What I've Done (Morgan Dane #4)(41)

“I know.” She blew a stray hair out of her eyes. “We’ll need to watch the surveillance videos from the club as soon as they come in.” Morgan took out her phone. “And I want to talk to some of Noah’s former girlfriends and see if they have any complaints about him.”

“You’re thinking maybe he got rough with her?” Lance asked. “Haley’s interview seems to suggest he did not.”

“Honestly, I’m stretching for possible theories. We have no evidence to suggest Noah did anything wrong. So far, we’ve found nothing at all to formulate a defense except Haley’s amnesia.”

A raw wind sent a pile of dead leaves scurrying down the asphalt. Morgan shoved her hands in her pockets. “And we don’t know what caused her memory lapse.”

Lance wrapped an arm around her shoulders to block the wind. “Or if she’s telling the truth.”

Haley could simply be lying.





Chapter Seventeen

“What have you done to me, Haley?” The whisper surrounds her. Its low tone and slow cadence slides along her skin, raising goose bumps. She can’t escape it.

No. That’s not the voice. It’s a physical substance. Liquid. Slippery and thick.

She startles, her stomach rolling.

Blood. It’s everywhere. On her. Around her.

Panic bubbles into her throat, burning like a carbonated drink. She gags, her stomach heaving. Her breaths wheeze in and out of her lungs. Not enough air. Not enough oxygen. She can’t breathe. Fear closes around her throat, choking her.

She tries to wipe her hand on her leg, but she is naked, and it simply smears across the skin of her thigh.

She looks down. A huge knife juts from her grip. Not a hunting or fishing knife. This one comes from a kitchen. It’s long and sharp, with a rounded blade.

A carving knife, she thinks.

Blood drips from the blade. How did the knife get in her hand? She doesn’t remember picking it up. Doesn’t want it in her hand now. Yet she can’t open her fingers to drop it.

Terror lurches through her. The room spins. Her legs weaken.

No!

I didn’t stab Noah. I didn’t.

I like him.

A groan vibrates through her lips. She wants to run away. To get help.

She turns, but she has no traction. Her bare feet slip and slide in the blood on the floor.

No!

She wants to scream, but the sound is trapped in her constricted throat.

Blood. Warm and wet, it coats her hands, drips from her fingers.

She begins to cry.

I don’t want to do this.

But it’s happening, and she can’t stop it.

It feels as if she is a character in a role-playing game and someone is controlling all her movements from a faraway keyboard. She could watch herself on the screen, helpless to change her course of action.

She shakes the knife from her grip. It hits the floor and bounces twice, landing in an expanding puddle of blood.

“You killed me.” The whisper slithers through the dark toward her like a snake. “My blood is on your hands.”

Noah . . .

Haley woke and jerked upright. Her throat opened. Air flooded her lungs. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the echo of her own heartbeats drowning out the voice.

She blinked in the darkness. A line of light glowed under her closed door. A shiver passed through her. She was soaking wet.

Blood?

Terror obliterated her senses. She sucked air into her lungs and released it with a scream that sounded nothing like her own voice. It was as foreign as the whispers from her dream.

The door burst open, and her mother rushed into the room. She slapped a light switch on the wall, and the room brightened. Fear opened her eyes wide.

Haley scrambled out of bed, the sheets twisting around her feet, tripping her. “There’s blood on me. Get it off.”

She fell to the floor, not feeling the impact with the hardwood as she kicked her feet to free herself. She had to get away. To get it off her.

“Haley!” her mother yelled.

“Get it off!” Haley tore at her pajamas.

“Stop.” Her mother crouched in front of her and took Haley’s face in both hands. “You had a nightmare. There’s no blood.”

The warmth of her mother’s palms on her cheeks seeped through the cold terror. Haley froze, staring down at her hands. They were clean. “But I’m all wet.”

“Sweat,” her mother said in a firm voice. “Your pajamas are soaked through.”

Haley touched her T-shirt. The wet cotton stuck to her chest and stomach. “Sweat?”

Her mom nodded.

A shiver racked Haley’s bones. She’d had a nightmare.

“It seemed so real.” She shoved damp hair off her forehead.

“Let’s get you in dry pajamas.” Her mom went to the dresser and rummaged through a drawer. She set a folded T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms on the nightstand. Then she helped Haley tug off her wet shirt and pull a fresh one over her head. Once she was dressed in dry pajamas, her mom helped her off the floor. But despite the firmness of her tone and actions, her hands trembled.

Haley wobbled, her legs muscles as weak as cooked ramen.

Her mom steered her toward a chair in the corner. “Sit here. I’ll get clean sheets. You’ll need a pill and some water too.”