The Girl Who Survived(24)

Rhapsody didn’t move.

The hackles rose along the back of her furry neck.

Pulse jumping, Kara slid to the window and peered through the blinds into the night. The backyard was as she’d last seen it. Empty. Nothing changed. The night still. Peaceful. A light snow falling.

Slowly, she let out her breath, took steps backward and reached for the wall switch, cutting the lights, hoping her silhouette was no longer visible. Still she saw nothing. “You’re scaring me,” she told the dog, but kept her gaze riveted to the backyard.

Was there movement near the arborvitae? A rustle of leaves in the laurel near the corner of the property, a spot in the fence line where some of the collected snow had been disturbed? And were those footprints along the hedge line, a path made by someone now covered in snow? Or the product of her oh-too-fertile imagination?

She swallowed back her fear. There was no one in her backyard. No one watching her. No footsteps, just a spot in the yard near the fence where the ground dipped beneath the snow-flocked arborvitae. She reached for the blinds over the sink and snapped them closed, then as Rhapsody whined, Kara went through her usual routine, counting the doors as she made sure they were locked. Garage to kitchen. “One.” Back door from kitchen. “Two.” Through the dining room, the living area and front door. “Three.” Using the remote, she switched off the fire and whistled to the dog, then mounted the stairs to the second floor and her bedroom tucked tightly under the eaves. With sloped ceilings and old pine floors, there was just room for a double bed.

Cozy and tight.

Safe.

She didn’t bother with the lamp but walked to the window and looked again to the now-covered yard. Ice glazed the bird bath, snow covered the pots where last summer’s geraniums had died, the only break in the white blanket caused by Rhapsody earlier.

She saw no dark figure lurking in the shadows, no killer hiding in the shrubbery.

Still, she pulled down the shades before snapping on a bedside light and the dog, having given up her post at the back door, padded noisily up the stairs and entered the bedroom. “Okay, you ready to settle down?” she asked as Rhapsody leapt onto the bed.

Kara closed the bedroom door and threw the dead bolt she’d installed herself. “Four,” she said, and despite the wine stain on her PJs, slid between the covers.

She thought about the sleeping pills in the top drawer of her nightstand but didn’t bother and instead picked up the book that had dropped to the floor. Nonfiction. All about facing one’s demons and women’s empowerment.

Dry. Lofty. And guaranteed to make a person drowsy.

Except it didn’t.

She read for nearly an hour, put the book aside and drew her duvet to her chin, then closed her eyes, hoping for sleep, silently praying that if slumber came, the nightmares wouldn’t.

She didn’t turn out the light, but closed her eyes and finally drifted off.

The nightmare roared through her brain, a huge, ugly beast from which there was no escape.

She was seven again, unlocking the attic door to running down the stairs that curved around and around, spiraling downward to the sound of music—Christmas music. It was faint and there was conversation. Her father arguing with someone. A door slamming. Her mother’s screaming. Marlie’s warnings insisting that she keep quiet and stay in the attic.Faster and faster Kara ran, always downward along the never-ending staircase, her bare feet stumbling on the wetness, her fingers grazing the rail that was slick. “Mama,” she called. “Daddy . . .” But her voice was muffled over the sound of thuds and shouts and shrieks and that song, that carol echoing loudly as the grandfather clock resounded up the staircase.

Bong, bong, bong.

She lifted her hand from the rail.

It was red with blood.

And her feet? They, too, were red, slipping in the blood that dripped from one step to the next.

“Mama!” she cried as the clock’s tolling and the horrid Christmas carol echoed through her brain.

“Sleep in heavenly peace . . .”

“Mama!”

Kara’s eyes flew open.

Her heart raced.

Her back was covered in sweat.

She blinked, found herself in her own bedroom.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, struggling to a sitting position in the tangled sheets. The nightmare was so real. Always. Every damned time.

She swallowed against a dry throat and thought about calling Dr. Zhou, then immediately discarded the idea. It was a dream. So what? It wasn’t the first time that the night of the massacre came roaring back into her subconscious and it wouldn’t be the last.

With an effort, she pushed herself from the bed, her head pounding, and made her way into the bathroom, where she stopped at the sink, turned on the water and dipped her head to drink, then splashed her face with the cold stream.

As she twisted off the tap, she caught sight of her face in the mirror. She looked like hell. Her hair tumbled around her white face and shoulders in messy brown strands wet near her face from tipping her head under the faucet, her hazel eyes appeared sunken and haunted, her cheekbones severe. Water dripped from her chin, and she grabbed the hand towel from its ring and swiped her face.

Pull yourself together. For the love of God, Kara, pull yourself together.

She dropped the towel on the counter and returned to the bedroom, where Rhapsody snored softly and the digital clock glowed. 2:57. Would she ever go back to sleep? Probably not. She walked to the window. Stared out into the quiet darkness.