somewhere in the subconscious? We know so little about memory and how it works. What if I saw something as a very small child? Something so terrible that I can only let those memories come out when I dream?”
“You think this is all tied to Orson Lee Finch?”
“That’s my worry.” She rose and went over to the window to glance out. “I know I shouldn’t dump this on you. You’re not my therapist.”
“I’m here to help,” he said. “In whatever form that takes.”
She turned with a brief smile. On the surface, her gaze seemed guileless, even grateful, but her eyes looked troubled and Nick couldn’t help wondering again what lay hidden in those endless depths.
Was she the offspring of Orson Lee Finch? He let his mind wander to that dark place and tried to imagine what the ultimate child of Twilight might have locked away in her subconscious.
She came back over to the sofa and sat down. “I’m sorry for going so far down the rabbit hole, but you’re a very good listener. Patient. Nonjudgmental. I can talk to you more candidly than I ever could to my therapist.”
Nick tried to shake off the disturbing images that had formed in his head. “There’s a shrink in every good detective. You listen, you learn.” He observed her for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this yesterday? Particularly your worry about being followed?”
“Because I already sounded delusional and I didn’t want you to also think me paranoid. And now I’ve managed to sound completely unhinged. I can only imagine what you must be thinking.”
“I’m thinking you’ve been through a life-changing event,” he said. “You’ve suffered a devastating loss and you’re still reeling. A week isn’t a very long time. Cut yourself some slack.”
“I’m trying. It’s just all so confusing. So many things have happened since my mother died. Maybe I am still reeling.”
“Then slow down. Take a breath. Drink your coffee before it gets cold.” He picked up his cup.
She did the same, sipping slowly with eyes closed as if to savor the aroma while she collected her thoughts. “After I left your office yesterday, I felt better about things. Taking action gave me purpose. Something concrete to focus on. I even managed to convince myself that the man I’d seen in the doorway was nothing more than a stranger. He hadn’t been following me at all. I’d let my imagination get away from me. But last night after I went to bed, I kept picturing him out there in the dark watching my apartment. The feeling was so strong that I even got up to look for him.
“I finally managed to doze off, but I wasn’t completely asleep. I drifted in that gauzy, half-aware state where real-world sounds and scents are incorporated into a dream. Like falling asleep with the TV on. I saw myself in a strange room, tiny and dim with storybook pictures taped to the wall. I could hear voices and they frightened me. Then a music box started playing and when I awakened, I could still hear the melody. At first, I thought it was just a figment of my imagination or a lingering fragment of the dream. But the music was real.”
Nick found himself enthralled by her story and once again mesmerized by the darkness of her eyes. Her skin was smooth and tanned, and when she turned her head, light glistened in her hair. For one split second, she seemed so ethereal she might have been a figment of his imagination. He could smell vanilla again and something more exotic like sandalwood or myrrh. The fragrances mingled into an intriguing dichotomy that disquieted Nick even as it aroused him.
He glanced around, taking in the candles on the kitchen bar and a small incense burner on one of the end tables. At the farthest end of the coffee table, she’d placed a small jewelry box, the kind that might adorn a little girl’s dresser. The keepsake looked old. The hinges were tarnished and some of the decorative paper had peeled away from the cardboard.
His gaze went back to Catherine. She reached over and picked up the small box, running her finger along the top before opening the lid to display a tiny plastic ballerina. “While I lay sleeping in my bedroom, someone left this outside my front door. They wound the key and then shoved the music box up against the wall so that it would stay dry until I found it.”
“You didn’t see anyone? You didn’t hear anything besides the music box? No footsteps, no car door...?”
“Nothing. But I didn’t venture past the top of the stairs.” Her voice lowered. “It was very dark out last night.”
He wondered if she realized just how much she had revealed to him in that moment. “That was smart. Did you consider calling the police?”
“The thought crossed my mind, but what could I say? What could they do? No law was broken except trespassing, I suppose. I wasn’t threatened. By the time the police got here, whoever left the music box would have been long gone.”
“We can try lifting prints,” Nick suggested.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been careful with it,” she said with regret. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“That’s okay. We can eliminate yours. I still have a friend or two at CPD. If we’re able to get a viable print, we can run it through the databases. I’m assuming you believe the music box is also connected to Finch and to those newspaper clippings.”
She gave a helpless shrug. “How could it not be?”
He thought about that for a moment. “Did you talk to anyone else about those clippings?”
“My aunt. I wanted to know if she had any idea why my mother had saved them.”
“Did she?”
“She said Mother had always been fascinated by true-crime stories, but I’m not sure I believe that. She never even watched the news when she could avoid it.”
“Do you think your aunt deliberately tried to mislead you?”
“I think she was trying to protect me. I don’t know how much she knows about my adoption, but if Mother suspected that Orson Lee Finch was my father, it stands to reason she would have confided in my aunt. Louise is an attorney. Mother may have even gone to her for advice.”
“Is there anyone else your mother would have talked to?”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t have many close friends.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone else? Even a casual mention?”
“Only you.”
He held out his hand. “May I?”
She reluctantly gave up the music box. Nick was careful to handle only the corners as he turned the box over to examine the bottom. Then he placed it on the coffee table and opened the lid with his finger. The ballerina turned jerkily then stopped. “It looks old,” he said.
“Yes, though not an antique. It’s cheaply made. Just cardboard and paper.” Catherine paused. “Someone must have loved it, though. A child may even have cherished it.”
Nick glanced up. “You’ve never seen it before?”
“Not that I remember. I’ve never been particularly drawn to music boxes until I heard the sound of one in my sleep last night.”
“Did you recognize the song?”
“‘Clair de Lune,’ I think.”
“Does that tune mean anything to you?”
“No, but someone left this on my doorstep for a reason. Someone is trying to tell me something. But why now? Why after all these years would my birth mother try to make contact?”
“Assuming it was her, maybe she heard about your mother passing away.”
“That would mean she’s kept tabs on me all these years. The notion that she’s watched me from afar since I was two years old is disconcerting to say the least. But it makes sense in a way. I’ve