Lie Still

35

I woke to darkness, reassured to see Mike’s curled-up shape under the quilt next to me. The digital numbers on the clock reported that it was only 9:31.

I’d switched off the lamp at eight, as soon as my eyes blurred the words of last Sunday’s Times book section. Reading on Mike’s iPad always made me sleepy. It took about ten minutes before I shut it down, sunk into the pillow, and drifted off.

Mike must be as exhausted as I was to go to bed this early, probably more. And I had been so deeply asleep I hadn’t even heard him come in.

Misty’s face floated in my mind, a wisp of cotton candy. Her last name, Rich. Her childhood, poor beyond my imagining. I juggled myself over to face Mike, edging closer to spoon his back as closely as I could, the baby lodged between us. I didn’t want to wake up either of them.

As soon as my hand fell across his waist, I knew.

Mike’s body was built like a treacherous mountain, every muscle and crevice familiar to me.

This wasn’t Mike.

This guy, this stranger in my bed, was like a taut rubber band.

I forced down the scream in my throat.

Was I dreaming? Finally, really losing it?

This had to be one of those wild nightmares that pregnant women everywhere were so familiar with. A dream within a dream.

I slowly rolled myself away, heart trip-hammering, desperate not to disturb the lump beside me just in case, desperate to pinch myself awake. I could feel my fingers squeezing my skin.

Too late.

In one swift movement, he grabbed my shoulders and shoved me down on my back. He slung himself on top of me. He bore his full weight painfully on my legs, assuring me that this was no dream.

For a second, I knew it was Pierce, who’d clawed his way out of hell. It was so strangely quiet as he hung over me. Just the squeak of the mattress as I flailed uselessly, a clumsy pregnant woman.

“Please. Please.” No response.

Then I screamed.

For Cody Hill, the obnoxious rojo who was supposed to be protecting me, for a neighbor, for anyone who could hear through the thick old walls of this house.

He was stuffing something thick and cottony in my mouth. A sock? I tried not to panic. To surrender, because breathing was important. I smelled lemons. Caroline was washed in something citrusy before she died. Or maybe after. Like it mattered at which point in the process she was washed. Or which particular killer was tying me up. My old stalker, or Caroline’s.

So dark in here, like I was resting on the bottom of the ocean.

Swim toward the light.

Flick, flick, flick.

I knew that sound. Fingernail against plastic.

I had heard the same sound in Gretchen’s office.

He leaned over, his chest tight against my belly. I slung myself up and grabbed for his eyes, snagging rough fabric.

A mask.

“Wyatt, why-?” My words were lost, suffocated.

He plunged the syringe into my arm.