“No! Stop pleeeeease!” she cried, but the words were drowned out by the rrrr…rrrrrrr…rr…rrrr.
Claire was trying to keep Leanne from turning the chain saw on her when a knock at the door startled her awake.
Drenched in sweat and gasping for breath, she lay staring at the ceiling until she realized she was safe in bed and had all her body parts. Based on the amount of time that had passed since she’d last looked, she hadn’t been sleeping long. The clock showed barely thirty minutes.
Still, she was glad to be disturbed, glad to be released from the clutches of that terrible nightmare. She’d been sobbing and thrashing about while struggling to stop the chain saw.
“Congratulations. You escaped,” she muttered. But her mother hadn’t. Alana was as gone as ever.
Wiping away the tears that’d rolled into her hair, Claire told herself to calm down. She’d had this dream before. It’d just never been as vivid. And she’d never been able to identify the person wielding the saw.
“Claire?”
Isaac called to her from the front stoop. But she didn’t want him to know she was so…down. That was part of the reason she hadn’t answered when he’d tried to call earlier. She needed to be strong when she dealt with him so she could maintain some emotional distance.
What now? It wasn’t as if he’d just walk away. What she’d done with the phone must have spooked him. She should’ve answered.
Determined to regain her composure, she got up, pulled on a pair of sweat bottoms and padded through the living room.
Answering the door in what she’d worn to bed—David’s T-shirt—she tried to forget that last night it’d been Isaac’s T-shirt. “It’s late,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
She hadn’t turned on the porch light. She hadn’t turned on any lights. Thanks to an almost full moon, however, it wasn’t difficult to see.
His gaze lowered to the O’Toole Insurance logo on her chest before sweeping over the rest of her. But he was frowning when he raised his eyes to her face. “You okay?”
The air smelled like rain, which made Claire wonder if they were in for a summer shower. “I’m fine.”
“Really? You look wiped.”
She was damp enough that what would otherwise be a mild night felt chilly. “I was…having a bad dream.” Another bad dream, only much worse.
“Is that why you didn’t pick up earlier? You were already asleep? You scared the shit out of me.”
She’d scared him in a manner of speaking. She needed to qualify what he said. That kind of statement didn’t mean he really cared, as it would with David. Isaac had said things like that when they were together before.
“I’m…sorry. I must’ve thought the phone was in my dream and knocked it off the hook.” It was still off the hook. She’d purposely left it that way. There wasn’t anyone she wanted to hear from. Except David, which was impossible. Or her mother, which was probably just as impossible.
A slight wind ruffled Isaac’s hair. Besides his amber-flecked eyes and artist’s mouth, his hair was one of his best features. He wore it on the long side but it had enough natural curl to give it body.
“We need to talk,” he said when she made no move to let him in.
The gravity in his voice caused her stomach muscles to tighten. “About…”
“Les Weaver.”
The man who’d shot David. She straightened. “You called him already?”
“I paid him a visit.”
“You drove all the way to Coeur D’Alene?”
“Got back an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you call him?”
“I wanted to see his face and check out his situation.”
What did he find? She doubted he’d show up at her door wearing such a serious expression if he’d come to report that David had been killed accidentally, as everyone believed. “I’m not…doing so well right now,” she admitted. “Maybe I could get back to you in the morning after I’ve…I’ve had some sleep.” And a chance to prepare myself for what you might say…?. Somehow the idea had been less upsetting when it was all conjecture.
He wiped the sweat beading on her upper lip with his thumb. It was an intimate gesture; she would even call it tender, if she’d thought he meant it that way. “Because of the dream?”
“Because of…everything.”
“What have you eaten?”
The panic crushing her chest seemed to ease a little. “Why do you think food solves everything?”
“You can’t cope if you don’t take care of yourself. And you’re looking more fragile as the days go by.”
“I’m coping.” She lifted her hand to wave him off, but that only enabled him to push the door wide enough to squeeze past her. “Where are you going?”
She didn’t need an answer. She could see that he was heading straight to the kitchen.
“Get in here,” he said when she didn’t follow.
With a sigh, she went as far as the entrance. “What are you doing?”
Cupboards slammed as he rummaged through them. “Do you have any tea?”
“To the right of the sink. But…I hope it’s not for me. I don’t like tea.”
“Then why do you have it?”
“For Leanne.”
“Depending on what kind you’ve got, it might help you sleep.” He found the box she’d directed him to. “Chamomile,” he said, showing it to her. “This should do the trick.”
“Ugh!” She grimaced. “Right now, all I need is a sleeping pill.”
He filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “Sorry, you’re not getting started on pills.”
She blinked at his response. “You’re joking, right?”
“Not in the least. Maybe if you didn’t look so depressed I’d consider it, but—”
“You have no say in what I do!”
“You need to address the problem, not mask it,” he said.
She was sure he meant well, but his response irritated her. “And how am I supposed to address the fact that I have to watch someone cut my mother into pieces with a chain saw whenever I close my eyes?”
He hesitated. He must have heard the bite in her voice, but he didn’t react to it. She detected a hint of empathy in his face as he added the tea bag to the water and set it in front of her. “Let’s try this first.”