“I see flashes of doing things, like memories that never were.”
He took a deep breath. Now comes the hard stuff. “Picture what the woman you saw looked like. Where she was. Where you were. Can you see it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Tell me what you see.”
“She is in a doorway, leaning against the side, sleeping.”
Sleeping? He wiped his forehead. “What does she look like?”
“Long hair. Black or close to it. Pale skin. Red shirt.”
Mitch didn’t know if Shelly had been wearing red that day. Everything in the memory seared into his brain was red. Blood-red. But he didn’t know how much of that was real.
“Is there anyone else there?”
“Yes. Another woman. Pretty. Wearing a green shirt and tan pants. High heels.” That could have been Jolie.
“Anyone else?”
“A man. But she can’t see his face.”
She?
Before he could ask which ‘she’ Eden was speaking of, she spoke again. “His face is hidden by the bushes in front of her. His body is tucked in towards the sleeping woman.”
Me, that was me. Or him, maybe. No, he needed her to go back further. “Go back a bit. To before the woman was . . . sleeping. What do you—does she—see?”
“The pictures are all jumbled. I don’t know which comes first. She saw the sidewalk, stores, the house, the lawn. I think she went around the side, but I don’t know why.”
She twitched. Then a full-body jerk.
He leaned forward and held her hand, ignoring the current he felt as their skin touched. “Eden, you’re okay. You’re safe. Nothing bad is going to happen.” He squeezed her hand, stroking the back of it. His stomach dipped as he thought, Please, don’t let anything bad happen to her. He dropped her hand and sprung back from her, his heart beating a rhythm foreign to him. Focus.
“Tell me what you’re seeing,” he said, adjusting himself further back in the chair.
“Nothing. All she sees is the woman sleeping. They can’t wake her up,” she said, shaking her head.
He was nauseous. “Did you touch the woman? To make her go to sleep?”
“I can’t see it, don’t know if she moved. It’s just flashes. But, I don’t think so.”
No matter what questions he asked, what way he phrased them, she didn’t—or couldn’t—answer differently.
He lifted his hands off the arms of the chair. They were sweaty and stiff from gripping so tightly. She’d picked the wrong person to come to for help. The one person who would’ve given anything for a ‘yes’ answer. So he’d be able to pass his guilt off onto someone else.
After a few more questions that got him nowhere, he said, “Tell me about the other flashbacks. How they appear and what you see.”
For ten more minutes, she spoke of broken images, random people, various places, but nothing tangible or even truly understandable.
As far as he could tell, and Eden seemed to know, she wasn’t a murderer. If she knew more than she was saying, he didn’t know how to get it out of her. She’d seen something—Jolie, Shelly. Maybe Hyde, maybe him. But did that mean she’d done anything?
He needed to think. To know. One way or the other. His hope that she’d been involved wasn’t enough. There was definitely some freaked-out shit going on here—her use of pronouns was too messed up to be normal.
Multiple personalities. That had to be it. Could another personality be responsible for Shelly’s death? Could he keep Eden close enough to figure it out? He needed to keep his mouth shut until he could figure it out, keep her guessing. But that would also mean she’d be close enough to cause more problems with Hyde. Fuck.
Ready to bring her back into consciousness, he stopped to look at her. She was so relaxed and peaceful, as if she was just taking a nap. As if they were regular people. Sitting on his couch as if she was his.
Whoa, where’d that come from? He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t even the kind of guy to be satisfied with a quick peek into a stranger’s medicine cabinet. No, he was the kind of guy who picks the lock, empties all the bottles onto the counter, pockets the good ones—with zero intention of actually taking them—and then puts all the rest back into the wrong bottles. That was him. Who he made sure he was. Who he forced himself to be.
But she trusted him. Okay, fine. He wouldn’t try to lay down some fucked-up post-hypnotic suggestion just to mess with her. That would be immature. Instead, he’d just ask her one inappropriate question. One.
“Go back to the night at my house. Do you remember us being together?”
“Yes.”
He knew it. She hadn’t slept through that. Okay, did he say one question? He’d meant two. “What do you see? Feel?”
“Afraid.”
He swallowed. He couldn’t stop there. Three questions, just three. “Why are you afraid?”
“I don’t know how she got here. Why I woke up in your bed. What you did.”
Four. “So, I don’t scare you?”
“No. You are mean, but you don’t scare me.”
Understandable. “Go back a bit earlier. What else do you see? Feel?” He lost count what number he was up to.
“How you look. Peaceful. How I feel. Disgusted.”
“Why do you feel disgusted?”
“Because I wish being here had been my decision, but it wasn’t.” Her breath hiccupped. “Carter’s going to be so upset.”
“Who’s—” Nah, he’d used up all his questions. And he really shouldn’t be doing this to her. He had a conscience. He just tried very hard to ignore it most of the time. It won this round.
If only she’d stop mumbling about some guy named Carter.
Bringing her out of hypnosis, he made sure she would feel relaxed, peaceful . . . and forget those last few questions he’d asked. It wouldn’t work, but . . . .
Here’s to hoping.
Damn it, why did he even care?
§ § §
Eden opened her eyes, the weight of her relaxation still gently molding her body to the couch. Mitch was staring at her, his eyes soft. A wave of connection passed between them. Like a warm bath after a winter rainstorm. She soaked in it, gaining the strength he offered.
What would he do if he knew how he was looking at her? So peaceful, accepting, open. Did he know that he was showing her his soul? That she could see it in his expression—in the warmth of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head, the tiny curve of his mouth?
No, he didn’t—he couldn’t. He was dangerous. Not dangerous to her, dangerous for her. She shouldn’t get too close. He’d warned her time and time again. She shouldn’t be feeling like—
“So?” she whispered, blinking, wondering how deeply into her he had seen.
He looked surprised when she broke eye-contact, then confused as if he were the one who’d been hypnotized. “Nothing. It didn’t work. It was just you.” He stood quickly and turned away from her. “And you didn’t admit to murder. You can go now.”
“I don’t remember very much—just a few images. Is that normal?” she asked, ignoring his oh-so-polite dismissal.
“As normal as anything is about this situation,” he grumbled. “It depends on the person and the emotional connection they have with what we discuss.”
Emotional connection? Great. Of all people, she’d told him things she was emotionally connected to. That’s just great. She felt her cheeks warm. “So what did we ‘discuss’?”
“Your honor is intact. I didn’t ask any embarrassing questions about how you lost your virginity. I stuck to the topic.”
Thank, God.
“You fall asleep, and then you wake up. The flashbacks are just random sights, but nothing about actually murdering anyone. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re sleepwalking.”
Then why did she end up at his house so often? Why was she finding notes saying he could help if he couldn’t?
She was on her own again. “Thanks for trying.” She unfolded her legs and
stood. “Just—”
“What?” The impatience was back in his voice and his expression.
Feeling the heat of her cheeks intensify, she said, “If she comes to see you again, please don’t sleep with her.”
He saluted. “Request granted.”
Eden had her hand on the doorknob when he called out, “Oh. You can be anything you want to be! And you’re strong enough to do anything!” And then he laughed.
“You’re a jerk.”
“Absolutely.”
“Just when I thought you were human,” she said, sighing.
“Who is Carter?” he asked.
Eden stopped the door from opening and looked back at him. “Carter? How do you know about Carter?”
“You mentioned him while you were under.”
“Carter’s my . . .” My what, Eden? My best friend who wishes I felt for him more than I ever could? My roommate who needs to move on and find someone else to love because I never will, at least not in the way he deserves? She swallowed. “Carter’s my boyfriend. What did I say about him?”
“You kept repeating ‘He’s good’.”
“Oh. Well, he is . . . good.”
“Then make sure he keeps you in at night.”
Eden looked at him one last time before she left. The wall he hid behind was even thicker than hers. But she’d seen through it, catching a glimpse of the man who was trapped on the other side. Had she let Mitch into her in the same way? No. If Carter couldn’t get through, no one could.
CHAPTER IX
Mitch sat on his desk after she’d gone, wondering why his heart had clenched when she’d said the word “boyfriend”. Damn it, I better not be getting soft. He’d been soft once. For him, it had ended badly.
For his father, it had simply ended.
Mitch still felt the blood on his hands. He always would. Even though the world was better off without his father in it, no longer able to terrorize his family or anyone else he came in contact with. And the lesson Mitch had learned was two-fold. First, he’d learned that dear ole Dad had passed down his tainted gene for evil, and, second, that the only way to control that evil was to let it out early and often. Before it had time to build up. Lash out at people verbally, so Hyde wouldn’t hurt anyone physically.
Mitch had spent the last fifteen years of his life making a conscious effort to keep people away. The more human he let himself be, the harder it was to keep Hyde quiet. It was all about control.
Every waking moment. Every glare, put-down, and sarcastic comment he put out into the world kept Hyde under control. Vent it out slowly, everyday, so Hyde would only be able to break loose once a month. Never be kind. Never be empathetic. It was the only way people would be safe. Well, that and the cage.
He thought of Shelly—how she’d understood what he was, why he acted the way he did. Despite all of it, she’d loved him. And he’d repaid her by layering her blood on top of their father’s. He covered his face with his hands, smothering himself in her memory and his guilt.
Jolie poked her head into his office. “Mitchell?”
He jerked up straight. “What?”
“Geez, take it easy. I just wanted to ask what that was all about.”
He’d have thought she’d know better than to ask. But no, her pert, little nose seemed to have an abundance of initiative lately. “She’s a kid. Needs help. I tried. Unsuccessfully. The end.”
“Be careful with the good-guy act, Mitchell. We both know what a bad idea that would be.”
“Indeed we do. But, seeing as you’re the only person here for me to lay into, are you sure now was a good time to remind me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. You can ‘lay into’ me later. But only if you take me out for an expensive dinner first.”
“Nice,” he said, smiling. “Although, in case you don’t remember, we tried that. It didn’t work out.” It had been a long, long time ago, and they’d both gotten over it—him about sixty seconds after he told her, her . . . who knew? But she’d moved on.
He took a deep breath and reclined in his chair. “What’s next? Another psycho for me to deal with?”
She pursed her lips together. “Actually . . . Leanne keeps calling. I’m guessing the detective spoke to her. Now she wants to speak to you.”
“Fantastic. Thanks for telling him about her, by the way.” The sarcasm rolled off his tongue so easily. “That was sweet.”
“FYI, I’m saving your ass here, so a little appreciation wouldn’t be out of line.”
“What does ‘FYI’ mean?” He smiled. Damn, that was fun.
Her eyes flashed in frustration before narrowing into a glare.
“Phone’s ringing,” he said.
She looked behind her, obviously so focused on being pissed off she’d missed it. “We are not done with this.”
“Didn’t think we would be.” Or ever will be. Her lie, her continued lying, bound them together in a way he was extremely uncomfortable with. “Hey, Jolie,” he called out as she went to her desk. “Call someone about the intercom system again.”
The call rang through to his office. He hated not getting a heads-up about who was calling, but supposed it was better than her sticking her nose into his office every time someone called or came in.
He sat back and pressed the flashing button. Good things—flashing buttons. Very clear. “Mitchell Turner.”
“Mitchell, it’s me.”
Yes, he recognized the voice. A woman. Not clear enough. “Ah-ha,” he said, remembering Jolie’s comment and the attitude she’d left his office with. “Leanne. What do you want?”
“Why did you sic the cops on me, Mitchell? I didn’t do anything to you.”
“Lately, Leanne. You didn’t do anything to me lately.”
She paused.
He wondered how much time it would take for her brain to start functioning again. “It was good talking to you again, Leanne. Take care.” He lowered the phone to hang it up, which was good because she started yelling so loudly his eardrum would have burst had the receiver still been near his head. He ignored the nonsense she was spewing and spoke loudly and firmly, not really caring if she understood him.
“Leanne. I didn’t tell the cops about you. But the police report—that I didn’t file—is public knowledge. Not to mention they only had to walk down the hallway to find it at the station. If you believe”—like I do, but don’t want to—“that you’ve done nothing wrong this time, it won’t hurt for them to ask you some questions. Then we can both get on with our lives. Separately. FYI”—he kind of hoped Jolie heard that part—“This is not an invitation back into my life. You are on your own. Do not call again.” Then he slammed the receiver down onto the cradle and yelled into the waiting room, “Thanks, Jolie.”
Was it possible that Leanne or the girl had been involved in the murder? Jesus, that would be good. Shelly and her baby were already dead, the damage done. But if it hadn’t been his fault? Yeah, that would be really fucking good. He’d be able to grieve without the guilt. He’d had no memories, no images of Hyde killing her. Hell, maybe this detective would be smart enough to figure out what Mitch couldn’t. Yeah, either way it’d be really fucking good.
CHAPTER X
Eden poured through old biology and freshman psychology textbooks, scoured the internet, and thought more about her mother than she had in years. The research gave her no rationale for what was happening to her. Her mother had died when Eden was eight and before that hadn’t spent much time sober. She’d never known if her mother’s erratic behavior was due to a mental illness or the drugs.
Her mother had been involved in some kind of trial, some kind of treatment center, but Eden had always assumed it was for the drugs. What if it wasn’t? Maybe her mother had passed down a form of mental illness. But nothing made sense.
Nothing felt true.
When her head was close to imploding, she quit thinking about it. Carter would be home in a few hours. Not that he would know anything more than she
did, but at least she could count on him to keep her safe at night.
She checked the arrival times on the airline’s website obsessively. Then, after the flight info switched from “in transit” to “landed”, she started pacing, silently cursing the driver of the shuttle van bringing Carter home so slowly and dragging out her anticipation.
Her heart lifted when she heard the click of the door lock. Thank God, he’s back.