What…”
She became aware of wiping her hands frantically, and then she stilled.
On the very next breath she snatched up the pen and notepad from her bedside table, just as she had been trained to do. Write down every detail she remembered from her dream before the memories eluded her. Dead body. Cold hand.
“Remember,” she pleaded aloud. Before the body. There were gunshots. She put pen to paper. “Dead man. Two shots.” And…and…
Blank.
“Damn it!” Liza hurled the pen and pad across the room into a darkness as lonely and pervasive as the shadows locked up inside her mind.
A low-pitched woof and a damp nuzzle against her hand reminded her she wasn’t alone. She was home. She was safe. She flipped on the lamp beside her bed and with the light, her senses returned.
Three sets of eyes stared at her.
She could almost smile. Almost. “Sorry, gang.”
The warm, wet touch on her fingers was a dog’s nose. She quickly scooped the black and tan terrier mix into her lap and hugged him, scratching his flanks as she rocked back and forth. Liza couldn’t feel a single rib on him now. “Good boy, Bruiser. Thanks for taking care of Mama. I’m sorry she scared you.”
Not for the first time Liza wondered if the scrappy little survivor remembered that night more clearly than her own fog of a memory allowed her to. She traced the soft white stripe at the top of his head. “I wish you could tell me what we saw. Then we could make this all go away.”
But she and her little guardian weren’t alone. The nightmare might have chilled her on the inside, but her legs were toasty warm, caught beneath a couple of quilts and the lazy sprawl of her fawn-colored greyhound, Cruiser. “So I woke you, too, huh?”
Cruiser outweighed Bruiser by a good sixty pounds, and could easily outrun him, but a guard dog she was not. She was the cuddler, the comforter, the pretty princess who preferred to offer the warmth of her body rather than her concern. Liza reached down and stroked the dog’s sleek, muscular belly as she rolled onto her back. “I know you’re worried, too, deep down inside. I wish I could be as serene and content as you.”
And then, of course, there was the furry monster by the door. Yukon’s dark eyes reflected the light with something like contempt at the disruption of his sleep. Despite weeks of training and all the patience she could muster, the silvery gray malamute had yet to warm up to her. No amount of coaxing, not even a treat, could lure him to join her in bed with the other dogs. He didn’t even mooch when she cooked in the kitchen. Yukon tolerated the rest of the household. He accepted the food and shelter she offered and ran or roller-bladed with her anytime she asked. She always got the feeling that he was looking for a chance to escape—to run and keep on running away from the prison he temporarily called home. No way was Yukon ever going to thank her for rescuing him from being euthanized by an owner who couldn’t handle such a big, athletic dog. No way did he care that she’d been scared, trapped in a nightmare she’d relived time and again these past six months. No way was he going to offer one bit of his strength to make her feel any better. She spotted the crumpled notepad lying just a few feet away from him against the wall. “Nothing personal, big guy,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”
Liza checked the clock. Four a.m. She’d worked the late shift at the vet clinic and had her applied microbiology review in another four hours. She should try to get some more sleep.
But she was wide awake in the middle of the night. She had no family to call, no arms to turn to for comfort. She was isolated by the very nightmare she desperately needed to share with someone who could help her complete the memories and then get them out of her head. But the KCPD and a restraining order from the D.A.’s office—to keep her identity out of the press—prevented her from talking to anyone but the police and her therapist about the gruesome crime she’d witnessed. She was alone, with no one but her three dogs for company.
She glanced over at Yukon, who was resting his muzzle on his outstretched paws again. He understood isolation. “But you like it better than I do, big guy.”
With sleep out of the question and class still hours away, Liza shoved Cruiser aside and kicked off the covers. “Move it, princess.”
Knowing she’d have extra fur and body heat to keep her warm, Liza kept the house cool at night. The October chill that hung in the air shivered across her skin as her bare feet touched the wood floor beside her bed. Instead of complaining, she let the coolness rouse her even further. After a few deep breaths, she stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she walked past Yukon and headed for the kitchen.
The usual parade followed, with Bruiser right on her heels and Cruiser padding behind at a more leisurely pace. Yukon deigned to rise and come out of the bedroom, only to lie down outside the kitchen doorway. Liza brewed a pot of green tea, ignored her fatigue and pulled out her pharmacology text. She read her next assignment until the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains above the kitchen sink.
It was 7 a.m. Late enough to politely make the call she’d been ready to make since the nightmare woke her.
The male voice on the other end of the line cleared the sleep from his throat before answering. “This is Dr. Jameson.”
Great. She’d still gotten him out of bed. Now her therapist would think she’d had some kind of breakthrough. But all she had was the same familiar nightmare she wished would go away.
Combing her fingers through the boyish wisps of her copper-red hair, Liza apologized. “I’m sorry to wake you, Doctor. This is Liza Parrish. I think I’m…” She swallowed the hesitation. There was no thinking about this. Just say it and get on with it, already. “I want to try the hypnotherapy you suggested. I need to get the memory of that cop’s murder out of my head.”
“CAN SHE TELL ME ANYTHING NEW or not?” The burly blond detective named Kevin Grove addressed the question across his desk to Dr. Trent Jameson rather than to her.
The gray-haired psychologist answered for her as well. “Possibly. Though she seems to be juxtaposing her parents’ deaths with your crime scene, there were certainly a few more details in the account she shared with me this morning. She’s certain there were two gunshots now. And that the victim’s body had been arranged in a way that indicates the killer—or someone who was on the scene with the killer—cared about him.”
“Uh-huh.” Grove frowned, looking as skeptical as Liza felt.
Dr. Jameson continued. “I realize those are clues your forensic team can piece together as well. But I tell you, the clarity of her memory is improving. I believe we’ve reached the point where I can put her under and guide her memories toward a particular fact.”
“You can do that? You can pick a specific memory out of her head?” Grove asked.
“It’s a new technique I’ve been working on for several months with some success.” Jameson blew out a long sigh, as though defending his expertise was a tedious subject. “I believe questioning Liza while she’s in a suggestive state could tap into those memories she’s either blocked or forgotten.”
“You want to hypnotize her here.” Detective Grove still wasn’t up to speed on the idea of hypnotherapy. Or else, that doubt in his tone meant he understood just fine what Dr. Jameson was proposing—he just didn’t think it was a worthwhile idea.
Liza
