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9
Whitney Neele slapped at her alarm early Thursday morning to stop the maddening buzz, trying to pry her eyes open. She had not slept well. In fact, she had not slept well for at least the past week.
Nightmares. Extremely vivid, almost visceral nightmares in which she was always trying to get away from something terrible. To run, to hide. Terror clawing at her mind, at some primitive sense deeper than thought that understood real terror.
And knowing, always knowing, that whatever horrible thing was after her was right behind her, getting closer. Always knowing she couldn’t escape.
Always knowing she was doomed.
Waking exhausted every single morning.
She forced herself to sit up in bed and swing her legs over the side, wincing as the dull throb in her head seemed to swell and pulse with a life all its own.
Goddamn headache.
At first it hadn’t been bad. Just a faint throb, a vague sense of pressure that made her want to yawn the way you do on airplanes. Whitney had figured she was coming down with something, maybe some bug, or just a cold. But the headache was getting worse, and it really didn’t feel like some bug or a cold.
It felt . . . oddly alien.
Something outside herself.
And yet . . . something inside herself as well.
She tried to shake away that feeling, telling herself it was nonsense, that a normal, irritating headache only felt weird now because of everything that had happened yesterday.
The suicide, the murders. The sort of stuff that never happened in peaceful Prosperity. Never. So everyone was naturally on edge, anxious. Afraid. And the talk was already wild. She’d heard at least two people discussing the possibility of magic, for crying out loud.
Whitney sat on the side of the bed for a couple of minutes, elbows on her knees and her hands on either side of her head. It hurt. It hurt and throbbed, and felt like it weighed a ton.
She tried yawning a couple of times, but it didn’t help the sense of pressure. Sure as hell didn’t help the throbbing pain.
Eventually, she got herself out of bed and into the shower, thinking she’d feel better afterward, like she always did. She even washed her hair, less worried about being late than about massaging her head and hoping that would help.
It didn’t.
Worse, the sound of her hair dryer was an oddly muffled roar, and made the throbbing become a pounding. By the time she finished in the bathroom and returned to her bedroom to dress, she felt like banging her head against a wall until the pain stopped.
But she didn’t, of course, and the throbbing continued.
She put on underwear, a pair of nice slacks, and a pretty blouse that didn’t leave too much flesh showing. Couldn’t look too sexy in her job. Nope. Just wasn’t the thing.
Not appropriate.
Which was why she pulled back her hair in a neat, simple style, and used only moisturizer on her face. She’d use the lipstick in her purse later. Lipstick was okay.
She loved her job.
Well, just lately it had been a little annoying, but . . .
She loved her job.
She wondered vaguely why her face looked so flushed in the mirror. So pinkish. Decided it was the fault of the shower’s hot water. She really needed to be more careful about that. Or speak to the super, who also owned the building and didn’t stint on things like hot water.
Maybe too hot.
There was a fine line between water hot enough to wake you up and water hot enough to burn you.
She went into the kitchen and considered options for breakfast. She loved breakfast. Best meal of the day.
Though, lately, her coffeemaker seemed to take forever.
Lately, she didn’t much like even the idea of eggs and turkey bacon, her favorites.
Lately, breakfast was more of a chore.
Her queasy stomach couldn’t face much on this bright—really too bright—coolish October morning.
Probably that bug she was coming down with.
Damned headache.
Goddamned headache.
So she toasted a couple slices of bread while the coffeemaker took forever to do its job. By the time coffee was ready, she’d nibbled about half of one slice of plain toast.
The coffee tasted bitter.
Dammit.
She remembered to turn off the coffeemaker and left the unfinished toast on a bread plate on the kitchen counter.
She had to look for both her work bag—which her father insisted on calling a briefcase—and her keys. The keys she got, everybody mislaid their keys now and then, but she couldn’t figure out how her rather large work bag could go missing so often.
Just lately, it seemed to happen every morning.
Lately, it had gotten really annoying.
She found what she needed, finally. Put on the lightweight, tan trench coat that was her only nice coat because it was just about cool enough for a light coat. Left her apartment, being sure to lock the door behind her. Went down the two flights of stairs to the lobby, wishing there were an elevator. Not that she minded stairs, and of course it was healthier.
But just lately, she would have preferred an elevator.
There was no one in the lobby when she reached it, and she didn’t see any of her neighbors as she went out to the parking lot along one side of the building.
Her head was really hurting.
And why did too many things outside look red?
A tree whose leaves, she was almost certain, had not been red the day before. A red tricycle and red wagon somebody’s kids had left nearly blocking the sidewalk. And when had so many of her neighbors’ cars been red? She hadn’t noticed that before.
It made her head hurt even more.
Whitney found her car, vaguely surprised it wasn’t red. Unlocked it, got in. Started the engine. Obeyed the annoying beep telling her to fasten her seat belt. Then headed out for work.
There wasn’t much traffic, and since this was her second year in her job, the way was so familiar she almost didn’t have to pay attention to the drive. So she let her mind wander, absently reminding herself to not forget the daily chore of going by her father’s house after work to feed his cat since he was down in Florida visiting family.
She thought she wanted to take a look at her father’s gun collection. It hadn’t interested her before, but just lately, she had noticed the gun cabinet. And she had thought about maybe borrowing a gun or two from the case.
She knew how to use them.
And with strange things happening, scary things, maybe having a gun or two would make her feel better. Safer. More able to . . . take care of things on her own.
Absently, she realized she was at work, the Prosperity Elementary School looming up before her. Odd. She hadn’t thought the bricks were so red. Really red. That was odd. She was almost sure it was odd.
Whitney Neele pulled her car into the teachers’ parking lot, and looked for a place, irritated when she couldn’t park close to the building. It was a long walk. Funny, but there seemed to be an awful lot of red cars. She hadn’t remembered that so many of her fellow teachers drove red cars. Not that it mattered. Not that it was important.
She loved her job. Loved the kids.
Though, just lately, the kids had been a handful.
Lately, they were misbehaving a lot.
She needed to do something about that.
* * *
? ? ?
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 9