Don't Close Your Eyes

by Christie Craig

  “You think it’s about a murder? But you’re not sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure.” She sat up taller, as if his question had put her on the defensive.

  “Care to elaborate?” he asked, back to worrying about the crazy factor.

  “I saw…” Her voice thinned. Her chest rose and fell as if the air was too thick. “I saw someone burying her.”

  Vertebra by vertebra, Mark’s spine tightened. “Where? When?” He shook his head. “Who?”

  “Jenny. Her name was Jenny.”

  “Last name?”

  She sent him a blank look. “I’m not sure. Maybe Reed? Maybe not. She lived in Pearlsville.” Another strand of wispy hair fell to Ms. Lake’s cheek. “She was my cousin.”

  “Cousin?” But you don’t know her last name? “What happened?”

  “The family had gone camping. We were asleep in the tent, and—”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” He edged his chair closer to the desk.

  “My other cousin. Fran. Francyne Roberts.” She pulled a photograph from her purse and handed it to him. “She’s the one with the broken arm.”

  It was an aged image of two girls. His gaze stuck on the youngest. He looked up. Same round eyes. Same sweet face.

  Why she’d brought the picture baffled him. He set the photograph on his desk. “So you woke up and…” He motioned for her to continue.

  “Jenny was gone. Fran was supposed to watch us, so—”

  “Watch?” He pushed a thumb to his throbbing temple. “When did this happen?”

  She took another nip at her lip. “About twenty-four years ago.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “And you’re just now coming forward?”

  “I would’ve, but…”

  “What?” He tapped the end of his pen on his desk. The click bounced around the room, making the silence seem incredibly loud.

  She hugged her purse. “I didn’t remember…until now.”

  He rolled the pen between his palms. “It just came to you. Just like that?”

  “No. I went to an uncle’s funeral and…” Her words faded. “I guess I never really forgot. I’ve dreamed it, over and over again. Well, some of it. But when I was there, I remembered.”

  He leaned forward. “You dreamed that this happened?”

  She nodded.

  Yup, crazy. And it’s Monday! “If you dreamed it, and then forgot it, how do you know it really happened?”

  Her chin inched up, a tiny gesture that spoke of her guts.

  “The shoes.” She pointed to the photo. “I dreamed I was wearing them. And the scar. I fell in the dream, and I have a scar.”

  His grip on the pen tightened. “Normally, it takes more than a dream to report a murder.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly, her tone hinting at a touch of anger. “It was a mistake coming here.”

  She stood.

  Guilt tugged at his gut. “If it happened in Pearlsville, you should talk to someone there.”

  “I thought you’d…” She inhaled as if to pull the words back in. As if she decided he wasn’t worth her words.

  “You thought I would what?” He clicked the pen.

  Instead of answering, she bolted out of his office with a hell of a lot more energy than she’d come in.

  Frustrated, he finger-locked his hands behind his neck and closed his eyes. His mind flashed the image of the haunted look he’d seen on her face. And while he still didn’t know why she looked familiar, he knew that look. He’d seen that same expression in the mirror every morning when he woke up, or when he crawled out of bed and hadn’t slept, because the images robbed him of sleep and sanity.

  Determined to focus on the Talbot case, a real case, he leaned forward. He saw her picture. Picking it up, he stared at the younger girl’s image, the sweet face. He thought of his half sister. Sweet, innocent, and dead. Her body tossed in a dumpster.

  “Well, shit!” He took off, hoping to catch Ms. Lakes. What he’d say to her when, or if, he caught her, was anyone’s guess.

  * * *

  Insides trembling, hands sweating, she walked, weak-kneed, down the hall. Coming here had been a mistake.

  She made it outside the precinct. Hot air and hotter sunshine hit her. Lowering her sunglasses, she fought the need to cry. Not in public, damn it. People would think she was crazy. Just what Detective Sutton believed—what most of her old coworkers, her friends, and Ted, her fiancé, believed. Hell, she could probably add her mother to that list.

  Why had she told him about the dreams? She could’ve just said…what?

  There was nothing she could say about any of this that didn’t sound crazy. If it happened in Pearlsville, you should talk to someone there.

  It might’ve helped if she’d told him she thought the murder had happened here. Or maybe not. He was right. She needed something besides dreams, and rants from her drunk cousin.

  She needed Jenny’s last name.

  She needed to talk to her mom. The knot in her throat tightened. Tears threatened.

  “Ms. Lakes?”

  She turned. Detective Sutton sprinted across the parking lot. Feeling a tear slip from beneath her sunglasses, she brushed it from her cheek and nudged her frames up on her nose. Had he changed his mind?

  His dark hair, a tad too long to be considered stylish, stirred in the wind. He carried his big frame like a man comfortable with his size. The type of man who always made Annie wish she had a few more inches.

  As he got closer, she spotted the photograph in his hand.

  He stopped beside her.

  Yep. He made her feel small.

  “You forgot this.”

  Not trusting her voice, she reached for the picture.

  “The coffee shop,” he blurted out. “That’s where I know you from. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your sunglasses on.”

  Great, now she was going to have to find a new place to drink coffee. She slipped the photograph into her purse. When her hands shook, she didn’t bother zipping it, but swerved around and started to her car.

  “Wait.”

  His one word gave her pause.

  She stopped. She waited. But she didn’t turn around. Then not wanting to come off like some meek, too small female, she squared her shoulders.

  He stepped beside her. She didn’t look at him. But she felt him. His scent, a spicy, male soap kind of aroma, filled her senses.

  She gazed up at him, and a tingling awareness skittered down her spine. A male/female kind of tingle, the last emotion she expected to feel right now. The last thing she wanted to feel. But hadn’t she felt it every time she’d watched him come into the coffee shop? Oh, Lord, why had she thought this was a good idea?

  Nudging those thoughts aside, she glanced up but waited for him to speak. Waited to see what he’d say. Then her patience snapped, she tossed words out. “I shouldn’t have come here. Forget…” She started to leave, but he spoke up again.

  “Wait.” He looked down through his dark sunglasses. “You didn’t answer my question. What is it that you thought I’d do?”

  While she couldn’t see his eyes, she felt them studying her. She suddenly wished she’d taken the time to notice his eyes earlier. What color were they? What was he hiding?

  “I thought you’d care.” An assumption she’d gotten from him buying coffee for strangers and the way he’d come across in the on-camera interviews. And the way he’d shielded himself with those glasses, as if hiding his pain.

  Wasn’t that the reason she wore sunglasses? To hide.

  “You think I don’t care?” His tone deepened.

  “I think…it doesn’t matter. Because you obviously believe I’m crazy.” She shook her head. “Like I said, coming here was a mistake.”

  “That’s my job.” His comment felt like a jab, hitting her ribs, heart, and nerves.

  Her shoulders squared. “Your job is to think I’m crazy?”

  “My job is to mistrust everyone.” He let the wor
ds hang in the air before continuing. “And your job is to convince me otherwise.”

  “What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

  “I never assumed you were guilty.” His right eyebrow rose above his dark glasses. “Just crazy.” A whisper of a smile pulled at his lips.

  His honesty both disturbed and intrigued her. “And what do I need to do to convince you I’m sane?”

  “You could start by buying me a cup of coffee.”

  “Bribery?” she asked.

  He ran a palm over his mouth as if to hide a smile. “It’s right around the block, as you know.” He pulled a set of keys from his front pocket. “I’m parked right here.” He started walking to a line of cars.

  She hesitated. The idea of having coffee with him made her feel as if she’d already indulged in too much caffeine. And the reasons weren’t about Jenny or about him believing she was crazy, but about the insane male/female thing again.

  He glanced back. “Coming?”

  Chapter Four

  Was she?

  She followed him to a green Mustang. He slid behind the wheel. Still leery, she climbed into the passenger seat. She didn’t see the assortment of fast-food bags at her feet until she stepped on them and the smell of cold fries filled the air.

  His gaze shifted down her legs to the floorboard. “Sorry.” He reached toward her floor space.

  Nervous, she shifted her legs—the wrong way—and his hand brushed against her bare calf.

  Her breath caught. Sweet sexual tingles—unwanted, but sweet nevertheless—ran up her leg to her stomach, and then swooped back down to places that hadn’t tingled in years.

  Note to self—panic must be an aphrodisiac.

  “Sorry.” His voice came out a little huskier than before. He snatched a handful of trash and tossed it into his backseat then went back for another handful.

  “That’s fine.” Her pulse thundered.

  To avoid looking at him, she started to place her purse on the floorboard, then realized more bags were in the way.

  “Let me put it in the back.” He reached for her purse.

  Not wanting to chance touching him, she twisted and tossed it into the back with about as much care as he had the fast-food bags.

  One silent minute later, they arrived at the coffee shop. As soon as her feet hit the pavement, he clicked the locks on the car.

  “I need to grab my purse.”

  “I was joking about you paying,” he said.

  “A deal is a deal.” Their locked gazes felt like a debate.

  She won.

  He hit the clicker. Opening the back door, she bent at the waist to grab her purse and her billfold that had spilled out. When she straightened and swung around, his guilty gaze flickered up. Great. She’d probably given him a nice rearview shot.

  As they walked in, the smell of dark roast filled Annie’s senses. The occasional brush of his arm against her shoulder sent jolts of emotional currents to play dodgeball in her stomach.

  “Excuse me a second.” He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Mildred, I’m picking up coffee. Mr. Talbot is supposed to be in at ten. If he shows up early call me.” He paused. “Small or large?”

  He cut his eyes toward Annie, almost in apology. “Yeah, skinny vanilla decaf.”

  He hung up. “Front desk clerk. Sorry.”

  “Hello, Detective.” Mary the cashier offered him a smile. “Missed you this morning.”

  “I missed your coffee,” he said.

  While he ordered, Annie noted him close up. His light green Dockers were perfectly ironed, with a firm crease down the middle. His dark five o’clock shadow said he hadn’t shaved.

  “Annie?”

  Annie jerked, realizing Mary was waiting on her order. “Just regular coffee.” She pulled out money and paid.

  They sat across from each other, their coffees sending up steam between them. Annie noticed he’d chosen a secluded table in the corner. Her table.

  Sun flooded in through the glass walls. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses. Looking at ease, he picked up his cup and sipped. “You have a first name, Ms. Lakes?”

  Tearing open a pink packet, she added the sweetener to her coffee. “Annie.”

  “You know that stuff will kill you?” He motioned to the packet.

  She nodded and sipped, aware his gaze followed the cup to her mouth.

  “Is there a Mr. Annie?”

  “No.” She almost fired back the same question, but felt uncomfortable. His reason for asking could be legit, her reasons not so legit.

  He settled back in the chair. “What do you do to keep the wolves from your front door?”

  It took her a second to understand what he meant. “I’m a teacher.”

  “Not what I pegged you for. What grade?”

  “College.” No need to elaborate. Not when he questioned her mental status.

  “A professor. I’m impressed.” He shook out a coffee stirrer from the glass container on the table and chewed on the tip.

  “Don’t be. I teach junior college. A long way from professor status.” Over his shoulder, she saw Fred, the regular patron, staring. She forced a smile. He smiled then ducked back behind his paper.

  “What do you teach?”

  “English mostly. And some continuing ed courses…if the wolves are closing in.” Which was often.

  Bringing his cup up, he sipped the hot brew. Steam touched his lips. “You grew up in Pearlsville?”

  She figured this was his way of backtracking to the conversation they’d left at the precinct. “Until I was five. We moved to Houston. Which is probably part of the reason I can’t remember…people’s names. I moved to Anniston five months ago.”

  “Why Anniston?” he asked.

  “A job.”

  “Reed your mother’s maiden name?”

  Wow, he’d remembered. She supposed cops were trained to do that.

  “And you never visited the Reed family through the years?” Doubt flashed in his eyes.

  “Not until recently. My mom visited. Dad and I didn’t.”

  “Why?”

  She stirred her coffee as his question stirred up something she’d never quite understood.

  He eased in. “Why didn’t you go with your mother?”

  “Dad didn’t like her family. He called them angry alcoholics.” She tried to say it with confidence, yet her father’s excuse had never sounded like enough. Now Annie suspected the truth, that her mom wasn’t the only one keeping secrets from her. Had Dad known about Jenny?

  “Is it true?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “That they’re angry alcoholics?

  “Yes.”

  “Is your mom an angry alcoholic?”

  “No. She never drinks.” She had to give her mom credit for it.

  He stared at his cup. “Have you spoken to your parents about your suspicions?”

  The sound of grinding coffee beans buzzed in the air, sending a rejuvenating aroma of caffeine in the store. “I didn’t…suspect anything until this weekend. My dad passed away last year. My mom’s still in Pearlsville. Her brother just died.”

  “You said you went to the funeral, right?”

  Moistening her dry lips, she answered. “My mom begged me to go.”

  He turned his cup one way, then the other, as if trying to figure out what to ask next. “What exactly do you think you saw twenty-four years ago?”

  She didn’t miss the do you think in his question. It rubbed her the wrong way, but it was better than the look he’d shot her back at the precinct. That look had been too close to the one she’d received when she’d been escorted out of the elementary school for making false accusations of child abuse. Too close to the look the judge had given her when she’d explained why she’d broken the restraining order.

  “Someone was burying her.” A chill ran down her back. Deep inside she heard Fran’s voice screaming for her to run. Instantly, she realized she was tracing her finger over the scar. She
stopped.

  “You were camping, right? In Pearlsville.”

  She almost corrected him, but…

  “Who was burying her?”

  She’d questioned her sanity for accepting his coffee invitation. But it was too late to back out now. “I don’t know. It was like a ravine. There was foliage. I couldn’t see who was shoveling the dirt over her.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I saw Jenny’s teddy bear at the edge of the ravine, and when I picked it up, dirt rolled down the edge. The shoveling stopped. Fran screamed at me to run. Someone chased us.” A shiver ran through her, and she felt her heart, her pulse, felt herself running.

  He scooted closer as if she spoke too low. “Who was chasing you?”

  She grabbed her stirrer and gave it a few laps around her cup. “I don’t know. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  His expression changed, but she couldn’t read it. Not with his dark glasses on.

  She dropped her stirrer. “I swear I’m telling the truth.”

  His reply was another question. “You said you dreamed this, too, right?”

  “Part of it. I started dreaming it when I was twelve—only the part about running and being chased. I’d wake up in cold sweats. Hearing footsteps behind me.”

  “Did you tell your parents about the dreams?”

  “Yeah. Mom blamed the dreams on me watching The Blair Witch Project.”

  He rubbed his neck. “Had you watched the movie?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Your parents never mentioned Jenny to you? Surely, if she was a cousin, your mom would have said something about her…sometime.”

  A strand of hair whispered across her cheek and she brushed it back. “No. We never talked about her family.”

  His glasses lowered a quarter of an inch. She tried to see what color his eyes were. But he nudged the glasses back up.

  “You said you didn’t know her last name. Is that because you don’t know who her parents were?”

  She pulled her napkin over and folded it. “All I remember is she was a cousin. My mother has six siblings.”

  “Did you see pictures of Jenny when you were back there?”

  “No.”

  His brows rose from behind the glasses, telling her exactly what he kept hidden. Disbelief.