Sleep No More (9 page)

They returned to Jason's car and backed down the drive.

He noticed someone sitting in a gray Chevy Impala across the street and half a block down. "Is that a neighbor?"

Abby followed his gaze. "I can't see well enough to tell with those tinted windows. I don't recognize the car."

"Maybe he saw your dad leave." Jason got out. He hadn't taken two strides in that direction when the car pulled away from the curb.

Jason held up a hand to stop him.

The car accelerated on past.

Jason got back in the car with Abby.

"Maybe he didn't see you," she offered. "Lots of the neighbors are elderly."

"Maybe."
Only if he was too blind to drive.

"Take me back to the hospital."

He looked at her. "Janet is watching for him there. Is there anywhere else he goes on a regular basis?"

"The post office. The grocery, I guess."

"We'll check there." He backed the rest of the way out of the drive and headed toward town.

They didn't find her father's Explorer at either place.

Jason asked, "Friends?"

Abby bit her lip. Her toes were tapping against the floorboard and her hands had once again picked up those hospital papers and wrung them into a sweaty pulp. "John and Constance Zeiss are really the only people he's spent any time with since Mom died." She looked at him with wariness. Clearly his ex-mother-in-law had let her opinion of him be known.

"Hey, it's a public street. We'll drive by and see if his car is there."

The appreciation in her eyes made it seem as if he was making a Herculean sacrifice. He assured her, "It's okay. Constance hasn't come after me with a rifle... yet." He winked and was rewarded with a smile.

Tom Whitman's car wasn't at the Zeisses'. At Abby's suggestion, they checked Abby's mom's grave at the cemetery. No luck.

"I think I should drive you home. You can get cleaned up and...," he stopped, unwilling to finish.

"What? What are you thinking?"

"You don't have your cell. Your home number is the only way he, or someone on his behalf, can get in touch with you."

"On his behalf," she echoed weakly. "You mean the police. You think something's happened to him."

"It sounds like he's had some confusion already. Sometimes people get disoriented while driving. Sooner or later, they usually ask for help."

She closed her eyes, accepting his words with the strength he'd already grown to expect from her. "All right. Take me home."

Bryce was in the kitchen making himself a sandwich when his mom walked in.

"Why aren't you at school? And where's your sister? Why didn't someone wake me?" she asked, her rapid-fire questions holding a tone of accusation. She always went on the offense like this when she feared she'd been caught.

He set his knife in the sink. "Bren's at school--I drove her. And we
did
try to wake you." He wasn't going to explain why he wasn't at school. She had no right to give him any shit about it.

She pushed a hand through her hair and sighed, her demeanor changing in a heartbeat. She was pale, her blond hair dull; she looked almost translucent, as if she was fading away. "I'm just so exhausted. All of those days at the hospital... the funeral...." She went to the refrigerator and got out the half-and-half. Then she kissed his cheek as she passed on her way to the coffee maker. "You sweet boy, you made coffee."

"Where'd you go last night?" he asked, fingers tensing on the edge of the countertop.

He saw her jaw tighten before she turned to look at him. She had that
don't sass me
look on her face. "I went to see a friend."

He snorted.

"Things have been very difficult for me, and you know it." That angry tone was back. "I just needed a little time for myself."

"Is that what I should tell Grandmother?"

Her pale blue eyes snapped to his face. "You called Mother?"

"She called here." He leaned against the counter, glad to see the panic in her eyes.

"What did she want?" Her hands trembled as she brought the coffee cup to her lips.

"To see how you were."

"Oh."

"Don't worry, I didn't tell her." He knew his grandmother would only make the situation worse; she always did. Still he wanted to kick his mom's ass right now.

"Tell her what?" she straightened, looking defensive.

"That you snuck out in the night and went drinking."

"I was
not
drinking! I told you, I went to see a friend."

"And I suppose the side mirror on your car fell off by itself." It had been hanging by the wiring when he'd gone into the garage to get his own car to drive Bren to school.

"I stopped at the ATM. I got too close and clipped the post next to it."

Because you were drunk.

If Jason found out, it would ruin any chances at all of their family getting back together. The drinking had torn it apart. If his mom stayed sober long enough, Jason would come home.

Bryce wanted to yell. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to break something.

Instead, he picked up his sandwich and headed up to his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh, my gosh, there he is!" Abby said when Jason turned at the painted sign for Abby's Flowers at the end of the lane to her house.

Tom Whitman was leaning against the driver's door of his Explorer, parked in front of the flower shop, which was closer to the main road than the little brick cottage where Abby apparently lived. Off to the right, in front of the cottage, were the ruins of brick steps that led to nothing. Beyond that was what looked to be a formal garden in the making.

A very unusual place to live, he thought. But then, Abby wasn't a usual woman.

Jason pulled in next to the Ford.

Her dad took one look at her as she got out of Jason's car and grabbed her into his arms. "What happened to you, Jitterbug? I've been sittin' here waiting forever. I thought you had a flat tire."

Abby was visibly relieved. "I needed you to come to the
hospital
, not here."

"I thought you said you needed to make a delivery to the hospital." He put a gentle thumb to her forehead. "What happened?"

"It's a long story," she said. "I'll tell you after I get a shower." She turned and looked at Jason across the hood of his car. "Thanks so much for your help."

Abby's dad walked toward Jason. "Tom Whitman." He extended his hand in introduction. "I appreciate you helping my little girl."

Jason saw the stricken look on Abby's face. "I'm Jason Coble. We saw each other yesterday at the funeral."

Tom slid a quick sideways look at his daughter, then chuckled a little uneasily. " 'Course. I remember now."

The look on Abby's face said she saw through the lie. "Dad, you have a key to my house, could you go unlock it? I'll be right there."

He nodded to Jason and walked toward the cottage.

Abby's stark gaze met Jason's. "What do I do?"

This time he didn't stop himself. Jason reached out and took her hand in his. "He'll need to be evaluated. If you like, I'll make some calls."

"Can't you do it?" she asked, squeezing his hand.

"I can, at least the initial evaluation. I thought you might be more comfortable with a specialist. There's a doctor in--"

"No." She said it quietly and firmly, with all of the control he'd seen her use to disguise her fears. "I'm more comfortable with
you
."

Tell her no.

"All right. Tomorrow afternoon. I don't have any patients booked. Two o'clock work for you?"

She nodded, holding his gaze. "Thank you." Then she turned and walked away.

Jason didn't date; he already had his emotional hands full. Abby Whitman had already crawled more deeply under his skin than he should allow--and astoundingly quickly. His invitation to have dinner again had come out of his mouth at a weak moment; borne of the most enjoyable evening he'd spent in a very long time. And he was afraid Abby would induce many of those moments. Treating her father would only lead to further temptation.

He watched as she walked to the cottage, knowing in his heart he was making a mistake.

M
aggie listened as Abby's recorded voice answered. Something was wrong. Abby was supposed to be here by now. She'd said she would come before Mrs. White, the housekeeper, got here. Mrs. White had already been here for fifteen minutes.

Maggie had gotten up extra early to be ready. She and Abby were supposed to make a special garland today. It had to be made all by hand. This would be the first time Maggie got to help
make
the flowers, not just put them up.

But Abby hadn't come.

And she wasn't answering her phone. Maggie had left messages at both numbers. Abby always called right back, even when she was real busy.

"Who are you calling?" Uncle Father was grouchy today. He looked sick.

"Abby." She hung up the phone.

"You shouldn't be bothering her all of the time." Now he sounded plain mad.

Maggie opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She was Abby's helper. Abby
needed
her.

Uncle Father came and put his arm around her. Maggie leaned away and looked in the opposite direction.

"I'm sorry." It was his regular Uncle Father voice. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm not feeling very well today."

"Are you dying?" Maggie wasn't going to ask. But it just came out. Now there was no way to swallow the words back up.

Uncle Father looked like
she'd
yelled at
him
. "Why would you ask such a question?"

Maggie wasn't going to admit she'd been listening when he talked on the phone. That was the worst of bad manners.

She looked at the floor and shrugged. Nobody ever made her answer when she did that.

"Maggie, dear. I'm just feeling a little off today. It's nothing to worry about."

Maggie blew out a breath that puffed her cheeks. She'd been so worried. He must be okay. Uncle Father never lied.

"What about Abby?" she asked. "Something. Is. Wrong." She pointed her finger into her other palm with each word so Uncle Father understood this was
serious
. "She always calls me right back."

Maggie felt the grouchy come on him again. His arm tightened around her shoulder. He gave her a little shake as he said, "Enough about Abby." He took a deep breath that sounded like it might suck all of the air out of the room. "I'm sure she's busy. Now you need to go do your studies."

"But--"

"No buts. To your room."

Maggie left the kitchen and stomped up the stairs. But she stopped when she heard Uncle Father's cell phone ring.

She knelt down after the turn in the stairs where Uncle Father couldn't see her. It was bad to listen. But it could be Abby.

Uncle Father answered with his grouchy voice. "What do you want?"

Maggie listened harder. Uncle Father was never rude.

He said, "I told you I'm taking care of her." He was quiet for a minute. "That would be entirely the wrong way to handle it." He was quiet again. "She doesn't know... Yes, I'm painfully aware of what's at stake." He hung up.

Maggie wondered,
What don't I know? And why won't he tell me?

Then it struck her like a hammer. Her ears started ringing and she couldn't breathe. He
is
dying.

She swallowed down the cry that tried to come out.

She tiptoed up to her room and closed the door. Then she lay down on her bed and cried into her pillow.

Drawing on a reserve she hadn't been aware she possessed, Abby kept herself from falling to pieces in front of her father while she told him about her accident. Even as she began to recount the aftermath, she was weighing whether or not to admit her fear of sleep-driving. She didn't want him to worry--not to mention she didn't
ever
again want him to look at her the way he had after she'd burned down the house. And yet, she didn't want to outright lie to him either. Luckily he made it easy by not asking why she'd been out on Suicide Road in the middle of the night in the first place.

That non-reaction was the only hint that he wasn't entirely himself. He'd acted perfectly normal otherwise. So normal and connected that she thought perhaps she'd been overreacting with her assumption something was wrong with him. She'd been exhausted, distraught, and in pain when she'd called him from the emergency room. Perhaps she hadn't been clear that she wanted him to come
to
the hospital.

"You're sure you're all right?" he asked once again.

Truth was, her equilibrium was shaky at best and she was so drained she could barely hold a coherent thought.

Since he wasn't letting it go, she worked up more than the single word "fine" she'd used the past two times he'd asked. "Just a killer headache and some sore muscles." She cringed at her choice of adjective--killer. Was she?