Her hand hit some sort of table and she crawled up worn wood, fumbling for a light. Then the color red dominated her vision. Crimson covered her hands and arms.
She coughed. Was that blood? The liquid had congealed but was still slippery. Her eyes filled with tears, making the world blurrier.
What was happening?
She swiped the tears away, not wanting to touch her eyes with her bloody hands.
Looking down, she saw her nude body. Blood stained her chest. She opened her eyes wider, but the world remained murky. She clutched the mattress, her nails sinking into more blood, then balanced herself on her knees.
Bile rose in her throat.
She blinked several times, trying to focus. A man lay on his stomach on the bed, his bare torso visible. Wait a minute. Was that Clay? Clay Baker’s face and profile came into view. His eyes bulged, and blood drenched his bare neck and torso.
She screamed, trying to wake up. This had to be a nightmare.
Nothing changed.
Why was she in her ex-boyfriend’s cabin?
How had she gotten there?
She hurriedly seized both the bloody mattress and the end table and forced herself to stand, swamped with vulnerability by her nudity. Her feet slipped in the pool of blood and she righted herself, gulping. “Clay?” She reached forward and nudged his shoulder. He didn’t move. She looked around, trying to focus. What was wrong with her brain?
She struggled to form a thought.
Knowing he was dead, she pushed him again, ignoring reality. Her hand slid off his shoulder and hit something hard in the bedcovers. She grabbed something cold and gasped. She held a jagged-edged fishing knife, the one she had created herself with a handle containing survival tools—a fishing line and hook, a compass, and even a fire starter kit.
Why was her knife here?
Blood, already dried, covered the blade. She gasped and dropped the weapon. The knife fell half on the mattress and then slid onto the bloody floor.
She looked around. How did she get here? She hadn’t talked to Clay in at least a year. She vaguely remembered driving to River City and seeing her great-aunt in the hospital yesterday, but then…nothing.
The morning light strengthened through the blinds, illuminating dust mites in the air. Had she spent all night with Clay?
Her clothes had been thrown over a wooden chair near the sliding glass door. Holding her breath, she crept as quietly as she could, just in case whoever had stabbed Clay remained in the cabin. Gulping, she yanked on her shirt, noting it was still buttoned up. The over-large flannel covered her at least to her thighs. She reached for her jeans and fumbled for her phone in the back pocket, leaving bloody handprints all over the light denim.
The wind rattled against the windows and she jumped. Then she shut the door as quietly as she could, searching for a locking mechanism. There was none. Her heart thundering, she grabbed the wooden chair and placed it in front of the door. If anybody lurked out there, at least she would know if they tried to get back in.
She still couldn’t concentrate. The room spun around her, and none of this made sense. The itchy and heavy blood on her hands had crusted in her fingernails.
She looked back at Clay. With his one eye open, he appeared to wink. But his body lay still, and blood splattered all around him.
As reality started to return, she slid across the room and felt for a pulse. “Clay?” His eye had already gone partially milky. She knew he was dead, but she had to check for a pulse. There was nothing. In fact, his skin had already cooled.
She shivered and backed away, quickly punching in a number.
“River City Police Department,” came a low voice over the line.
“Hi.” Her voice trembled. “This is Millie Frost, and I’m out at Clay Baker’s cabin.” Her stomach lurched, and she turned to the side to vomit in the corner.
“Ma’am, are you okay?” She didn’t recognize the voice, which was odd because she knew everybody in the small town, or at least she thought she did. “No,” she said, coughing and wiping off her mouth. “Is the chief there? We have a problem.”
* * * *
Scott sucked down his second cup of coffee as he dressed for the day, pausing in the midst of buttoning his shirt as the multitude of scars across his chest caught his attention. He gingerly touched the bullet hole and surrounding scar tissue, wondering how close he’d been to crossing over. Probably pretty close.
He didn’t remember a light. He didn’t remember a darkness. In fact, he didn’t remember a damn thing except for pain, a lot of it. Putting his shoulders back, he reached for cuff links. He had a couple of court hearings that morning and then had to figure out his schedule, not that he felt any real interest in it.
