by Nika Dixon
“Alexander.” Marshall turned and faced the fire, but not before she sensed his anger.
She reached out and placed her fingers on his arm, afraid she was losing him. “No, I can’t read your mind. I just…” She swallowed the words down her suddenly dry throat. “I see memories. And other things. It’s almost like I’m there. Living at that moment in time when it happened. I can hear it. Feel it. The sounds. The smells. Like when I touched the bathtub, I could see him as clear as day. He was sitting right over there.” She pointed to the dining table separating them from the kitchen area.
“Does it always happen when you touch things?”
“No. It comes and goes. But…if it’s strong enough, I can’t do anything else until I can draw it. It’s like it has to come out. Anything will do to draw on. The corner of a menu. A blank spot in a magazine. If I have a pen, or a marker, or—”
“Or a broken pencil?”
“Yeah.”
His brow furrowed. “But what you did for Danny wasn’t a memory.”
“No. That’s…something else. If I concentrate. I mean, really, really concentrate, I can get flashes of something important. What the person I’m touching can’t stop thinking about. Even if they aren’t talking about it, or thinking about it at that particular second, it’s there in their mind.”
She turned her head toward the fireplace, reliving the images she’d drawn for Danny. There was an insanity in the boy who was setting the fires. He chose the barns because they were made of wood and stacked with straw, which burned hot and fast and left nothing behind.
She told Marshall, “That boy in my drawing dumped gasoline all over the front of the poor lady’s barn, then he stood there laughing while it burned. He got into his red-and-white truck and drove away. But not far. He stopped up the road and watched. Watched the fire department come. Watched the police come. Watched the lady who owed it and all the neighbors come to watch.” Emma cleared her throat against the taste of smoky ash coating her tongue. “He likes it—the power of the fire. He thinks he can hear it. That it talks to him. He won’t stop, you know.”
Marshall was watching her carefully. “And you saw all that from Danny?”
“Not from him. For him. Not being able to stop it is eating him up inside.”
She pushed herself off the couch, needing to move. She walked to the window, but the darkness beyond was out of reach. The reflection of the fire and the man sitting on the sofa in front of it was all she could see in the glass.
“And that’s what Alexander wants you to do for him? Read people’s minds and draw a picture?”
She tapped her fingers against the glass. Her plan of talking her way through this was failing. She was never going to come up with a good enough explanation.
“I’m sorry.” She sighed, turning around and sitting back against the cold wooden window frame. “I can’t think of how to tell you that makes any sense.”
He pushed up off the couch and headed into the kitchen. He took the sketchbook and pencils from out of her bag and carried them over to her. “Then don’t tell me. Show me.”
She crushed the sketchbook to her chest. She felt a flicker of worry at what she was about to do, then quickly dismissed it. Marshall was a good man. Whatever secrets he had buried wouldn’t compare to some of the dark and twisted things she’d seen with Alan. Marshall had a darkness to him, yes. Emotions he buried. A memory he wanted gone. But whatever she sensed in the depths of his mind, it wasn’t the kind of evil Alan always demanded she find.
Slipping into a chair, she flipped to an empty page in her sketchbook and ran her hand across the blank surface, letting the smooth, cool slide of the paper soothe her worry. What she’d given Danny had been easy. The sheriff was consumed with finding the person behind the fires. The obsession surrounded him like an aura. It hadn’t taken her any effort at all to bring it into focus. But what she needed to show Marshall required digging.
She could ask him to hold her hand to give her a direct link, but the thought of touching even just his fingers sent a heated warmth to her cheeks. Instead, her mind jumped back to their ride up the mountain. The memory of his kiss kicked her stomach into a fluttering dance. She stomped down on the happy butterflies.
No. There would be no more touching.
With a deep breath, she opened her mind. Picking up the box of colored pencils, she shook them out onto a little table beside her. They rolled across the smooth surface and would have spilled onto the floor if not for Marshall’s quick reflexes. He gathered them into a cluster in his hand and handed them back to her.
The second her fingers touched his, the connection was made. She could sense it now. A cold that broke goose bumps across her skin. It was like looking down into a well so dark and deep there was no bottom.
She snatched her fingers away, breaking the link. Whatever she was digging for, it was his secret. He didn’t deserve to have her invading his mind. But he reached for her hand and pressed the pencils into her palm.
A flicker of light began to show within the darkness he tried to hide.
She stopped resisting. Her hand began to itch.
She let the images come.
Chapter Forty-Two
Marshall sat at the dining room table, nursing a dead cup of coffee while he waited for Emma to finish drawing. He wanted to sneak a peek at what she was doing, but he would have to lean right over her to catch a glimpse, what with the way she was sitting all jammed up in the corner. So he caged his anticipation and forced himself to sit and stay quiet.
Whatever she did for Alan Alexander back in Chicago, she was terrified to reveal. But despite her insistence it was her skill with a pencil, he was more inclined to believe it was her knowledge of Alexander’s business that had made her a target.
She finally lowered the sketchbook and set her pencil aside. Marshall pushed his empty mug away and rose from the table with anticipation. She looked over at him and smiled. As with each time before, he was surprised by how calm and happy she looked, as though the mere act of drawing had changed her personality. Gone was the frightened, jittery woman, and in her place was the beautiful gal with sunshine in her smile and a spark of innocence in her gold-green eyes.
Then the situation came back to her, and darkness blanketed her once again.
He hated the transformation almost as much as he hated the man who caused it.
She stood, crushing the sketchbook to her chest like a shield. “Before you look, you need to promise me that you understand I don’t know what they mean.”
“You drew them, but you don’t know what they mean?”
“No idea.” She shook her head rapidly, bouncing curls around her face. “But you will.”
He had no idea what her warning was supposed to mean, but there was one way to find out.
He slowly lifted the sketchbook from her. In the second it took him to focus on the first drawing, every muscle in his body tensed.
Lines and colors swirled into the face of a beautiful blonde with a knowing smile that hinted at a joke she was aching to tell.
Michelle.
His heart rapped against his ribs.
In perfect color, line, and shape was a stunning replica of the woman he’d loved…and lost.
Anxiety gripped his fingers as he snapped the page, flipping over to the next drawing. A sidewalk view of a building entrance with a dark-green awning filled the page. Across the front of the canvas canopy, the numbers of the street address were sharply outlined—1526—the condo tower he’d called home for nearly a year.
Michelle’s apartment.
Their apartment.
He suddenly couldn’t catch a full breath.
He didn’t want to see the next picture, but he couldn’t stop himself from looking.
He turned the page.
Isolated in the center of the white paper was a full-body pose of a scraggly-haired man with a black leather jacket over a T-shirt and jeans.
Jones. No first name. No last name. Just Jones.
The image was so clear, so perfect. Emma had even captured the gutless essence of the drug-dealing bastard right down to the scar on his cheek.
Marshall flipped back to the first picture, the snap of the heavy paper fanning the coals of his anger. He ran through them in succession once more, then tore the pages out of the book and tossed it aside without care. The corners of the sketches crumpled in his fist. He jumped from Michelle’s smile, so bright with life, to the cocky sneer on Jones’s face. It sent him back as though the months hadn’t passed, straight to their apartment. To the night of the party. To finding her dead in the bathroom, overdosed on whatever cocktail Jones had supplied while her friends laughed and carried on in the other room, enjoying the high her money bought them.
A year’s worth of walls crumbled inside him, tearing open the wound and leaving him gasping for relief. Anger. Pain. Despair. Each emotion flooded into his heart and soul as strong as the day she had died.
He crushed the paper between his hands, smashing the drawings into a ball before tossing them into the fire. The flames ate hungrily, and it seconds they were gone.
She was gone.
He took a step back. Then another.
He needed space. He needed air.
But most of all, he needed to get away from the presence of yet another city girl who’d gotten under his skin.
Ignoring the teary eyes following his every step, he jerked the door open and escaped into the cold night.
Chapter Forty-Three
Marshall returned to the cabin, surprised at the level of darkness within. The once burning fire was a dull pile of muted orange coals providing barely enough light to see by. Without the heat source, the night’s chill had crawled inside.
Had he really been gone that long?
Yes, he’d wanted some time alone. Time for the clear mountain air to blow the memories of Michelle out of his head. Time to calm the emotions raging through him. Time to dispel the anger and bury all the arguments and what-ifs.
As the night and the stars and the land had brought him back to himself, it had also brought clarity to his current state of mind.
He was behaving like a jackass.
He’d walked out on Emma without so much as a word—something he would definitely need to apologize for in the morning.
She’d bewitched him, and he was damned if he could figure out how or why.
She was the exact opposite of what he needed, what he wanted—a quiet country girl with a carefree attitude and no secrets. But instead of going with what was in his head, another city gal with a wagonload of trouble had wriggled her way into his heart.
From the very second he first saw her sitting in the reeds next to Georgie’s stolen car, the only part of him glued to his memories of Michelle was his anger. Everything else had been wiped clean, replaced with thoughts and feelings for Emma. She was the one running through his mind when he fell asleep at night and the one who entered first when he woke. The one to break through to him while he was working and overtake him when he was quiet. Even though they’d met only days before, she was inside him, as though she’d been there for a lifetime.
And he had no idea what to do about it.
Or where to even start.
He could explain away her story of Grandpa Glen and the tub. She could have picked up the story from his father, or Lucy might have spilled it. The pictures of the kid and the barn could have been overheard. Danny wasn’t keeping his arsonist case quiet—he spoke about it often. And her guess that he’d taunted Danny into overturning the canoe could have been just that—a guess.
But how in hell had she drawn Michelle?
There were a dozen different explanations of how she could draw something she couldn’t possibly have ever seen, yet not a single one could be true. The image could have come from a photograph—but there were no pictures of Michelle within a thousand miles of Absolution. The condo address could be from any number of places, but the exact shape and form of the green awning and the building entrance were an impossibility unless she’d been there in person.
Then there was the picture of Jones.
He’d never told anyone about Jones.
Anyone.
Not even his brother.
So, how could a woman who’d spent half her life in a penthouse across the country draw picture-perfect images from a place she couldn’t possibly know?
The pulsing orange embers offered no answers.
He squatted in front of the hearth to revive the fire with a stir. Half asleep on the area rug, Drift thumped his tail. He rubbed the dog’s ears, then turned to reach for a piece of wood and spotted an out-of-place lump in the shadows to the left.
Emma hadn’t gone to bed. She was fast asleep in the chair in the corner.
Her bare toes dangled over the arm, resting on her bag, which was neatly packed and ready to be picked up. Next to the chair her boots sat neatly side by side, the socks folded into the tops. Her arms were jammed into the pockets of the hoodie, and the hood was up over her head.
Guilt stabbed into his gut, making him feel even more like an ass.
He’d promised her he would understand, and then what had he done? Burned what she’d given him and stormed out in a huff. No wonder she was terrified of telling anyone. His reaction had been a mess, and his so-called secret wasn’t worth killing anyone over.
Leaving her to sleep a few minutes longer, he quietly moved to the bedrooms to make up the double bed. Returning to the living room, he gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, sleepy head.”
Her eyes flew open, and her entire body jerked, rocking the chair back on its legs. Her feet kicked out, connecting with the lamp. He lurched for the lamp just as Drift scampered into the fray with an excited bark.
Emma gripped the arms of the chair, her body frozen. Then she flung herself at him. “You came back!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around his neck in a panicked crush.
He righted the lamp, shushed Drift, then hugged Emma to him. “You know, for someone smart enough to know the name of every shade of orange God ever created, you sure are a dumb-ass,” he joked, hiding his massive guilt over knowing he’d once again been the reason for her fears. “I was just outside. Not on the moon.”
Her fingers twitched against his neck. “You were?”
“I was.” He chuckled. “So much for being a psychic.”
She slowly lowered her hands and stepped away from him. “I thought…”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know what you thought.”
A flicker of annoyance twisted through him. How could he convince her he wasn’t like the other men in her life? That he wasn’t going to use her, or hurt her? But the emotion was gone as quickly as it arrived. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t put her faith in anyone. No one had ever given her a reason to before.
Well, he was just going to have to teach her he was worth it.
Starting by putting his own idiotic reactions in check.
She stuffed her hands into the pocket of the hoodie. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so—you were just so—when you left…”
“Yes, I was angry,” he admitted. “But not at you.”
She moved closer to the hearth and gazed down at the reviving fire. “At what I drew.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulder lifted, then dropped. “It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.” He knelt in front of the hearth and coaxed another flame out of the bed of coals. After a few minutes, he had the fire back up to a decent level. He stood up and brushed the bits of bark off his hands. “What do you know about the woman you drew?”
“Nothing,” she answered with a panicked snap. “I have no idea who she is. I promise.”
“It wasn’t an accusation, Em. Just a question.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks pinked. She backed away to the couch and perched on the edge of the cushion. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to
be sorry for. I’m the one pestering you with questions.” He joined her on the couch. “So…why did you draw her?”
“To show you what I can do.”
When she didn’t delve any further into the explanation, he tried a different angle. “How does drawing dead people help anyone?”
She let out a small gasp. “She’s dead?” She hurriedly placed her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you, I just—”
“I’m fine. I can handle seeing a picture of my dead girlfriend.”
He wasn’t sure why he felt the urge to drop the macho lie in her lap, but as soon as the words were out, he knew she didn’t believe it any more than he did, because he hadn’t handled it very well at all.
She tucked her arms in around her stomach, hugging herself. “She’s what you keep buried. The darkness you hide.”
He stared at the glowing coals, seeking any trace of the papers he’d thrown there, but they were long gone.
Darkness.
That was as good a way to describe it as any.
She burrowed back into the cushions, slumping closer to him and bumping her shoulder against his. She tried to shift away, but the couch seemed content to spill her over onto his side. She gave up with a sigh and leaned against him.
“I don’t want to draw darkness,” she said quietly, wistfully. “I wish…I wish I could draw happy things, you know? All I ever wanted to do was draw. Ever since I was a little girl. I’d see something that would stick in my head, and it would be the only thing I could think about until I drew it. I used to think it was like getting a song stuck in your mind, but the longer I would leave it, the more it started to hurt.”
He lifted his arm and dropped it down behind her, tucking her head against his shoulder. “Hurt?”
She held up her palm, turning her hand over and back again. “It itches. My hands. My fingers. Usually it goes away after a few hours, but sometimes if the picture is strong enough, and I don’t let it out, it gets worse and worse until my hands feel like they’re on fire. It gets worse and worse until I let it out. Scratching it in the dirt. Markers on a window. Anything. I mean, I like paper the best, but sometimes there isn’t any, so I have to use what I can.”