LITMIR.BIZ

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was back then. Then, when she still loved him. Then, when he was climbing the corporate ladder with the vigor and grit of a man who knew that he’d have the world in his hands. Always. Forever.

      He thought he heard a sound at the door, and just like that his pity-party-for-one was over.

      His ex-wife’s cat, Cyrus, scooted under the dining table in the other room. How he loved that cat. At times, he found himself talking to him as if he were his only friend, a feline confidant. It was as if the silver tabby understood every word. Darius hoped that Greta would allow him one little consolation in the bitterness of their split. He wanted to keep Cyrus.

      “What was that, Cyrus? Too late for a visitor,” he said.

      The cat stayed put, but cocked its head in that knowing way that cats do.

      When he heard the sound a second time, Darius looked at his mantel clock and determined that he had not misheard.

      Next, the sound of a fist bumping the rippled windowpane on the front door.

      The glass is a hundred years old! Be careful! he thought, Greta’s admonition when he washed the windows coming to him.

      Darius pried himself from the couch.

      “Who’d be over at this hour?” he said, turning on the overhead lamp.

      The glass door was smeared with red.

      Jesus, what’s happened?

      He moved closer to get a better view. In that instance when reality is suppressed for a more plausible, a more acceptable scenario, he allowed himself to think that a bird might have lost its way in the dark, hitting the window and splattering blood. Yet at once it was obvious that there was too much red for that.

      The bloody smear was a big red octopus on the center glass panel.

      Or the shape of a human hand.

      The underemployed, cat-loving executive turned the lock and swung the door open.

      Wilting on the front steps was a woman in her nightgown. It must have been a white nightgown, but now it was red. She was lying there, shivering, making the kind of guttural sounds that people do as they fight for their last breath. He knew her. Tori Connelly lived in the Victorian across the street.

      “Good God!” Darius said, dropping to his knees. “What happened to you?”

      Tori curled in a defensive ball, lifted her damp head. Her hands were smeared with blood.

      “Help,” she said. “I need an ambulance.”

      “Of course,” Darius said, his adrenaline pumping. “I’ll call for one now.”

      “Not for me,” she said. “My husband. Alex has been shot, too. We’ve both been shot. He needs help. Oh, God. Help me. Help him!”

      “What happened?” Darius asked.

      Her eyes were terror filled. “A man got in. Our security system is down. He got inside the house to rob us. He shot us. He shot Alex.”

      Darius bent down and pulled her inside. It was all happening so fast. He was slightly drunk from the crummy wine he’d consumed, and he knew it. He wasn’t sure right then if he should go for his phone—charging in the kitchen—or get something to help stop Tori’s bleeding.

      “Are you going to call for help? I need help, too!” Tori said.

      He slammed the door shut and turned the deadbolt. The SOB who’d shot his neighbor was out there. His heart pounded and he thought of getting his own gun. But Greta had a thing against guns, so the firearm that he’d bought for protection was in a lockbox in the carriage house. He couldn’t get to it, even if he’d been under attack himself.

      “Yeah, dialing now,” he said.

      Tori began crying loudly, loud enough to be heard by the 911 dispatcher.

      Darius knelt next to her as he gave his address. He looked into the woman’s fearful eyes. Her skin was white. Her eyes glazed over.

      He pulled a knit throw from the sofa and pressed it into her bloody thigh.

      “It’s my neighbor, Tori Connelly. She’s been shot. Her husband Alex Connelly’s been shot, too.”

      The dispatcher confirmed the address and told Darius to stay calm.

      “How’s Ms. Connelly doing?”

      “Not great,” he said, his heart racing toward what he was sure would be a heart attack.

      “What’s her color? Can she speak?”

      “She’s pale, and, yes, she can talk. Please get someone here fast,” he said.

      “Are you applying pressure to the wound?”

      “Yes, I think so. I’m doing my best.”

      “They’re on the way. Stay with me,” the dispatcher said.

      “Stay with me,” Tori echoed. “Please stay with me.”

      “I’m not going anywhere,” Darius said, gently touching her shoulder. “Hang on. You’ll be fine.”

      He wasn’t sure if he was unintentionally lying or hoping for the best. With the spatter of blood drenching her nightgown, it was hard to say just what her chances were.

      CHAPTER TWO

       Seattle, Washington

       Lainie O’Neal awoke as the clock app on her iPhone rolled like an old-school digital alarm clock to 3:00 A.M. She drew in a breath and held it a moment before exhaling. It was an exercise that was supposed to return her to slumber. Once more. Please. Her eyes were wide open and the pinprick of light coming from the slit in the window shade found her like a searchlight’s beam. Spring rain pelted the window.

      Why now? Why can’t I sleep? She took another breath. Something felt wrong. Lainie just couldn’t get comfortable. She flipped the pillow over and over, on the hunt for the cool side. As if that would matter. Lainie shut her eyes with a decided force, almost a wincing action, which she knew was more than needed. Although the bedroom was chilly, she kicked her covers to the floor.

      Whenever the first indication of insomnia hit her, as it had the night before, a twinge of panic came with it. She was never sure if the dreaded sleeplessness would last a night or a week. Maybe longer? She’d been through counseling. She’d seen a doctor. In fact, she’d seen two. Nothing worked. She sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. She cradled her face in her hands.

      Lainie knew the reason for her insomnia, and no counselor or doctor could quite grasp what was so obvious to her.

      For the past several days, she’d been thinking about Tori. More than usual. It was as if her twin sister wouldn’t let her sleep. It was as if the twin she hadn’t seen for years had her hand on her shoulders, shaking Lainie as she tried to fall toward that desperate and dark space.

      I’m not going to let you. You better listen to me.

      She went to the medicine cabinet, took an Ambien, and looked inside the pill bottle.

      Only one more.

      She checked the date. She had a week more on the prescription. She’d have to resort to an over-the-counter sleep aid to get her through refill time.

      She drank some water and set down the paper cup.

      The mirror swung shut, and the haggard face that met her gaze belonged to another.

      Tori.

      She shook her head, turned away, and looked back at the mirror.

      She blinked. It was her own face.

      Lainie steadied herself a moment.

      Me.

      She padded back to her tousled bed, hoping that the pill

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