FanStory.com - The Empty Chair Chap 2by Begin Again

Fiona wheeled her chair to the window as the detective and Sharice closed the door. Her thoughts jumbled, and she couldn't decipher what was true and what was the dream. She could feel her heart beating wildly against her chest as she gazed at Peyton's house.

"Peyton, darling, where are you? People are worried about you." She sighed heavily. "I miss you."

As the minutes dragged on, she found herself grappling with her thoughts. What if the dream had truth to it? Had she seen the woman with Peyton or imagined it? Was it Sharice?

Her stomach twisted, and she cried, "Peyton, did her jealousy take you from me?"

The cell phone, an unused gift from her sister, buzzed. Fiona allowed her eyes to drift in that direction but didn't move. It buzzed again, vibrating against the table.

Fiona's heart raced. She knew it was Sharice since she was the only one with the number. Why would she be calling? Her mind whirled as the floodgate of thoughts rushed in. "Did they find Peyton? Had something happened at his house?"

She spun her chair around and rolled toward the table. Her trembling hand hovered over the phone, almost as if she felt it would bite her if she touched it. She dropped her hand to the book and seemed to draw strength and comfort from the familiar binding. She closed her eyes, inhaling sharply. As she expelled the air slowly, her hand moved to the phone, and she picked it up tremblingly.

A text message from Sharice appeared on the screen — "We're inside. Detective Harris is looking around."

She moved back to the window. She could see lights inside the house and a man. For a moment, her heart soared as she imagined it was Peyton. He was safe, after all, and this had all been a nightmare.

Her joy crashed as she saw a woman standing near the man. The sour taste of bitterness filled her throat. "Sharice!"

Her angry scream snapped her back to reality. She focused on the window, peering through the thin curtain. It was Detective Harris, not Peyton. What was he doing? Had he found something?

Flashing lights danced across the lawn and the side of the house. Fiona leaned forward in her chair, pressing her face against the glass. Police cars — several of them had parked in Peyton's driveway, and officers were hurrying toward his front door.

Fiona's hands flew to her mouth as she gasped. Tears streamed down her face. A guttural wail from deep inside her body filled the room. "Peyton, my love, was the woman —"

The footsteps on the front porch and the door swinging open startled her, and the wail turned to a scream.

"Fiona!" Sharice rushed into the library. Her face was pale. "Stop screaming. It's me."

"What's happening? Is it —" She turned her head toward the window, unable to finish her sentence.

"I'm not sure what happened. Peyton's not there, but there's been a struggle. The house is a shambles and —"

"And what, Sharice? What did they find?" Fiona's eyes were wild, like a crazed animal. "Never mind — I know what they found. It's Peyton's blood, isn't it?"

Sharice slumped into the overstuffed chair, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed. "It can't be!"

Fiona's facial features changed from hysterical to chiseled stone. "Of course it is! I told you —"

Sharice's head snapped up, and she glared at her sister. "Stop with your idiotic thoughts. You had a dream. That doesn't make it real."

Fiona's voice was icy cold when she spoke, "It was real. I saw a woman — I saw you kissing him. How could you do this, Sharice?"

Sharice jumped from the chair, gasping. "Me? Do you think I did something to Peyton? How can you say that to me? I —" She stopped and turned to see Detective Harris in the doorway.

"I knocked, but I'm afraid you didn't hear me, so I let myself in." The detective looked from one sister to the other, assessing the scene.

Fiona turned her wheelchair away from the wind and let her tear-stained eyes gaze at him. "Detective, please come in," her voice was barely a whisper. She pressed her quivering lips together as if she were stifling her pain. Her eyes begged him for help, relief from her misery. "Is — is he —?"

"It's too early to answer that question. We found signs of a struggle and blood on the carpet."

Fiona shivered and turned her head away. "Is it Peyton's?

"Forensics will have to do tests, but odds are, it is his. There's no body, so I can't be sure."

Fiona's mind went blank while her heart beat wildly against her chest. The gnawing in her stomach now felt like a vise squeezing tighter and tighter. She'd seen it — either in a dream or —. She lifted her eyes and stared at Sharice. She remembered seeing Sharice kissing Peyton. Had he refused her advances? Was Sharice the woman?

Fiona gasped. Shaking her head in disbelief, she mumbled, "I — I didn't mean to —" Her voice was barely audible, "It was a dream — wasn't it?"

Sharice's anger vanished as she reached for her sister's arm. "Fiona, please. You need to stay calm and think this through."

With tears streaming down her cheeks, she raised her head and stared at her sister. "I killed him."

Sharice's eyes flared, and she dropped to her knees beside the wheelchair. "Fiona, stop! You didn't kill anyone. It was a dream."

Fiona shook her head violently. "I — I saw it happen. I remember everything."

The detective glanced at the other officer, who had joined them, then turned back to the two sisters. "Can you recall any details that would help our investigation?"

Fiona's mind was racing as she tried to sort through her thoughts. What details could she share? Were they real or parts of a twisted dream? "I — I don't know." She swallowed hard, struggling to keep the bile from creeping into her throat. She wiped away the tears. "He was in trouble. Someone — a woman — was there."

"Someone? You don't know who it was?" Harris pressed.

Fiona's gaze shifted toward her sister and then back to her trembling hands in her lap. "I thought it was a woman, but — I couldn't see her face. Maybe it was —"

"Fiona!" Sharice's voice was shrill as she interrupted. "You are not a murderer. You are sick, and the dream doesn't mean anything."

"But what if it does?" Fiona cried. "What if I saw —" Her eyes locked on Sharice before continuing, "or I was there?" She gasped for air and shuddered. "I — I don't remember."

"Enough, ladies," Detective Harris interjected. "Do you mind if I sit?"

Sharice nodded and pointed to a Queen Anne chair. "Excuse my manners. Please, sit down."

The detective nodded and settled into the chair. "We need to establish a timeline." Directing his questions to Fiona, he asked, "Can you tell me where you were last night?"

Confused by his question, she replied, her voice faltering, "I was here in the library." Her eyes shifted to the book on the table. "Reading, as usual."

"Is that true, Sharice?" he asked, turning to Fiona's sister.

"Yes! I mean, of course. She can't walk. She's been confined to that chair since we were young. There's no way she could have gone anywhere."

Detective Harris nodded and returned his gaze to Fiona. "You need to think carefully. Were you alone the entire night?"

Fiona rubbed her temples. The throbbing in her head felt like a drum beating against her skull. "Yes, I was alone. But —"

"Fiona!" Sharice interrupted again. "You were dreaming. Just dreams."

"But — it was so real," Fiona's voice broke. "I can't shake it. If I'm guilty—"

"Stop," Detective Harris said, cutting her off. "No one is saying you are guilty. But we need to get to the bottom of this."

"Then you need to understand," Fiona continued, her voice intensifying. "I've been having these dreams for weeks. Dark, twisted nightmares. And now this — it's too much."

"We'll investigate," Harris assured her, his voice softening. "But you have to trust us. We'll find out what happened."

Someone knocked on the door, and the officer turned, moving out of sight. The muffled conversation at the door was barely audible. The detective took a moment to study Sharice and Fiona, who had anxiety written on their faces. After a few minutes, the officer returned to the library.

"Sir, I believe there is something you need to see. Forensics would like you over at the house."

Detective Harris stood, gently touched Fiona's arm, and nodded at Sharice. "You'll have to excuse me, ladies. I'm needed next door." He moved to leave and added, "We'll continue this conversation later. Thank you."

The silence was unbearable when the door clicked shut behind the officers and Detective Harris. Sharice moved to the window, brushing the curtains aside to see what was happening.

Police had set up enormous lights in the backyard and near the gate. Several officers were standing around as the Detective approached.

Sharice watched, her stomach in knots, as she worried what they might have found. She turned, intending to ask Fiona if she wanted some tea to settle her nerves, but hesitated when she didn't immediately spot her sister.

"Fiona?" she called as she glanced around the room and the hallway.

No answer.

Sharice's heart raced as she moved through the hallway, her eyes darting through the open doors. "Fiona?" she called again, louder this time, fear creeping into her voice. "Fiona, where are you?"

Then she heard it — the quiet clinking of silverware, muffled but unmistakable.

She followed the sound until she reached the dining room. There was Fiona, sitting in her wheelchair at the head of the table, carefully arranging plates and utensils. Her face was serene.

Sharice's gaze dropped to the table, and her breath caught. Fiona had set an extra place setting.

"Fiona —" Sharice's voice wavered. "What are you doing?"

Fiona glanced up with a soft smile, her hands busy as she polished the silverware. "Setting the table for Sunday dinner, of course," she said, her tone calm as if everything were perfectly normal.

Sharice stared at her, then at the extra setting. "Why are you setting a place for Peyton?"

Fiona's smile didn't waver. She placed a fork beside the plate. "What a silly question. He always has Sunday dinner with us."

Sharice's mouth opened to respond, but before she could speak, Fiona's hand jerked, dropping the remaining silverware. The clattering noise made Sharice flinch.

Fiona's smile faded. Her voice was bitter, "Have you done something to Peyton? Is that why he won't come?"

"What? Why would I harm Peyton?"

"Don't play innocent with me. I saw you kissing him."

"You're wrong, Fiona. I wouldn't —"

"Stop!" Fiona snarled. "I may be in this wheelchair, but it doesn't make me a fool. I know you wanted him."

"Fiona, you don't know what you are saying." Sharice's breath quickened.

"Lies!" Fiona's face twisted in anger as she reached into her pocket, tossing a narrow white obstacle across the table. "Care to explain this?"

Sharice's eyes widened as she stared at the pregnancy test. Thoughts raced through her mind, struggling to find an explanation for her sister. She had taken it in a moment of desperation and tossed it away without a second thought. As Fiona glared at her, she felt as if she was suffocating.

"What is this?" Sharice's voice faltered, her heart pounding in her chest.

Fiona leaned forward, her expression full of rage. "Don't pretend you don't know! Care to tell me why you took this?"

Sharice's mind raced, the blood rushing in her ears. She glanced at the test, then back at Fiona, who seemed ready to explode. "I didn't mean anything by it. It was just — a mistake," she blurted out, her voice filled with desperation.

"A mistake?" Fiona scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "You think I'm going to believe that? You were hoping for something, weren't you?"

"No! I wasn't hoping for anything!" Sharice's voice rose. She fought to keep her composure, but the intensity of Fiona's gaze was unnerving. "You're twisting this around."

Fiona's laughter was harsh and bitter. "Twisting? Or am I simply seeing the truth for what it is? You wanted him for yourself, and now he's gone. What did you do to him, Sharice?"

Sharice felt her stomach drop under Fiona's accusations. "I didn't do anything to Peyton! You have to believe me!"

But silence greeted the pleading in her voice. Fiona's expression softened momentarily, a flicker of doubt passing through her eyes before being replaced by steely resolve. "You're right! How foolish of me to imagine Peyton and you —"

She returned to her task, setting the last place at the table with shaking hands. "Shall we have a pot roast with baby potatoes and lots of veggies? That's one of Peyton's favorite dinners."