Sleep With The Lights On (19 page)

PR? She was a writer, after all.

But not a psychic. She’s making a killing off her books as it is. She has no reason to add to the positive thinking thing she hypes, not when it’s working so well for her as it is.

Maybe sales were down and she needed to heat things up.

He fished his phone out of his discarded jeans to go online and did a little scoping out of her latest few titles. But they’d apparently been her bestsellers to date. The most recent one had spent seven weeks on the
New York Times
bestsellers list. She didn’t seem to be hurting for money or fame.

So he was forced to consider other options. Options like the one where maybe she was telling the truth. Maybe she really was seeing the things she claimed to be seeing, and maybe it was because a part of his brother really was alive inside her head.

He hoped to God it wasn’t true, then went back to his reading.

* * *

I didn’t sleep well, what with Mason Brown in the room right next to mine, though probably better than I would have if I’d been there alone, given all the horrors of the night before. God, Terry Skullbones, a serial killer. Who the hell would have thought?

Eventually I must have slept, because it was the sound of Mason’s banging around that woke me. I got up, pulled a robe on over my typical nighttime attire—big T-shirt and undies—and wandered toward his room.

He was freshly showered, hair still wet, and dressed in the clothes he’d worn the day before. He looked over at me, then sort of kept looking at me. Suddenly self-conscious, I pushed a hand through my hair and wondered why I hadn’t bothered to look in the mirror before coming to his room.

“You’re up early,” I said, while bitching myself out for being such a girl.

“Yeah, have to get to work. Important meeting this morning.”

“Yeah? With who?”

“Can’t say.”

Well, that felt like a slap. “Oh. Sorry for asking. I guess I thought we were sort of...teaming up on this.”

He lowered his head, like he felt a little guilty or mean or something. “I can’t really do that, Rachel. I mean, I admit you’re getting some valid stuff, but I’m still a cop and you’re still—”

“Oh, come on, I can’t be a suspect. The Wraith is dead.”

“Did I say suspect?”

I shook my head. I was being petulant, and that wasn’t like me.

“Civilian. I was going to say civilian.”

I sighed heavily. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”
God, please let it be over now.
“Besides, I have an important meeting this morning, too.”

“Good. I’ll get out of here and let you get to it.”

“Good.”

He was shoving his wallet and phone into his jeans, then turning to look around the room to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d even made the bed.
Neat freak
.

I rolled my eyes, swallowed my pride. “Thanks for staying with me last night.”

“You’re welcome.” He came to the doorway. “If you want me to come back and do it again, I will.”

“You will?”

“Sure. You’ve been through a lot. Besides, we still have to figure out where your brother is. I’m not going to give up on that.”

Wow. He was actually being...nice to me.

Yeah, what the hell is up with that?

Before I could ask, he was cupping a hand around my nape and leaning in. His lips brushed over mine, and I damn near had a heart attack. Then he just backed off and moved on past me, trotting down the stairs and out the front door almost before I’d opened my eyes.

What the fuck?

* * *

I had a breakfast date with my BBF, Mott, that morning. I’d phoned him last night—before the murder, the vision, the visit to the crime scene and Mason’s mind-warping goodbye kiss.

That was no kiss—barely a peck, in fact—but it sure left me thinking about one.

I needed my friend right now, and I had pretty much guilted him into getting together, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him ruin our friendship just because I could see and he couldn’t.

He’d agreed to the meal, but got all huffy when we discussed a place. The conversation went something like this.

Me: “So I’ll meet you at the Hollywood, then? Eight sound good?”

Mott: “Oh, sure, because it’s easier for you to come to Cortland than for me to go Whitney Point, you being sighted at all.”

Me: “Yeah, Mott. Everything’s easier for me now that I’m sighted. Deal with it.”

Mott: “So you think you’re more capable than I am now. You see why this isn’t going to work anymore?”

Me: “Fine. You come here. The Country Kitchen. MapQuest it, fuckface.”

I used to avoid the small, crowded diner. I loved it now. It had everything a small-town diner ought to have, right down to the mouthy waitress. I’d bantered with her a few times over coffee. She was almost as good at Sarcasm Ping Pong as I was.

I waited outside for Mott, because the place wasn’t exactly blind-guy friendly. Before he arrived, I got the eeriest feeling I was being watched, and I hunched deeper into my coat while looking all around.

Then his taxi pulled up, and he got out. I couldn’t help it. I ran over and hugged him. Damn, I’d missed him. “You’re an idiot to pay cab fare when I offered to come to Cortland.”

He hugged me back, not as enthusiastically as I would have liked, but he wasn’t ice-cold, either. “You bought a car and
I’m
wasting money?”

“I don’t care, I love her. She’s a classic. Come on, let’s eat. I’m starved.” I looked Mott up and down, loving seeing him clearly for the first time. I’d known he was a Brillo head, but the sheer depth of his brown curls amazed me. And his face was nicer than I’d pictured it, too. Close to my imaginary picture of him, but better. Small features, an elfin nose and narrow mouth. “I’ve missed the hell out of you, Mott.”

He lowered his head. “I’ve missed
you,
too. But here I am, feeling self-conscious about how I look. I never felt like that with you before.”

“You look great, and I don’t care about that anyway, and you know it.” I hooked my arm through his.

He pulled it away. “Don’t do that to me.”

“Do what? There are three steps, here, I was just—”

“Then tell me there are three steps. Don’t guide me like I’m helpless.”

“Wow, bite my head off, why don’t you?” I walked ahead of him. “Follow me and hope for the best, then. You’re at the steps now.” I walked up and let him follow behind, trying not to touch him or help in any way. “Door is on your right, I’m opening it and going through now. Stop when you’re two steps in.”

He did fine, and continued to do fine, until we were sitting at a table, had placed our orders and were waiting for them to arrive. He’d chosen one of the specials the waitress—not my favorite sassy one, who must be off today—had rattled off. I knew that was to avoid asking me to read him the menu but didn’t point it out and ordered the same thing.

So we ate. Western omelets, with toast on the side, three cups apiece of luscious coffee, and we each got a homemade cinnamon bun to take home.

“I got a dog,” I told him while we ate. “You’ve got to meet her. She’s a fat little blind bulldog named Myrtle. You’re gonna love her.”

He smiled, and it was genuine. He was starting to relax a little. “I can’t wait to meet her. Never figured you for a dog owner.”

“Me, neither. This was all Amy’s doing. She wanted to adopt her, but her landlord put the kibosh on it, so...”

“So you went soft.”

“The minute I set eyes on her.” I bit my lip.
Dammit, watch the eye references, you dumb ass.

He stiffened a little. Not too much. And then I said, “Mott, I’m pretty sure Tommy’s dead.”

He dropped his fork, and sat there real still and quiet behind his sunglasses. Then, “Only pretty sure? Does that mean there’s still hope?”

“No, it just means we haven’t found his body. Looks like he was murdered.”

“Murdered?” He’d been feeling the table for his fork again, and once he found it, he held on to it while gaping in shock.

“It was that serial killer who’s been all over the news.”

“The Wraith?”

I rolled my eyes at the ridiculous name the press had given him. “Yeah. All the victims matched Tommy’s description.” I wanted to tell him more, about my nightmares, the vision, all of it, but not just then.
Let’s mend the friendship first,
I thought. “I need my best friend back, Mott. I don’t want to go through this without you.”

He sighed, nodded. “I’ve been too hard on you, I guess.”

“You’ve been a bastard to me. You can’t stop being friends with me just because I can see. I mean, who does that? What would you think of me if I ditched my blind friends just because I can see now?”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “That’s kind of what I expected you to do, actually. And being that I’m your only blind friend...”

“You decided to beat me to the punch.”

He nodded.

“You’re an idiot, Mott. But I love you, anyway.”

“You’re a bitch, Rachel, and I love you, too.”

* * *

Mason had read Dr. Vosberg’s book from cover to cover while lying awake in Rachel’s guest room and trying not to think about her just a few steps away down the hall. Now he was sitting in the man’s office, wondering if he ought to ask the shrink’s opinion on why he’d done something as stupid as kissing Rachel this morning.

It was a dull office, walls on the brown side of tan, dark plush chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on one wall and an aquarium on the other with colorful tropical fish swimming lazily back and forth. The man himself was a handsome fortysomething with a fake tan and blond hair with streaks of silver that looked a shade too perfect. Might have been a rug.

“I appreciate you shuffling your schedule around for me this morning, Doctor.”

Vosberg nodded, and his smile was genuine. “You said it was urgent.”

“It is. And it’s confidential, as well. I’m here off the record.”

Vosberg’s brows rose, and Mason noticed that they had a red tint to them and wondered if the guy was a naturally pale-skinned carrot top. “Now I’m even more curious.”

Mason got that. He was taking a risk coming here, but he had to know. “Okay, here it is. I’m working a serial killer case, but the killer is dead.”

“You’re talking about the Wraith,” Vosberg said, getting up from his chair and crossing the room to the large coffeepot in the corner. “I read that he killed himself after his latest murder.” He paused and looked inquiringly at Mason. “I’m having tea,” he said, pouring steaming water from the steel carafe into an earthenware mug. “Would you like some?”

“No, thanks.”

Vosberg took his time choosing a tea bag from an assortment in a fancy wooden box. “Please, go on.”

“The man who killed himself the other night? He’s not the man I was chasing. That man died weeks ago.”

“So you were wrong, then. The man you thought was the Wraith
wasn’t
.” Vosberg had finally unwrapped a tea bag, and was dipping it slowly and rhythmically in a way that was almost hypnotic.

“No. There was no question that I had the right man and that he was dead. But he was an organ donor. And if I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he went on killing. Somehow. Maybe. I just want to believe he’s done now.”

“This Wraith...you believe he went on hunting from beyond the grave?” The doc turned slowly and looked at him.

“The man who committed the last murder was a recent transplant recipient. And another recipient seemed to see the crime as it happened. Having dreams, visions.”

Vosberg stopped dipping his tea bag, and his eyes flashed excitedly. “Did they have the same donor? And was that donor your dead suspect?”

“I don’t know.”

“Detective, you need to find out. If they did, this could be groundbreaking.”

Mason blinked, not quite sure the doctor was saying what he thought he was saying. “So if their common donor was the original serial killer, then you think—”

“That one person who got his organs continued his crimes, then killed himself, and another was able to see those crimes. What sorts of transplants were these? Corneas on the second one, I’d bet.”

Mason lowered his eyes, because the doc was doing that same thing Rachel did, watching him and reading him like a neon sign. He could feel it. “I can’t divulge that.”

The doctor was silent for a moment, pacing to his desk, retaking his seat. “Well, if I were you, I’d try to find out if there was a common donor. Somewhere there has to be a master list of, at the very least, the hospitals where each of the original donor’s organs were sent. You combine that with the date and you could compare with suspects’ health records.”

“Medical records are confidential. And I don’t exactly know how to use this theory to justify a warrant,” Mason said, thinking out loud.