The Phone CallMature

The phone slid from my hand and fell to the floor, so I never heard Detective Hudson’s words. I didn’t have to. I knew. I knew he was going to tell me what my subconscious allowed me to see in my dreams was true.

There was gargled noise and static as Dallas reached toward the floor for the phone. She pressed it to her ear and, as I watched her, her eyes widened and she put a hand to her mouth, shaking her head.

“Thank you,” she said calmly before hanging up, and then she turned to me. “John Monroe was found dead in his office waiting room. He was shot in the chest twice.”

I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t want to listen to what she was telling me. All of this was too crazy. I couldn’t have been the one that—

“I have to go,” I said, rising. I blindly reached for my phone, taking it from her hand and leaving her office.

Christian stood at once when he saw me, and I didn’t have enough energy to say anything, so I collapsed against him and cried. The last thing I remember were his arms tightening around me.



Something shrill woke me. It took me a few moments to realize that I was splayed across Christian’s bed and that the noise I was hearing was a tea kettle. I squeezed my eyes shut and placed a pillow over my ears.

The mattress sank as someone sat down. They said, “I made you some tea. You look like you could use it. What happened, Kendall?”

I gazed at Christian and realized very quickly that he was the only stable, trustworthy, good thing in my life right now. He was real, kind, loving. Reaching out, I touched his hand and moved until he had room to lie, then I nestled myself into his body.

He had one arm around my waist, his fingers stroking my hip. His other hand was tucked under the pillow, his hazel eyes cool as he looked at me with a frown on his face.

“In the dream I had I killed someone,” I said, my voice trembling. I smelled the tea far off in the distance of the kitchen but it did nothing to calm my nerves. “I remember pulling out a gun and shooting the person, and then something fell from his hand. It was a name plate. Monroe. John Monroe was my old therapist and he died today. He was shot in the chest twice.”

“It was just a dream,” Christian murmured, his hand in my hair. “It wasn’t real.”

My next words were very tiny, almost inaudible.

“I think it was. I think I killed him.”

The End

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