The Night Before Read Free

through it!
    Her heart froze as she saw a handprint on the door casing, another wiped on the panels. She had to fight the nausea that climbed up her throat. Scared out of her wits, she scrambled to the bathroom.
    Whose blood is this?
    Yours. Look at you!
    Her gaze landed on the mirror over the sink. Red stains smudged her face where her hands had swiped her skin, and her nostrils were caked with blood. Her hair was matted and wild. Had she just had a horrid nosebleed, like the ones she’d had as a child and somehow managed to sleep through? No . . . that wouldn’t explain the nicks on her wrists. Nor the blood smeared everywhere in the room.
    She remembered the open door . . . Had someone done this to her? Fear knotted her stomach. Oh, God . . . but why? Who? She was beginning to hyperventilate but forced herself to calm down. The blood wasn’t all hers. It couldn’t be. She was alive. Anyone who had lost this much would certainly be dead. No one could have survived such a massacre.
    She leaned against the sink and tried to think. She did feel woozy, lightheaded, her migraine eating away at her brain.
    Oh, God, what if the person who did this is still in the house?
    No, that didn’t make sense. If someone had tried to kill her, he would have finished the job. The blood in her hair, on the walls, in the shower had dried. Time had gone by. So he was either scared off or took off.
    Or you did it and left the door open.
    No . . . But she couldn’t remember, didn’t know.
    If the blood isn’t yours, whose is it?
    “I don’t know,”she whispered.
    Maybe the victim is still in the house.
    She glanced at the shower; the frosted glass was cracked, a bloody handprint visible.
    God help me.
    Steeling herself, she placed her hand on the glass. She half expected to find a dead body, eyes rolled to the ceiling, tongue lolling, red stains running into the drain. Nervously, she pushed the door open.
    No one jumped out at her.
    No half-dead body was sprawled over the shower floor.
    Dried blood was splattered and ran down the tiles in ragged rivulets. She felt her stomach turn. What had happened here? What? Her whole body was shaking as she raised her hand and found that it was the same size as the print on the shower door.
    “Mother of God,”she whispered. Think, Caitlyn, think. Don’t panic.
    She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again.
    How had this happened? Where had she been? Whose blood was smeared everywhere? Her knees gave way. She caught herself on the edge of the sink and leaned forward to splash cold water over her face to keep herself from passing out.
    Maybe you’re not alone. Maybe even now there’s someone with you, someone downstairs. Someone waiting. She looked up quickly at her reflection. White skin, wild hair sticking up at odd angles, panic in her hazel eyes. The door to the verandah was left open and you don’t remember doing it. Her gaze moved and in the mirror she saw an image of the door ajar, the curtains billowing and stained. She thought she might be sick.
    Had some killer come in and she, suffering one of her black-out headaches, not heard him invade her home? But—there was no body. Nothing but her own hacked wrists and bloody nose . . . no one would come here to slice up someone and take away the body . . . no. Her head was pounding, leaping with wild ideas.
    If someone else had even stepped into the house, why hadn’t the alarm gone off?
    The door to the verandah isn’t latched, you idiot. Obviously the alarm wasn’t set .
    She leaned a hip against the counter and closed her eyes. This made no sense. None. And it scared the hell out of her.
    Maybe you invited someone in. But who? And why? And if it was an intruder . . . why hadn’t Oscar barked so loudly the entire neighborhood had woken up?
    Oscar!
    Where was he?
    Scared to death, she took another horrified look at the stains on the floor. Not the dog . . . not Oscar! Swallowing back her fear, she mopped her face with the sleeve of