When Darkness Falls(32)

“I thought he’d known you a long time, that’s all,” Haley said.

She said she’d let Tom know if she’d be back in Milwaukee, and he said he’d call her and Devon the next time he was in Chicago. Which seemed safe enough. But she wondered why Devon had been so comfortable with the idea of her being alone with Tom. He was a good looking, outgoing man, and Devon barely knew him. Had it not occurred to him that someone else might find Haley interesting? She ought to feel good that he trusted her, but she suspected it never crossed his mind.

Upstairs in the guest room, Haley tried calling Devon, but got voicemail. She glanced at the time. Half past midnight. He was probably asleep. She undressed and slid between cold sheets. Everything tonight had been fun. Her voice blending with Tom’s, the rush of singing on stage, talking with some of the audience members afterward. Walking to the car with Tom in the dark. Carrying their guitars and talking. She didn’t mind so much not reaching Devon. He wouldn’t have been excited about her evening anyway. But she minded that she didn’t mind. They’d been married such a short time. She ought to miss him more.

But every marriage had rough spots. Things would get better soon. They’d have to.

? ? ?

Devon awoke in the center of his bed. Alone. Shivering and sweaty, he peered into the darkness, held his breath, and listened, wondering if Lydia still slept downstairs.

He switched on the lamp on Haley’s side of the bed, pushed the sheets aside, and inspected his arms, jaw clenched. He scrutinized his chest and stomach. No marks. It really had been a dream. He let a long breath out his mouth.

The full-length mirror on the closet door showed no scratches or bruises on his back. His jeans and shirt lay folded on the wicker chair, where he’d left them when he got into bed. His jacket was slung over the bench at Haley’s dressing table. Nothing out of place.

Devon stared into the mirror. His eyes seemed less sunken than the day before, the lines below them less prominent.

“You’re all right,” he told himself, but he didn’t believe it. No one all right could dream what he had, dream about he and Lydia hurting each other that way. He sank onto the edge of the bed, struggling not to vomit. All the dreams. Attacking and strangling women. The first psychotherapist he saw said the dream images represented something else, something his unconscious mind found too hard to grapple with and so had to portray in symbols. If that was right, Devon couldn’t stand to know what buried thoughts were so horrible that his mind substituted murder.

And then there was Lydia. At least the other dreams, the ones about strangers, seemed so insane on waking he didn’t fear they were real. But Lydia was a real woman he’d actually had sex with once. To dream of her now made him feel he’d betrayed Haley, especially when parts of the dream excited him as much as others repelled him. He could never tell Haley. Hitting Lydia—he’d never hit a woman in his life. Or a man, for that matter.

In the shower, Devon turned the cold water full blast despite the chill of the bathroom tiles under his feet. He dressed before venturing down the stairs. Lydia sat at the dining table wearing a green satin robe, sipping tea.

“So?” she said.

“What?”

“Have a good time last night?”

Clutching the back of one of the chairs, he looked Lydia over. No bruises on her face, throat, or thighs. No scratches.

“Sure. I told you that.” Devon turned toward the counter, busied himself with making coffee.

“No, I mean last night,” she said. “You and me in the bedroom? You didn’t believe me when I told you it was a dream, did you?”

“What was a dream?” The words felt difficult to form, his tongue suddenly dry and too thick. He turned around, scanned all her exposed skin again.

Lydia laughed. “You ought to see yourself. Darling, don’t feel so guilty. I practically made you do it.”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“Then why so nervous?”

Brakes screeched outside as a bus rounded Dearborn Street, and bells chimed from St. Mary’s on Wabash Avenue. Hands shaking, Devon went back to the coffee, poured the grounds into the filter. A handful scattered across the counter.

“There’s not a mark on your skin.”

“I heal fast. Come on. I’ll tell you the whole thing.” Lydia rattled off everything that had happened, down to what she’d said to him and he’d said to her.

Sweat coated Devon’s entire body. His heart hit an extra beat. It could not have been real. Could not. Must not. Because of Haley and because their actions would have left bruises. Teeth marks. He held onto that. Haley had the same skin as Lydia and if he so much as kissed her neck too hard she wore turtlenecks to work for a week.

“Maybe you’re psychic,” he said. The coffee started perking, and the aroma filled the kitchen, nauseating him further. He kept his back to her. “You channeled my dream.”

“You believe that?”

“It’s easier to believe than what you’re saying.”

“Is having sex with me that repellant to you?” Lydia walked over, pressed against his back, ran her hands from his chest to his thighs. “I didn’t think so.”

Devon twisted away. “That’s not the point. I’m married. And I’m not like that. In bed. I’m not like that.”