“Are you both all right?” he asked them.

“Eric assured us we weren’t in any danger.” Eliza shivered. “But I admit, the incident was disconcerting.” She glanced back at Haley, whose paintbrush trembled. “I’m glad he was here, and tonight at six a new bodyguard will take his place.”

Sharp wanted to hug them both but felt too awkward. Guilt flooded him. He’d let Ted down. He’d promised to take care of his family, and he didn’t even know them well enough to comfort them when they needed it.

“I didn’t know you were an artist.” He crossed the concrete floor and stood behind Haley. He nearly flinched when he saw her painting. The entire canvas was covered in shades of red.

“I haven’t painted in a long time.” Haley mixed thick red and black paint on a square of white glass.

“The psychiatrist suggested art therapy.” Eliza slid off her stool and joined Sharp. “I dug out Haley’s box of art supplies. It hadn’t been opened since we moved into this house.” Her eyes widened as she took in Haley’s artwork. Sharp and Eliza shared a concerned look. Then she glanced away.

“Sounds like a great idea.” Sharp stood back a few feet, trying to make sense of the chaotic painting. He could sense there was a bigger picture in all the shadows and subtle differences in color, but he couldn’t see it. To him, the painting looked like smeared blood.

Like the crime scene.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Morgan stood in the foyer of Eliza’s house. Through a tall window next to the front door, she could see activity at the bottom of the driveway. Cameramen were packing up equipment as reporters climbed into vans. It seemed as if one or two news vans had already left.

“Is something going on?” she asked the deputy zipping his jacket at the front door.

“Yes, ma’am.” He settled his hat on his head. “The sheriff just announced that the female body found this morning has been officially identified as the missing woman, Shannon Yates.”

The media would want to jump on the new story. Maybe they’d leave Haley alone for a while.

“You’ll let us know if you have news about Adam?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” The deputy let himself out.

Morgan locked the door behind him.

Lance and the bodyguard were conferring down the hall. Morgan headed for the basement door. She wanted to check in with Haley and see how her appointment with the psychiatrist had gone. The basement was chilly, and the smell of sawdust made her sneeze. Haley was painting at an easel. Eliza and Sharp were standing behind her, looking over her shoulder with worried eyes.

Haley looked battered. Her eyes were sunken, her face ghostly.

“Art therapy?” Morgan walked closer, her heart clenching. The poor girl.

“Yes.” Haley didn’t look at her. Her painting held all her attention. “I’d forgotten how much I like to paint.”

Morgan drew up as she took in the red on red of the canvas. At first glance, the swirls seemed chaotic, but the shape of two hands, palms up, soon took shape. Two immediate associations came to mind. First, the literal interpretation of Haley seeing her hands covered in blood. But a second, more metaphorical, meaning nagged at Morgan. Had Haley been caught red-handed?

She touched Eliza’s forearm. “I’d like to speak to Haley alone for a few minutes.”

“I need to speak with Eric before he leaves anyway.” Eliza turned toward the stairs. Sharp went with her.

Morgan stepped up next to Haley.

Silver glittered on the girl’s arm as she put her paintbrush to the canvas. An ID bracelet.

“You found your medical alert bracelet?” Morgan turned her head to read the inscription.

Haley shook her head. “Mom bought me a new one.”

“Have you remembered anything else?” Disturbed, Morgan watched the brush push and blend the thick red paint on the canvas.

“No,” Haley said too quickly. With shaking hands, she set the glass palette and brush on the worktable. She drew in a hitching breath, clearly battling for control.

“What’s wrong?”

“I try not to cry in front of my mom, but I can’t hold it inside.” Haley covered her face with both hands and sobbed.

Morgan rubbed her shoulder. “What is it? You can tell me.”

She inhaled sharply, lowered her hands, and hiccupped. “I had a dream last night.” Haley’s voice dropped. “It happened the other night too.”

Morgan had to lean closer to hear the soft words.

Haley’s eyes filled with tears and lost focus, as if she were looking inward—and seeing something horrific. “There was blood all over me. Noah was on the floor. Dying. He whispered that I killed him.” Her brows lowered. “Or at least I think it was him. His lips weren’t moving, but he seemed to say, ‘You killed me.’”

Sharp had theorized that someone else was in Noah’s house Friday night. That the unknown visitor had killed Noah and very carefully framed Haley for the crime. Given the amount of blood, it wouldn’t have been easy. But then, he had all night to do it. And if the physical evidence against Haley was strong enough, the police were unlikely to look for other suspects.

But Haley’s nightmare put a new perspective on the crime.

“The voice was male?” Morgan asked.

“I don’t know. I think so.” Haley changed her tone, as if to mimic the voice. “‘What have you done to me?’” Haley shuddered and then turned dark, lost eyes on Morgan. “It was a whisper, so I can’t identify the voice.”

Pity welled up in Morgan’s throat. Haley must be overwhelmed thinking she might have committed a violent crime. The ugly question reared in Morgan’s head again. Should she pursue an insanity defense?

“This must all be so shocking for you,” Morgan said.

A tear rolled down Haley’s cheek.

“What did the psychiatrist say this afternoon?” Morgan wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders. The psychiatrist would issue an official report for Haley’s defense, but that would take time. Morgan wanted to know the gist of the diagnosis now.

Haley’s slight frame quivered as she inhaled. “She said that my symptoms are consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder. But I could also have been drugged. The holes in my memory are similar to those of drug-facilitated rape victims. Many date-rape drugs cause amnesia. My imagination can make even more frightening assumptions because I don’t know what actually happened to me.”

Frustration filled Morgan. If only Haley had gotten medical treatment last Saturday. They wouldn’t be left guessing if she had or hadn’t been given a drug.

“The doctor also said,” Haley continued, “that emotionally traumatic events can trigger dissociative amnesia without the addition of any drug. Whatever happened to me could have been traumatic enough that my brain could be suppressing the event until I can handle the reality. Unfortunately, there is no way to predict whether or not that will ever happen. The memory loss could be temporary or permanent. With either scenario, the nightmares could be dreams or flashbacks or some combination of both.”

“We shouldn’t rely on the nightmares as truth.” Not that Morgan would have done so.

“Right. Since I know what happened to Noah, my imagination could be filling in the details.” Haley reached for her paintbrush. “She wants to see me twice a week. She says therapy can help.”

“What about your insomnia?” Morgan asked. Lack of sleep could exacerbate symptoms. In turn, Haley’s sleep would be even more disturbed. It was a dangerous loop that needed to be broken.

“She gave me medication to help me sleep. It’s supposed to suppress nightmares.” But Haley looked doubtful. “I’m still afraid to close my eyes. The nightmares seem so real. I don’t want to sleep.”

“I know.” Morgan didn’t discuss their theories on the case. She didn’t want to do anything that might interfere with Haley’s true memories or trigger her imagination to work overtime.

Haley leaned on Morgan’s shoulder. “But I’m so tired.”

“Haley, the doctor is right. You need sleep.”