Paranoid(7)

Two decades was long enough.

She glanced at the digital clock, glowing blue on the bedside stand.

Still not quite six.

She woke up about the same time every damned morning. A few minutes before her alarm was set to her favorite radio station so that she could rouse to music. Which was all a joke. Ever since she’d bought the clock, about two years earlier, the day after Cade had moved out, she’d never been awoken by the music, news or traffic reports, or even advertisements. Nope. All too often her damned nightmare brought her right to the surface and instantly awake, with or without the added audio of a car backfiring in the dawn.

She slapped off the alarm by habit, just to make sure it didn’t start playing some hit from the eighties or a news report or whatever before she got back from her run. Then she rolled out of bed and nearly stepped on Reno on her way to the window, where she peeked through the curtains to the backyard below.

Fenced.

Secure.

And all of the doors were locked and the windows latched. She knew that. She’d gone through her nightly routine before going to bed last night. She’d counted the dead bolts. Four. Front door, back door, slider, and stairwell. And the windows as well. Sixteen in all, counting the ones in the basement, which she did. Each had been fastened securely.

In the predawn stillness, the yard was dark. She scanned the perimeter, squinting through the glass, assuring herself no one was lurking outside in the bushes and trees rimming the patchy grass.

She saw no one peeking through the branches of the oversized fir, no person flattened against the side of the carport.

Get a grip.

But this was part of her morning routine.

“All clear,” she told herself with a sense of relief, then to the dog, who was already on his feet and stretching, “Ready to rock and roll?” She padded into the bathroom, where she splashed water on her face.

Glancing at the mirror, she saw her hair was its usual mess, wild reddish brown curls restrained by a band and pulled to the top of her head, but mussed to the point that several strands had escaped during her restless night. She tightened the band and frowned at her reflection.

A sudden memory slipped unbidden into her consciousness. In her mind’s eye, she traveled back a few years and she remembered standing just so in only her bra and panties in front of the wide mirror over the double sinks. A warm mist filled the bathroom and Cade, fresh from the shower, had come up behind her. Still naked he’d slipped his arms around her waist, his fingers sliding beneath the elastic of her thong, dipping low as he nuzzled her neck from behind.

“Are you serious?” she had asked on a laugh.

“What do you think?” A black eyebrow had arched—she’d seen it in the fogging mirror. Taller than she by nearly a head, his skin a darker hue than hers, his muscles defined, his features sharp beneath a beard shadow, he’d looked at her, thin lips twitching in amusement, his hazel eyes dark with passion.

Oh. Dear. God.

Now, remembering, she tingled at the thought of it.

Sex.

She missed it.

That bothered her.

Worse yet, she missed him.

Which really pissed her off and she was loath to admit it. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t allow herself to be that pathetic as to want him back. She picked up her toothbrush, squeezed paste over the bristles, and brushed her teeth with a fervor that might have scraped the enamel right off her incisors if she hadn’t caught herself. What was she doing, thinking about Cade?

“Loser,” Rachel said, her mouth frothing with toothpaste. “Cheater.” She rinsed her teeth by dipping her head under the faucet, swirling the cold water, then spitting into the sink. Standing, she looked in the mirror again and saw only her own image. Cade’s chiseled features and the memory had thankfully faded. “Good. Stay away.” Her eyebrows pulled together and she realized she was talking to her ex. Again. “Stupid!” Now, she was speaking to herself. Geez, was that any better? No wonder she still saw a shrink and had since Cade had walked out.

Or you pushed him out.

Anxiety reared its ugly head and she opened the mirrored cabinet, found her vial of Xanax on the top shelf, and twisted off the cap. She tossed a tablet into her open palm, leaving a few in the bottle, then stopped herself and counted the remaining pills. A total of five. Hadn’t there been more? Hadn’t the prescription been nearly full when she’d stopped taking them? She bit her lip. Couldn’t remember. Yes, according to the label there had been thirty prescribed and she’d taken them daily for a while, then stopped . . . but she could’ve sworn there had been at least half of the month’s prescription in the vial—more like fifteen.

Or had she been mistaken?

The last few weeks had been stressful and she’d taken one once in a while, so she must’ve gone through more than she’d thought.

Right?

No one would come up to her bathroom and steal the pills, leaving some. A thief would have taken the whole damned bottle.

Unless Harper or Dylan . . . no, no, no! Her kids would never steal meds from her. Nor would their friends. She thought of her children and their friends, all teenagers. “No.”

But she didn’t really know, did she?

There are six tablets remaining. Remember that.

She replaced the pill and recapped the plastic container, then closed the medicine cabinet and again saw her reflection, caught the worry in her eyes. The truth was that her kids were becoming strangers to her, keeping their own secrets, no longer dependent, no longer blurting out the truth when pressed.