She knew she must do that now.
CHAPTERTHREE
Olivia’s legs turned wobbly, and she had to sit down again. Closing her eyes, she lowered her head to her arms as they rested on the table. It was happening—she was losing her mind. What else could this be? Should she call a doctor? Or maybe drive up to the nearest mental institution and check herself in, the way that girl in the book had? Or what if there was another explanation? What if something strange really was happening to her?
It had started with her nightmare where she witnessed the death of a man who was tossed off his own boat. Somehow, seeing his death had established a link between them. And now he had come to her home to haunt her.
Oh sure. Perfectly logical. Yet she couldn’t stop wild thoughts from circling in her mind. The only good thing was that the headache she’d experienced out on the walk seemed to have evaporated.
Her lips firmed. She couldn’t just sit here with her head on her arms. And she couldn’t leave her workshop unlocked. She had too many valuable pieces in there for her to leave them unprotected.
Finally, she stood up, straightened her shoulders, and turned toward the door. With her teeth gritted, she forced herself to step outside and march down the walk, watching her step so that she didn’t trip again. It was tempting to look around, but she kept her gaze down. She hadn’t seen anything before. Why would she see anything now? Still, she couldn’t banish the feeling of something closing in around her.
She’d had a keyless entry mechanism installed on the workshop door. All she had to do was run her hand down the electronic pad until a little picture of a lock appeared. When she saw it, she pressed the icon, and the device clicked. As soon as the door was locked, she headed back to the house—to the sunroom.
She should be working, of course. She had the chest to finish and scores of orders to fill. And she wanted to sketch out the design for the tea cart. But she knew that anything she did would not be her best. How could she hold a pencil or her paintbrush steady when her hand was shaking?
No, work was out of the question. But she couldn’t simply sit in the sunroom—her mind circling round and round like a dog finding a comfortable spot to settle.
Glancing at the clock, she saw it was well after lunchtime, but the idea of trying to choke anything down made her stomach roil.
No, she had to find something else to do. But what? She had promised herself that she would organize all the stuff in the mudroom closet. Tackling it now would settle her.
Throwing open the closet door, she stood with her hands on her hips, looking at all the stuff she had tossed there to be sorted later. With a jerky motion, she pulled out a pair of boots and set them aside. They hadn’t felt comfortable in years. She might as well pitch them.
After retrieving a couple of large plastic garbage bags, she began sorting items—those she wanted to put back into the closet and those that would go to an organization that regularly sent out trucks for donations.
While she worked, she found a song running through her head. That often happened when she was doing a mindless, repetitive job. Now she realized she had fixed on “Hotel California,” by the Eagles. Oh great, a song about a guy who goes into a supernatural hotel. When he tries to leave, he finds out he’s trapped there.
With a sigh, she kept sorting items, knowing that the song was going to stick with her until she was done.
The closet project lasted several hours. On a tear, she brought another bag upstairs and started pulling out clothes she knew she would never wear.
Next, she did forty minutes of weights and the treadmill in her home gym.
Finally, she was hungry enough to eat something. Cooking wasn’t one of her talents, but there were plenty of upscale restaurants and delis in Frederick where she could stock the fridge with gourmet carryout.
She reached for a carton of chicken salad and another of sesame noodles. While she ate, she enjoyed a playlist she’d made for herself, everything from the beautiful duet from the Pearl Fishers to James Taylor and Taylor Swift.
By the time she’d eaten, she felt better. Except that she still wasn’t sure that she could get any work done tomorrow. But she did have several pieces that needed to go to a cute little shop in Saint Stephens, one of the tourist towns on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Although she often hired someone to take orders out of town, she decided to do this one by herself. Maybe a change of scenery would do her good.
After dinner, she debated sitting in front of the TV for a while. But probably she should go to bed if she was driving across the Bay Bridge in the morning. That long, high structure always made her feel like she was going to plunge through a guardrail into the bay. No, she’d better be rested and in good shape when she tackled it.
Upstairs, as she went through her nighttime ritual, she fought to dispel the notion that the man from the brick walk had somehow followed her into the house.
But she’d made him up, she told herself. He was over. Done. She was going to hang on to her sanity now.
Still, when she pulled her T-shirt over her head and unhooked her bra, she felt goose bumps pepper her arms and chest.
Glancing at the medicine cabinet, she briefly wondered if she should take an over-the-counter sleep aid, then decided that might make things worse.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyelids. Did people who were going crazy know it? Or was some evil force operating on her—offering her what she’d secretly wanted all her life?
Right. She hadn’t consideredthatangle. Maybe this wasn’t coming from a damaged mind. Maybe this was like what happened to people in horror movies. Only this wasn’t a movie, she quickly assured herself. This was real life.
Thinking that the observation hadn’t done her any good, she turned off the bedside lamp and slipped under the covers. At first, she lay rigidly in bed, waiting. When nothing happened, she relaxed fractionally. Because she was exhausted from emotional stress and all the frantic work she’d done, sleep enveloped her, and she knew nothing else until she heard the clock strike a half hour downstairs.
Which half hour? She didn’t know because they all had the same one-tone bong. When she turned her head toward the window, all she saw was pitch blackness.
