Dropping the statement onto the table, I wonder how doctored this account is. I can’t imagine Valdemar was the only one with a gun in his hand; he made no bones about how corrupt the police are and how Adolphe Fortunato had them in his pocket and still does. Fortunato’s grip on this city is one weall feel the pressure of, but it doesn’t explain why Valdemar shot my brother.
There is nothing in this statement, whether true or not, that gives me any motivation for why Valdemar shot Ed or any indication that Ed asked him to. What am I missing? Valdemar wants me to hear his side of the story, but how truthful is he being? And why is the ghost of my brother standing over Valdemar?
I haven’t forgotten about the note either. Who wants Valdemar dead? Why are they expecting me to do the honours?
And all the while, I’m having raucous dreams about the man who has now turned my life upside down for the second time in ten years.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My Sunday is spent unblockingthe sink in my bathroom and then trying to write up some more from my talks with Valdemar. By eight, I throw in the towel and pack my laptop away, knowing I’m never going to be able to write an objective piece on Valdemar Montresor.
After a long bath and rereading the same page of a trashy thriller I’ve been attempting to finish for well over two weeks, I give in and climb into bed.
The sheets are cold, and the smell of lavender and ylang-ylang oil is already attacking my nose, my latest effort at trying to send myself off into a dreamless sleep and rid myself of the rising stress the last few weeks have evoked. Despite my bedroom smelling like an apothecary, the dreams have still come, Valdemar’s hands upon my skin, his breath on the back of my neck. Although I’ve never seen his face in my dreams, I know it’s him.
After slipping the knife under my pillow, I turn the light off and close my eyes. It’s not much of a plan, but I’m hoping the prick of the blade against my palm will be enough to wake me and release me from his touch.
It’s crazy, I know, but after enduring night after night of the same dream, I’m ready to try anything to make it stop.
Settling on my front, I slide my hand under the pillow and curl my fingers around the handle of the blade. My eyes close, the familiar pull of the night gripping me with both hands as reality ceases.
Swathes of silver silk wrap themselves around my calves as I run down the long corridor of the old mansion. Paintings adorn the walls, the light of the moon slipping in through the large windows and kissing the gilded frames.
My bare feet are silent upon the hardwood floor, my hair whipping my shoulders as I race against the night. Something squawks outside, and I see the black wings of a bird beating against the glass.
Running harder, I notice a large oak-panelled door ahead of me, yet no matter how fast I run, no matter how much distance I cover, I don’t seem to get any closer to it.
Then I hear it, just over my shoulder—the whisper of his husky voice.
“Who are you running from, angel?”
Feet pounding the boards, I sprint for the door, fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins, pushing my body to its limit.
“There’s no point in running, angel.”
His words bounce off the high ceiling, making it impossible to tell where they’re coming from.
“Because eventually, angel, you will stop.”
As soon as I hear the wordstop, my body freezes as if I’m on a leash and he’s pulled at the slack.
The corridor lengthens, the oak door shrinking, seeming the furthest away it’s ever been.
There’s a large window to my left, the moonlight casting a spotlight upon the floor where I stand.
Something niggles at my brain—something I should be looking for. There are no pockets in my dress, the thin material barely covering me.
What is it I’m looking for?
I flex my fingers, wondering what I should be holding in my hand.
“Looking for this?”
I feel it first, the cold metal pressed against the side of my arm.
Sucking air in through my teeth, I glance down and see the glint of the blade as it runs over my skin and up to my shoulder.
“Hold still, angel.” His breath is hot against the back of my neck as the knife travels over my collarbone and then down onto my chest.
