The apartment wasn’t getting any warmer. She’d have to call Richard about getting the heating system repaired, she thought desperately. She leaned down and held her hand over the vent, and felt the warm air pouring out. Okay, so the heating system was working. She went to the thermostat to check the temperature; it was already eighty-two degrees, and the thermostat registered only up to eighty-five.
She would just have to tough it out until her hair dried, she thought. That was what was making her so cold this morning. She was loath to unwrap the towel covering her head, but common sense told her that the heat in the apartment would dry her hair much faster if it wasn’t wrapped in a towel. Gritting her teeth and bracing for the chill, she ditched the towel. The air on her wet head didn’t feel cold, though. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.
Taking the cup of coffee with her into the bathroom, she sprayed some detangler on her curls and then finger-combed them, noting that most of the moisture had already evaporated. The mirror reflected a face that was white and pinched with cold. Her teeth chattered. “What a lovely sight,” she told her reflection.
She poured more coffee and went into the studio. Her hands were shaking so much she wouldn’t be able to paint, but the habit was ingrained, so she went.
There was a new canvas on the easel.
Sweeney stood just inside the door, dread congealing in her stomach like cold grease. Her body felt leaden. Not again. Not another one. Who had she killed this time?
No, she thought fiercely. She hadn’t killed anyone. Her painting hadn’t caused the old vendor to die, rather his death had caused the painting. But if this only happened when someone she knew had died . . . She didn’t want to see who was in the painting this time; she didn’t want to lose someone else she liked. What if—what if it was Richard?
She was unprepared for the violence of the pain that seized her chest, freezing her lungs, constricting her heart. Not Richard, she prayed. Dear God, not Richard.
Somehow she made her feet move, though she wasn’t aware of crossing the floor. Somehow she steeled herself to walk around the easel, positioned so the bright morning light fell directly on the canvas. And somehow she made herself look.
The canvas was almost totally blank. She stared at it, the relief so sudden and total she almost couldn’t take it in. Not a death scene, then. Not Richard. Maybe . . . maybe this meant her supposition had been totally wrong, that the sleepwalking and painting didn’t necessarily have anything to do with death. That one time had been a coincidence, just one more part of the weird stuff that had been happening to her.
She had painted shoes. Two shoes, one a man’s and the other a woman’s. The man’s shoe was the most complete, and it looked as if she had started on the foot inside it. She hadn’t finished the woman’s shoe, a high-heeled pump from the look of it, stopping before she got to the heel. There was no background, no sense of location, nothing but shoes. Just shoes.
She laughed softly, giddy with relief and happiness. She had let all this funny business get to her, make her imagination go wild. She had almost made herself sick, thinking that Richard was dead when she had no reason to jump to such a hysterical conclusion.
Humming, clutching her coffee cup with both hands in an effort to warm her fingers, she went back into the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast and drink more coffee. Surely she would be warm soon, and then she would get some work done.
But the chill intensified, shaking her so violently she barely managed to eat a slice of toast and it became dangerous to try to drink the hot coffee. She hurt, her muscles were so tight. She grabbed a blanket and sat down on one of the vents, making a tent with the blanket to trap the warm air around her.
Why was this happening again? Why now, why not yesterday morning? The only other time the chill had been this intense was the morning after she had done the death painting of the old vendor. No, this was worse. This was the coldest she had ever been in her life.
It had to be linked to the sleepwalking episodes. Once could be coincidence, but not twice. She couldn’t imagine what she could be doing to trigger such an extreme reaction, but at the moment all she cared about was getting warm. Afterward she would worry about the why and hows.
A vicious cramp knotted her left thigh. Sweeney moaned, folding double with the agony as she massaged the muscle. She got the muscle unknotted, but moments later another cramp hit. She panted as she rubbed it out, then gingerly stretched out her legs. The constant shivering was causing her muscles to knot. She ached in every joint now, every muscle.
Miserably she began to cry. She felt like a weak crybaby for doing so, but she hurt so much she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t known being cold was so painful. Why didn’t the tears freeze on her cheeks? She felt as if they should, even though she knew the room was warm.
Richard had gotten her warm before. She couldn’t bear the pain much longer; with everything in her, she wanted him here with her now.
Keeping the blanket around her, she crawled to the phone and lifted the cordless unit from its stand. She was surprised at how much energy it took to move, how sluggish she was, and she felt the first twinge of fear that her condition was truly serious, rather than being just a major inconvenience.
She didn’t know the number. She had never called Candra at home, and she vaguely remembered being told the private line was unlisted. Richard’s business line was listed, though, and unless he had an appointment somewhere, he should be in his office now. She wrestled the heavy white pages into her lap and clumsily flipped through to the Ws. “Richard Worth, Richard Worth,” she mumbled to herself. In a city the size of New York there were a lot of duplicated names, but she could pinpoint her Richard Worth with his address. Ah, there it was. She punched in the numbers, then huddled deeper into the blanket.