Page 45 of D for Dead

Conscious she was only wearing a thin camisole Amy pulled the sheet higher. ‘It was just a nightmare.’

‘Just a nightmare?’ He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, dragged it back through his hair. ‘You were screaming like a banshee. Scared the crap out of me and the dog.’

‘Umm… sorry?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘What do you want me to say? I have nightmares. I can’t control what happens when I fall asleep.’

He studied her for a moment, drew in a deep breath. She had shaken him, Amy could see that now, and it made her feel foolish.

‘You get these nightmares often?’ Sullivan asked, his tone softening.

‘Kind of.’

‘Since the murders started?’

‘Yeah. I mean, I used to get them all the time, then they stopped… until last week.’

He nodded. ‘Do you remember them, the dreams?’

‘Yeah.’

Her throat dry, the nightmare she had woken from still vivid and playing in her head, Amy pushed the sheet back, clambered from the bed. She didn’t like her state of undress, but the need for water was more important.

She pushed open the bathroom door, leaving it ajar as she splashed cold water over her face and then drank greedily from the faucet. Her heart was pounding, her nerves jumpy, but she was calming down, slowly. Grabbing her robe, she tied it in place and stepped back into the bedroom.

Sullivan was still sat on the edge of her bed, one hand stroking Huckleberry as he watched her.

Amy gave him a twisted smile. ‘I’m gonna put the coffee pot on. Don’t think I’m ready for sleep again yet.’

* * *

As they sat at her dining table, she told him about the nightmare. About the stone steps leading down to the basement room, the sense of foreboding that something terrible was in the room, and how the dream ended as she entered and saw what was waiting for her. She always woke at that point and, although the rest of the dream was vividly clear, she could never remember what had been in the room.

Jake was no shrink, but it sounded like a repressed memory to him and he told her so.

‘So you think it’s real? It’s something that happened to me?’ She sounded sceptical.

‘It would make sense. I’m no expert on dreams, but if you have a recurring one I’d figure it’s going to change slightly each time. You say yours doesn’t.’

‘But I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve gone down into a basement. I mean, sure, my parents had a cellar at home, but it’s not the same place.’

‘If it’s repressed, you’re not going to remember it.’

Amy narrowed her eyes. ‘I think I would remember something like that.’

‘Would you?’

‘Of course.’

‘But the dream feels real?’

‘Sure, but dreams do when you’re having them. Then you wake up. They’re make-believe. Remember, I’m a writer. I have an overactive imagination.’

‘Don’t you think it odd the nightmares have started up again since the murders?’

Amy shrugged, not buying whatever theory he was heading towards.

‘It’s a traumatic situation. I’m sure traumatic situations can bring on nightmares.’

She glanced over at the letters from her fan, Mr X, sitting in a pile at the other end of the table.