Free Key West by Stella Cameron Page B

you so,” she whispered into the night. “I wanted you so. You will always be with me, little Jacqueline. Forgive me, baby mine.” Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes and ran in hot lines down her temples.
    This was something she’d promised to keep at bay, this falling back into the desperately sad place where her baby waited for her mother to comfort her.
    The night was hot—too hot.
    The sheer drapes billowed inward.
    Sonnie turned on her side, then rolled to her other side. She felt sick and her scalp grew damp. She threw back the covers and took long, slow breaths. In her tote bag were the bottles of pills she kept for pain, or nervousness—or for when she couldn’t sleep. Slipping from the bed, she put on a small light beside a chair and found the sleeping pills. She hated to take them, but sometimes, when she knew the gulf of sweaty blackness might be opening up before her, she gave in.
    In the bathroom, she swallowed two pills with water and returned to bed. As she stretched out she began to feel herself relax just at the thought of drifting away. She’d been going to stop by the florist, Moss Corner, and ask about the lilies, but she’d forgotten. They were a deliberate effort to frighten her. Romano had seen them and hadn’t even asked where they came from. In fact no one seemed concerned, so maybe she shouldn’t be concerned either.
    ... Her only bed. White as the satin in her only bed Sonnie tossed some more. The suggestion was horrible, and it had been intended to horrify her.
    She gave in to a veil of unconsciousness that drew itself slowly over her warm body. The veil grew thicker and softer and closed out everything—even her hearing.
    But she never quite slept. Each time she felt the last shreds of wakefulness grow thinner, she was drawn back up through shades of mist and darkness to an ever-increasing heat.
    A crackling—distant, but clear—nibbled at the edges of her brain. There was a shooting blanket of fire. The flames within the blanket spun like elegant orange tongues, molten gold at their margins. Swirling, swirling, until they merged.
    She couldn’t breathe. “Help me,” she whispered. “Stop. Please go away. I’m sorry.”
    Her body was awash in sweat, her pajamas sodden and twisted around her.
    “Νο.” Her own voice was pathetically small. Breathe, Sonnie, breathe. Lie still and breathe, and shut everything else out. He was trying to drive her away. She wasn’t supposed to try to find out what had really happened to her.
    The crackling rose, rose to a roar, ripped at her ears, heated her skin until it was parched. Her mouth was parched, her lips dry and cracked. Her hair streamed and stuck to her face and neck.
    “Go away from here. Do as you’re told. Get out, before I make you get out.”
    Her eyes wouldn’t open. They were fused shut, and when the poking fingers attacked and she tried to fend them off, she couldn’t catch them. She was helpless before a shrieking audience with sharp fingers. They screamed and prodded her, prodded her stomach and howled, “Baby, baby, baby, all gone.”
    “Stop it!” She wanted to be silent. She wanted to be dead here and now. “I didn’t mean it. Let me go.”
    No, nο, she was giving in. That’s what he wanted. He wanted her to be frightened to death. Then he’d have his wish. She’d fought through this over and over again. He’d gone away, she thought. But now he was back again, and he had her alone this time. But she knew she could beat him only if they were face-to-face, alone.
    The fingers poked her stomach again, and the voices chanted, “Baby, baby, all gone away.”
    She screamed, then crammed her hands over her mouth, trying to force the sound down. No one must hear. They’d say she was mad—and they’d put her away. She’d heard them talk about that when she was in the hospital, how they didn’t know if she’d ever be able to be alone again. Perhaps she’d need to be “cared for sοmewhere,”