Dancing in the Dark Page 15

  No time like the present.

  She started to turn on the television, but hesitated. There was enough stress in her life without adding the world's problems. Even the comedies dealt with issues these days. She could veg with some Nick at Nite, but the thought of unwinding with a glass of wine and some music was far more enticing.

  Not to mention a nice mood-setter for when Eric did arrive.

  Selecting a Nancy Griffith album, she opened the case, and placed the CD in the player. In moments, the house was filled with the mellow sounds of guitar, Griffith's soft alto swelling with each note of “Across the Great Divide.”

  Crossing to the bar, she poured a glass of wine, and turned back to survey her kingdom, as it were. The rain beat a counterpoint to the music, rattling against the tin roof. The lamplight fell golden against the cushions of the sofa, brightening the colors with its cheerful glow.

  She loved her home. It was the first thing she'd ever created for herself. A sanctuary in the middle of the confusion and sorrow that marked her life. And she was proud of it. Of herself. Other women might have capitulated to the pain, but she hadn't. Molly was right. She was strong, a survivor. She'd just been tested more than most.

  Putting her glass on the table, she picked up the discarded CD from last night, returning it to its case, her thoughts suddenly on Frank Sinatra and the song she'd heard at lunch. Grabbing her glass, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the two racks that held her CDs.

  One half of the first one was filled with Sinatra albums. Tom's legacy. Pulling out first one and then another, she searched lyric sheets and titles, trying to find one with the phrase from the card. The Nancy Griffith CD had finished, along with most of Mary Chapin Carpenter, by the time she found it.

  A song called “I Think of You.” She hadn't been mistaken. The card's message was literally the fourth line verbatim. A chill ran down her spine, and suddenly the room didn't seem so warm and comforting.

  As if to underscore her unease, the phone rang, the shrill sound discordant against the syncopated rhythm of “I Feel Lucky.” Standing, her muscles sore, she realized suddenly how late it was. And Eric hadn't come.

  Surely, then, this was him. Torn between annoyance and concern she picked up the phone, disappointed to hear Bess's voice on the other end.

  “Sara? Are you there?” Her friend sounded strangely somber, and the chill was back.

  “I'm here.” She sucked in a breath, bracing herself. “What is it?”

  “Sara, it's Eric.” There was a pause. It seemed like hours and seconds all at once, time suddenly having no meaning, and in that instant, she was back in her old dining room, dinner on the table, Charlie and Tom late. Only they'd never come home.

  Never.

  “Sara, honey, are you still there?” Bess's voice sounded far away, but she forced herself to concentrate, to keep the receiver to her ear.

  “What happened?” She pushed the words out, her breath coming in gasps.

  “There was an accident.” Again the pause. As if Bess were consulting with someone. Her friend sighed, and Sara clutched the phone as if it were a lifeline. “His car went off the road …”

  Blue and black shadows danced before her eyes, her chest tightening until she thought it might explode. She struggled to focus, to stay standing, and then, just when she was certain she couldn't hold on anymore, Ryan was there, taking the phone, helping her to sit down.

  “Bess? It's Ryan.” He lowered his voice, his concerned gaze never leaving her. “I told you to wait until I got here.”

  They talked some more, but she couldn't focus, couldn't follow the words. All she could think about was Eric. “Is he …” She trailed off, unable to finish the question.

  “We don't know. Bess got a call from Tony, and she called me. Tony didn't have any specifics. Just that it was bad.”

  She nodded, trying to stand. Ryan was by her side in an instant, his strong arms helping her to move, to stay upright.

  “It's going to be okay, Sara. You've just got to hang in there. Whatever's happened, we'll face it together.”

  She nodded, her brain churning so fast she thought it might spin right out of her head.

  It couldn't be happening again.

  Oh, please, dear God, not again.

  The waiting room at St. David's was crowded. People in various stages of agony. Pain hanging heavy, almost a physical presence. Ryan ushered Sara to the nearest chair, but she didn't want to sit. She needed to do something. To know something.

  “Wait here,” Ryan said, pushing her firmly down on the chair. “I'll see what I can find out.”

  She half rose, opening her mouth to argue, but thought better of it, and sank back onto the chair, twisting her ring. She didn't have the energy for a fight. She watched Ryan weave through the throng to the admissions desk, and then scanned the room for Bess or Tony. Surely they were here somewhere.

  “Sara?” Molly's voice sang through the waiting room, and Sara burst into tears when Molly and Jack materialized at her side. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head mutely, trying to force words to the surface without success.

  “Bess called us,” Jack said, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Ryan's checking.” The words were low, almost a whisper, but at least she'd gotten a sentence out. She wiped angrily at her tears, reaching deep inside for control. “Did Bess tell you what happened?”

  Jack shook his head. “Just that the car went off an embankment on twenty-two twenty-two.”

  Sara shuddered feeling suddenly like she was trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone—the one where the same events kept happening over and over.

  “He'll be all right.” Molly reached out to squeeze her hand. “You've just got to have faith.”

  Sara nodded, then held her breath, watching as Ryan made his way back to the chairs.

  “He's fine, Sara. Bruised and a little beat up, but fine.”

  She released the breath on a whoosh, tightening her hand around Molly's. “Can I see him?”

  Ryan nodded. “He's been asking for you. Tony and Bess are with him now.”

  Shooting Jack and Molly a faint but triumphant smile, she made her way over to where the nurse stood waiting. Following behind the scrubs-clad woman, she sent a silent prayer heavenward.

  Eric was sitting up on the side of the bed, minus his shirt, a bandage on his head, and another around his ribs. His shoulder was beginning to purple, but other than that, he looked whole and healthy.

  And wonderful.

  Tony was standing at the end of the bed, reading a report of some kind. Bess was helping Eric take a sip of water. Standing there watching them, Sara suddenly felt like an outsider. They'd all known each other forever, and, she supposed, formed a family of sorts. One she didn't belong to.

  She was taking a step backward, thinking of retreat, when Eric looked up and saw her, his gaze meeting hers, the message there more powerful than any words. Silently, he held out his hand, and she crossed the room to take it, the feel of his skin against hers exquisite.

  “You're all right.” The words came out a whisper, her eyes still locked on his. “I thought, oh, God, I thought…”

  He stood up, pulling her to him, holding her close, the beating of his heart the most marvelous sound in the world. “I'm okay. Just a little banged up. Believe me, it'll take more than a car wreck to take me out.”

  Reluctantly she pulled away, not wanting to hurt him, but still firmly holding on to his hands. “What did the doctor say?”

  “That I was lucky. And that I should expect to be sore for a couple of days.”

  She looked to Tony and Bess, trying to ascertain if he was telling her everything.

  Tony shrugged. “His ribs are pretty bruised, but nothing's broken, and his head took a beating, but it's too damn hard to have sustained any serious damage. Except for a mild concussion, he's good to go.”

  “They want to keep him overnig
ht, just for observation,” Bess added.

  “Like hell.” Eric straightened, grimacing in pain. “I'm fine. And I'm definitely not staying here.”

  Sara moved so that she could slip an arm around him, offering support. He leaned into her slightly, but held his ground. “You need to do what the doctors say.”

  “I need to get some rest, and I'm not going to get it here.”

  “Well, you can't go to that hellhole you call an apartment. I bet it hasn't been cleaned in a month.” Bess's tone was firm. “Besides, someone's got to watch over you.”

  “I'll do it.” The words were out before she had a chance to talk herself out of it. “You can stay with me.”

  Tony opened his mouth to say something, but before he could say anything, Bess elbowed him silent. “I think that's a great idea.” Bess's enthusiasm was overdrawn, her motives almost transparent.

  “I don't need an excuse to see Sara, Bess.” Eric smiled. “But I'll take it just the same.” His hand tightened on hers, and her synapses went into overdrive, neurons firing with the power of small cannons, the resulting electricity shooting through her like lightning.

  “Tony, why don't you come with me, and we'll see what we can do about getting Eric released.” With a hand firmly under his elbow, Bess guided Tony from the room, winking at Sara as she passed.

  “Not exactly subtle, our Bess.” Eric laughed, reaching for a shirt hanging across the back of a chair.

  “Let me help you with that.” She took the shirt, and held it as he slid his arms into the sleeves. “Are you in a lot of pain?”

  “It hurts when I breathe, but not too much. The doctor gave me a shot.”

  She buttoned the shirt, straightening the collar when she finished, the exercise feeling oddly intimate. As if they'd stood like this a thousand times before. She stepped back, but he stopped her with a hand, forcing her to look at him.

  “I'm glad you're here. All I could think of when I woke up was seeing you.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and tears filled her eyes. She reached up to trace the line of the bandage over his eye. “I'm just glad you're okay.”

  He covered her hand with his. “What do you say we get out of here and go home?”

  It was just a sentence. It wasn't even his home, but somehow the words held more meaning, as though they were predicting the future. A future she was at once desperate for and frightened of.

  As if reading her mind, he pulled her close again, the silence broken only by their breathing. And just for the moment, she allowed herself to believe that everything would turn out all right.

  “Are you sure you're feeling okay?” Sara chewed the side of her lip, earnestly studying his face, no doubt looking for signs of imminent collapse. She'd been fussing over him for the last hour, arranging and rearranging his pillows as if their proper positioning had the singular power to heal him. If she hadn't looked so worried, he'd have laughed. Instead, he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit on the bed beside him.

  “I'm a little sore, but other than that, I'm fine.”

  She scrunched up her nose, eyes narrowing as if she didn't believe him. “The doctor said you had a concussion.”

  “It's only a mild one, so stop worrying. Everything's going to be okay.”

  She nodded once, as if convincing herself, her hand tightening on his. “So do you want to tell me what happened?”

  It was his turn to frown. “I'm not certain, actually. I was heading to your house and a car in front of me slammed on its brakes, and when I followed suit, my foot hit the floor. I guess I shouldn't have put off that tune-up.” His effort to make light of the situation sailed right over her head.

  “It might not have mattered.” She shook her head, still holding on to his hand. “Tom was obsessive about that sort of thing. He had the Mercedes checked and rechecked constantly. Most people aren't as well taken care of as that car was.”

  “I think most men feel that way about their automobiles.”

  “I suppose so, but with Tom it wasn't just one. He was also rebuilding a 1961 Jaguar with Ryan. The two of them worked on it every spare minute.” She looked out the window, her thoughts obviously in the past. “Anyway,” she said, turning back to him, “the car was in pristine condition. I even had Jack check it over after the accident.”

  “He told me. And that the consensus was that the accident was driver error. Which on a rainy night is always a possibility.”

  “I know, but I didn't want to believe it. I needed for it to have been something else's fault. Something that didn't have to do with Tom.” She met his gaze, begging him to understand.

  “You didn't want to blame him for Charlie's death.”

  She nodded. “It sounds awful, I know. But I needed for him to be innocent. For him—and for me. So I asked Jack to look at the car. The police didn't find anything. But Jack worked on the car regularly, so I thought maybe he'd find something they missed.” She sighed, staring down at her hands. “Whatever happened that night, it wasn't about the car.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Because the car wasn't at fault?” She lifted her head to look at him. “It wouldn't have mattered if it was. I thought it would, but I was wrong. Either way, they were still dead.”

  “And today you thought it was happening again. With me?” The last was a question, one he suddenly needed to hear an answer to.

  “Yes.” Her smile was muted. “But it didn't. And that's what we're going to concentrate on. You're here to heal, not listen to my sad tales.” She started to stand, but he kept her hand, holding her there at his side.

  “Stay with me for a while.” He shot her what he hoped was a charming grin, and felt her relax.

  “Only if you promise to rest.”

  He closed his eyes obediently, then opened them again. “You haven't mentioned the roses. Did you find out who sent them?”

  She shook her head. “No. But I do think maybe there's something odd about the card.”

  “Odd how?” His stomach tightened, the telltale uneasiness signaling something significant.

  “I think the line on the card was from a song.” Her gaze collided with his. “A Sinatra song. It's called ‘I Think of You.’”

  Chapter 18

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, the tone more alarming than if he'd yelled. “Why the hell didn't you tell me sooner?”

  “You've been a bit busy, in case you forgot.” Sara tried but couldn't keep the indignant note from her voice. She'd explained it all to him. Starting with lunch right through to Molly disposing of the flowers. And now he was yelling at her.

  “I'm sorry.” He was immediately contrite, and she felt guilty for being angry at him.

  “The truth is it could be a coincidence. I mean, everyone has Sinatra on the brain.”

  “But you don't know who sent you the flowers, and when you combine that with the phone calls, I'd say the odds of coincidence are reduced dramatically.”

  “So what? You think the Sinatra killer sent me flowers?” The idea made her stomach churn.

  “I'm not jumping to any conclusions, but I think we need to look into this. Do you still have the card?”

  She shook her head. “It was with the flowers when Molly took them.”

  He nodded and reached for her phone. “What's her number?”

  “You're calling Molly now?” She didn't know why it surprised her. Maybe because at the hospital he'd seemed so vulnerable. But whatever he'd been, he was all detective now. And she knew there was no sense in arguing. She gave him the number, watching as he dialed.

  They sat in silence as the phone rang—waiting. But Molly either wasn't answering or wasn't home. So he left a message and replaced the receiver in the cradle. “We'll follow up in the morning. And I'll check out the florist as well.”

  “But no one remembers the order.”

  His grin was weak, but still rakish. “It's amazing what people remember when the police are the ones asking the questions. Besides, I don'
t want to leave any stone unturned.”

  “Well, if someone has to talk to the florist, it'll have to be Tony, because you'll be right here—resting.” She crossed her arms, trying for a Nurse Ratched frown.

  “We'll see. I can't afford to sit here while that madman is out there. Especially if there's a connection to you.”

  “It'll keep a day or so, I promise. Besides, it's not like there aren't other police detectives in Austin capable of taking up the slack until you're a hundred percent.”

  “Maybe.” He sounded like a disgruntled schoolboy, and despite the gravity of the situation, she found herself holding back laughter.

  “Tomorrow, Detective D'Angelo, is another day. And if you want to have any part in it, I suggest you close those sexy gray eyes and get some sleep.”

  “Sexy? I like the sound of that.” He reached for her hand again, this time bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “In fact, I especially like it coming from you. Why don't you forgo the Nightingale routine and come to bed with me instead?”

  His words were intended to fluster her, and they hit their mark with a vengeance, her breath lodging in her throat right beside her heart. “I don't think that's on the recovery plan,” she said with exaggerated concern, “but I can certainly call the doctor. In the meantime, though, why don't you try to get some sleep? I'll check on you in a couple of hours.”

  “You promise?” He still held her hand, but his capitulation was imminent, his eyelids already fluttering with fatigue.

  “Cross my heart.”

  He nodded, already sliding into sleep, and she envied him his complacency. She supposed it came with the job. In order to survive the horrors he faced day in and day out, he needed to be able to let it go, if even just for a couple of hours.

  Unfortunately, it meant that she was now alone with her thoughts. All of them confusing, some of them frightening. If the words on the card were chosen because they were lyrics, then it was possible the Sinatra killer had sent the flowers. And if that were true, then she had reason to be afraid.