Under His Wings(19)
Another reason why she hadn’t mentioned the troubling sensation of being followed these past weeks. She could imagine how that conversation would have gone.
Ms. Ridgeway, did you see anybody?
No, sir. I just had this feeling.
Has anything happened to make you believe you were being followed?
Um, no. Like I said, I just had this feeling.
Well, Ms. Ridgeway, maybe it was the Easter Bunny as well as that half-eagle, half-horse monster you told us about. Get a bag of fairy dust and you’ll be okay.
Tamar snorted. In the hospital when they’d asked her about anyone who would want to hurt her, she hadn’t confessed to her suspicions regarding being watched or how the identity of the maybe-stalker could be Kyle. Her wariness sounded a bit outlandish without proof. As for the other reason she remained silent… If Tamar named Kyle as the person who might possibly be following her, then she’d have to admit why. She’d harbored her shameful and embarrassing secret of abuse for years and she wasn’t about to reveal it. Especially since she doubted the attack had anything to do with her ex.
Rubbing a hand across her forehead, she headed back into the living room and eased onto the couch, afraid to make any sudden movements. Gingerly, she touched the wound at the back of her head. The doctor had assured her that though she had suffered a concussion, her skull was intact and in a few days she would be fine, even free of headaches. In other words, the claim her mother had thrown at Tamar since childhood was true—she had a hard-ass head.
Melancholy swooped in like a scavenger just waiting for the opportunity to feast on the carrion of her self-pity. God, what she wouldn’t give to have her mother here with her. Ever since her father had abandoned them when Tamar was a toddler, it had been her and Jessie Ridgeway. Then her mother had died from a fast and aggressive bout of pneumonia. Within a week, Tamar had been alone and scared at twenty years old. At twenty-four she’d been vulnerable, easy pickins for Kyle.
She closed her eyes and in cautious increments hoisted her feet to the couch cushions and reclined against the soft pile of pillows propped behind her. Okay, so this spell of depression could—for the most part—be attributed to the drugs. They lowered the solid walls of optimistic determination she’d erected out of necessity through the years. But damn it, she’d just witnessed her friend get torn to pieces by a monster she’d probably fabricated from too many viewings of Harry Potter. She had been attacked and suffered a hard knock on the head.
If anyone deserved to indulge in an interlude of why-the-fuck-does-Fate-hate-me, it was her.
With a sigh she drifted on a nice, hazy medicinal wave and wondered if she would dream of Nicolai as she’d done in the hospital. The vision had seemed so real. She snuggled deeper into the soft cushions and let the dark undertow of sleep seduce her…
He’d seemed so real.
When she opened her eyes, dusk had overtaken the day and shadows stretched across her living room floor and walls. A shiver coursed through her and, in turn, set off a clamor of aches demanding to be addressed. Little men with chisels who whistled while they worked drilled the inside of her skull. Her hip and leg complained just a little less vocally at her lying in one position for so many hours.
First meds. Then shower. And finally, bed. The five-hour nap—give or take an hour—had only succeeded in making her more drained.
Forty-five minutes later, she emerged from the steamy bathroom into her bedroom, a towel wrapped around her, the ends tucked between her breasts. Too exhausted to tangle with the rat’s nest on top of her head, she’d pinned the heavy mass up for her shower. Even that slight tug on her scalp had caused her to flinch in pain. As she released the clip and her curls tumbled to her shoulders, she heaved a breath of relief.
Tamar crossed the room toward her dresser. She pulled the top drawer open and removed her favorite pair of cotton sleeping pants dotted with martini glasses and a black tank top. Within seconds she had dropped the towel and donned the pajamas, but as she retraced her steps over the hardwood floor and caught her reflection in the large vanity mirror, reality slammed into her.
Resa. Image after image of her friend flashed through her mind. Resa smiling, bouncing around in her perpetual perky manner. Resa laughing, grin wide and open. Resa belting out a Broadway tune. Resa…dead, gone, a victim of a madman. Or beast.
“Jesus,” Tamar whispered and the tears besieged her, a flood shattering the dam that had held back her grief and horror. Resa shouldn’t have died like that—she hadn’t deserved the viciousness and terror of her death.
Once the sobs welled and flowed, Tamar couldn’t stop them. How long she stood there, submerged in tears, she didn’t know. It could have been ten minutes or ten hours. When her sobs eventually abated, leaving a gaping, empty hole in her chest, exhaustion pilfered every last reserve of strength she had left.