She shuddered. She had come in at the end of the guy’s life. It seemed like he’d been held captive and maybe tortured before they’d dragged him to a boat and tossed him overboard like a sack of garbage.
Trying to banish the disturbing images, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, but it did no good. The experience was burned into her brain. Where had it come from? Certainly not her own memory. She’d had some horrendous experiences in her life, but nothing likethis.
She glanced at the clock. It was only four-thirty in the morning, but she knew she wasn’t going back to sleep.
Swinging her legs out of bed, she stood unsteadily for several moments before scuffing on her slippers. She was wearing a T-shirt and yoga pants, her favorite sleeping outfit. If someone happened to ring the doorbell before she was ready to start the day, it looked like she was dressed.
She padded downstairs to the first floor of the big house she’d inherited from her parents. In the kitchen, she contemplated her collection of teas and selected a cranberry-orange blend. Dunking the bag into a mug of hot water, she set it in the microwave.
While she waited with her hips propped against a caramel-colored granite counter, she looked around the large room. Her mother would have said the kitchen needed updating, but she liked it this way, and Mom and Dad were no longer around to make her life a living hell—in their well-meaning way, of course. On a trip down to their vacation home near Asheville, a sudden fog had come up, and Dad had crashed his Cessna into a mountain.
It might be hard to understand that someone could feel relieved that her parents had left her an orphan at the tender age of twenty. But that was the main emotion she felt when she thought of them.
Long ago, she’d pushed all the old, whispered conversations between her parents out of her mind. Somehow the dream, or perhaps the aftermath, brought them zinging back.
“What’s wrong with that child?...not normal...going to end up in a mental institution.”
They’d dragged her to a series of psychiatrists and psychologists. She’d heard words like “on the spectrum, personality disorder, and latent schizophrenia.” Later, out of what she considered morbid curiosity, she’d done some reading on her own and knew that full-blown mental illness might not burst forth until young adulthood. That worry had lingered in the back of her mind, but she’d always been able to tell herself that she was doing just fine on her own.
Olivia grabbed her mug out of the microwave and threw the tea bag in the trash. Mom would have saved it in a saucer on the counter to make another cup. Olivia had always hated the weak second brewing.
With the hot drink in hand, she wandered out to the sunroom. In her parents’ day, it had been a screened porch, but she had enclosed it with big windows and added a heat pump to make it an all-year-round room. The furnishings were classic white wicker chairs with comfortable cushions, a wrought iron table, and a few of the painted furniture pieces she made her living selling. Pots of orchids and other flowering plants sat on the table and long benches under the windows. And she’d even brought in a couple of tall Ficus trees to give the room a tropical look.
This was her favorite spot in the house, and she settled into a comfortable chair, putting her mug on the nearby table.
The familiar setting soothed her, and she eased back in her chair, turning her attention to a more welcome topic—ideas for her next projects. She was almost finished painting whimsical cats on a chest of drawers. Next, it might be interesting to put colorful birds on a wooden tea cart.
As the new design took shape in her mind, she could almost convince herself that the dream had been nothing to worry about.
Almost.
CHAPTERTWO
Several days passed, and Olivia stopped worrying about the nightmare as she plunged back into the busy work schedule she’d set for herself. She had the vague feeling that something had disturbed the fabric of her life, but she didn’t know what it was. And she could put it out of her mind for long stretches of time.
The house she’d inherited was in a rural area, but close enough to Frederick, Maryland, for her to have launched her career in the town. Although more than 270 years old, it had never grown like either nearby Baltimore or Washington. But in the 21stcentury, its antique, old-world charm was giving it a second life. Filled with specialty shops, restaurants, breweries, and art galleries, it had come into its own.
Olivia had gambled that her hand-painted furniture would be a perfect addition to some of the kitschy little shops. Her parents had insisted that she get a college degree in case what they referred to asher self-indulgent artsy-fartsy plansblew up in her face. After the plane crash, in an act of pure rebellion, she’d dropped out of Penn State and plunged into the life she’d always craved. With her inheritance as a cushion, she’d started from ground zero and made herself into a sought-after regional artist who turned junky old pieces of furniture and cheap raw wood chests, tables, chairs, and benches into beautifully designed masterpieces, decorated with all manner of witty designs.
It was a career she loved. She felt contented and fulfilled—or at least as contented and fulfilled as she could be.
Except in one area—real intimacy with another human being.
She flashed on a guy—Phil Hammond—the manager at Just for You, one of the shops downtown that carried her furniture. He was cute, and he obviously wanted to get to know her better. He’d asked her out a couple of times, and she’d always declined. She knew they might enjoy each other’s company for a while, but from past experience, she understood it would only be on a superficial level. She might even find sleeping with him pleasant. But the relationship couldn’t go any deeper. She just wasn’t built for making a meaningful connection. Either she’d end up telling him things just weren’t working out, or he’d realize on his own and look for someone else.
After showering and dressing, she wanted to head for her studio, but she knew she had been putting off the accounting tasks that were part of running a small business. If she didn’t want to end up with late charges on her credit cards, she’d better pay some bills. And she should also check her spreadsheets to make sure she was bringing in the income she expected.
It was late morning before she strode down the brick walkway that meandered through the gardens she’d designed. They featured a cheerful mixture of annuals and perennials so that something was always blooming from snowdrops in mid-March to the last of the tall phlox in October.
Her studio was at the end of the walkway, the perfect location for an artist who needed to be alone with her work for long periods of time. The five-acre property she’d inherited came complete with a detached old carriage house. Her parents had used it as a garage. She had converted the building into a studio and parked her van in the driveway.
The only things she’d added were large windows that let in natural light and a small heat pump for climate control.
Inside, she began to add a few finishing touches to the chest of drawers a DC couple with a Capitol Hill townhouse had commissioned for their daughter’s room. They’d seen her work in the dining room of a friend and decided they must have their own Olivia Langston original.
The background of the piece was a soft cream color, which she had decorated with whimsical cats in various poses, some playing with a variety of toys, some lying down, and one stunning tabby chasing its own tail. She was almost finished with the project. After it dried, she would arrange for delivery. And meanwhile, she could start on the tea cart.
Smiling, she stepped back and gave the chest a critical inspection. These cute felines were one of her better designs, if she did say so herself. The smile froze, and a sudden chill rippled over her skin. All at once, she knew she wasn’t alone in her workshop.
