Chapter 35

WHEN I WOKE UP the sun was shining through the windows. It seemed like a beautiful day, the terrible dreamt sounds, smells and sights of the night behind me. But not far enough. I reached out for the end table, picked up my cell and peeked at the time.

Six-thirty.

My hands trembling, I opened the phone to see if someone had called me during the night.

Nothing. Not even a new text.

Michael was still asleep. I decided to leave him be. Or maybe I just wanted some time to myself. Time to breathe, get my act together. I needed my routine. Craved it.

I got up, threw on a robe to fight off the chill and got to work on making the coffee. I swallowed a vitamin with a tall glass of orange juice, tried to eat my two ounces of Frosted Mini Wheats, but only managed a couple of bites.

As the rich aroma of the coffee filled the apartment, I began making a check on the living room. I walked the square-shaped room from one end to the other, my eyes examining the floor, the couch, the desk, the bookshelves.

Nothing seemed out of order; nothing seemed as if it had been tampered with. No footprints on the floor, no handprints on the walls. I looked over the windows and the door that led out onto the stone terrace, looked for fingerprints or smudges on the panes and sills.

Nothing. All deadbolts and safety chains secured.

But what about the bathroom?

I crossed over the vestibule, traversed the narrow hall that accessed the bedrooms and my rarely used painting studio, and entered the bathroom. I checked the window over the toilet.

The window was closed.

Reaching up and under the shade, I felt for the lock. It was unlatched. A jolt of electricity shot through my veins. Was it possible that my apartment had been broken into? Had Whalen opened this window from the outside, climbed in through it, slipped into my apartment and my bedroom, whispered into my ear? Just because no visible evidence of a break-in existed didn’t mean that it hadn’t happened. I remembered him as a small man. Maybe even small enough to fit through that open window.

I couldn’t help thinking that Whalen had made his physical presence known inside my apartment last night. Or was I just plain crazy like Harris suggested? The victim of the dreaded PTS? The victim of vivid nightmares?

I locked the bathroom window. Then I went into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, sipping it carefully. I tightened my robe against the chill. The old radiant heat system was blasting, but I was shivering cold.

What was happening to me? I knew now that Harris wasn’t kidding when he suggested I see a psychiatrist. Post Traumatic Stress. I also knew that today I would fess up to the detective about the texts. Michael was right. I should never have kept the truth from the cop for even a single day.

I took another sip of the coffee. It tasted bitter-sweet. Today was Thursday. Would Franny have a new painting for me today? Would he be upset that I wasn’t around to see it? That I was spoiling his routine?

Smell and Touch.

Those were the only senses left. They would be the titles of the final two paintings.

I drank some more coffee, picked up my cell phone, and punched the instant dial-up for Robyn. Again, the answering service popped on.

Why in God’s name wasn’t she picking up?

Noise came from the bedroom. Michael was up.

Should I tell him about my sensing Whalen in our bedroom last night while we slept? Tell him about my hearing his voice, smelling his stale cigarette smell? About the open bathroom window? My sense of reason said, yes, tell him everything. But caution told me to shut up about it. Shut up for now. Last night had been as perfect a night as I’d had in years. The last thing I wanted was to spoil it all this morning—spoil it for us. Michael was back in tune with me, with my thoughts and fears. He was here to protect me. I wanted to give him some peace, some space from whatever was happening to me. Was a little peace too much to ask?

“Rebecca?” he called out from the bedroom. “What time is it?”

I grabbed a second mug from the cabinet.

Michael would need a good jolt of coffee before he started biting the nail.