Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [174]
Her throat closed on a silent scream.
Having adjusted to the half-light, her eyes took in the bed with its mussed sheets, evidence of her fitful rest. Upon the dressing table was the lamp and a bifold picture frame, one that held small portraits of her two daughters. Across the small room was a fireplace. She could see its decorative tile and cold grate, and above the mantel a bare spot, faded now, where a mirror had once hung.
So where was he? She glanced to the tall windows. Beyond, the October night was hot and sultry. In the panes she could see her wan reflection: petite, small-boned frame; sad golden-brown eyes; high cheekbones; lustrous auburn hair pulled away from her face. And behind her…was that a shadow creeping near?
Or her imagination?
That was the trouble. Sometimes he hid.
But he was always nearby. Always. She could feel him, hear his soft, determined footsteps in the hallway, smell his scent—a mixture of male musk and sweat—catch a glimpse of a quick, darting shadow as he passed.
There was no getting away from him. Ever. Not even in the dead of night. He received great satisfaction in surprising her, sneaking up on her while she was sitting at her desk, leaning down behind her when she was kneeling at her bedside. He was always ready to press his face to the back of her neck, to reach around her and touch her breasts, arousing her though she loathed him, pulling her tightly against him so that she could feel his erection against her back. She wasn’t safe when she was under the thin spray of the shower, nor while sleeping beneath the covers of her small bed.
How ironic that they had placed her here…for her own safety.
“Go away,” she whispered, her head pounding, her thoughts disjointed. “Leave me alone!”
She blinked and tried to focus.
Where was he?
Nervously she trained her eyes on the one hiding place, the closet. She licked her lips. The wooden door was ajar, just slightly, enough that anyone inside could peer through the crack.
From the small sliver of darkness within the closet, something seemed to glimmer. A reflection. Eyes?
Oh, God.
Maybe he was inside. Waiting.
Gooseflesh broke out on her skin. She should call out to someone, but if she did, she would be restrained, medicated…or worse. Stop it, Faith. Don’t get paranoid! But the glittering eyes in the closet watched her. She felt them. Wrapping one arm around her middle, the other folded over it, she scraped her nails on the skin of her elbow.
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
But maybe this was all a bad dream. A nightmare. Wasn’t that what the sisters had assured her in their soft whispers as they gently patted her hands and stared at her with compassionate, disbelieving eyes? An ugly dream. Yes! A nightmare of vast, intense proportions. Even the nurse had agreed with the nuns, telling her that what she’d thought she’d seen wasn’t real. And the doctor, cold, clinical, with the bedside manner of a stone monkey, had talked to her as if she were a small, stupid child.
“There, there, Faith, no one is following you,” he’d said, wearing a thin, patronizing smile. “No one is watching you. You know that. You’re…you’re just confused. You’re safe here. Remember, this is your home now.”
Tears burned her eyes and she scratched more anxiously, her short fingernails running over the smooth skin of her forearm, encountering scabs. Home? This monstrous place? She closed her eyes, grabbed the headboard of the bed to steady herself.
Was she really as sick as they said? Did she really see people who weren’t there? That’s what they’d told her, time and time again, to the point that she was no longer certain what was real and what was not. Maybe that was the plot against her, to make her believe she was as crazy as they insisted she was.
She heard a footstep and looked up quickly.
The hairs on the backs of her arms rose.
She began to shake as she saw the door crack open a bit more.
“Sweet Jesus.” Trembling, she backed up, her gaze fixed on the closet, her fingers scraping