On impulse, I switched over to Google and plugged in a search on Cole’s name and Fredericksburg, Virginia. What came up made me gasp. The first link I found led to a news report about a murder from 1987. Investigating further, I discovered that the case was unsolved; the victim an eighteen-year-old boy who’d been shot to death the night of his prom. His name had been Ben Spencer.
I got through maybe two paragraphs of the story before I started to hyperventilate. I’d had one panic attack in my life. It had come the day Dad had tried to introduce me to his girlfriend. He and Mom had already filed for divorce, and he’d taken me to lunch like he wanted us to bond one-on-one. Instead, Jenny had been at the table, waiting for us.
It’d been so unfair, so underhanded, and I’d felt a sudden rush of panic and fear take hold of my insides and threaten to rip me apart. Dad had gotten me through it by rubbing my back and helping me regulate my breathing. The bastard.
There was no accounting for why this panic attack came on, though—it just did. I slipped out of my chair, gasping for breath, and got on all fours to try to temper the force of it.
It took a long time, and I came close to reaching for the phone to dial 911, but at last it subsided. When it did, I was damp with sweat, even though I was shivering with cold. Trembling, I crawled over to the bed and sat against it, wiping the hair out of my eyes and pulling an afghan off my bed.
“What the hell, Lil?” I asked myself.
This time I’d had to fight it all on my own. I wondered if the appearance of Dad’s girlfriend at the door of my grandmother’s house had somehow triggered a delayed reaction. But when I glanced toward my desk and the still-lit computer screen, I knew this one hadn’t been about her.
Something about that article had set me off. But what was it? And why was Cole’s name attached to a thirty-year-old murder?
Cautiously, I got up, hugged the afghan close, and hobbled over to the desk again. Taking a seat, I scrolled to the top and began to read.
At the end of the first page I found Cole’s name. A few months earlier, on the day of the thirtieth anniversary, he’d been asked to comment on the death of his uncle.
“Whoa,” I whispered when I read that part. I’d never known anyone who’d been murdered, not even by extension.
Cole had told the reporter that it was still hard for his family to talk about. He’d been born well after his uncle was killed, but it hung over his mother and his grandmother like a dark cloud. He said he wished that the case would be reopened and looked at again, if only to confirm the general suspicion that Ben had been murdered by his then-girlfriend.
I felt my brow furrow. I read the line again, and something about it seemed off. Like the panic attack, it hit me wrong, but I couldn’t explain why. I read on, even though the details were few.
Ben Spencer had been shot twice in the chest. Police suspected his longtime girlfriend of the crime. A girl named Amber Greeley, who had killed herself four days after Ben’s murder. A note had been found at her home, which suggested that she’d been the one responsible for Ben’s death, and she’d taken her own life, but questions remained. Namely, the murder weapon had never been recovered, and she and Ben had appeared to be a happy couple that was very much in love. There were no signs from their friends that anything had been wrong between them that evening, but both had gone missing from the dance at about ten o’clock in the evening, and a half hour later, Spence was discovered dead in a field next to the high school. The reporter alluded to other inconsistencies, and it wasn’t hard to see that he thought someone else might be responsible.
The article ended with a question, which was: why would someone want to murder the popular captain of the football and track team, a good student, and a boy about to head off to college where even more greatness likely awaited him? What could’ve been the motive?
I sighed and shut the lid to my laptop. The article left me feeling profoundly sad on top of the fact that my eyelids were heavy and my limbs like lead. I was exhausted. Glancing at the clock I saw that it was only a little after five. I could take a nap and still make it to the salon appointment Grandmother had set up for me.
Moving back to the bed, I pulled the afghan over myself and closed my eyes. I was worried about having the dream again, so I focused on happy thoughts. It wasn’t lost on me that over and over my mind kept drifting back to Cole.
A few minutes later, I was sitting on a bed in a strange room. Alarmed by the unfamiliar surroundings, I looked about and realized I did somewhat recognize where I was, but for the life of me I couldn’t place it.
I had the distinct impression I’d been in that room before, but when and where? I wondered. The room itself was spacious, painted a soft, soothing yellow with bright-white trim. The bedspread was dotted with sunflowers, and a large white desk occupied one corner. I sat on the edge of the bed, facing one of two windows, and outside the sun was setting, the last rays of the day bathing the room in a soft blush.
The setting was soothing, and yet, my heart was racing. I felt tense with the knowledge that I was in danger.
Behind me, somewhere deeper in the house, I heard a dog bark, and it, too, sounded familiar, even though we’d never owned a dog.
Could it be one from the animal sanctuary? I asked myself.
As I was trying to sort it all out, I heard footsteps from beyond the door, as if someone in the hallway were approaching. I felt the immediate urge to get up and hide, but instead an unseen force held me there. I was suddenly completely paralyzed. And then, the door behind me creaked as it opened, and footsteps closed in. I was filled with panic but I couldn’t move. Not a limb, not a finger, not even to blink my eyes. It was as if my whole body had been taken over and reprogrammed to sit still and wait for an attack I knew was coming. I tried to scream, but couldn’t get my lips parted. My vocal chords refused to work. Behind me, I felt the bed depress with the weight of an unknown intruder, and then my shoulder was gripped with pain.
I tried to fight that paralyzing sensation, but no amount of strain or effort could break the hold. And then, I saw an arm snake around my other shoulder, and a dwindling ray of sunlight flashed against silver. Too late, I realized the intruder had a knife, and in the next horrible moment, that knife arced up, and then straight down again to plunge into my sternum. In the final second, my whole chest exploded in a fireball of pain as the knife drove mercilessly into my heart.
BEN SPENCER PUT A HAND over his heart and gave his chest a few pats. “You,” he said dramatically, “look incredible.”
I laughed, holding open the front door, and ducked my chin, both pleased and a bit flustered. Since I’d shown up to our first date looking frazzled and stressed from the day spent catering to Mrs. Bennett, I was determined to look my absolute best tonight when he took me out a second time. I was glad that the bright-pink denim dress with the high collar I had on was working its charm.
“How’re you?” I asked him as he came close to put his hands on my hips and stare down at me. I felt flushed and giggly in his presence. So uncool.
“Better now,” he said. For a moment I thought he was going to lean in for a kiss, and a surge of excitement coursed through me. I sucked in a breath, because I was unprepared for it. Spence caught my reaction and immediately dropped his hands to step away.
“Sorry,” he said. “You just look so hot in that dress.”
I laughed again. “You’re forgiven. Should we go?”
“Amber?” Momma called. I held in a groan. I’d been hoping to avoid having to introduce Spence to my parents. Momma was going to pepper him with questions, and Daddy was probably going to try and scare him off. It’d be humiliating.
But Spence waved and then extended his hand when my parents appeared. “Mr. Greeley, Mrs. Greeley, it’s very good to meet you. You have a beautiful home here.”
It was a pretty formal introductory speech, but as I watched Spence make small talk with my parents, Daddy’s expression changed from barely veiled suspicion to one
of surprised delight. And within a matter of a few minutes, Spence had totally won both my parents over.
At last we were free to leave, and Spence held my hand as he led me down the walk to his car. I loved that he was old enough to drive!
“Madame,” he said, opening the car door for me with a flourish.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I said, laughing as I turned sideways to scooch into the seat. Spence closed the door and got in. The second he turned the ignition, Yes’s “Owner of a Lonely Heart” blasted from the speakers. Spence jumped to turn the volume down.
“You like it loud, huh?” I asked.
“Naw,” Spence said, with a wink at me. “I’m just the owner of a lonely heart.”
I smiled and tried to hold in the giggle bubbling up again. He was so clever, he kept surprising me. But then he reached to his back pocket and made a face.
“Aww, crap,” he muttered, covering his eyes with his hand.
“What’s the matter?”
Lifting his face, he said, “I left my wallet at home.”
I held up my purse. “I can cover us.”
He winced. “No way, Amber. And if I ever let you pay for me, break my heart and dump me, okay?”
I frowned at him. “What is this, caveman times? Are you going to drag me into the movie by my hair and buy me a brontosaurus burger later?”
It was Spence’s turn to chuckle. “Hey, don’t knock the brontosaurus burger. It tastes like chicken.” Then he sighed and said, “I really want this to be on me, okay?”
I pointed to the digital clock on the dashboard. “It’s still early. We have tons of time before the movie starts.”
He smiled again and said, “My house is on the way. We can make a quick stop and not be late.”
We talked easily as we drove to Spence’s house, and I was eager to see where he lived, but as we got close, the neighborhood changed to something a bit seedier.
Spence stopped in front of a two-story white home with black shingles. For a moment he seemed to look up at the house, which had a light on in the front window, and I saw the flash of a grimace there.
“It’ll just be a sec,” he said, and hurried out of the car.
He bounded up the front walk and rushed inside. While I waited, I tried to find the charm in his house, because how could someone like Spence live in a place that didn’t have a little appeal?
But the more I looked, the more neglect I noticed. There was a flowerpot on the front porch that held only dry, dead flowers. Two weatherworn plastic chairs stood slightly askew, and one had a broken leg, which caused it to list to the side. A pink bike leaned up against a tree in the front yard, but even it looked like it’d seen far better days.
With a sigh, I rolled down the window and tried to figure out what was taking Spence so long. Maybe he couldn’t find his wallet? That’s when I heard an eruption of noise coming from inside his home and I flinched in alarm. Two voices, one male, one female, were shouting at each other, and while I couldn’t hear the words, the sentiment was loud and clear.
The male voice had to be Spence’s dad—it was too deep to be Spence’s—and I thought that maybe the woman’s voice was his mother. I covered my mouth with my hand, wondering if there was something I could do. Was the argument about Spence? The male voice was so angry and so loud that I was worried it might lead to violence, and then, abruptly, it stopped.
I waited a moment and heard a loud bang, like a door slamming shut, and then the sound of an old engine turning over. The front door opened just as a station wagon backed jerkily down the driveway, narrowly missing Spence’s car before it squealed off down the road.
I glanced back at the porch and saw Spence standing there with hunched shoulders and fisted palms. Next to him stood a woman as tall as Spence, wearing disheveled clothes and slightly crooked glasses. She stared angrily down the road in the direction of the moving car, then turned her gaze on me, and I swear her glare became harsher.
Spence said something to her and she headed back inside, slamming the door in her wake. Spence stood still for a moment before walking down the steps and over to his car.
When he opened the door, the overhead light came on and I saw a red welt on his cheek before he got settled into the driver’s seat.
I was speechless. The whole thing was so shocking. My parents never yelled like that at each other. Even in their most heated arguments, their tone never rose to the levels that I’d heard Spence’s family use. But even worse, had Spence’s dad punched him?
“Are you okay?” I asked when Spence didn’t say anything. It appeared he was trying to get his emotions under control.
“Yeah,” he said curtly. And then he took a deep breath and said, “Sorry. My dad can get a little intense.”
I bit my lip. I wanted to touch the welt on his cheek, but I also didn’t want to further upset Spence by letting him know that I’d noticed it.
“We can skip the movie,” I said.
His shoulders sagged. He leaned forward and let his head fall to the steering wheel. “You want me to drive you home, Amber?”
“No!” I said quickly. “No, Spence. I mean, if you want to drive me home, that’s okay. But we don’t need to go to the movie if you’re not up for it.”
He sat back again and turned to me. All that cool confidence and engaging personality had vanished, and in its place I saw a hurt and vulnerable guy. It moved me more than I could say.
“I’d really like to see the movie,” he said. “With you. If you still want to go?”
I reached out and put my hand on his arm. I could feel the muscles relax under my fingertips and saw his expression soften.
“Then let’s see the movie. And after, maybe you could treat me to that brontosaurus burger you keep talking up.”
He gifted me with another one of those oh-so-gorgeous smiles. “Deal,” he said, and we set off.
WE WERE LATE SETTING OFF for the salon. After the nightmare I’d had during my nap, it’d taken me a while to pull myself together and meet Arthur for the ride over. On the way there I nervously wondered if I was going crazy. The dream had felt so vivid and real. And when I’d jolted awake, my birthmark didn’t so much burn as radiate a pain that felt like an actual stab wound.
“Here we are, Miss Lily,” Arthur said, pulling up to the curb in front of a cozy olive-green house with a maroon door and a sign that said simply GINA’S. The salon was a surprise; I’d been expecting something more in line with a traditional-looking commercial salon. After collecting my purse, I told Arthur I’d call him when I was done and headed inside.
Coming through the door, I looked around at the interior, which was dimly lit, but welcoming. The salon itself was coated in a lighter shade of dark, woodsy green, with pops of bright orange. A large Asian-inspired coffee table dominated the waiting area, and it was artfully adorned with fashion magazines. In the center was a square glass vase filled to the top with lemons and limes.
The vase made me do a double take, and I had a weird déjà vu moment, but then it passed. I realized belatedly that the salon appeared to be deserted. Moving a little farther into the space to peek around a wall, I saw all the salon chairs were empty and there was not a stylist in sight except for a girl, maybe in her early twenties, with jet-black hair tipped in bright blue, sweeping the floor. She glanced up just as I spotted her.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I had a seven o’clock appointment with Gina?” I said, more as a question than a statement.
The girl tilted her head. “At seven?” she repeated. “We close at seven.”
I opened my mouth to apologize, but was interrupted.
“That’s okay, Rebecca. I booked it.”
I turned around and a surge of dizzy disorientation overtook me. A woman with wavy auburn hair, who I’d put anywhere between sixty and seventy, but who still appeared beautifully youthful, approached, wearing a long knit gray tunic with chunky jewelry. I knew her. I could swear I knew her, but for th
e life of me, I couldn’t place her face.
She smiled broadly. “Hello, Lily, I’m Gina. I’ll be taking care of you. Won’t you come this way?”
My mouth was opening and closing as I tried to form words, but each attempt got stuck in my throat. I felt wobbly and unsteady and didn’t know if I could walk. Sweat broke out across my brow, and I wondered if I was having yet another panic attack.
Gina seemed to notice because she stopped, pivoted back to me, and cupped my elbows. “Sweetheart, you don’t look so good. Are you okay?”
Her touch was my undoing. I felt my knees give out and I sort of sagged against her. She managed to catch me, and I heard her call for her assistant. Another pair of hands got under me, and they eased me to a sitting position on the floor.
Gina swept my hair back from my face and studied me. “Lily, can you hear me okay?”
I managed a nod.
She put a hand to my forehead and said, “You’re very pale; are you sick?”
“No,” I whispered. I didn’t feel feverish, just…overwhelmed. But from what? What had caused this ridiculous and humiliating reaction? I couldn’t imagine what Gina and the other girl must be thinking. Still, I leaned into the cool of the stylist’s palm and closed my eyes for a minute.
“Rebecca, go to the back and bring me a glass of ice water and a damp washcloth.” I heard the girl behind me scramble to her feet and hurry away.
“I’m sorry,” I told Gina, so embarrassed I could hardly stand it.
“Shhh,” she said gently. “Honey, did you have anything to eat today?”
I opened my eyes and leaned away from her to show her I was better. “I had a big sandwich for dinner. I’m sorry; I think it’s because I haven’t been sleeping.”
She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, well, I know all about how that can mess you up.”
Rebecca came back with the water and the wet washcloth. Gina took both and offered me the water. I took a few sips, breathed in deeply a few more times, and let Gina pat at my forehead and cheeks with the washcloth. Her touch was kind and gentle.