Chapter Twenty-Five
CJ’s eyes opened, then slowly closed once more.
She needed to wake up, but she just couldn’t bring herself to put forth the necessary effort.
She moistened her lips. Grimaced at the funky morning taste in her mouth.
Taking that sedative had been a mistake.
But after what she’d learned from the women at the clinic, and then the confrontation with that drug addict, not to mention Braddock’s visit, she’d been desperate for any kind of relief.
She’d picked through Shelley’s over-the-counter offerings—pill form, definitely no capsules—and gone for it.
Now she remembered why she never did that. She hated the sleep-aid hangover. An alcohol hangover would have been preferable.
Unfortunately, either way, she wasn’t going to have the clear head she needed this morning. Braddock and his partner were going to bring her up to speed today.
She had to get up. Take a shower. Get dressed and find out what time the meeting with Braddock was scheduled.
The room was darker than usual. She’d nailed some old interior shutters she’d found in the garage over the broken window. With the meager light filtering in between the louvers, the stained wall wasn’t even noticeable. She would take care of that eventually.
Maybe spruce up the whole place and put it on the market. Too much to think about right now.
A minute or so more and she would drag herself up.
Thankfully, a rare morning breeze drifted through the louvers along with the light. She’d been sweating when she fell asleep last night. Her skin still felt damp. It was hotter than blazes this time of year. The sheet was stuck to any skin not covered by her nightshirt. Yuk.
Her nose twitched. She drew in a breath, analyzed the smell. Something new overwhelmed the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
Feeling too damned groggy, she mustered her determination and struggled onto her elbows to look around the room.
She blinked. Looked again.
“Jesus.”
She clambered from the bed, stumbling because of the sheet tangled around her legs.
CJ scrambled to her feet, flipped on the light.
She looked down at herself. No injuries.
No coagulated blood. Some amount of blood had soaked through the sheet and left a faint coating of dried rusty red on her shins and feet.
Where the hell had the blood come from?
Gingerly, she picked up the sheet. Lots of blood.
Heart pounding, she checked the bed. More blood had soaked into the fitted sheet. Probably the mattress too.
Her senses locked into self-preservation mode.
Was someone in the house?
Apprehension knotted in her stomach.
She listened . . . silence.
The sheet slipped from her fingers as she cautiously moved around the bedroom. No blood on the floor. She eased into the hall, listening for sounds of an intruder and scanning for a blood trail.
The other two bedrooms were clear. No one in the bathroom.
Where was her pepper spray? In the bedroom on the dresser next to the bed.
Just do it.
Pulse pounding, she inched toward the tub and stretched her arm until she reached the shower curtain.
Big breath.
She snatched it open.
The air rushed out of her. No dead body in the tub. That was good.
Her hand went to her face to push her hair back, but she hesitated. Not until she washed her hands.
She made quick work of that and then gathered her courage once more and headed down the stairs. A step creaked and she flinched. Careful. Someone could be down there.
The living room was empty. She moved to the kitchen. Nothing out of place. No one waiting to pounce on her. Back door was still locked.
How the hell had anyone gotten in?
All the windows were locked. She’d opened them last night for long enough to let some air in, then she’d closed and locked every single one before going to bed.
Her cell phone was still upstairs, charging by the bed. Still taking care just in case, she moved back to the living room to check the front door.
She turned the knob. No resistance.
The door opened.
That was impossible. She’d locked that door.
That knot of apprehension that had formed in her stomach expanded, rising up her esophagus and blocking off the ability to breathe.
Call Braddock.
She dared to poke her head outside. She checked the street. The idea that someone had come into the house while she slept sent a shudder through her.
The usual nondescript sedan sat across the street. She’d totally forgotten about the surveillance on her house. She couldn’t tell if it was Jenkins or not. How had anyone gotten past him?
Uncaring that she wore nothing but a bloodstained nightshirt, she rushed across the porch and down the steps. Apparently Jenkins noticed her coming and emerged from the car.
“What’s wrong?” He headed across the street, met her at the rickety gate.
“Call Braddock.” The words rushed from her mouth. She looked back at her house. “Someone was in there last night. There’s blood all over my bed.”
“Show me,” Jenkins said as he pulled out his cell phone to make the call.
CJ showed him to the bedroom, stood in the hall while he had a look.
With him on the phone she escaped to the bathroom. Couldn’t bear the smell any longer.
Maybe Edward was right. Maybe she shouldn’t be staying here.
Where the hell had the blood come from?
Was it human?
She thought of the cats she’d heard squalling and hissing across the street the other night. Had another harmless animal been sacrificed to send her a message?
Was Nash trying to scare her off?
Or maybe Ricky?
Bastards.
She locked the bathroom door and turned the water in the shower to hot.
She stared at her hands . . . at her legs.
The list of bloodborne pathogens she might have been exposed to paraded through her brain.
Not to mention that if it was human blood, there could be a body around here somewhere.
She climbed beneath the hot spray and scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed until her skin felt raw. Memories from that night on the street, of the boy who’d bled out, kept flashing in her head. Then images of Shelley . . .
CJ couldn’t bear it—had to block the horror. Had to get the blood off!
When she’d thoroughly scrubbed her hair, her face, and every inch of her body, she braced her hands against the damp tile and fought a wave of nausea.
What was she doing here?
How was anything she attempted going to help solve her sister’s murder?
She was no cop.
Maybe Edward was right about that too. She was risking her future, her life . . .
For what?
To make up for not being here to prevent her sister’s murder?