Читать книгу See No Evil - Morgan Hayes - Страница 9

BENEATH HIS FINGERTIPS, the woman’s pulse fluttered rhythmically. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Allister withdrew his hand from the silken smoothness of her neck and eased her head to one side. Fearing the worst, he feathered his fingers back through her sleek, jet black hair, searching for injuries.

There was a small gash, hardly worthy of stitches, and a rapidly swelling lump. It would be pretty painful, he guessed, given the force with which she’d struck the railing when she’d lost her balance.

Lost her balance. Allister shook his head. No, her fall had had more to do with his manhandling than any action of her own. He’d been so determined to stop her, to explain why he was in Gary’s office and why he’d appeared poised to swing a fire extinguisher down on her head, that Allister had grabbed for her without any thought beyond selfpreservation.

Now she lay on the shadowed catwalk, unconscious, and most likely concussed. She needed medical attention. Even in his own panicked state, he recognized that.

It was one thing to leave Gary at the warehouse and remove himself from the crime scene for fear of being framed by Bainbridge; there was nothing he could do for Gary. But it was quite another to leave this woman here. He couldn’t do that.

Allister paced the distance between her and the office door, uncertain of his next move but knowing he had to do something. Finally he saw the black duffel bag. He picked it up. Giving her another sidelong glance, he unzipped it. He wasn’t sure what he was searching for, but when he brushed aside the nylon flap, Allister saw the Nikon.

This woman, no doubt, was Stevie Falcioni.

Allister looked at her again. Her right arm was stretched out toward him, her slender fingers partially curled. It was as if she was reaching for him. And the way her delicate face was angled, the tenuous light from the overhead lamps lending a warmth to her unconscious expression, only served to increase that impression.

No, he couldn’t leave her here, even if he placed an anonymous call to the police. Whoever had beaten the life out of Gary could still be on the premises. Gary had said Bainbridge didn’t have the coins. And when Allister had asked about the shipment’s whereabouts, Gary had mentioned Stevie. Chances were good that Gary’s killer would be back to look for the package—if he wasn’t still here.

Allister slung the duffel bag over one shoulder and knelt beside Stevie. Slipping his gloves on again, he realized the risk he was about to take. Yes, there was the very real threat of being framed by Bainbridge. And in all likelihood, the police would not believe his story once they’d placed him at the scene of Gary’s murder. Then there was Stevie Falcioni; it was going to take some pretty creative explaining to convince her that he hadn’t been trying to kill her when, mistaking her for Gary’s assailant, he’d come at her with the fire extinguisher. But given the circumstances, he thought as he lifted her limp body from the catwalk and shifted her weight against his chest, he would have to run those risks.

The stairs were the trickiest. After Allister maneuvered them, he found carrying Stevie through the warehouse to the side door relatively easy. Outside, the storm had risen to its full force; the wind howled and the snow had turned to biting pellets of ice. After struggling briefly with the passenger door of the Explorer, Allister eased Stevie onto the seat. He reclined it, then fumbled with the seat-belt clip until he heard it catch.

In another moment he was behind the wheel, and the engine rumbled to life. Above the thrashing wipers and the noise of the fan, he heard the radio announcer on the local station advise people to stay indoors and caution drivers about the hazardous conditions.

“…and you can certainly expect to wake up to a few more inches of the white stuff tomorrow,” the announcer said, “after that green Christmas, it looks like winter’s finally settling in…”

Allister steered past Stevie’s Volvo, out of the warehouse lot and onto the deserted street. Five blocks later, he brought the big vehicle to a sliding stop at a red light and restlessly drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as cars crawled through the intersection.

In the close quarters of the Explorer, Allister detected a faint trace of her perfume. He looked over and saw how the yellow glow of a street lamp through the windshield cast gentle shadows across her striking features: high cheekbones, a square yet delicate jawline, a small straight nose, and lips that looked as though they’d been carefully sculpted into an enticing curve. Allister didn’t doubt that Stevie Falcioni had seduced countless men with little more than a smile.

“…and remember, drive carefully if you have to be out tonight,” the radio announcer cautioned again. “Police are reporting numerous accidents in and around the city, and we’ve just received word of a multicar pile-up along the north branch of the Harriston Expressway near the Jefferson exit. We’ll have more details on the ten-o’clock news coming up in seven minutes. For now, though, here’s something that should brighten things up a bit for all you storm-bound listeners. The golden oldie ‘I Can See Clearly Now’—”

Allister switched off the radio and eased the Explorer past the intersection. The rest of the drive to Danby General Hospital was a white-knuckled ordeal. Throughout, he snatched quick side glances at the woman next to him whenever the driving permitted. Her small frame rocked with each bump and swerve.

He had no idea what he would have done had she regained consciousness in the car—would she have believed he was actually trying to help? And by the time he pulled into the hospital lot, Allister was grateful she hadn’t come around. He turned off the ignition and in the welcome silence looked at the emergency entrance.

Three ambulances were parked out front, one with its lights still strobing. Beyond the wide sliding doors in the bright glare of the ER, he could see a blur of activity.

This was it, he thought, taking a deep breath. As soon as he carried Stevie Falcioni through those doors, there would be no turning back. He’d have to give his name, address, phone number. And shortly after that, the police would be knocking on his door, if they hadn’t already picked him up at the hospital.

Allister glanced at Stevie again. So how was he going to explain his apparent attack? Who would believe him? And what made this any different from six years ago?

But right now there wasn’t time to debate these questions and fears. What mattered was Stevie and getting her the medical attention she needed. He owed her that much.

When the emergency-room doors swung open at his approach, Allister shifted Stevie’s weight in his arms, careful not to drop the duffel bag, which he also held. Her head rested on his shoulder, her face only inches from his, and again he detected a subtle hint of her perfume. Dodging two attendants wheeling an empty gurney back to the ambulances, Allister stepped through the second set of doors.

He stopped abruptly.

The ER bad more than activity; it reeled in utter chaos. The waiting room was jammed; people without seats paced or leaned against walls, while another dozen waited impatiently to give information to the harassed desk nurse. Orderlies flew from one station to the next, their crisscrossing paths seeming more like a well-choreographed dance than the frantic scramblings of an ER staff beleaguered by a sudden string of accident victims. Behind him, Allister could hear the approaching siren of yet another ambulance.

“All right, people, we’ve got another two coming in!”

A woman in green scrubs moved past Allister at full tilt. “Let’s make some room out here. Jerry, use the halls if you have to. Karen, Dr. Stowe needs you in number four. And, Alex, get another crash cart down here.”

“Excuse me?” Allister hurried after her, twisting his way through the crowded corridor.

The woman briskly signed two charts thrust at her by interns, before starting down the hall.

“Excuse me!” This time he shouted, slowing his awkward pursuit only when she spun around on one sneakered foot.

Even then, she didn’t look at him. Her attention was riveted on the woman in his arms.

“I need some help here,” he said. “Are you a doctor?”

The woman nodded. “Dr. Delaney. Is this one of the expressway-pileup victims?”

“No. She fell,” he explained, shifting Stevie’s weight, his arms beginning to feel the strain. “She hit her head.”

“Carol, find a gurney,” Dr. Delaney called to a nurse, her eyes never leaving Stevie. “How long has she been unconscious, sir?”

The doctor reached up and lifted Stevie’s eyelids to examine her pupils.

“I don’t know. Fifteen… twenty minutes, I guess.”

“Where did she hit her head?”

“The back. She fell backward.”

The doctor was already probing Stevie’s skull when the gurney arrived, and Allister lowered Stevie onto the crisp sheets. Dr. Delaney pulled open Stevie’s coat, as well as the shirt beneath, and grappled with her stethoscope. When he saw the edge of a white lace bra against olive-colored skin, Allister redirected his gaze. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as the doctor looked Stevie over and finally muttered something to the nurse.

And then the emergency doors slammed open.

“Here they come!” someone shouted.

All available hospital staff, including Dr. Delaney, raced

to the doors as attendants rushed in with the next accident victims.

“We need these forms filled out, sir,” the nurse said, shoving a clipboard at Allister. “Dr. Delaney will be with you as soon as she can,” she added as she scrambled to the speeding gurneys and was swallowed up in the frantic flow of medical staff down the main hall.

Allister looked at the form and then at Stevie. He moved to the side of the gurney, which had been pushed up against the corridor wall, and lowered the black duffel from his shoulder onto the sheets beside her. She appeared paler now under the harsh unforgiving fluorescents, her face framed by the short gleaming black hair.

Her beige trench coat was splayed open, and the edges of her white cotton shirt were still brushed aside. Gingerly Allister reached out to pull it closed over the delicate lace bra. And then he noticed the red smear on her jeans.

For the first time, Allister looked at his gloved hands. There were traces of blood—Gary’s blood. And there was more on his shirt, his jacket, and his jeans.

Panic rose again. He had to get out of here. Four years in prison. There was no way he was going back. He was not about to be framed by Bainbridge a second time, and that was exactly what was going to happen if the police found out he’d been at the warehouse tonight, if they matched the blood on his clothes to Gary’s.

He needed to think this through, away from the clamor and confusion of the ER. He needed a plan. Some way to get to Bainbridge before Stevie Falcioni had a chance to identify him.

As the rest of the ER whirled in confusion, Allister recognized his one and only opportunity. If he left now, before the doctor returned, he’d be able to slip out without anyone noticing. And with the frenzy caused by the expressway pileup, chances were no one would even remember him later when the police came around to question Stevie and the rest of the hospital staff.

He’d have to leave her.

She’d be all right though, he tried to convince himself, or else the doctor wouldn’t have left them here unattended in the middle of a corridor. Stevie was in good hands now. He’d done all he could. There had to be identification in the fanny pouch she wore around her slim hips; the attendants could get any information they needed. They’d call her family or a friend. She wouldn’t be alone.

Allister took one more look at Stevie, but somehow suspected it wouldn’t be his last. She was a part of this—part of Gary’s murder and Bainbridge and the coins. How she was connected, Allister didn’t know yet. But why else had Gary whispered her name?

He could only hope to have the answers soon. For now he had to get out.

And, leaving Stevie there on the gurney, running off into the night like some fugitive, for the first time in his life Allister felt like a criminal.

“YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED to kill him, dammit!” Edward

Bainbridge yelled into the phone. “You were meant to get the coins, Vince. Remember? The coins? Without them, we don’t have a deal. You were supposed to go over there last night to get them from that weasel, Palmer. After that, I didn’t care what you did with the son of a bitch.”

Gary Palmer’s murder had been on the front page of the Danby Sun and the first story Edward Bainbridge had read with his morning coffee. He’d gotten as far as “…police speculate the murder was a result of a random break-in.” Seconds later he had Vince Fenton on the phone.

“He didn’t have the damned coins,” Vince was saying.

“What the hell do you mean, he didn’t have them?”

“Like I said, I went over there, roughed him up a bit—”

“He’s dead, Vince.”

“Okay, I roughed him up a lot. The point is, he didn’t have the coins. I searched the office. They weren’t there. If you ask me, Allister Quaid’s probably got ‘em.”

Edward Bainbridge’s grip tightened on the cordless phone. He squinted against the glare of the sun and gazed past his stables to the snow-covered paddocks marking the north end of his property.

This couldn’t be happening, he thought. It couldn’t be falling apart like this. First, he’d lost almost everything when the building-development project in London had fallen through, then his offshore-oil company had gone into receivership, and finally, after pooling his remaining resources into this last attempt to see himself out of his financial hole, everything was coming apart at the seams.

It was Vince Fenton’s fault.

No, it was his own fault for hiring a moron like Vince in the first place. He should have known better. And he should have put Vince to work on Palmer the second he’d found out about Allister Quaid a couple of days ago. He should have pulled up stakes right then, knowing that the ex-shipper would almost certainly mean trouble.

There could be only one reason Allister Quaid was hanging around Palmer Storage and Shipping, and no doubt, it had to do with him and his shipment. Vince was right. If anyone had the coins, it had to be Quaid.

And if that was the case, Allister Quaid would have a lot more to deal with this time than a prison term.

“I’D LIKE YOU to deliver the eulogy, Allister.”

Allister’s back was turned to Barb as he stared out the patio doors. It had stopped snowing finally, and the lateafternoon sun filtered through the bare trees that bordered the Palmers’ backyard.

Allister closed his eyes. He was thinking of Gary.

Last night, after he’d left Stevie in the hospital corridor and slipped out unnoticed, he’d initially driven toward home. The sanders had been out, and the snow had begun to taper off. But two blocks from his apartment building, Allister had turned around and headed back to the warehouse. Thoughts of Gary lying there alone in the ransacked office haunted him.

He had no idea what he intended to do even as he pulled onto the quiet industrial street at ten-forty-five. Part of him—a very small part that hadn’t been crushed by four years in prison—had wanted to believe that the truth was best. He’d wanted to believe that he could call the police, that he could tell them everything he knew and they would actually believe him.

In retrospect, he was glad that by the time he got to the warehouse the police were already there. He’d seen the blue strobes of the patrol cars as he neared the building. And then he’d spotted the white van next to Stevie’s Volvo. The cleaning crew had been late because of the storm, but they’d still showed up. And obviously found Gary’s body.

Allister had kept driving, back to his apartment.

Barb had called almost four hours later, long after he’d gotten home and washed up. She was at home. Two detec tives were there with her waiting to take her to identify Gary’s body; she asked Allister to meet her at the morgue. She sounded amazingly calm and in control. Allister arrived at the morgue right behind her, and after they’d confirmed Gary’s identity, the two detectives had mounted their preliminary questions.

Eventually they’d asked about Stevie Falcioni. The de tectives told Barb and Allister that shortly after arriving at the scene, a phone call came through to Gary’s business. It had been Stevie Falcioni’s partner, the older detective explained; she’d become concerned when Stevie hadn’t returned. With the Volvo still parked at the warehouse, the police had called around and located her at Danby General. They told Barb how they suspected Stevie may have stumbled onto Gary’s killer and consequently been attacked herself. It was only when they stated that Stevie was still unconscious in the intensive-care unit that the cumulative shock of the night’s events had begun to show on Barb’s face.

Allister had been able to persuade the detectives to postpone their questioning until the next day and had driven Barb home. Except for this morning, when he’d managed to slip away for an hour, he’d been with her ever since.

“Allister,” Barb tried again, exhaustion dragging at her voice, “I think you should deliver the eulogy.”

He shook his head, still unable to face her or her request. “Barb, I—”

“You have to, Al. Please. You were Gary’s best friend.”

Best friend. Somehow, that title didn’t seem exactly appropriate after last night. What kind of best friend left a man lying dead on the floor of his office? What kind of best friend lied to the man’s wife about his knowledge of her husband’s murder?

“Allister?” She came up behind him now and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must.”

When he turned to her finally, he was surprised by the firm set of her mouth and the determination in her pale blue eyes. Barb Palmer was a strong woman. From the moment they had stood together looking at Gary’s body on the stainless-steel table at the city morgue in the wee hours of morning, she had been holding up unbelievably well.

And ever since that moment in the morgue, Allister had wanted to tell Barb the truth—that he’d been in the warehouse last night, had held Gary in his arms and that Gary hadn’t been alone when he died. Most of all, he wanted to tell Barb how her name and Gary’s love for her had been the last words from Gary’s lips. But Allister couldn’t. No one could know he’d been at the warehouse last night.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Barb said. “I know the two of you had grown apart while you were…” She shook her head, unable to say the words. Both she and Gary had always made a painful habit of trying to deny what Allister had gone through, where he’d been those four years and how it had altered his life. “But still, Allister, no matter what you think, you were closer to Gary than anyone. You knew him best.”

Allister looked out across the soft blanket of snow that covered the backyard.

She was wrong. He didn’t…hadn’t known Gary anymore. They had grown apart—on that point, Barb was right. But there was much more about Gary now that Allister didn’t know or understand.

Like his failing marriage, for one. Barb had shocked him this morning with the news of their plans for a divorce. Gary had never even let on that there were problems, and here Barb was, already planning to sell the house and leave Danby for a new life.

Even more disturbing than that, Allister couldn’t understand what had possessed Gary to try to double-cross a man like Edward Bainbridge, especially after what Gary knew about him, after Allister had warned him.

Was it for money? Because of the divorce? No. Barb wasn’t the type of woman to take more than her share when she left the marriage. As a family counselor with a successful practice, she had her own money.

It just didn’t make sense. The Gary he had known and grown up with wouldn’t take those kinds of life-threatening risks. Then again, maybe that was it. With Barb leaving, maybe Gary figured he had nothing to lose by taking on the likes of Edward Bainbridge. Maybe he figured he could make some extra money.

Or maybe he’d just gotten restless. Gary had always been restless, even as a kid. Always wanting to move on, try new things. Allister had never pegged him as the settling-down type, never believed he could put work aside long enough to maintain a relationship, let alone a marriage.

But he and Gary had still been friends. Gary had stuck by him during those hard years, believed in his innocence when everyone else had harbored doubts about what had gone on and how Bainbridge’s gems had come to be in the trunk of his car.

Even Michelle hadn’t believed him. Out of everyone, Allister had thought he could count on his fiancée the most. Three years together—he thought he knew her. But before the trial had even finished, the day before the verdict was to be handed down, Michelle had returned his engagement ring.

Only Gary had believed in Allister throughout. And only Gary had come to see him in prison. Then, eight months ago, it was Gary who’d been waiting for him upon his release. It was Gary who’d calmed Allister down, taken him for a beer when all he’d wanted to do that afternoon was drive to Bainbridge’s estate and strangle the smug bastard with his bare hands.

Gary had tried to convince him that the revenge Allister was seething to exact on Bainbridge was only a product of the ordeal he’d just suffered, and not a reflection of the man Allister really was. He’d told Allister to put it behind him, to start again, start fresh.

But to forget those four years, to forget how Bainbridge had taken the life he’d known and worked for, these were impossible. He could never put them behind him.

Allister brushed a hand through his hair, and as he did, his finger grazed the jagged scar that curled up from his cheekbone to the top of his eyebrow. He traced the gnarled ridge of skin with his fingertip, recalling the brawl with another inmate and the resounding crack when his head had struck the metal bars of the cell-block gate. But now, four years later, he couldn’t even recall the name of the man who had initiated the fight. As far as Allister was concerned, it was Edward Bainbridge who had put the scar there.

“So can I count on you, Allister?” Barb asked once again.

He nodded. “Of course, Barb. I’ll give the eulogy.” Now all he had to do was figure out a way to speak at Gary’s funeral without Stevie Falcioni seeing him. He wondered if there was any chance she’d still be in the hospital by then, because if she wasn’t, he was definitely going to have to let Barb down.

He couldn’t risk coming into contact with the photographer and having her identify him. Not unless he managed to speak with her before the police did, not unless he could convince her that he had not been trying to attack her, had not been the one who’d killed Gary. If only he could see her before the cops got to her.

But there was little chance of that. Allister had already tried.

That was where he’d gone this morning, before Barb had woken up. He’d left her a note, telling her he was running a few errands, and he’d headed to the hospital. In the car, outside the main entrance, Allister had tried to prepare what he could possibly say to convince Stevie he was telling the truth. He would try to explain how he’d arrived only minutes before she had, how when he heard her in the warehouse, he’d mistaken her for the killer returning, and when he’d run after her, he’d only been trying to stop her.

And then he wanted to ask her about the coins. He wanted to know why Gary had whispered her name on his dying breath.

It had been barely 6:00 a.m. when Allister slipped past the front desk and checked the hospital directory board. He took the elevator to the tenth floor. But when he rounded the corner of the wing that housed the ICU, he pulled up short. One uniformed officer paced the width of the corridor, a plastic-foam cup in hand and a paper tucked under his arm. Obviously the police recognized Stevie’s potential as a witness and weren’t taking any chances.

During the drive back to Barb’s through the early-morning streets, he’d thought about Stevie Falcioni, and he’d begun to doubt whether she really would have believed him if he had managed to see her.

No, it was probably better this way, Allister thought now, holding his empty mug and gazing out at the snow. He couldn’t trust anyone.

When Stevie Falcioni did regain consciousness, the police would talk to her. All Allister could do was pray that she hadn’t gotten a good look at him. And maybe, with any luck at all, she might not even remember whatever she’d seen.

Then again, luck hadn’t made a habit out of knocking on Allister’s door in the past.

“Want more coffee, Al?” Barb asked.

“Sure, thanks.” He left the patio doors and followed her into the kitchen. “Have you heard from the hospital yet?” he asked, handing her his empty mug.

She shook her head and poured his coffee. “I called a couple hours ago and spoke to Stevie’s assistant, Paige. There’s still no change, but Paige promised to call if there was any news. The doctor told her this morning that they won’t know much more until Stevie comes around. It must be serious if they’re keeping her in the ICU.”

Allister only nodded, remembering how pale Stevie had looked, lying on the gurney last night in that bustling corridor.

Barb’s empty cup slipped from her hands, clattering against the countertop but not breaking, and when she reached for it, her hands were shaking. “I just thank God Stevie wasn’t killed, too,” she stated, and then looked straight at Allister. “To think she might have been there. She might have…seen Gary’s killer…”

But Allister didn’t have to respond. The doorbell rang, and Barb almost dropped her mug again.

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’ll get it.”

Through the frosted-glass panel of the front door, Allister saw two blurred figures, and when he opened it, he was not surprised. He’d been expecting them.

“Detective Devane, good afternoon,” he greeted the older of the two homicide detectives with whom he and Barb had spoken last night.

“Mr. Quaid. Well, this is convenient,” the man drawled caustically, a sour grin turning up one corner of his crooked mouth. “I was hoping to talk to you, as well as Mrs. Palmer. Is she home?”

“As a matter of fact, she is. I’ll see if she’s up to—”

“It’s all right, Allister.” Barb stood at the end of the hall, her cup clutched in both hands now. “Let them in. I want this over with.”

SHE’D BEEN DREAMING about being in the kitchen of the old house on Cicero Avenue. Her mother was baking bread and bottling tomato sauce the way she always did on Sunday afternoons. Stevie had almost been able to smell the sweet aroma of spices and the yeast from the rising dough, when a voice broke the spell.

“I think she’s finally coming to.” It was a female voice-distant, as though it traveled down a long hollow tunnel. “Stay with her. I’ll get Dr. Sterling.” The voice was closer now. It sounded as thick and heavy as the pain that throbbed in her head.

And then she heard the door. It slapped in its frame, just like the two-way door that separated her mother’s kitchen from the family room. It swung a couple of times, and in between, she could make out other sounds: ringing phones and buzzers, and something that sounded like the chime of an elevator.

Then there was silence again. Silence and the stringent odor of antiseptic. This was not her mother’s kitchen.

“Stevie?” A different voice this time, but familiar.

There was a hand on hers. She tried to pull away. She didn’t want to be dragged from this warm place. She wanted to stay in the kitchen. It was safe there. Her father was in the family room, listening to the Sunday opera on the radio. The final act of Tosca was playing, and he’d promised that as soon as it was over, he’d show her how to develop the film from her camera.

“Stevie? Honey? Can you hear me?”

Perhaps if she kept her eyes closed, she’d be able to go back to the kitchen, to linger in its warm memories. Her head—it hurt so much. It hadn’t hurt when she was in the kitchen.

“Stevie, come on. I know you can hear me. You’ve got to snap out of this. Please.”

And then there was another voice. A man’s this time.

“Stephanie?”

Her father? No, it couldn’t be. He was dead. He died three years ago, the day after her twenty-seventh birthday. She’d gone home to Chicago for a visit. It had rained the whole weekend. A cold late-September drizzle that hadn’t let up until after the funeral.

“Stephanie? Can you hear me? I’m Dr. Sterling. Can you open your eyes, Stephanie?”

“Her name’s Stevie.”

Now she recognized the quiet soothing voice. It was Paige.

“Stevie, you’re at Danby General Hospital. You’ve had us all pretty worried. Stevie? Can you hear me?” he asked again.

She tried to nod, but pain hammered through her head. She wanted to answer him, but her mouth felt dry, her tongue swollen.

“Yeah.” The word rasped in her throat.

“I knew you’d come around sooner or later,” the man said, a smile in his voice. “Paige here tells me you can develop quite the appetite when you miss meals. I figured you’d be getting pretty hungry by now.”

She attempted a smile, surprised that the effort didn’t hurt as much as she’d anticipated.

“Can you open your eyes, Stevie?”

She licked her lips and finally opened her eyes a crack, expecting shards of light to pierce her already throbbing headache. There was only darkness. She opened them farther. Still darkness. And then there was Paige’s voice again.

“Hey, Stevie. How’re you feeling, honey?”

“Paige?”

She felt a hand take hers. “I’m right here.”

“Where?”

“Right…right beside you.”

Stevie squeezed the hand. She blinked several times. Or at least, she thought she did. But all she saw was darkness.

“Man, this is one strange dream.” She let out a weak laugh.

“Stevie?” The hand tightened around hers. “Honey, it’s…it’s not a dream.”

She blinked again and was met by the same chasm of utter blackness—a dizzying abyss.

“Paige, what are you saying?”

“Stevie, listen to me…”

She tried to sit up. Instantly there were hands on her shoulders, on her chest, holding her down, forcing her back into the pillows. And she felt something sharp pull on her arm.

Then there was Paige’s voice again. “Stevie, just take it easy. You’re going to be all right. Dr. Sterling’s here, and—”

“I can’t see!” Panic coursed through her, and another wave of nauseating pain knifed along the back of her head. “Paige, what’s going on? I can’t see you!”