The mayor’s gaze locked with the chief’s.
“The killer is one of our own.”
11
11:31 p.m.
Sarah’s eyes opened.
Her heart raced. The blood roared in her ears like a train.
She couldn’t move.
Fear ignited, flaring along her helpless limbs.
Run! Hide! She’ll find you.
She always finds me.
Sarah stalled, stared down at her hands. Blood dripped from her fingers. Her gaze followed a big, fat droplet as it fell from her finger to splatter on the tile floor. She blinked. Three feet ... her two and ... another. She stared at the larger foot—the one that wasn’t really hers. Red-painted toenails matched the blood draped like a crimson ankle bracelet around the top of it where it had been severed from a leg.
Her body started to shake. Urine slid down her thighs.
Don’t look! Move!
Sarah lunged upward in bed, hugged her knees to her chest.
“Just a dream. Just a dream.”
Breathe. Slow. Deep.
Just a dream.
She looked at the clock. Blinked. Then took a moment to get her bearings.
Maine.
The missing girl.
The dead girl.
Sarah was okay.
Safe.
And pissed off.
She threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.
She glared at her cell phone. “Yeah, I know. I should have taken the damned medicine.” And eaten the chowder. The bowl of now-cold soup sat on the bedside table, untouched.
Her body shivered. She was soaked with sweat. Muttering profanities, mainly at herself, she peeled off her T-shirt and shed her sweatpants. She hated this shit. Nineteen years and she still fought the demons of her past every damned night in her sleep.
Three different shrinks or was it four? Five ... no, six, separate drug trials. Nothing stopped the dreams unless it knocked her out cold. Then she couldn’t function the next day.
A vicious cycle!
In the bathroom, she flipped on the light and reached for a towel. Midnight was a hell of a time to take a shower, but she felt dirty. As much from her dreams as from the sweat.
