Day sixteen, p.1
Day Sixteen, page 1
Contents
Title Page
Early Praise for Day Sixteen
Author Note
Title
Dedication
Prologue - The Test
1 - The First TIme
2 - The Question
3 - The Date Book
4 - Voices
5 - The Pills
6 - A Secret Shared
7 - Honeymoon Jitters
8 - The Scan
9 - Plans and Lies
10 - Observation
11 - Pandas
12 - On Screen
13 - Ghost Romance
14 - Man-Splaining
15 - First Date
16 - Strange Behavior
17 - Back to Work
18 - Meeting Discomfort
19 - A Weird Day
20 - The Tickets
21 - File Conversion
22 - New Behavior
23 - Mile High
24 - Sick Day
25 - Taking Tests
26 - More Results
27 - Reactions
28 - Trapped
29 - On the Inside
30 - Familiar Faces
31 - The Doldrums
32 - War Paint
33 - Confrontation
34 - Tests
35 - Making an Effort
36 - Five Months
37 - On the Outside
38 - Being Better
39 - The Visitor
40 - Being Watched
41 - Labor Pains
42 - The Toddler
43 - The Booklet
44 - The Third One
45 - Understanding
46 - The Truth
47 - A Phone Call
48 - The Escape
49 - Shots Fired
50 - Meeting Again
Epilogue - The Rogue
Free Stuff!!
The Story Behind the Story
Your Opinions Please!
About the Author
Also by the Author
Sample: Domna
Sample: The Cassie Black Trilogy
Sample: The Circus of Unusual Creatures
Sample: The Osteria Chronicles
Back Copyright
Day Sixteen
A Supernatural Thriller
by
Tammie Painter
EARLY PRAISE FOR DAY SIXTEEN
...the storyline had me on the edge of my seat -- really hard to put down. You need to read it!
--Bookbub Reviewer
If you want a thrilling read with some solid creepy moments along the way, this book is for you!
—Jonathan Pongratz, Author of The BEK Curse
...keeps the reader engaged wanting to see where this will lead. But still...not wanting it to end.
--Bookbub Reviewer
If you're a fan of creepy books with a bit of a paranormal twist, you'll enjoy this!
--T.M. Baumgartner, author of The Chaos Job
A Note Before We Begin...
While the main goal of this story is to tell an intriguing tale, it does cover some sensitive topics, such as abortion and the description of a violent attack.
In addition, it covers a woman fretting over her mental state, and as she does so, she uses words that would be considered extremely insensitive, words that perpetuate the stigma of mental health when used in the real world.
These terms (such as crazy, loony, nuts) are used by the character as her way of coping with what is happening to her, first as a way of being flippant, then as a way of being defiant.
When speaking about mental health, these are problematic terms, and are only used here to demonstrate a character’s reaction and fears.
Mental health is a serious issue that is often difficult to discuss. If you are experiencing a mental health crisis, or simply need to talk through your troubles, here are a few websites that will help guide you to someone you can speak to...
The National Alliance on Mental Health https://www.nami.org/help
The American Psychological Association Hotlines & Resources https://www.apa.org/topics/crisis-hotlines
NHS (UK) Where to get help for mental health https://www.nhs.uk/nhs-services/mental-health-services/where-to-get-urgent-help-for-mental-health/
International Mental Health Helplines (large list of countries and specific issues) https://www.helpguide.org/find-help.htm
Mind Your Mind (Canada) https://mindyourmind.ca/help/where-call
Lifeline (Australia) https://www.lifeline.org.au
Mental Health Foundation (New Zealand) https://mentalhealth.org.nz/help
Mental Health Ireland Helplines https://www.mentalhealthireland.ie/get-support/
DAY
SIXTEEN
To anyone who ever got the chills while watching the X-Files.
PROLOGUE - THE TEST
SHE EYED THE empty glass as he lowered it to the table.
The wet mark where his mouth met the rim. Would it be enough?
Moire Anders stood up from the table, taking her half-finished lunch to the sink. Food held little appeal with the thoughts running laps through her mind — the thoughts they’d told her not to think anymore.
Should she take the risk? She could leave well enough alone, ignore the warnings in her head, and live as she had done for the past several years. Safely. Freely.
You aren’t safe, and you most definitely aren’t free.
She didn’t want to be taken back to the Ward, but neither could she deny the certainty of what was going on, of what had been done to her. If she could prove it, though…
Then what? Who would believe her? There were times she didn’t believe it herself.
“Done with this?” she asked, placing her hand well below the lip shadow at the rim of the glass with as much care as if preparing to pick up an injured fledgling.
Neil flicked his gaze from the newspaper to the tumbler, gave a sharp nod of his head, then returned his attention to his reading.
The glass shook as Moire lifted it from the table. She told herself it was stupid to be nervous. He drank a glass of water with every meal. She’d have plenty of chances to do this. But, she reminded herself, not many when Xavier would be sound asleep instead of under her feet asking what she was doing and why she was doing it with every movement.
No, it had to be this lunch, this glass.
Her and Xavier’s samples waited in the envelope for Neil’s to join them. She only needed to swab the rim, seal up the packet, then mail off the paternity test kit.
Angled to keep Neil in her field of vision, tensed and ready to toss the test swab under a kitchen towel if he got up, Moire’s hands trembled. She should drop this madness. It wasn’t too late. Just toss the kit into the trash and move on with her life.
No, Moire. The swab. Just hold the swab, swirl the cotton tip over the saliva on the glass. You deserve to—
Neil flicked his newspaper to straighten it. Moire bit her lip to stop herself from crying out in fright at the unexpected crinkling snap that blared like an alarm through the kitchen.
She darted a glance at her husband. Still seated. Still reading. The swab quivered in her hand.
I can’t do this. I can’t. Just pack up the kit and toss it in the trash. Don’t ask questions if you can’t handle all possible answers.
Moire then remembered her sister. She remembered where they had been confined for five months.
And who had signed the papers to put them there.
The anger stirred by the memory steadied her hands.
1 - THE FIRST TIME
FOUR YEARS PREVIOUS
The first time Moire woke in Portland’s Westmoreland Park, her name was still Moire Kelly and she had been living with her boyfriend Neil Anders for three months. It had happened the night the argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes had gotten stupidly out of hand.
The final angry words that came an hour after the bickering began, had nothing to do with dishes and more to do with Neil’s working hours, the lack of spontaneity in their love life, and, well, Moire couldn’t even recall what else. It was as if the dishes had been a hydra of disharmony, with seven new squabbles sprouting for each complaint that was chopped away.
Too angry to stay in the same room with Neil, at half-past eight, Moire marched up to their bedroom where she planned to have a pleasantly grumpy sulk. She expected her mind to dwell on the harsh words they’d just hurled at each other. Okay, if she was being honest, it had mostly been her doing the hurling while Neil gently lobbed rational responses back at her like a worn out tennis ball.
Unspoken questions roared at Moire as she scoured the toothbrush against her teeth. Mainly questions of whether Neil might be right. Could it really be her own insecurity that was behind the majority of their disagreements? That was ridiculous. He was the one who didn’t want to do the dishes when it had clearly been his turn.
As she undressed and settled in under the cool sheets, the sound of dishes being put away came from downstairs. Neil’s words kicked around her head. She loved him, of course she did. He was kind, smart, and stable. And, she always teased, he had the best table manners of any man she’d ever met.
Fine, maybe it had been her turn to do the dishes, but that didn’t explain why he showed so little interest in doing anything between the very sheets that had already warmed around her.
They’d been together for two years and, mainly due to his work hours and research projects, had slipped into a Thursday night ritual. Thursday at nine. Like a television program. Moir
What man doesn’t constantly think about it? Moire pondered as she squirmed to get the pillow just right under her head.
Especially a man who’s a fertility doctor and researcher. Shouldn’t he be thinking about it a billion times more than other people?
She supposed it was a petty problem. One that wasn’t worth fighting about. Neil was a great guy in every other aspect, and she couldn’t imagine not being with him. As long as she kept the batteries charged for the personal item she kept stashed in her underwear drawer, she could accept the weekly arrangement. Accepting the situation, however, didn’t stop her from wondering if Neil wasn’t in some way dissatisfied with her.
These worries had roamed around Moire’s head, but like Neil puttering around downstairs, they didn’t stomp, stampede, or stir up enough of a ruckus to keep her awake. By a quarter past nine, she’d fallen asleep.
When she stirred some time in the night, her feet were freezing. Groggily, she shifted her legs, trying to kick the blanket back over her toes, but her shuffling feet found no blanket. Had it fallen off the bed? Or had Neil taken it off? He never liked the bed to be too warm.
Stirring more into the realm of consciousness, Moire noticed a tickle of wind brushing over her face. Neil must have opened the window. Her damn feet. They were so cold. She’d have to get up and get the blanket. And maybe some socks while she was at it.
Deciding her sleep had been fully disturbed, Moire opened her eyes. Wait, why was she standing? Why was she looking at maple trees and a basketball court instead of her dresser and floor lamp? She curled her toes. They pinched the wet grass she stood on.
She knew she should have been scared, or at least trying to convince herself it was just a dream. But would there be a garbage can nearly overflowing with McDonald’s wrappers and Starbucks cups in a dream? Probably not.
Moire was now fully awake, and rather than being afraid, she was mostly in awe that she’d had the foresight to put on a robe before she went sleepwalking. What if she hadn’t? What would Mr. Byrd, the old fart who lived across the street from them, think?
The image of the geezer’s shocked face was too funny to allow Moire to fret over her sudden desire to go roaming around in her sleep. After all, she’d never done it before. Surely it wouldn’t happen again.
Moire walked home on numb feet, mumbling an array of curses each time she stepped on a pebble. The front door was locked when she returned to the house, but the side gate stood open. Slipping into the back garden, she crossed the patio.
When she tugged on the sliding glass door, it opened with a swish that sounded as loud as a stormy ocean. The stick that was normally put in place as an extra security measure had been set aside. Again, she marveled at her nocturnal lucidity without remembering any of it. After tiptoeing upstairs, she wiped off her feet in the bathroom as Neil snored softly. That man could sleep through anything.
——-
Neil had already left to start his clinic hours by the time Moire’s alarm went off, so they hadn’t been able to mend things between them before Moire climbed onto her bike to ride to work.
Although she needed to file a stack of student records from the previous semester, Moire sat at her desk and did an Internet search for sleepwalking. After closing out a dozen pop-up ads for sleep aids and foam pillows, she finally found a reliable medical website that addressed the condition by saying an episode could be induced by stress, whether or not the patient had a history of somnambulism.
There you have it, she thought. It was just the argument. Nothing to worry about. She swore to do more relaxation exercises, to try to tame her temper, and not to bother Neil with what had happened to her the night before.
The night before. Guilt flooded over Moire. She’d given Neil the wicked witch of tongue lashings. A crappy way to behave when she knew he was already dealing with a disgruntled and increasingly impatient research committee.
She considered crossing from her office in the neuroscience department to Neil’s clinic on the other side of the medical school’s campus to see how he was doing, but not knowing how she’d be received (and not wanting the catty guy who worked in the clinic’s reception area to pick up on the trouble-in-paradise vibe), Moire opted to text Neil and ask if he wanted to meet for lunch.
His reply came in record speed.
Not a lot of time. Got to go to research meeting @ 12:30 can’t be late — bigwigs attending — but glad to meet if U can eat quickly. CU there. XO
Another meeting with the higher ups. Moire rolled her eyes. What more did they expect Neil to do? In addition to his clinic hours, he was already devoting most of his waking time to this research.
She hated the project, not only because Neil was frustrated that it wasn’t progressing, but also because she felt left out of what was going on. Due to patient privacy, Neil couldn’t share details with her, but from his cautiously worded complaints and the brief snatches of telephone conversations she’d caught, she gathered these browbeating bigwigs expected results faster than Neil’s team could possibly deliver them.
——-
"This project just seems a little overboard," Moire said when she and Neil stood in the cafeteria line a couple hours later. Sheepish apologies had been made and accepted, and Neil had mentioned again it would be a rushed lunch. "You’ve never had to work this hard, and I don’t get what more they expect from you. I don’t know, maybe it’s just because I never wanted kids, but I just don’t get all of this. I mean, if you can’t have kids, why not just adopt? Why put yourself through all the stress and cost of fertility treatment?"
"Because adoption doesn’t pay our mortgage." Moire’s heart jumped at the word our. Silly, she knew. She was financially independent, and she’d owned her own home when she met Neil. But that our…it gave her a true sense that all would be right between them. Neil grabbed an orange from the bowl of fruit on the counter as they waited to pay for their orders.
“Still, I do try to make sure bringing a child into their lives is what they want," he continued once they’d found a table. Neil positioned himself so he could keep an eye on the clock.
"That probably doesn’t go over well with the higher ups."
Neil shrugged as he took a sip of water, then said, "I don’t exactly tell them about that part of the consultation. So many people have kids for the wrong reason. I’ve seen too many clients trying to save a bad marriage by having a child, as if an infant will distract from the fact that they just aren’t compatible. I’ve fought back telling a few of them that, instead of a fertility doctor, maybe they need a marriage counselor. Or a divorce lawyer."
“So why not just tell them the truth?”
“Because no one wants to hear their marriage should end."
"No, they’d rather force their terrible relationship on a kid," Moire said, then took a bite of her black bean burger. Neil nodded and stole one of her fries.
"Believe me, I’ve seen exactly that when we’ve done follow-up studies on some clients. Not all, of course, but some pretend all is well, tiptoe around one another, and end up in a competition over who can dote on Junior more. All the while failing to realize that by age twelve or so, Junior is going to be a spoiled rotten brat who doesn’t want attention from either of them because his friends are way more fun than the two people who smother him instead of speaking to each other.”
“Harboring some feelings you want to talk about, Neil?” Moire teased.
“No, I wish.”
“Oh, god, I’m such a jerk.”
“No, don’t worry about it. I was too young when my parents died for me to really miss them. I just mean that I wish I could have been around my parents as a teenager. Then I’d remember what it’s like, and I could warn these people what they’re in for." Neil glanced at the clock as he started in on the second half of his veggie wrap. "So, what’s it like?”
