Dead Spots (Scarlett Bernard #1)(48)
People were starting to stare at me, standing dead still in running clothes, panting heavily, so I moved back into a light jog, heading home. I was picturing those chains in my head. They’d been shiny and untarnished, either brand-new or very well taken care of. Where do you get chains like that?
As soon as I got home, I called Will—I can never tell whether he’s one of those people who can wake up instantly and sound fine on the phone or if he just doesn’t sleep, but he answered—and asked him. Not only did he not know, but he was offended that I might think he’d keep that kind of thing around. Will takes pride in not having to beat the crap out of his wolves to maintain his power, the way that some alphas do. I wanted to ask Dashiell the same question—he, unlike Will, would have no qualms with tying up a belligerent werewolf—but it was seven in the morning, and I couldn’t wait the entire day to talk to him. I was running out of time.
Back at Molly’s, I took a quick shower and put on a T-shirt and underwear. As I was digging through my dresser for clean jeans, I called Cruz and left a simple message for him to call me as soon as possible. Giving up on the jeans—laundry had not been a priority this week—I paced the room a little and plopped down on the bed. I wanted to bounce my idea off someone, but I was pretty much stuck until Cruz finished up at the crime scene.
I didn’t mean to close my eyes, but at that point, I’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours for the second time that week, and even all the coffee and the adrenaline couldn’t keep my exhausted body conscious. As I drifted off, I felt a muted jolt of fear that I would dream of the clearing. I shouldn’t have worried, though; instead, I dreamed of Olivia once again.
It was the smirking, pre-cancer Olivia, as she’d been when we first met. In my dream, she was so real, so present, her chestnut hair drifting loose from its bun and her heavy jewelry clinking on her chest. We walked along the beach, and though we didn’t speak, I could feel Olivia radiating that unique sense of purpose. Next to her, I felt ungainly and inexperienced, a colt trying to keep up with its graceful mother. We were heading toward something, two figures in the distance. When we got close, I realized it was my mom and dad, who both rushed to greet Olivia, ignoring me. Olivia pulled out a knife, grinned at me, and in one long swipe, slit both of my parents’ throats. Then, with blood covering them, all three danced off into the distance, leaving me behind.
The nightmare woke me up at seven forty-five, less than an hour after I’d drifted off. The first thing I felt as my eyes opened was the loss, all over again, like when you fall and the ground rushes up to meet your face. I curled up into a ball and took a few sobbing gasps. I struggled to get my breathing under control.
“Scarlett?”
I jumped about four feet in the air, leaping off the bed and backing into the corner farthest from the doorway before I realized what I was doing.
Cruz was standing there, a tentative smile dying on his face. “Whoa, sorry. I’m sorry. The door was open, and I saw your van. I got worried when you didn’t answer. Are you okay?” He took a step forward, hands lifting to touch me, but stopped.
Good instinct. Anger rushed through me like an electric current—anger and fear and grief, all braided together. I counted to ten, still panting, and as soon as I’d calmed a little, I realized that I was wearing a clingy T-shirt, underwear, and nothing else. Fantastic.
He looked down at me at the same time I did, and I heard him take in a breath. “Um, sorry, I—”
“Turn around,” I yelped.
He spun. “Sorry! I’m sorry!”
I yanked open the top dresser drawer and pulled out a bra, then scooped a pair of less-than-clean jeans off the floor.
When I was dressed, I said, “Okay. You can look.”
“God, Scarlett, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Cruz said, pivoting. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Please don’t sneak up on me again. Breaking and entering is still a crime for cops, you know.” My voice came out frosty.
He just said, “Sorry. But I got your message. I thought we should talk.”
“Just...Meet me in the kitchen, okay?”
He left, and I took a deep breath, sitting back on the bed. Less than twenty-four hours to deadline. I didn’t have time to be rattled.
When I couldn’t stall anymore, I jerked my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a ponytail, and went down to the kitchen. Cruz had figured out the coffeemaker and was opening cupboard doors to find a mug. I skirted him to get to the right cupboard, next to the sink, and pulled out two of Molly’s kitschy Hollywood souvenir mugs. He didn’t ask for cream or sugar, and I didn’t offer. We just sat down at the kitchen table, black coffee in front of us, and I began to talk.
I started with the crime scene and what I’d noticed about the silver. Then I told him about the timing of the whole thing, how it almost seemed designed to hurt me. By then I was beginning to doubt myself, wondering again if sleep deprivation had just gotten the better of me, but he looked very thoughtful, nodding. “What about you?” I said finally. “Have you learned anything?”
“I got stuck doing interviews with people in the area, and then I had reports and stuff. I gotta get back to the official investigation, but I did call San Diego to get James Rucker’s alibi. He checks out.”
I sipped the coffee. “Okay...”