A Deep and Dark December(70)
Light flashed behind her eyes, bright and white hot. Her head felt as though it would crumble under the incredible pressure. Graham’s scent lingered, like a blown out candle, flittering at the edges of her consciousness. She could almost hear the echo of him calling her from far away.
She stood at the edge of a pool of blood. In the center of it lay the woman with dark hair and sightless eyes from her earlier vision. Across the room, Graham bent nearly in two, gripping his bleeding side and gagging back vomit. The fat man Graham had argued with sat on the floor, his head on his chest. A trail of blood smeared down the wall behind him.
Erin started to shake. Graham shouted her name, the sound reverberated inside of her, bouncing away and back so she couldn’t grasp it to know if it was real. The Graham in her vision stumbled over to the woman and dropped to his knees beside her. His face twisted with grief. He mumbled something, took a deep breath, and began to search the woman’s body. Finding nothing, he stopped. Gripping his knees, he sucked in a shaky breath. His gaze shifted to her torso.
“Goddammit, Patricia,” he murmured. And then he pulled her shirt up, exposing her bra. He reached toward her, then pulled his hand away. “Goddammit.” As though mentally preparing himself, Graham inhaled deeply, squaring his shoulders. Then he pulled her bra up, exposing her breasts and a small, black cylinder taped between them with a thin wire attached to it. Graham pried it loose and rolled her to trace the wire. He removed a small black recorder-looking thing that was taped to the small of her back.
From far away, Graham’s voice grew insistent, but Erin ignored it, fascinated by the scene before her of this other Graham, stuffing the recorder into his pocket, then putting the woman’s clothing back to rights.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
A show of affection that Erin had thought belonged only to her. It wasn’t clear what this woman—Patricia—was to Graham, but it was clear they’d been lovers, had maybe even been in love. Whatever they’d been, it was something less than that now. The regret etched into Graham’s features, the same expression he’d shown Erin in the future, recounted a litany of failings and failure, of inescapable culpability and conflict.
He stood and looked around. Sirens pealed in the distance, spurring Graham into action. He pulled a gun from the back of his waistband and used the hem of his shirt to wipe it down. Careful not to touch it, he bent over, wincing in pain, and put it in Patricia’s hand, pressing her fingers to the trigger and the grip. He stood and rubbed his hands on his pants, gave the room one last look, then left, taking care not to touch the knob on his way out.
Erin knelt beside Patricia and put her hand to the woman’s forehead. Suddenly she was shoved back out of this room full of death and into another, sun filled room. Curtains fluttered in the hot afternoon breeze. Outside, the city went about its day, sending up street noise as evidence. Erin went to the window and gazed out, trying to get her bearings. She didn’t recognize the room or the view. Los Angeles maybe? She glanced around and spied a group of photos on an end table.
Making her way over to them, she noticed the feminine touches in the room— a ruffled pillow, a black and white print of a flower, a pair of high heels on the floor, and the photo frames. Only a woman would choose something so ornate and delicate. Patricia’s lovely face gazed back at Erin, her smile wide and infectious. She stood next to a woman who looked remarkably like her. A sister, perhaps. The next photo made Erin gasp, her hand flying to her mouth. Graham and Patricia locked in an embrace, clearly more than friends.
Erin’s gaze swung to the next photo of Patricia and Graham again. This time they were both in uniform—dress blues—standing side by side. The familiarity in this photo was suppressed, but there if you knew to look for it. Patricia had been an L.A.P.D. cop just like Graham. Had they worked together? What had happened between them, leading up to the scene in that cheap apartment?
A laugh down the hall brought Erin’s attention back to her surroundings. She started to look around for a place to hide before she remembered that she couldn’t be seen by whoever was coming into the room. This wasn’t real. None of this was real. The past. Nothing but the past.
Patricia came into the room; her laugh, full and bright, entered ahead of her. She glanced back at someone following her. “You hate Branson. And he hates you. I don’t know why you’d want to go.”
Graham appeared behind Patricia and Erin stumbled back a step. He looked like the old Graham, the one who stared back at her from the pages of her high school yearbook. So young. So unencumbered.
He snagged Patricia around the waist and brought her up against him. “Maybe I just want to be where you are.” He nuzzled her neck, blatantly running a hand up to her breast.
Erin’s chest burned, watching them together. Her internal chant of this is not real, this is the past was abruptly cut off as Patricia moaned and gripped Graham’s ass, grinding her pelvis against his. Erin clamped her hands over her ears and squeezed her eyes closed tight, but not before she saw Graham kiss Patricia, pressing his lips to hers as he wrestled with the buttons on her blouse.
The room was suddenly hot, stifling. Then Graham’s lips were on hers, his body against hers, as he’d been with Patricia. Erin opened her eyes and saw Graham nose to nose with her. He yelled something and then pressed his mouth to hers again. Through him she could see the other Graham—the past Graham—leading Patricia back to the bedroom as he shucked his shirt and Patricia laughed.