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Alice Close Your Eyes
Averil Dean
With haunting prose and deft psychological insight, Averil Dean spins a chilling story that explores the dark corners of obsession—love, pain, and revenge.Ten years ago, someone ruined Alice Croft’s life. Now, she has a chance to right that wrong—and she thinks she’s found the perfect man to carry out her plan.After watching him for weeks, she breaks into Jack Calabrese’s house to collect the evidence that will confirm her hopes. When Jack comes home unexpectedly, Alice hides in the closet, fearing for her life. But upon finding her, Jack is strangely calm, solicitous…and intrigued.That night is the start of a dark and intense attraction, and soon Alice finds herself drawn into a labyrinth of terrifying surrender to a man who is more dangerous than she could have ever imagined. As their relationship spirals toward a breaking point, Alice starts to see just how deep Jack’s secrets run—and how deadly they could be.
With haunting prose and deft psychological insight, Averil Dean spins a chilling story that explores the dark corners of obsession—love, pain and revenge.
Ten years ago, someone ruined Alice Croft’s life. Now, she has a chance to right that wrong—and she thinks she’s found the perfect man to carry out her plan.
After watching him for weeks, she breaks into Jack Calabrese’s house to collect the evidence that will confirm her hopes. When Jack comes home unexpectedly, Alice hides in the closet, fearing for her life. But upon finding her, Jack is strangely calm, solicitous…and intrigued.
That night is the start of a dark and intense attraction, and soon Alice finds herself drawn into a labyrinth of terrifying surrender to a man who is more dangerous than she could have ever imagined. As their relationship spirals toward a breaking point, Alice starts to see just how deep Jack’s secrets run—and how deadly they could be.
“Crisply written, wickedly suspenseful….[Alice Close Your Eyes] reads like a dark, sensual nightmare, and it is the reader who won’t want to close her eyes until all of the book’s tantalizing secrets are finally revealed. Don’t miss it.”
—David Bell, author of Never Come Back and Cemetery Girl
Alice Close
Your Eyes
Averil Dean
www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)
For my mother.
Every spirit builds itself a house.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Contents
Chapter One (#u07286c6c-ce1a-5ac3-9321-1348d526c822)
Chapter Two (#ucfeec79f-9a91-56d8-a139-c10ed8a7f13a)
Chapter Three (#u9afeb625-5d8b-5127-ae3c-654fa69f1251)
Chapter Four (#uf0764551-7cb5-55bd-9861-5bcac545c82a)
Chapter Five (#u498e72e7-9799-56ad-b4c8-92a8f2ef50ea)
Chapter Six (#ub447634a-436a-5aa2-a61e-00be8ceec037)
Chapter Seven (#u49c77bec-04ab-555d-99da-408efca2d37a)
Chapter Eight (#u1aa7097e-b1e7-523b-8662-04f1d2d7ed7b)
Chapter Nine (#u85641533-32b2-598d-853d-b03564952aac)
Chapter Ten (#u60a178b6-74c5-5ef0-991d-316c9d973dec)
Chapter Eleven (#u303f745d-bba9-53bb-870d-ab5e52498a41)
Chapter Twelve (#ufc587676-2283-59bd-8977-82baf9b6d06d)
Chapter Thirteen (#u6aea09d8-19b6-57fb-88a4-55a3196dbc6c)
Chapter Fourteen (#u98531c95-8ae1-5b5b-8399-bd2ce64f2174)
Chapter Fifteen (#u52b8423a-95aa-5bda-b6df-06fda469a51d)
Chapter Sixteen (#u716b245c-a1c7-51a1-9719-b667ad3e4a59)
Chapter Seventeen (#uc98cab8f-7389-5408-ab29-bb72afe1f4ba)
Chapter Eighteen (#u5e7257a9-1595-5540-8724-19968a6f4263)
Chapter Nineteen (#uc2fddc45-806c-5fe4-bb38-226936a619d5)
Chapter Twenty (#u38415de0-1040-5332-9777-0d28e7e16b88)
Chapter Twenty-One (#ubfddb58a-d182-5322-a849-935dddf3fd5f)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#ua34bf488-9435-5df3-a9d2-d12fa318c7a5)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#uca32ab33-230e-5898-95d8-c11eaaf06ee5)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u40e19c5c-f097-509b-8455-097fca2b84fe)
Acknowledgments (#ub0ecb724-2564-5df9-b180-5a557fd6eefd)
Reader’s Guide (#ub9afb281-6660-5261-bd9e-94969b5f2be0)
Questions for Discussion (#ud502ae03-a243-5cc9-88ad-50e382e1890c)
Q&A with Averil Dean (#uf4efa0bf-5401-5a0d-a860-7843ba6ed06c)
CHAPTER ONE
I am inside Jack’s house.
Rain trickles down the windowpanes and a spring thunderstorm rumbles almost inaudibly in the distance as I drift through the blue window light, in and out of the shadows, tracing the objects in the living room with my gloved fingertips. A queen conch shell reclines on the sideboard, its frilled pale pink lip deepening 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 living room is arranged around a rag-leather area rug, and at one end of the sofa is a floor 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.
I circle the room, opening drawers and doors, careful to leave things as I find them. I search the kitchen cabinets and the top shelf of the coat closet, the blanket chest by the door and the bookshelves against the wall, until I find what I came for: a simple 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 lady’s 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 owner—Jack, I think, loving this, Jack Calabrese—has 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 window, a worktable is strewn with tiny pieces of wood and lengths of string. It looks like he’s begun work on a new model, and has 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 I’m 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 prevents it from opening more than a few inches. No sign of the key, and there won’t be time to pick the lock. I turn back to the room in dismay. The bed is low to the ground, no space underneath. 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 to hide: 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 belongings, hidden for hours until he either left again or fell asleep. But in this half-full closet, only a thin sliding door stands between me 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 window 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 eyelids stretch open, then snap together. I screw them shut and chant a silent prayer.
Please don’t open the door. Please please please don’t open the door....
The box in my arms tilts a little, shifting the contents. A muffled clunk from inside strikes my ears like a mallet.
Shit. God fucking dammit.
The door begins to slide.
The first thing I see is a claw hammer, raised to shoulder height. Then a fist, wrapped around the handle. A man’s face. The knife’s edge of his jaw, serrated with afternoon stubble. His eyes, framed in the thick brown rims of his glasses, squinting into the darkness, then widening in surprise.
Jack Calabrese.
He slides the clothes aside and stares down at me.
“What the fuck.”
I scramble to my feet, through the rack of jeans and flannel shirts. A lock of dark hair flops over my eyes.
“You want to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my closet?”
“Robbing you.” My voice is thready. I clear my throat, jerk my chin.
His gaze falls to the box in my arms. He’s taller and more imposing than he seemed from a distance. But as he looks at me, his angry expression melts to a sort of baffled amusement, as though he’s waiting for me to explain the point of a joke. Up close, I notice an unexpected dimple that fills with shadow when he speaks and empties when he frowns, leaving only a short, thin crease to mark the place.
I hold out the box with both hands like a guilty child. He takes it from me, looks briefly inside and sets it on the dresser.
“You have odd taste for a thief,” he says. “Or poor judgment.”
I step toward the door. He shifts his weight, a bare movement, but it stops me in my tracks. I glance automatically at the window. Closed and latched.
“Don’t I know you?” he says. “From town or something?”
“No. Look, I’m sor—”
“Is this about Rosemary?”
I look at him blankly. “No.”
His gaze wanders down my body as he takes in my Pixies T-shirt, torn secondhand Levi’s. Knitted, elbow-length gloves, striped orange and blue.
There is a light thump from the closet. A couple of shirts, dislodged 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 who’s just wrecked the family car. And though I’ve dressed to inspire 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 my house. I imagine myself there, safe and warm and locked in tight.
But I don’t run. The same thing that drew me here keeps me rooted to the spot.
He crosses the room and hands me the drink.
“So, what were you looking for, exactly?” he says. “Money? Drugs?”
“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 he’s handing me the perfect excuse—for 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. “I’m flattered. And how did you know about the box?”
“I didn’t. At least...I mean, everyone has a box. Usually with men it’s a shoebox. Yours is...”
“Mine is what?”
