True Crime Author and Crime Novelist
awoke, flat on her
back on a strange bed.Across the room, red boots perched on top of a chest of drawers.
recognized the boots.
hey were hers.
did not recognize the chest of drawers, its finish darkened almost black by age.
o pictures on the walls.
o books on shelves.
o mementoes of someone's life.
here was nothing in sight to jog her
here was she?And how did she
hands swarmed over her
garments were right where they should be found.
felt the soft cotton of the t-shirt, the firmness of the bra beneath.
er fingers touched the rough denim of her
jeans, floated over the lump of panty leg elastic.
looked down at her
rose from bed and winced.
very muscle screamed protest at the slightest movement.
rattled the doorknob.Locked.
went to the window across from the door and pulled up the blinds.
n the other side of the glass, shutters tightly sealed away the view.Panic started in the center of her
rushed to the other window with a prayer on my lips.It, too, was cut off from the outside world by shutters.
Where was she?Maybe she
hat did she
know?She knew she
was Cici, short for Cecilia Taylor, born and raised in Poteet.
he knew she was a recent graduate of Southwest Texas State University, living at home with her parents while she looked for a job.
"Am I still in Poteet?"When she
had spoken aloud, she
squirmed in discomfortAnd, still, she
had not answered the big question.
searched the room for some clue to her
opened a door next to the dresser…nothing but a closet.
othing on the floor.
othing on the shelf.
othing on the closet rod except for four empty, misshapen coat hangers.
turned back to the dresser to rifle through drawers.
othing in any of them except in the bottom one, where a folded spare blanket lay.
picked it up, shook it out, nothing more.
opened the drawer of the nightstand.
found a bible-a red leather Scofield Reference Bible.Brown wear spots on the edge of the spine showed that someone had handled it quite often.Gold letters on the lower right hand corner spelled out the name of the owner, Millicent Pearsall.
name jogged something deep in her
memory banks, troubled her
momentarily, then flew away.
looked back at the bed.Its wooden frame had the same age-darkened finish as the chest of drawers.
n a couple of spots, something had recently scratched thin, deep lines into the wood.
white chenille bedspread-the kind everyone's grandmother had-was worn thin as dust allowing a pale shimmer of blue from the blanket beneath to shine through it.
Down on all fours, she
looked under the bed.Nothing but a few stray dust bunnies.
he room held no clues to its owner with the exception of that Bible.
name Millicent Pearsall danced in faded gold before her
could not jiggle loose anything meaningful.
eyes and sniffed deeply.
room smelled stuffy.Sitting down on the bed's edge, she
energy on listening.