Lindsay Longford - Lover In The Shadows

Small flecks of drying blood spotted her thumb, but there in the burnished gleam of the knife blade, the reflection of an eye, large and wild, stared back at her. Shining in the dark, that eye watched her in silvery blankness.

An eye from a dark, mad place.

Hers, she realized with a gasp. Her face. Her eye.

Screams pushed at her clamped teeth and made her throat raw, but she held them inside. She clenched her jaw so tightly it hurt, knowing with a primal understanding that it was important not to scream.

Too close to a border she didn’t want to cross, she didn’t dare look back into that metallic eye. She sat up, her teeth clicking in a frantic, uncontrollable rhythm. She was shaking all over, the butcher knife still clutched in her fingers.

She couldn’t stop staring at the shining steel, the grain of the expensive wood in the handle, the splotches of blood on her hand and on the wood. As if staring at the minute details of the object would translate into understanding, she focused on the fine-grained wood.

There was no doubt about it. The knife was hers.

Just like the other times.

She’d used this knife more times than she wanted to recall. But no matter how hard she struggled, she couldn’t remember coming down to the kitchen and picking it up tonight. Like those other mornings, she had no memory of opening the drawer with its carefully arranged knives and sharpening blade, no memories now to explain this spider web of blood on her palms, the clots of blood between knife handle and metal.

Shuddering, Molly fought to take a deep breath, but the thunder of her heartbeat, roaring and all-consuming, was sucking the air from the room. Dizzy in that pounding vacuum, she couldn’t find air.

Tugging desperately, her fingers scrabbling at the neck of her pajamas, she dropped the knife. The clatter as it fell onto the tiles released her. Huddled in the corner of the kitchen, she inhaled, loud, ugly gulps harsh in the solitude. Tears ran down her cheeks and she scrubbed them, her fists abrasive against her cold, wet lips and eyelids.

She had to think.

She had to make sense of this latest incident.

Was she crazy, after all?

Bracing her palms against the wall, she lifted herself into a standing position. Her knees buckled, but she gritted her teeth and clung in desperation to the solid surface. Against all reason, she was relieved, relieved that her hands left no smear of blood on her pale gray walls.

There had already been enough blood.

Molly groped along the wall, flicking on the light switch when she came to it. Lightheaded and drunk with fear, she placed her palms on the wall, carefully, one after the other. She ended her journey at the stainless-steel double sink, where she gripped the lifeline of its curved, satiny edge.

The edge of the knife’s blade was curved, too.

Sweat popped out at her hairline, ran down her spine, and she found herself dry-heaving into the spotless basin. When the wracking convulsions ended, she yanked the faucet handle up as far as it would go.

Cold water gushed out and she cupped it again and again, faster and faster against her face, her hands, her throat. Water sprayed, dripped everywhere, yet she couldn’t stop rubbing her hands under the spray, rubbing and rubbing but still seeing blood on her fingers. Great rasping sobs tore through her.

But she hadn’t given in to screaming. Comfort of a sort in that knowledge. She hadn’t surrendered to the madness dimly seen in her reflected eye.

Her pajama top was plastered against her breasts when she finally gained control. Bent over the sink, she gripped its edge while water slithered down her neck. Damp and cold, the wet, silky fabric of her top brushed her nipples, chilling them into hard bumps.

After the first incident, she no longer slept naked, no longer left her windows open to the night lurking at their edge, to the darkness threatening now at the edge of her mind. The idea of being vulnerable was unbearable.

Whatever it was, that thump she’d heard on the gallery had been real.

Pulling the black, silky cotton away from her breasts with fingers that still trembled, Molly looked around her once-loved kitchen. Cool and serene, it bore no trace now of the violence that had splashed its walls with blood.

The tongues of both bolts on the door to the outside gallery were snug in their grooves. She’d always been careful about locking up before she went to bed. In the last year she’d become obsessed with the need to check and recheck locks and bolts, even braving the dark stairwell to come downstairs in the middle of the night and check again.

She remembered roaming the house last night, examining the locks in her gritty-eyed exhaustion, but she’d gone back to bed afterward.

She hadn’t slept. Not during the night. Never then.

During those lost, lonely months after the murder of her parents, sleep had eluded her.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Molly glanced slowly around the room. She wouldn’t think now about the other rooms off the shadowy hall.

Like the door, the kitchen shutters seemed undisturbed, but she couldn’t tell if the windows behind the shutters were still locked until she made herself move away from the sink.

Everything was where it should be—the red enameled teapot on the black mirrored stove, the black-and-white place mats on the table.

One thing only stood out of place…the long-handled knife on the floor.

She couldn’t pick it up.

Apparently she’d gone out, roaming in the night with that blood-speckled knife in her hand, returning to lock herself in behind her bolted doors and windows.

Or someone had come in.

And vanished, leaving her locked in?

Not possible.

Molly looked away from the knife. She understood she was going to have to do something. She wished she knew what.

Deep inside her, the fine edge of control was popping, shredding in audible snaps. She wouldn’t survive finding herself another time curled up on the floor. She knew that as well as she knew anything.

Turning back to the sink, she turned the water on more slowly this time and splashed her face and scrubbed her hands yet again while she sorted through her terror-blasted thoughts. Numb, scarcely aware of what she was doing, she lathered her hands over and over, soaping and scrubbing her nails, her palms, between her fingers, as she tried to reason through what had happened. Step by step, using logic to distance herself from the edge of the chasm, she considered the possibilities.

Thought was a barricade against the fears nibbling at the edge of her consciousness.

She could call the police. As much as she loathed the idea of seeing them in her house again, she probably should call them. But if she did, they’d think she was crazy.

Maybe she was. But she’d always heard if you thought you were crazy, you probably weren’t. Right now she wasn’t sure where that theory left her, aside from giving some perverse comfort. The police would do one of two things—either ignore her or laugh at her.

She couldn’t blame them. What, after all, was there for them to check out? Her knife? Her blood in its handle?

Her outstretched fingers shivered as she looked at them.

Of course it was her blood.

Unthinkable if it were not.

Frantically she searched her hands, looking for scratches on one hand, pressing the water-pruned skin, stretching it, looking between her fingers.

She sagged against the sink when she found the deep cut at the base of her right thumb. A gouge into the flesh. She touched it, felt the flap of skin. Obscene.

In her shock at finding herself once more on the kitchen floor, she hadn’t felt the dull throb of the gash in her hand. Hadn’t felt anything. Until now. As if she’d turned on a switch, her whole body ached.