Slip

The dark hours of the night were filled with the most vivid dreams that piggybacked off one another, each one stranger than the next. At first she was Isolde, the Irish princess betrothed to a king but in love with his devoted soldier. She and her lover kept scurrying off to private corners in hopes of an intimate moment, yet each time she attempted to glimpse his face, he would turn away and she was left with the feeling of not knowing his true identity. And then, suddenly, her men were dueling, mirroring each other’s moves perfectly in a dance of death. Weary with fatigue, one hooded figure faltered, stepping clumsily to the side. Capitalizing on this error, his opponent lunged forward and with a powerful thrust sank the blade deep into his chest. She cried out. She fell to her knees and crawled to the fallen man, cupping him by the chin and lifting his hood ever so slowly so she could see his face. But when she looked, there was no face at all, only sheets of music that fluttered away in the breeze.

  Next she dreamt she was sleeping in her own bed but was awakened by a clinking sound at her window. She arose, waited, and soon enough another pebble smacked the glass. On the street below stood Ashton. He motioned for her to come down. He had something important to show her. Once outside she searched and searched but could find no trace of him save an empty guitar case full of loose change and crumpled Snickers wrappers. She called his name repeatedly. One by one the cats arrived. From all directions they ran to her, rubbing their coarse, filthy fur against her bare legs, so many they nearly knocked her off balance. Much to her dismay, upon closer look she could see that most had been cruelly abused in one way or another. Tails butchered, tongues removed, eye sockets emptied. Others had been gutted, salmon-pink entrails spilling out of swollen bodies. And all around her the signs whispered, Missing cat, please help!

  She awoke with a start. A noise at her window. Ashton?

  No. Rain. A steady spray pitter-pattered against the panes of glass. Not her window. Not her bed. Where was she? It took half a minute to remember.

  Tossing the covers to the side, she swung her legs around and planted her feet on the plush carpet. She stretched her arms overhead, curling her spine like a cat. She yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. And then she sat still. She did not feel her best. In fact, she felt exceptionally groggy.

  Slowly she got to her feet, throwing a puzzled glance at her choice of sleepwear. The house was quiet. So quiet she could hear the meticulous ticking of the grandfather clock echoing up from the foyer downstairs. She padded down the hall to Declan’s room, her eyes searching his bed, his desk, the bathroom. Empty. The vacant feeling made her sigh in disappointment.

  Down the stairs she went, but the emptiness followed. In the kitchen she found Cocoa asleep under the table. She gave her a warm greeting and checked the clock. Ten twenty-eight. She hadn’t slept this late in years.

  On the kitchen counter she found a note from Mrs. Mieres listing in detail all the various foods she could have for breakfast. But she wasn’t hungry. All she wanted was a large cup of coffee with milk and lots of sugar to wake her from this fog. She found the stainless-steel coffee pot and was pleased to find that it was still half full.

  In search of a mug, she opened cupboards absently, her mind wandering until it snagged on a disconcerting fragment: coffee; Christophe. They were supposed to have met yesterday afternoon. But of course she hadn’t shown up, hadn’t called. Would he have been worried? She had to find a way to see him. Today it would finally be over.

  Taking her cup to the table, she leafed through the morning paper someone had kindly left out for her benefit. Snow was predicted by early evening. Six to twelve inches. She groaned. Cocoa lifted her head, ears pricked.

  “Sorry, Cocoa, old girl. That was just me, complaining. Did I disturb your beauty sleep?”

  But Cocoa had scurried out from under the table and was eyeing the door to the garage. Then Vivien heard it too, a soft rapping. She got to her feet and paused just before the door, listening. Another faint knock and this time the dog let out a terse bark. Cautiously she opened the door a crack and peered through.

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  Christophe stood on the other side, his hair and jacket slick with rain. Opening the door wider, she stood gaping at him. Cocoa sniffed once and stiffened.

  He smiled at her, managing to cast a suspicious eye in the dog’s direction at the same time. “May I come in?” he asked.

  Unsure of the proper protocol, a reply evaded her. This was not her house. This was her boyfriend’s house. It hardly seemed wise to let him in. Not to mention the fact that she looked like crap. “Um…” she stalled.

  Ignoring her hesitation, Christophe pushed inside, simultaneously shooing the dog back with a broad sweep of his arm.

  “She won’t bite or anything. Cocoa’s a sweetheart,” she added in baby talk, ruffling the dog’s neck.

  “Yes. Well.” He looked unimpressed. “I’m not overly fond of dogs. Or cats, for that matter.”

  The word “cats” set off a ripple of unease and she frowned in an effort to recall the significance.

  Christophe was watching her closely. His eyes zeroed in on the bandage. “Are you in pain?” He made a movement toward her but then held back. “What happened to you?”

  “This?” She laughed self-consciously as she pointed to her eyebrow. “It’s kind of a long story. But I ended up with twenty-four stitches, just like you! Can you believe it?” Her smile faded to a look of curiosity. “How did you know I was here?”

  “I heard about your mother—the unfortunate accident,” he explained, placing a peculiar emphasis on that last word, as if they both knew it to be a farce. “And I was concerned about you.”

  “But—”

  “You look exhausted. Whatever gave you the idea to stay here?” he demanded with an air of disapproval. “Surely someone else could have looked after you better?”

  His tone caught her by surprise. “Well—”

  “But of course, this is none of my business.” The air of displeasure remained.

  “I’m—”

  “I came here,” he spoke over her, “to steal you away. If you’re up for it, that is.” His eyes twinkled mysteriously.

  She frowned. She had no idea what to say.

  “Yesterday…I’d planned a little surprise for you. But when you never showed up…”

  “I—”

  “Rose,” he urged, sensing her hesitation.

  The name, spoken aloud, caused her to cringe. Not here, she wanted to tell him. Not in this house. It hit her ears like nails on a chalkboard: raw, objectionable. Undeniable evidence of her duplicity.

  She chewed her bottom lip. Truth be told, she wasn’t prepared for him just yet. She felt fuzzy and slightly out of sorts, having been interrupted before she could get sufficiently caffeinated. But now that he was here, she took it as a sign. No more delaying the inevitable. “I suppose I could. But do I have time to change?” She really wanted a shower, but decided to forgo freshness for duty.

  “Yes. Of course,” he replied, relief slipping into a hint of impatience. “But if you could, not too long; we need to head out before the roads get slippery.”

  “Oh. Right.” Yet for some reason she stayed put, an intangible sensation holding her in place. As if a third presence had entered the room, an unknown entity she could not identify. The sudden urge to retreat upstairs, not to dress but to undress overcame her, to nestle down in the warm and cozy bed Mrs. Mieres had made for her. There she would stay safe and sound, waiting for Declan to come home to her.

  But no. She’d made a decision. As much as she wanted to drag her feet, the situation had reached an impasse. Her relationship with Declan was on shaky ground. She must take action this very minute. Christophe was waiting.

  Upstairs she went directly to the bathroom and washed her face with cold water in an attempt to reduce the puffiness. She brushed her teeth and swished around a capful of mouthwash. Searching the cabinet below, she found talcum powder and dusted her hair lightly to soak up excess
oil. She hesitated in front of the mirror, debating whether or not to take the time to put on mascara and add some color to her cheeks, but decided this was a waste of time. The bandage over her eye nixed anything remotely attractive about her face. The surrounding area had begun to turn an ugly shade of purple.

  In the bedroom she peeled off her clothes, sniffed her armpits, and applied a fresh coating of cool cucumber deodorant. Sporting a clean pair of jeans and her pale pink cashmere sweater, she headed out but stopped short when she spied Lauren’s note lying just under the bed. Hurriedly she stuffed it on top of the dirty clothes in her duffle and zipped the bag closed.

  As she entered the kitchen, Christophe was drying his hands at the kitchen sink. He heard her approach and spun around, all smiles.

  “Did you make friends with Cocoa?” she asked as she scanned the kitchen for the old Lab. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

  Christophe gave her a cryptic look and began moving toward the door. “We reached an understanding of sorts.”

  “There it is,” she exclaimed, darting to grab her purse, which was resting on the kitchen table. “I swear I put this somewhere else, but…” She shook her head. “My head’s really in the clouds today.” Out of habit, she began rummaging inside in search of her phone. It had suddenly occurred to her that Declan might have left her a message.

  “Off we go,” Christophe intervened, taking her by the arm and guiding her efficiently out the door. “We really must hurry.”

  Outside the sky looked ominous indeed. Massive dark clouds pressed down on the sprawling homes and tree-lined streets. A faint musical sound could be heard intermittently as droplets of ice plinked against branches, rooftops, and cars.

  They’d made it midway through the garage before her step faltered. The weather was bad. It seemed like a terrible idea. To leave. To be getting on the roads right now.

  Christophe ignored her apprehension, urging her along as he said, “This way. Here we go,” in a singsong voice. His thumb dug into her upper arm as they moved.

  She winced but allowed herself to be led, their feet skating along the concrete, the thump of the crutch prompting the initiation of every step. They had only just cleared the garage door when a second, equally troubling observation occurred to her. “Wait. So this was open when you arrived?” It seemed unlikely that Mrs. Mieres would leave her sleeping the day away in an unlocked house.

  Christophe stopped and stared at her. Ice-cold droplets pelted them as they stood in a tight silence. “Funny; it was,” he said at last. Abruptly, he abandoned her, backtracking to the keypad mounted on the side of the garage. “These things can malfunction sometimes,” he called out, his fingers flying over numbers and symbols. Seconds later the door was closing. “You can reset them easily enough,” he told her, back at her side, easing her forward. His breathing seemed slightly irregular. “I myself was surprised to find you all alone when I knocked, but…” He shook his head, frowning in disapproval, as if the Mieres family had clearly failed in looking after her.

  She could think of no rebuttal, despite a nagging intuition that something was not right. And as she reached the truck, raising a foot to place it cautiously on the slick running board, she paused for a third and final time. How curious, she mused, that this happened to be the kind of car Christophe drove. In her mind, he was much better suited for an elegant luxury sedan, a shiny black Mercedes. Yet here he was in this pickup truck—this blue pickup truck—

  “It’s not locked.” The words came at her from the other side, sharp, hurried.

  An episode of Without a Trace flashed through her mind. “Our suspect struck here,” the lead detective was saying, his finger tapping out the location on a map of the city, “where he managed to subdue the victim and move her to another location.” The female officer twisted her mouth in distaste. “Never let ’em take you to a second location.”

  Her gaze darted to Christophe, who, like her, stood as if frozen, half in, half out of the truck. He wore a look of impatience.

  But she had put things off long enough. The time had come to make things right. With a reassuring smile, as much for her own benefit as Christophe’s, she ducked inside.

  Be strong, she chided herself.

  And she would. She was doing this for Declan.

  Twenty-Three