Chapter Forty-Eight
Amber
Wiping the vomit from my lips, I get up from my knees, put the toilet seat back down, and brush my teeth. The images of those fiery eyes and the knife protruding from my stomach have left me nauseated.
I call work and let them know I won’t be in, and then start a pot of coffee. I’d guzzle drain cleaner if I thought it would get the taste of murderous puke out of my mouth. And I’d sell a kidney to get my hands to stop trembling.
It all felt so real. I can’t pull my mind away from it. I hit send on another call to Declan, though I know I’ll only reach his voicemail.
I hang up and stare at my phone, willing it to ring. The coffee maker gurgles and sputters behind me, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma, but my stomach churns at the thought of drinking any.
I slump into a chair at the kitchen table and drop my head in my hands. The dream replays in my mind on a proverbial loop. Those eyes, burning with an otherworldly intensity. The gleam of the blade plunging into my flesh. The searing pain.
But I can’t sit around and revel in the memory all day. I’m going to get to the bottom of Declan’s behavior, and I think I’ll rewind back to Kent.
"Yellow," he answers before the first ring reaches my ear, accompanied by the buzzing sound of a table saw in the background. Declan once told me Kent builds sheds in his spare time, and then drops them off in customers’ backyards.
"Hi, Kent?" I say.
"Yep, who’s this?" he asks.
"It’s Amber, the weird lady who called you the other day," I reintroduce myself.
"Ah," Kent replies. "And what may I do you for, Ms. Amber?"
"Well," I begin, "I’m at a bit of a loss. I know you weren’t aware I existed the other day, but I’m assuming you know about me now. So, I’ll come out and say it—things with Declan are a little… weird."
"Yeah, how’s that?" Kent asks.
"He’s just so distant," I explain. "And I can’t find anyone who can tell me anything about him. I find it odd that nobody can share even the slightest detail. I mean, you’ve met him, right?" My suspicions grow with every word. Don’t you lie to me.
"Um," Kent considers. "Sure. Declan and I were the best of friends. But that was a lifetime ago."
"Oh, I see," I say, feeling the sickening churn in my stomach intensify. "He led me to believe that you two are still close. Hmmm. Would you know anyone else who might be able to help me?"
"Didn’t I give you some information the other day?" he says, annoyed. "Did that not work for you, Amber?"
"Yes and no," I reply. "I spoke with George, but he was of little help. And I went to see his mother, but she wasn’t home. I guess I could always try her again."
"I tell you what," Kent says as he prepares to offer more assistance.
"Declan always sought out professionals when he had the sort of issues you seem to be having. The last guy he saw was a fellow by the name of Campos. Emmanuel, I think. I’ll send you his information.
At least what I last had on him. Maybe he can offer you whatever it was he tried to do for Declan. "
"I’m confused," I say. "What did he try to do Declan?"
"I think you should ask him," Kent replies. "I’ll send the information now." He hangs up without a goodbye, and second later my phone buzzes with the details he promised—Dr. Campos’ name, address, and phone number.
This better not be another waste of my time.