Chapter Thirteen - Reflection

Light filtered in from the hallway, the sixty-watt glow reflecting off the mirrors of the glass room and shining straight into Kate's face the minute she cracked one eye open.

She gasped and came fully awake, instantly on the verge of hysteria as she sprang into a position that was an awkward cross between sitting and reclining. Stomach acid and the remnants of last night's red wine churned in her gut as her hands moved over her stomach and sides, probing—frantic.

She was unhurt. Sitting up all the way, she grasped the hem of her white tank top and yanked the cloth clear up to her neck. The glass was hard and cold beneath her knees as she rose up and twisted this way and that, running her hands over her body and sagging in relief when her fingers met only smooth, unblemished skin.

Just a dream… Kate eyed the doorway, her gaze dropping lower as she noticed the wine bottle on its side a couple of feet away from the door. The contents of the bottle lay spilled across the glass in a rich, dark stain. Red wine—not blood. She gulped as a wave of dizzy sickness washed over her skin, leaving her hot, then cold.

She climbed unsteadily to her feet, wincing at how icy the floor was as she padded across the room to retrieve the now-empty bottle. She started to bend over but quickly found out that was an extremely bad idea. Her stomach leapt to her throat, and bile rose to gag her.

Abruptly, she straightened, blinking back the sudden moisture from her eyes before making another go for the bottle. This time, though, she was careful to bend at the knee in a cautious, slow crouch. Lord, how much had she drank last night? The relatively scant amount of wine on the floor, and the throbbing at her temples, answered that question for her.

Memories of last night flitted through her mind, and she cast a nervous glance behind her. Bottle in hand, she turned and walked back to the far wall, knelt down…

Her heart began to pound at her rib cage as she traced the fingers of her free hand over the network of thin, spidery cracks in the glass.

"What in the hell," she breathed, eyes wide.

Kate glanced from the wine bottle she clutched, to her own splintered reflection in the damaged glass of the floor. How? She frowned. There were only a few likely possibilities. The wine bottle … but there was no wine spilled or even drops splattered near the glass … or anywhere on this side of the room, for that matter. Had she maybe—for some unknown reason—punched the glass last night? But her hands didn't hurt, and she had no visible injuries. Could she have flown into some sort of alcohol-fueled rage and hit the floor hard enough to crack it—and not be bruised, or at least sore? Was that even possible? The glass covering the floor looked thick and strong; it would have to be, wouldn't it?

The only other explanation was that the floor had already been broken when she'd moved in. As explanations went, it was on the flimsy side of plausible, but it was the only thing that made sense.

Rising to her feet, she staggered out into the hallway and shut the door to the glass room. She leaned against it, as if the scarred wood at her back was the most substantial, solid thing in her world. It didn't last. An instant later, the door flew open and Kate was propelled backward, her rear end—then her back—making hard contact with the floor. The empty bottle rolled away from her, and she stared up at the mirrored ceiling—straight into a reflection with cold eyes a shade or two darker than her own, and long, straight hair.

Kate screamed, and the vision was gone. She looked like herself again. Scrambling to her hands and knees, she practically crawled over the threshold and reached up to grasp the doorknob. She pulled herself up, shivering, and yanked hard at the door, this time making sure the latch clicked into place.

Her stomach lurched, and she spun around and ran down the hallway, barely making it to the bathroom before she threw up. What the hell had she just seen? She shoved unsteady hands through her sweat-dampened hair and flushed the toilet.

During broad daylight, now? Her breath shuddered out before she rose to sit on the toilet seat. Fingers shaking, she reached out to twist the knobs on the bathtub. A shower. Things would look better after a hot shower. Once she washed away the stench of alcohol, maybe the rest of the night would fade, too.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she stood and crossed to the sink, intending to quickly rinse her mouth while the water ran in the tub. But she lingered over her reflection in the age-spotted vanity mirror, slicked her hands over hair that was just long enough to reach the tips of her breasts. She pulled the strands down until they were taut against either side of her head. If she were lying down, her hair could be mistaken for being straighter than it actually was.

Yes, that was what she had seen. Nothing more. Ghosts—real ghosts—didn't exist. They were stories, midnight tales whispered by candlelight in order to spook the living. That or make life more interesting, depending on how you chose to look at it. Feeling somewhat steadier, she stripped out of her shorts and tank top, pulled up the faded chrome knob to divert the rush of hot water to the showerhead, and stepped carefully under the spray. Squirting a good-size dollop of mango-scented shampoo into her palm, she proceeded to give her hair a vigorous scrubbing.

At least the old place had plenty of hot water and decent water pressure. Not that it mattered, because she wasn't staying any longer than was absolutely necessary. In fact, she would call a realtor as soon as she was done with her shower. Kate ducked her head under the powerful spray and squeezed a torrent of soap suds from her hair. The excess water hit the tub with a satisfying splash, and she watched as it swirled around the drain.

Her recently empty stomach lurched anew at the thought of what the future held. She would sell the house, go out West, then what? Before, her days—her entire life, really—had been laid out in a clear, concise path. All other problems and fears and insecurities aside, she had at least known, more or less, how things were "supposed" to go. But now… She swallowed and gave her hair a final rinse. Now, the future stretched in front of her in an endless, murky sea. She didn't know what these new, dark waters held. She didn't even know which direction she was supposed to go from here, and that terrified her.

The last time she had felt so adrift was right after her mother had passed away. At least back then she'd had Lilly and—Kate froze, eyes widening as the full implications of her thoughts hit her. She shut off the water and reached absently for a towel. Back then, she'd had Lilly … and now, she was alone. No, she reflected, thinking of Lindsey and Olivia, of Lilly and the rest of the family. She wasn't alone. Not really. Not exactly. Lilly was out doing her own thing now.

But … that was what was supposed to happen, right? Children grew up. They moved away from home. They spread their wings. Lilly was supposed to go out and live her own life. That had been part of the plan, hadn't it?

Kate sucked in a deep breath, inhaling a lungful of thick, steamy air as she wrapped the towel tightly around her body, tucking one corner in at her bust, near the crook of her arm. There was no denying that all of this—Lilly's flying the nest—was a bit sudden. Hell, Kate thought, pressing a freshly scrubbed hand to her temple, "a bit sudden" was an understatement if there ever was one. Lilly hadn't just flown the nest—she'd leapt out of it, headfirst, and dove for the concrete. Really, all that was left to do now was damage control. So she'd sell the house. She'd follow her little sister—and Chad—to Reno. Kate's teeth snapped together at the thought of what her first meeting with Lilly's husband was sure to be like. Maybe, just maybe, she would be able to avoid kneeing him in the groin. But probably not.

On that thought, she threw open the door, and a rush of cold air washed over her skin. She stalked down the hall to her bedroom, very much afraid that she was going to throw up again before this morning was over. So what, she reasoned on a shallow breath as she began to dress. If she needed to throw up, then she'd throw up. It wasn't like she'd never been sick before. She'd go downstairs, pop an aspirin or two or three and fix a pot of coffee. Then she'd search "real estate offices near Crystal Cove, Florida" on the Yellow Pages website, and after that she'd type a letter of resignation to turn in to the hospital tonight. Kate groaned as she pulled a purple cotton t-shirt, worn soft from hundreds of washings, over her head. She was so not up to going to work tonight. For the first time since she'd arrived in Crystal Cove, she was grateful for her morgue babysitting detail. She could at least spend the night hunched over a desk, in silence. And tomorrow…

She paused as she slid her feet into a pair of white Crocs. Tomorrow … what? She would feed the cat, catch a few hours of sleep, and get up for work the next night, and the next, and the next after that? Kill time for the next few weeks until it was time to leave for Nevada? Then what? That was the real problem, she realized, hugging her arms around her waist and lingering a moment by the bedroom door. She'd done what she'd set out to do. Kate hung her head. Lilly was eighteen years old. Kate's visions of drop-kicking Chad and helping her sister obtain a quick divorce evaporated like smoke in the wind.

So things went back to the way they were before. What then? In a few years, Lilly would have been graduating—would still be graduating—and she'd be venturing out on her own. Because, truth be told, her sister might still need some occasional help and guidance now and then, but she'd done her job and finished raising Lilly. That part of her life was over. Trouble was, she'd never given any thought to what she was going to do after.