alice close your eyes by averil dean - chapter sampler

7/22/2019 Alice Close Your Eyes by Averil Dean - Chapter Sampler

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DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?If you did, you should be aware it is stolen propertyas it was

reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.

Neither the author nor the publisher has received any paymentfor this book.

First Published 2014First Australian Paperback Edition 2014ISBN 978 174356517 9

ALICE CLOSE YOUR EYES 2014 by Averil DeanPhilippine Copyright 2014

Australian Copyright 2014New Zealand Copyright 2014

Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in wholeor in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now knownor hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or inany information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permissionof the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that shall not, by way of trade orotherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the priorconsent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in whichit is published and without a similar condition including this condition beingimposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in anyform. This edition is published in arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A..

This is a work of ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either theproduct of the authors imagination or are used ctitiously, and any resemblanceto actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales isentirely coincidental.

Published byHarlequin Mira

An imprint of Harlequin Enterprises (Aust) Pty Ltd.

Level 4, 132 Arthur StreetNORTH SYDNEY NSW 2060AUSTRALIA

and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Enterprises Limited or its corporateafliates. Trademarks indicated with are registered in Australia, New Zealand,the United States Patent & Trademark Ofce and in other countries.

Printed and bound in Australia by Grifn Press


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Every spirit builds itself a house.Ralph Waldo Emerson


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CHAPTER ONE

I am inside Jacks house.

Rain trickles down the windowpanes and a spring thunder-

storm rumbles almost inaudibly in the distance as I drift throughthe blue window light, in and out of the shadows, tracing the ob-

jects in the living room with my gloved fingertips. A queen conch

shell reclines on the sideboard, its frilled pale pink lip deepen-

ing to a slick rose interior as the shell curves in on itself. I pick it

up, hold it to my ear. A phantom ocean soughs inside the empty

calcium walls. I imagine the bowl filling with surf, overflowing,

disappearing under the sand.

The furniture is low and modern, with square brown side chairs

and a kidney-shaped coffee table in front of the fireplace. The liv-

ing room is arranged around a rag-leather area rug, and at one

end of the sofa is a f loor lamp made from a piece of gnarled, tiger-striped mesquite, stained and rubbed to a satin finish the color

of a cinnamon stick. On the wall next to the fireplace hangs a

graphic, ceiling-high painting of a raven on its perch.


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AVERIL DEAN8

bookshelves against the wall, until I find what I came for: a sim-

ple wooden box, the contents of which are of no value to anyone

but me and the guy who collected them.A brass clock sits in the center of the mantel, clicking like an

old ladys tongue as I tuck the box under my arm.

Hurry.I hesitate, my eyes on the back door. Hurry.

I cross the room and start down the hallway. To my right, a

door is ajar. I give it a gentle push and step through the doorway.

The home ownerJack,I think, loving this,Jack Calabresehas

turned over the second bedroom to his hobby, ships in bottles.

The room is lined with shelves bearing elaborate models in heavy

glass bottles of different sizes and shapes, and under the win-

dow, a worktable is strewn with tiny pieces of wood and lengths

of string. It looks like hes begun work on a new model, andhas only gotten as far as laying out the components. I circle the

room, running my fingers along the smooth curved glass. I press

my nose to the mouth of one of the bottles and inhale. Sawdust,

mixed with a briny scent that makes me think he salvaged this

bottle from the beach. Together the aromas evoke a shipyard, or

a seaside lumber mill. I peer through the bottleneck at the ship

inside, its prow aimed right at me.

My thoughts judder to a halt. A key clicks against the front door

and slides into the lock.

My heart leaps, stumbles, restarts. Adrenaline flashes through

my limbs.In a second Im out the door, skidding silently down the hall

to the bedroom. I duck around the corner, run to the window

and flip the latch. But the sash is fitted with a security lock that


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ALICE CLOSE YOUR EYES 9

neath. No shower curtain in the attached bathroom or wardrobe

against the wall. And the back door I entered through is at the

other side of the house.

Out of options, I cross the room, slip through the closet door

and slide it shut. The hangers clatter as I push the clothes aside

and sink to a crouch, clutching the wooden box to my chest.

From the hallway, footsteps approach. Heavy, thudding against

the hardwood floor.

Even here, I feel exposed. In my closet, there would be places tohide: a raft of boots and sneakers, a curtain of secondhand coats,

the blue plastic laundry basket in the corner, full to overflowing

with sweaters and faded jeans. I could have buried myself in be-

longings, hidden for hours until he either left again or fell asleep.

But in this half-full closet, only a thin sliding door stands betweenme and discovery.

A slice of my reflection shimmers on the metal frame. My eye

flashes, caught in a chink of light from the bedroom window. I

ease sideways and press my back into the corner.

The footsteps get louder and more deliberate. They cross the

room to the window I left standing open. A scrape of the win-

dow frame, and the whisper of rain outside is silenced. There is

a pause. Then three steps, louder.

The grit on the bottom of his boot grinds against the floor.

My heartbeat is crashing in my ears, pounding at the roof of

my mouth. Surely he will hear it. I hold my breath, feel my eye-lids stretch open, then snap together. I screw them shut and chant

a silent prayer.

Please dont open the door. Please please please dont open the door .


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His gaze wanders down my body as he takes in my Pixies

T-shirt, torn secondhand Levis. Knitted, elbow-length gloves,

striped orange and blue.There is a light thump from the closet. A couple of shirts, dis-

lodged from the rack, have fallen to the ground. To leave them

there seems rude, so I gather them up and hang them back on the

rail, smoothing the fabric, adjusting the hangers as though I can

convey a benign intention by the care I take with his clothing.

When I straighten again and face Jack Calabrese, his expression

has softened to that of a cool stepfather dealing with the teenager

whos just wrecked the family car. And though Ive dressed to in-

spire that reaction, just in case, his self-confidence unsettles me.

He lays the hammer on the dresser, next to the wooden box.

Want a drink?I must have heard him wrong. A drink.

Yeah. He speaks over his shoulder as he passes through the

doorway. You look like you could use one.

I follow slowly, my legs weak as water, boneless, loose. Down

the hallway, past the ship room. Outside, the rain has picked

up, pattering against the roof, the raindrops sliding thick as wax

down the windowpanes.

He takes two glasses from the cupboard and fills them with

ice. I steal a glance at the door. Now would be the time to run

make a mad dash across the room, out the door, down the road to

the main street and the shortcut through the heavy woods to myhouse. I imagine myself there, safe and warm and locked in tight.

But I dont run. The same thing that drew me here keeps me

rooted to the spot.


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AVERIL DEAN12

Neither, nothing. I take a sip of fiery-cool liquid. Just the box.

That box of sentimental crap? Why?

C-curiosity.About what?

Warmth bursts over my cheeks and seeps down my neck, and

that seems to answer his question. And in a flash, I realize hes

handing me the perfect excusefor the break-in, for everything.

I see, dimly, the path before us. All I need to do is let his ego lead

the way.

He smiles. Im flattered. And how did you know about the

box?

I didnt. At leastI mean, everyone has a box. Usually with

men its a shoebox. Yours is

Mine is what?

Nicer than usual.

He crosses his arms, leans a hip against the granite counter.

His voice is slow, intimate, as though were exchanging secrets

in a crowded room. The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

This a hobby of yours? Breaking and entering? Stealing mensboxes? He raises his eyebrows, loading the question with innu-

endo.

I swirl my drink and stare into the glass.

Look, Im sorry.

A white gleam slides along the frame of his glasses when hemoves his head. His eyes are veiled by a sheet of window light

across the lenses.

So, what did you want to know?


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used they appear to be. Whether that accent is Boston or Philly. I want

to know what your shampoo smells like, whether you leave your socks

on the floor, can keep a houseplant alive, own a cat or a bong or aninsulin syringe. I want to see how you rumple the bed.And the sum

of all those answered questions, plus a thousand more I havent

thought of yet:

I want to know whether youd kill for me.

I set his glass on the counter and head for the door, shuffling

sideways to avoid turning my back to him.

He follows, hands in his pockets.

Whats your name? he says.

The heel of my sneaker hits the step at the entryway. Im sorry.

You mentioned that.

And Ill be going now.

As I reach the door and twist the handle at the small of my

back, he closes the gap between us, stretches one long arm over

my shoulder to hold the door closed. I stare straight ahead, watch-

ing his pulse flicker in the hollow under his jaw.

Tell me your name, he says. Im guessing you know mine.I wont look him in the eye. My breath has grown shallow and

quick, small gusts over my lips.

Well?

I dont know how to answer. None of this is going according

to plan. I feel like an actor onstage whos rehearsed the wrongplay. I need to get out the door, get away, think it through before

things go too far

Before I can react, he reaches behind me, slides his hand around


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AVERIL DEAN14

Alice Elizabeth Croft, he reads. Five-four, one hundred fif-

teen pounds. Black hair, green eyes.

He returns my wallet, smiling, looking me over. Sounds aboutright.

Can I go now?

He steps back, hands up. Whos stopping you?

I open the door and stumble onto the front porch, pausing at

the top step to pull up my hood.

Hey, do you want a ride? The amusement in his voice is clear,

even through the storm. Its 336 Signal Road, right?

I run down the wooden steps and leave him laughing behind

me.

I unlock my front door, drenched and out of breath from my

mile-long sprint through the forest. My sneakers are muddy and

bristled with pine needles. I toe them off, strip out of my gloves,

T-shirt and jeans and leave them in a dark, sodden heap next to

the door.

In my bra and underwear, I head for the bathroom and take outmy kit: straight razor, ointment, gauze and a large, flat bandage.

My hands are trembling and too slippery to hold the razor. I wipe

them on a towel and sit at the edge of the tub, my ankle crossed

over my knee, and run my thumb over the tapestry of pink and

white scars on the sole of my footthe hard, half-healed ridgesand faded round cigarette burns, the deeper, purplish groove from

last years infection. I slide the blade across the arch of my foot.

Once, twice, three times. There is a short, shocked pause before


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shiver and burst and drip to the tile, swirling into the rain that

trickles from the ends of my hair.

I close my eyes as the fire sets in. The razor blade clatters to

the floor.


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