by Liliana Hart
I huffed out another white puff of breath and rolled over, punching my pillow and clearing my mind of all thoughts that didn’t involve counting sheep. I’d had trouble sleeping since I’d moved home. Maybe it was because the house was empty and made weird noises and my imagination assumed the cold blasts of air and the rattling pipes were the haunts of all my ancestors shaking their heads in pity. Or maybe it was because the mattress was old and lumpy. Who the hell knew? But I’d learned to function on just a few hours of sleep when I was in medical school, so I was used to having bags under my eyes and skin that looked like it never saw the light of day.
The silence of the house smothered me—a heap of decaying wood and rotting shingles that crushed me with the weight of neglect and responsibility—so I burrowed under the covers, searching for peace of mind and the comfortable spot on the mattress that always seemed to elude me. I’d almost talked myself into getting up and starting a pot of coffee when the phone warbled on the bedside table.
I cursed out a mumbled, “shit” in surprise and flailed under the covers so my sheets resembled something along the lines of a straight jacket. My pulse jumped and throbbed in the side of my neck, and each pounding beat marched through the synapses of my brain until I became lightheaded with something I recognized as fear. I closed my eyes and let out a slow breath.
The only time I got calls in the middle of the night was when someone died. I hated death. I hated that my parents had left such a massive responsibility on my shoulders. And most of all I hated that I was the only one the dead could turn to. I missed the living. The dead made me think of too many things I wasn’t quite ready to face.
Against my better judgment, I answered the phone.
“Who died?”
“Very professional, Doctor Graves,” said Sheriff Jack Lawson. “You always assume the worst. What if I was calling to invite you to poker tonight at my place?”
“At five o’clock in the morning? Who died?” I asked again. Jack had been my best friend since we’d been in diapers, and I knew without a doubt he’d be the one person who’d search for me if I just disappeared one day. I squeezed the phone in a white knuckled grasp as silence reigned on the other end of the line. I prepared myself for the worst.
“It’s Fiona Murphy,” he finally said.
“Oh, damn,” I whispered, untangling the covers and sitting up on the side of the bed. The wood floor felt like a sheet of ice under my feet, and I drew them up quickly so they were back under the covers.
“To say the least.” Sirens and muted voices came across the line, and I knew Jack must be at the crime scene.
My teeth chattered—I couldn’t tell if it was from the news or the cold—and I gritted them in determination so my words came out clearly. “Where’s George?” I asked.
George was Fiona’s husband. He was the meanest son of a bitch I’d ever met, and Fiona had a new bruise every time I saw her. George was a gifted mechanic and owned the only garage in town, so despite people disapproving of the way he treated his wife, he had a hell of a customer base and enough money to build a house that was one of the nicest in the county. He also had big hands and a wicked temper, and there wasn’t a doubt in my mind he was the reason Fiona was dead at age thirty.
“George has already been picked up and booked on a first degree murder charge. We need you down at the site. The crime scene guys are almost finished. I’m warning you, Jaye, she doesn’t look good. Johnny Duggan found her in the ditch just off Canterbury Street on his way to work.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and prayed to a God I’d stopped believing in for strength. “I can handle it, Jack. I’m all she’s got.” It was the least I could do for a dead friend.
Bloody Mary—Population 2,901.