Visions (Cainsville #2)(22)

I yanked away the sheet, certain I’d see my poor cat. Someone had killed him and put him here, in bed— Something rolled from the covers.

I saw skin and a nose and a mouth and—

Black pits where eyes should be.

The neck. Cut clean through. Ragged, bloodless skin and— The head of Ciara Conway. In my bed.

As I backed away, I touched hair again. I let out a shriek before stuffing my fist in my mouth. A blond wig lay where I’d flung it. I looked at the head and then at the wig, and I tumbled out of bed, kicking free of the twisted covers, hitting the floor hard and then sprinting out the bedroom door.

Phone. I need my—

I spotted my purse on the floor. I grabbed it and yanked the clasp, contents spilling out, clinking and clicking over the hardwood floor. I snatched up my phone and hit the speed-dial number without realizing whom I’d called until I saw the name flash on the screen. Gabriel. I hit the End button. Then I stared at the phone.

Who should I call?

Seriously? You’re asking who to call when there’s a severed head in your bed?

I hit 9. Then 1. Then I stopped.

I needed to take a photo. Ciara Conway’s head was in my bed, and this time I was getting proof.

My fingers shook and my gorge rose, but I went back to the bed, took the picture, and then I e-mailed it to myself and— My phone vibrated. The sudden movement made me let go. As the phone hit the floor, I saw Gabriel’s name pop up on the screen. Shit. I grabbed for it and— Something hit the side of my skull. Pain exploded. Everything went dark.





CHAPTER TWELVE


My eyes fluttered open, then closed again, the effort too much, the light too painful. My hand clenched something soft and cool. Sheets. A pillow under my head. I was lying in bed. I opened my eyes. Blue. I saw pale robin’s-egg blue. Then eyes; light irises ringed dark, gorgeous eyes framed with inky lashes and . . .

“Olivia.”

The deep timbre was almost a rumble. I knew that voice. I knew those eyes. My brain sputtered, neurons firing, pain threatening to snuff out thought. Then . . .

Gabriel.

I was in bed. Looking up at Gabriel. My head pounding like I’d downed a fifth of tequila.

I shot up so fast my head and stomach lurched, and I retched. My hands flew to my mouth, my eyes clenched shut. I smelled plastic and felt something cool bump my cheek and opened my eyes to see my bedroom garbage pail shoved under my chin.

I shook my head and backed up as my stomach settled. As I swallowed, I looked around. I was in bed. Gabriel was there. But he was standing beside me, fully dressed, and— And I was not fully dressed. I grabbed the sheet to cover up, then froze as I saw the bedding. A memory flashed, and my brain finally clicked on, reminding me of what I’d seen— I scrambled up, knocking into Gabriel as I flew out of bed. I whirled and stood there, breath coming fast, stomach clenching as my gaze swept over the twisted sheets.

“Olivia?”

“There’s . . . there’s a . . .”

I looked around. No wig. No head. I grabbed the sheets and pulled them straight. Nothing. I ran to the other side of the bed. Nothing on the floor.

“Phone,” I said. “I took a picture. I need—”

I stopped, staring at Gabriel, my brain still sputtering as it jammed puzzle pieces into place.

“I . . . I didn’t mean to call you,” I said.

It was, quite possibly, the stupidest thing to be worrying about. But that’s what came out.

“I hit speed dial, and I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. I . . .” I blinked and it was like moving through a room stuffed with cotton, everything soft and blurry and unfocused and thick.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I . . . There was a . . .” I spun around. “My phone. I took a picture this time. I need—”

“Olivia? Sit.”

When I didn’t move, he propelled me down onto the edge of the bed. Pain shot through my skull. I winced. My fingers rose to touch the side of my head, but Gabriel caught them.

“Yes, you’ve got a goose egg, possibly a concussion.” He crouched in front of me. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Sat—No, Sunday. June third.”

“And your name?”

“Well, that one’s tougher, since I apparently have two. I’ll go with Olivia Taylor-Jones for today.”

He lifted two fingers. “How many—?”

I swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.” I paused. “You didn’t need to come out.”

“After you called me at one thirty in the morning, hung up, and wouldn’t answer when I phoned back?”

That wasn’t really an excuse for driving an hour to check on me. I could have been drunk-calling. Or dialed wrong and then couldn’t face talking to him. If he had been convinced it was urgent, his aunt lived across the road and could have checked on me.

“I was already out,” he said, reading my thoughts.

He looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed. His shirt was misbuttoned. His hair looked finger-combed, already falling forward in a cowlick, his cheeks dark enough that I was sure he hadn’t shaved since Friday. Like hell he’d been “out.” Not looking like that. Unless the bed had been “out” . . . as in “not his own.”