“Shh.” She pats my hand that lies uselessly on my chest. “I have to go to your father. You know how he gets when he’s like this.”
No one can calm him like she can.
She gives me a last, longing look, and then the light turns brighter, blinding me, and when I blink again, she’s gone.
I jerk awake with a gasp. I’m curled around Noah, holding his small body close to mine in the hotel bedroom where he sleeps. Sweat covers my body. My mouth is so dry it’s difficult to swallow.
Untangling myself carefully from Noah, I get up quietly and go to the bathroom. I close the door before switching on the light.
Since Dante has left, I’m not sleeping any better. The nightmares are getting worse again.
I splash cold water on my face and cup my hand under the faucet to drink.
Pressing my palms on the vanity, I study my reflection in the mirror. The face staring back at me is pale with dark circles under its eyes. The woman is a stranger. I don’t recognize her. She’s nothing but a ghost of my former self.
I take the crucifix that hangs on a chain around my neck from under my T-shirt and study it in the mirror. Red crystals drip like blood down the long side of the ornate cross onto which a silver figurine of Jesus is nailed. The Orthodox pendant isn’t worth much in itself—no one is going to rob me of a handful of shiny stones and nickel—but its value goes far beyond its actual price, and that’s not only because it’s the last thing my mom gave me.
A flashback of trying on a different necklace invades my mind. Rows of diamonds set in scalloped chains with teardrops hanging down from the center stretched like an intricate lace collar between my breasts and over my shoulders. The stones were cool against my skin, and the weight was surprisingly significant. Grounding. Like the strong hands of a man resting on a woman’s shoulders. Like I’d once seen my parents as my father had stood behind my mom where she’d been seated in front of her dressing table mirror. He’d been cupping her shoulders in his large hands. I’d been too young to understand the dynamic of their relationship then, but deep inside, I’d known there was something wrong with that picture. It had frightened me.
Not wanting to dwell on that memory, I leave the light on and go back to the room. After reassuring myself that Noah is still sleeping soundly, I walk barefoot through the dark suite in the old T-shirt I slept in. I went to bed with the scarf around my neck in case Noah woke up before me. As I left the stupidly expensive watch Dante gave me in his room, I have no way of telling the time.
In the lounge, I open a curtain. A building across the road has an electronic time and temperature panel on the wall. It’s 4 am. My body’s internal clock is still set to the routine I had when I got up at this time to clean my house before getting Noah and myself ready for the day.
There’s no point in going back to bed. I never manage to sleep after one of my nightmares. I flick on a lamp and go to the coffee nook in the corner where I switch on the kettle to make a cup of tea.
Jazz enters from the lobby in her shortie pajamas and fluffy slippers, yawning. “Hey, can’t sleep?”
“Nope.” I sigh. “You neither?”
She walks over and flops down on the sofa. “I heard you in the bathroom.”
“Oh.” I wince. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She kicks off her slippers and crosses her legs on the seat. “I didn’t sleep well anyway.”
“Tea?” I ask by way of atonement, an apology for waking her up.
Yawning again, she says, “Why not?”
I take the only two teabags from the container and hold them in front of her. “Earl Grey or Chamomile?”
She makes a face. “Does housekeeping have something against us? They always leave the least appetizing choices. What happened to plain old English Breakfast? Wait.” Rolling her eyes, she continues. “Dante is too paranoid to use the hotel staff. He’s got his own cleaners coming in, so this is his doing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ordered them to only stock up on the tea I don’t like.”
I laugh. “That’s a stretch, even for Dante.”
She crossed her arms. “Ugh.”
I shuffle them behind my back. “Pick one.”
She blows out a long breath before pointing at my right hand. I bring it around to show her the Chamomile teabag. She seems so offended—no, horrified would be a more accurate word to describe her expression—that I’m speechless. Jazz never gets worked up about the small things that don’t really matter.
I’m about to tell her she can have the Earl Grey, it’s no big deal, when she looks up at me with wide, blue eyes.
“Tiana,” she whisper-exclaims.
I frown. “What?”
She drops her gaze back to my hand. “Your wrist.” She looks at my other hand where it hangs at my side. “What the hell?”