InSight

around six to take her out to dinner. He asked her to email to confirm. She’d do it later. Let him wait. She wasn’t in the mood for anyone, even Luke, but rationalized that maybe a bottle of wine with dinner would anesthetize her preoccupation with the morning’s consultation.
    She forced herself through the last appointment, feeling hollow, finished up some work on the computer, and left the office an hour before her usual time, with Daisy leading the way out the side door to her waiting taxi. She’d email Luke when she got home, if she felt like it. Maybe being occasionally unavailable would teach him not to take her for granted.
    The taxi beeped, and Daisy led her to where it always waited. “Good evening, James,” she said.
    “James is sick today,” a gruff voice answered.
    “Oh, I hope he’ll be okay.”
    “Uh-huh.” The driver opened the door and she got in. She put her head back and closed her burning eyes. Half pondering the morning appointment and the situation with Luke, she realized the driver missed the turn.
    She leaned forward. “You should have taken a right at St. John .” He didn’t answer. “If you take the next one, we’ll be heading in the right direction.” He said nothing and made no turns.
    What’s wrong with this guy?
    “Do you know where you’re going? I live in the other direction.”
    When he answered with a clear voice, a wave of panic shot through her. She saw her daughter’s face. Heard the shot that ripped her life apart.
    Daisy growled.

Chapter Fourteen
    The Saluda Grade

    A bby’s heart pounded; perspiration saturated her clothes. Was she losing her mind? That voice. The voice of her nightmares. The same voice that held Macy hostage and told Abby she belonged to him, and that if he couldn’t have her no one else would. The speech sounded slurred, but no mistaking the voice of Stewart Gentry. Her dead ex-husband.
    Her blood iced as she watched her life flash by in black and white stills. Remembering in color would make the past too real, too vivid. She couldn’t live through the terror again—nightmares that jolted her awake, gasping for air. Visions when she brushed her teeth, or listened to a book, or when a patient’s innocent remark unearthed a buried horror. Now they were back, all at once, paralyzing her as the images gained speed.
    Stewart in better days.
    Macy, her angelic face laughing, then terrified.
    The slow-motion bullet penetrating her daughter’s heart.
    The first eye-opening blackness.
    Daisy must have sensed her fear and sidled up next to her. She pulled the animal close, afraid Stewart would quiet her without a flicker of conscience, just like he pulled the trigger that ended his daughter’s life. She thought about pulling out her cell, but Stewart would know from the sounds. She’d wait until she was alone. If ever she was.
    “How can this be?” she said barely above a whisper. “You’re dead. Everyone said you were.” Even Lucy. Especially Lucy .
    Her mother’s deception sent a shiver spike down her back . This must be another nightmare. She’d wake up drenched in her own sweat like she had for the last eight years and remark how it seemed so real.
    “Did your mother tell you I was dead?” Stewart’s weak laugh reeked of irony. “Funny, my mother told me you were dead, too. So they both lied. Until recently I thought I’d murdered you.” Stewart’s voice trailed off. “Why do you think she told me that?”
    Why indeed? To keep me out of the picture, that’s why. Something she always wanted to do.
    She heard the lock click after she got in the car. Now she slid her hand along the side of the door, found the latch, and flipped it open, hoping Stewart watched the road and not the rearview mirror.
    “Now what, Stewart?” Abby said. “If you’ve come back to finish the job, why didn’t you do it the night in my yard, when you almost killed my dog? There I was, helpless and vulnerable. It would have been so easy.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about . I’ve never been in your yard. Do…do you think I’d hurt you again? I wouldn’t, Abby. Never. I wouldn’t. ”
    His voice oozed sincerity, but she’d heard that voice before—the pleading and begging. She tried to shut it out. “I don’t believe anything you say. How could I?”
    “It wasn’t me,” he snapped.
    She braced at his tone. Then he swerved to the side and slammed on the brakes. She lunged forward, but the seat belt prevented her from