Chapter Three

      The oak trees were still dripping the next morning as Nick let himself in the gate and made his way along the flagstone pathway to Catherine’s apartment. The rain had slackened sometime before dawn but the weather forecast called for more thunderstorms in the afternoon.

      The gloom wore on Nick’s mood, but the unexpected phone call from Catherine had given him a lift. He hadn’t planned on contacting her until he heard back from Finch’s attorney. If that source didn’t pan out, he’d have to figure another way to get a visitor’s permit for the Twilight Killer. He could always find a work-around, but first things first.

      Pausing at the bottom of the outdoor staircase, he scoped out his surroundings. The garden was lush and redolent with the scent of flowers stirred by the heavy rains. The main house was historic, with gleaming columns and wide verandas, but the garage apartment was rustic and weathered. As his gaze moved over the facade, he saw a curtain flutter at a front window.

      Catherine was up there watching him. He felt a prickle of awareness at the base of his spine, one that seemed equal parts attraction and trepidation. She hadn’t elaborated on her need to see him, but there’d been a hushed quality to her voice and an underlying excitement in her tone that heightened his curiosity even as it deepened his unease.

      He tried to shake off the foreboding as he climbed the steps. The door opened before he had a chance to knock and their gazes collided. Her hair was pinned up loosely and worry lines creased her brow. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much the night before, but despite the shadows of fatigue beneath her eyes, she was far too appealing in her faded jeans and sneakers.

      In that drawn-out moment of awkward silence, she gave him a return scrutiny before she motioned him inside. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I could have met you at your office. You didn’t have to make a special trip over here.”

      He shrugged as he entered her apartment, trying not to stare but curious about her living arrangements. The place was small, but the layout was efficient and the furniture had been arranged to accommodate an easy flow from one area to the next. Watercolors accented the white walls and area rugs warmed the tile floor. It was nice. Homey with a touch of eccentricity.

      He turned. “It’s no trouble. I pass right by here on my way to the office.”

      “Oh, well, that’s good. Still, I don’t want to take up too much of your time so we should probably get right to it.” She walked into the small kitchen. “I made coffee. How do you take yours?”

      “Black is fine.”

      She carried a tray into the living room and placed it on the coffee table. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she filled the cups while Nick took a chair across from her. He accepted the steaming brew gratefully. He’d gotten up early and he had a long day ahead of him. A jolt of caffeine was just what he needed.

      “I suppose I should start at the beginning.” Catherine lifted her cup and then set it back down without tasting the coffee. She adjusted her position and cleared her throat. “I neglected to tell you something yesterday. I didn’t think it important, but in light of what happened last night...”

      He leaned forward. “What did happen last night?”

      “I’ll get to that. Let me come clean first.”

      “By all means.”

      She absently rubbed the tops of her thighs. What was she trying to scrub away? Nick wondered.

      “I think I’m being followed,” she said.

      “What makes you think that?” Reluctantly, he set his cup aside. The coffee was excellent. Strong and aromatic with a hint of chicory.

      “On my way to your office yesterday, I had the strangest feeling of being watched. When I stopped for a light, I saw a man lounging in a doorway behind me. He was just standing there smoking, seemingly minding his own business, but he looked familiar somehow even though I couldn’t place him.” She paused with a frown as if trying to conjure a previous meeting. Then she shrugged. “I called out to him. I even asked if he was following me, but he just turned and walked away.”

      “It’s rarely a good idea to confront a stranger, even if you think he’s following you. Especially if you think he’s following you.”

      “I know. I’m not usually impulsive, believe me, and I hate confrontations, but something came over me. Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of things that are out of character for me.”

      “Such as?”

      “Hiring a private detective, for one thing.” She clasped her hands in her lap as if she could somehow restrain her impulses. “I’ve read that grief can make a person behave oddly. That’s why it’s ill-advised to make important decisions for at least a year after the death of someone close.” She sat quietly for a moment. “Before my mother passed away, I would never have dreamed in a million years that I would require your services.”

      “You never considered searching for your birth parents before?”

      “I had always been told that my biological father was dead. As to the woman who gave birth to me...yes, of course, I considered finding her, but I never pursued it seriously. It would have felt like a betrayal of the woman who raised me. Not that she would have seen it that way. She would have encouraged me had she known. I think I’ve been afraid to find my birth mother.”

      “Because you think she’ll reject you?”

      “No, it isn’t that. There are things about myself that I’ve never understood. Certain anxieties. I’ve always had a fear of the dark and I don’t know where that comes from. I was raised in a safe and loving environment. It makes no sense and yet...” She trailed off. “I don’t sleep well because of that fear. Ever since I was little, I’ve had sporadic bouts of insomnia and night terrors.”

      “What are the night terrors about?”

      “Nothing concrete. Vague images. A feeling of being lost and not being able to find my way home. A feeling of being pursued through the dark.” She paused. “Typical childhood fears that I never outgrew.”

      “You think these night terrors are caused by something that happened before you were adopted?”

      “I don’t know. But maybe it’s time I find out.”

      “Have you ever talked to a professional? Sorry,” Nick muttered. “Maybe that’s getting too personal.”

      “Not at all. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother took me to see a therapist when I was young. After a few visits, he suggested the night terrors were a manifestation of deeper abandonment issues. Maybe he was right. It makes sense, I guess. But ever since I found those clippings in my mother’s closet, I haven’t been able to shake the notion that I’ve suppressed memories from my early childhood.”