In the Dead of Night (3 page)

She saw blood, stark and red against pale flesh. The metallic smell surrounded her, sickened her. Horror punched through layers of shock. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream.

“Mommy,” she whimpered. “Wake up. I’m scared. Wake up!”

Sara shook her, but her mother didn’t stir. Feeling something warm and sticky between her fingers, Sara looked down at her hands.

Blood.

Her child’s mind rebelled against what she saw. Against what she knew in her heart. Against the terror of knowing her mommy wasn’t ever going to open her eyes again.

Ten feet away her daddy lay on the floor, his head surrounded by a slick of red. Next to him, Uncle Nicholas lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were open, but when she called out to him he didn’t
answer. Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why wouldn’t he wake up and tell her everything was going to be okay? That they were just playing? Making a movie?

Thunder cracked like a thousand gunshots. Sara screamed and crawled to her mother’s side, curled against her. “Mommy,” she choked out the name and began to cry. “Please wake up. I’m so scared.”

Outside the French doors lightning flashed, turning night to day. Beyond, a man in a long, black coat stood in the driving rain, staring at her. He held something dark in his hand. A gun, she realized. It had a shiny white grip, like the ones cowboys used in movies. But he was no Lone Ranger; he was a bad man.

Her heart beat out of control when he raised the gun and pointed it at her. For an interminable moment, the storm went silent. All she could hear was the freight-train hammer of her pulse. Somewhere deep inside she knew he was going to hurt her, the same way he’d hurt her mommy and daddy. She didn’t want to go to sleep and never wake up. Closing her eyes, Sara buried her face in her mother’s shirt.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows.

When she opened her eyes and raised her head, the bad man was gone.

And she began to scream.

Sara sat bolt upright, her heart pounding, her body slicked with sweat. The old fear thrashed inside her like the reemergence of a long-dormant illness.

Blowing out a shaky breath, she lay back in the pillows and willed her heart to slow. It had been a long time since she’d had the nightmare. After the deaths of her parents, it had taken more than six years of therapy before she could sleep through the night. But as she’d entered her teens, Sara had finally begun to heal. Slowly but surely, her mind had shoved the horrors of that night into a small, dark corner where they had remained.

Until now.

This particular dream had been incredibly vivid, conjuring all of her senses and a barrage of emotions. In the past, the nightmare had evolved around her finding the bodies of her parents and Nicholas Tyson. She’d never dreamed of the man with the gun.

Twenty years ago, a detective by the name of Henry James had investigated the case. He gave her a cherry lollipop every time he questioned her. As days spun into weeks and Sara began to understand what happened, she’d realized Detective James believed she’d witnessed the murders.

It had been a heavy burden for an eight-year-old. Sara spent years trying to remember. She’d even undergone hypnosis. But the memory—if there was one—refused to emerge. She never understood how she could forget something so vitally important, especially if the real murderer got away scot-free.

Eventually, the police pieced together the events of that night, ruled the crimes a murder-suicide and the case was closed. Now, Sara was left to wonder if they’d been wrong.

Was the man in the long black coat a figment of her imagination? Perhaps it was her mind’s way of redeeming her father? Or was he part of a blocked memory resurfacing?

Troubled by the notion of a killer getting away with the murders of three good people, Sara slipped into her robe, crossed to the French doors and flung them open. Beyond, the Pacific churned in a kaleidoscope of blue and green capped with white. The beach sang to her with the crashing notes of a well-remembered and much-loved ballad. She breathed in deeply, clearing her head and savoring the scent of last night’s rain.

She craved coffee as she descended the staircase and was glad she’d had the foresight to tuck a few single servings into her bag. After brewing coffee, she carried a steaming mug to the redwood deck.

The Adirondack furniture that had belonged to her parents had long since been sold. But the view was the same and so stunning that for a moment she could do nothing but stare. Whitecaps rode a violent sea of midnight blue. Leaning against the rail, she looked out over the rocky cliff at the battered rocks below. Mesmerized, she watched the fog bank retreat into the sea like the spirits of long-lost sailors.

She wasn’t sure why the scene reminded her of Nick Tyson. Something about his eyes and the ocean. Sara wasn’t given to noticing inconsequential details about men. But even in last night’s darkness, she’d discerned the reckless male beauty lurking beneath a mild facade that would be dangerous to an unwary woman. Sara was glad she didn’t fall into that category.

The ringing of the phone in the kitchen drew her from her reverie. Surprised, taking her mug with her, she went through the French doors. Expecting her sister, she picked up on the third ring. “Checking up on me?”

“You came.”

Shock rippled through her at the familiar, electronically-altered voice. “How did you get this number?”

“I have resources, but that doesn’t matter.”

“Who are you?” She posed the question, but knew he wouldn’t answer.

“All that matters is finding the truth.”

“What truth?”

“About what really happened that night.”

“The police investigated and closed the case.”

“The police don’t know everything.”

Her heart beat too fast in her chest, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. “Stop beating around the bush and tell me what you know.”

He was silent for so long she feared he’d hung up. “Find the manuscript, Sara. It will explain everything.”

“What manuscript?” It was the first time she’d heard of a manuscript. “What are you talking about?”

“Find it.”

“Who are you?” she whispered. “Why are you calling me? Why now?”

“You’re the only one left.” Another silence. “You saw him, after all.”

Her heart pounded harder, like a frightened animal trapped in her chest. “I—I didn’t see anyone.” But she couldn’t stop thinking about the nightmare—and the man with the gun.

“Be careful,” the voice whispered.
“Trust no one.”

“Please, tell me who you are. Tell me why you’re calling, dredging all of this up now.”

The line went dead.

Uneasiness climbed over her, like a scatter of ants over her body. Frustrated and uneasy, Sara cradled the phone. “Crackpot,” she whispered.

But she knew that probably wasn’t the case. She wouldn’t have taken a week off and flown from San Diego to Cape Darkwood on the word of some prankster. Somewhere deep inside, she
knew
the police had made a mistake. But how did the caller play into all of this? Was there some type of manuscript that would prove her father had been falsely accused? How was she supposed to find it?

She’d come back to this house, this town, to uncover the truth. She owed it to herself. To her sister. To her parents. It wasn’t going to be easy, but she knew where she had to start. She knew the key to unlocking the truth might very well lie in the nightmares of the past.

T
HE
C
ORNER
N
OOK
was exactly the kind of shop Sara would have frequented had she been on an antique-buying excursion. She’d inherited her love of old things from her mother. Even as a child, she’d enjoyed browsing the stores and wondering about the history of the trinkets they brought home.

Sandwiched between a coffee shop and the Red Door Bed-and-Breakfast, the Corner Nook was as inviting as a tropical beach on a hot day. But Sara felt no anticipation as she parked the rental car curbside. Dread curdled in her gut as she started down the cobblestone walk.

The bell on the door jingled merrily when she entered, the aromas of vanilla and citrus pleasing her nose. Having recently furnished her first home, Sara had spent hours perusing antique shops. But she’d never seen such an eclectic collection in one place. To her right an entire wall was dedicated to Hollywood nostalgia. A nice collection of celebrity cookbooks jammed the top shelf. Beyond, a dress once worn by Marilyn Monroe flowed elegantly over an ancient wooden mannequin. Sara was so caught up in admiring the wares, she didn’t hear the proprietor approach.

“Are you looking for something special?”

She spun at the sound of the rich voice and found herself facing a tall, elegantly dressed woman. She caught a glimpse of silver hair and midnight-blue eyes before recognition slammed home.

LaurelTyson pressed a slender, ring-clad hand to her chest and stepped back, her face going white. “Alex.”

The name came out as little more than a puff of breath, but Sara heard it. Her mother’s name was Alexandra, but everyone had called her Alex. “Mrs. Tyson, it’s Sara Douglas.”

The woman blinked as if waking from a nightmare. Something dark and unnerving flashed in her eyes. “What earthly reason could you possibly have for coming into my shop?”

“If you have a moment, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Sara hesitated, surprised by the degree of the woman’s hostility. But she hadn’t traveled six hundred miles to give up at the first sign of resistance. “I want to talk to you about what happened….”

Laurel’s eyes went flat. “I have nothing to say to you about that night.”

“I know this is difficult. It’s been hard for me, too. But if you’d just hear me out.”

“
Difficult
is not the right word, Sara. Your family has hurt mine enough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”

There weren’t any other customers in the shop. Sara didn’t want to upset her, but she desperately needed information. Laurel had been her mother’s best friend. She might know something that could help her sort through the mystery. If only she could get her to listen.

“I may have new information about what really happened,” Sara said.

“What
really
happened?” The woman choked out a sound that was part laugh, part grunt. “I already know what happened.”

“I think the police may have made a mistake.”

“How dare you.” Laurel’s lips peeled back in an ugly parody of a smile. “You have some nerve walking into my place of business and making wild insinuations.”

“All I want is to find the truth,” Sara said honestly.

“The truth, darling, is that your father was a killer and your mother was a whore.”

Sara recoiled at the viciousness of the words. A knot curled in her chest. Under any other circumstances, she would have backed off, found another source of information. But Laurel Tyson was Sara’s strongest link to her parents and what might have taken place that night. “I know you were hurt, but if you’d just give me a minute—”

“I’ve given you enough.” Laurel turned away. “Get out.”

Sara reached out to touch the other woman’s arm. Laurel spun with the speed of a striking cobra. She shoved Sara’s hand away with so much force that Sara’s fingers brushed a porcelain figurine and sent it crashing to the floor. The delicate china shattered into a hundred pieces.

“See what you’ve done?”

“Mrs. Tyson, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Sara looked down at the broken statuette, truly sorry, and wondered how the situation had spiraled out of control so quickly. “Please, let me pay for—”

“You’ll never be able to pay enough.” Angrily, Laurel gestured toward the door, her hand shaking. “Now, get out or I’ll call the police.”

Vaguely, Sara heard the bell on the door jingle as another customer entered the shop. In a last-ditch effort to get the woman to listen, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have reason to believe my father didn’t kill anyone that night.”

The woman’s hand shot out so quickly Sara didn’t have time to brace. Laurel’s palm struck Sara’s cheek hard enough to snap her head back. The sound was like the crack of a bullwhip in the silence of the shop.

Sara reeled backward. She would have fallen if strong arms hadn’t caught her from behind. “Easy,” came a familiar male voice. “I’ve got you.”

Nick Tyson steadied her, then quickly thrust himself between the two women. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, his angry gaze flicking from Sara to his mother.

Laurel thrust a finger at Sara. “She’s not welcome here. I want her to leave. Now.”

Nick’s gaze went to Sara. He tilted his head as if to get a better look at her. His eyes narrowed to slits, and she got the sinking sensation that he was going to take his mother’s side. He surprised her by asking, “Do you want to press charges?”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Laurel breathed.

“Try me,” Nick shot back, but he never took his eyes from Sara.

“No.” Shaken and embarrassed, Sara started for the door.

The older woman’s gaze swept over her as she brushed past. An emotion Sara could only describe as hatred gleamed in her eyes. “You’re just like her,” Laurel said icily. “You look like her. You sound like her. You lie just like her.”

“That’s enough,” Nick snapped.

Sara told herself the words didn’t hurt. But deep inside, they cut as proficiently as any knife.

By the time she reached the door she was dangerously close to tears. There was no way in hell she’d let Laurel Tyson see her cry.

She yanked open the door. Nick called out her name, but Sara didn’t stop. She barely noticed the slashing rain as she ran to her car. Opening the driver’s-side door, she slid behind the wheel and jammed the key into the ignition. All the while, Laurel’s words rang in her ears.