Free Don't Close Your Eyes by Carlene Thompson Page A

was bored with me and with this town. She wanted to remain a kid having fun.”
    “I know that now, but I’m still mad at her.”
    “Then why do you always wear the ring she left for you?”
    Natalie looked down at the lovely pearl surrounded by small diamonds. “It belonged to Great-grandmother Uehara. I wear it for her.”
    “You never knew her.”
    “Kira’s mother told me about her. I think I would have liked her.” Natalie paused. “Dad, do you wish Kira would come back?”
    “I did for a long time but not anymore.”
    “I wonder if she would come back if I were murdered like Tamara.”
    “Don’t even think about such a thing! My God, if I lost you, Natalie I’d…” Her father stood up abruptly. “More coffee?”
    “No thanks, Dad. I think I’ll take a shower. I need to feel hot water and soap on my skin.”
    “Good idea. I’ll look after Fido for you.”
    “Fido?”
    “Is there a name on her tag?”
    “She has no tags.”
    “Okay, for now she’s Fido. Go take your shower.”
    Natalie took one last sip of her lukewarm coffee and headed out of the kitchen toward her bedroom. As she passed through the living room, the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she called.
    She picked up the handset of the cordless phone and pressed talk. “Hello.”
    Nothing.
     
    “Hello.”
    Finally Natalie heard a long sigh. “Na-ta-lie.”
    Female voice, soprano, sweet, breathy.
    A prank, obviously, but her heart beat a little harder. “This is Natalie. What do you want?”
    “Na-ta-lie.”
    That sweet voice caressing her name. Uneasiness tingled through her. “If you don’t tell me what you want, I’m hanging up.”
    Another sigh. Then the gentle voice. “Their throat is an open tomb.”
    Natalie drew a sharp breath. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    “You’ll find out soon.”
    Click. Silence.
    Natalie stared at the handset as if it were a snake. A chill passed through her as she realized the voice had sounded exactly like Tamara’s.
     
    SUNDAY AFTERNOON
     
    Warren Hunt wiped perspiration from his upper lip and turned the car air conditioner to an even lower temperature. Usually he listened to classical music when he drove, but not today.
    He’d returned to his hotel room to pack when he saw the phone light blinking. Voice mail told him to call Oliver Peyton’s house. When he did, Oliver’s sobbing housekeeper Mrs. Ebert told him Tamara was dead. No, she didn’t know any details. No, she didn’t know where Mr. Peyton was right now. But Dr. Hunt had to come home. He had to come home immediately.
    What did the sobbing fool think I was going to do? Warren had thought irritably. Hang around here for another night? Why couldn’t people maintain a modicum of sense during an emergency? Nevertheless, when he’d hung up on the hysterical woman he’d noticed to his disgust that his hands were shaking.
    And why not? he asked himself. He had to go home and face this damned mess—Lily and Oliver, the funeral, keeping his relationship with Charlotte a secret until a suitable period of time passed. And what was a suitable period of time? A year? Impossible. Charlotte would never stand for that. He’d lose her. Six months? He couldn’t possibly see anyone publicly for six months, but even that amount of time seemed impossible. Charlotte was demanding. She wasn’t the kind of woman you could stall. He didn’t want to stall her.
    Valentine’s Day. That was when Charlotte had first walked into his office. He already knew who she was and
     
    the story of her divorce. Everyone in town did. Nevertheless, when she arrived he tried to look pleasantly blank as he asked what troubled her. While she narrated the story, he thought about what an amazingly beautiful, sensual creature she was. He’d seen pictures of the woman Paul Fiori had dumped her for. Was the guy crazy? Well, crazy wasn’t a word Warren liked to use. Fiori was … tasteless.
    During their second session Warren realized Charlotte was flirting