I had never experienced nausea so easily as I had lately—not since I was pregnant with Henry. And I knew for a fact that morning sickness wasn’t even a remote possibility.
By the time I could stand again, tears of frustration blurred my vision as I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The flesh around my eye was puffy and swollen, and the white of my eye was now pink from burst capillaries.
Taking a steadying breath, I turned around and leaned against the vanity, my hands gripping the edge so tightly my knuckles ached. I swallowed hard, preparing for what I was about to open myself to.
“David?” I whispered. “Was that you? Why did you hit me? What are you trying to tell me?”
I waited, listening, not knowing if the intruder would show himself or communicate—or if he even could.
“You don’t have to hit me to get my attention,” I assured him. “You can reach out to me in other ways. You could blink the lights or knock or…” My mind raced, searching for alternative methods. “You could turn on one of Henry’s toys.”
I stood motionless for several minutes, every muscle taut, waiting, but nothing else happened. Relieved and disappointed all at once, I returned to my bed. I lay there in the darkness for a little while, too amped up to sleep, too afraid of what might happen as soon as I closed my eyes. Finally, I switched on the bedside lamp.
It’s ridiculous that we think leaving the lights on will neutralize any threats that lurk in the shadows. If a spirit has the power to attack in the darkness, they can attack when the lights are on. Trust me. Still, it was a small comfort that would perhaps let me get a little more sleep.
As I drifted off, the sound of crying came through the vents.
I hadn’t even met Kitty yet, but my heart was breaking for her. Maybe she, too, didn’t have the money to leave and find something better. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to keep from absorbing her anguish and making it my own. Eventually, the crying stopped and the house was quiet again.
Chapter eight
The next morning, I dropped off Henry with June for the day, but instead of heading straight to the bookstore, I took the elevator back up to the third floor and went to Billy Wayne and Kitty’s apartment.
The woman who responded to my knock opened the door only a crack, just enough to reveal one pale blue eye. But even with that glimpse of her, Kitty seemed small. Frail. Frightened.
“Good morning,” I said softly, in case Billy Wayne was still inside. “I’m Zellie Dupont. I just moved in and thought I’d come introduce myself.”
She stared at me like she was waiting for me to say more, then gave a tight nod. “Mornin’.”
When she didn’t shut the door in my face, I cleared my throat, checking the hallway before lowering my voice. “Kitty, I heard you crying. Are you okay? Do you need help?”
Kitty’s eye widened. She opened the door just a little bit more—just enough to see her face, drawn and hollow, cheeks sunken, the skin beneath her eyes dark with lack of sleep or crying…or illness.
“Please don’t say things like that,” she whispered urgently. “You don’t understand.”
“Kitty,” I said gently, “if you need help there are places you can go, people who can get you on your feet, and Billy Wayne won’t be able to hurt you again.”
She shook her head vehemently. “It’s not like that. Please, just don’t concern yourself with my affairs.Please. It’s better for you if you just leave it alone.”
Before I could say anything more, she closed the door.
Taking the hint, I left Dawes House and walked toward the bookstore, trying not to think about my neighbor who was so clearly scared of…something. But the image of her gauntness troubled me for days. Weeks, even. Haunted me so much that Dottie pulled me aside at the end of my shift one evening.
“What’s eating at you, Zellie?” she asked, blinking at me through cat-eye glasses that made her eyes look cartoonishly large.
I considered how much to share before asking, “Dottie, if you knew someone was in trouble, would you help them—even if they didn’t want you to?”
She nodded sagely. “A vexing dilemma. Dreadful. What does your intuition tell you? You must listen to what you know on a deeper level, honey. Don’t trust your headoryour heart. That’s just for motivational posters.” She tottered away from me to help a customer, calling over her shoulder, “Toodle-oo now, honey.”
I stared after her, bewildered by her quirky yet somehow sage wisdom, before shaking my head and closing the café. But before I left for home, I dialed a number on my phone. My intuition was screaming that something was dreadfully wrong with Kitty Wright. And I’d be damned if I was going to just stand by and watch her slip through the cracks.
I didn’t see the police car until I was only a couple of houses away from Dawes House. Several neighbors had come out onto their porches to see what was going on, concerned expressions doing little to mask their morbid curiosity. A woman holding a snow-white bichon in her arms offered me a sympathetic smile as if to reassure me that she wasn’t being nosey—she was merelycurious.
I heard voices before I stepped inside, but nothing prepared me for what I saw in the foyer. A sturdy, muscled man stood with his arm around Kitty who wassmiling as they chatted with a policeman. Kitty laughed at something the man said and patted her very round, very pregnant belly.
They were a picture of domestic bliss.
Kitty’s smile faltered when she saw me. She shot me a brief glare, her eyes narrowed, before turning back to the officer. “I’m so sorry you had to come out this way because of some silly anonymous call, Officer. The caller must not have known what she was talking about. I’m perfectly fine, as you can see! Just tired. This little fella has been kicking me something fierce.”
