CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IN HEATHCLIFFE’S DREAM, a brisk wind slammed a shutter against the wall and made the dying fire sputter in the fireplace. Buried in the dream, he sat up and looked at the window, seeing nothing but a dense fall of white beyond the streaked glass.
The room was cold, so cold, and he was so tired. He turned to look at Nita and she was just lying there, her eyes open and unfocused, her small face so pale that her freckles were vibrant spots across her nose and cheeks. Her pretty lips were colorless. His gaze slipped downward and fixed on the sheet draping her chest.
There was no telltale rise and fall. Nita was dead. He accepted the knowledge with a cold clarity that terrified him. On some level, even immersed in the dream, he knew he should be screaming. But he was strange
