Defying the headache, she stumbled to the window, stared out at the mountains. Darkness enveloped their gentle curves. Bitter snow reflected the outline of the massive Douglas firs. Completely desolate. Private. Perfect for her to hide away, in the wilds of Scotland, pretending to the world that she was fine, just visiting for a time, on holiday, as the Brits around her liked to say.
She’d run away from the people who knew the truth about her situation—Dr. Sam Loughley, her best friend, and Dr. John Baldwin, her fiancé. She’d even managed to push away Memphis Highsmythe, a friend who wanted more from her than she was willing to give.
She brushed her hair off her shoulders and leaned against the window. The cool glass felt good on her temple. The small, puckered scar, another battle wound, nearly healed. Even the pinkish discoloration was beginning to fade. She no longer bore the blatant stigma of the killer known as the Pretender, at least on the outside. He’d stolen something from within her though. Something precious she didn’t know how to retrieve.
Now she was only half a woman, half herself. A crazy little girl shut up in a castle, too tired to play princess anymore.
Movement over the mountains. The storm was changing. Gray clouds billowed down into the valley, nestled up against the loch, and opened. Stinging ice beat a merciless tattoo on the ground.
Her heart beat in time with the sleet, the pounding as insistent as a knock on the door—over and over and over—and the grip of the pain became too much to bear. The migraine overwhelmed her. The heavy Victorian-era furniture in her room was coruscating, beginning its nightly danse macabre.
Defeated, she pulled the curtains, went to the bathroom. Dumped two of the thick white Percocets in her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap. Hoped that they’d help.
Back to the bedroom. She saw her laptop was open. She’d been online? She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She was feeling sick again. The drink, the drugs, the pain, it was all jumbling together.
The truth.
Shadows heavy as blankets swathed her body, nipped at her bare feet. She made her way to the bed by rote, lay down on the ornate spread, and gave in to the pain, the fear, the gut-wrenching terror that filled her night after night after night. The only things she could see were the dancing lights that shimmered off her brain, and the pearly outline of the ghost who’d come to tuck her in. She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Per-haps it would leave her alone tonight.
No. It was here. She felt its chilly caress slide against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.
The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.
And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.
WATCH ME DIE by Erica Spindler
CHAPTER THREE
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
9:40 am
At any given moment, the demons could descend upon Mira Gallier. Sometimes, she marshaled the strength to fight them off, denying their dark, tormenting visions. Their taunts and merciless accusations.
Other times, they overpowered her and left her scrambling for a way tosilence them. To obliterate the pain.
Last night they had come. And she had found a way to escape. Mira lay on her side on the bed, gazing blankly at the small rose window shehad created in secret, a wedding gift for her husband-to-be. In the tradition of the magnificent gothic windows, she had chosen brilliant jewel colors; her design had been complex and intricate, combining painted images within the blocks of color.
For her, the window had been a symbol of her and Jeff’s perfect love and new, beautiful life together.
She had never imagined how quickly, how brutally, that life would be ended.
It hurt to look at it now and Mira rolled onto her back. Her head felt heavy; the inside of her mouth as if stuffed with cotton.
Eleven months, three weeks and four days, shot to hell by one small, blue, oval tablet.
What would Jeff think of her now? Even as she wondered, she knew. He would be deeply disappointed.
But he couldn’t be more disappointed in her than she was in herself.
On the nightstand, her cell phone chirped. She grabbed it, answered.
“Second level of hell. The tormented speaking.”
Mira? It’s Deni.”
Her studio assistant and friend. Sounding puzzled.
“Who’d you expect?” she asked. “My husband?”
“That’s not funny.”
It wasn’t, she acknowledged. It was angry. And sad. Jeff was dead, and she had fallen off the wagon. Neither of which had a damn thing to do with Deni.
“I’m sorry, I had a really bad night.”
“You want to talk about it?”