Dark Halo (An Angel Eyes Novel)

by Dittemore, Shannon

  Because he lied.

  That’s not entirely accurate, I know. But it felt like a lie. He let me believe my engagement ring was still in the chest, let me think everything was okay, when months before the ring had disappeared only to be replaced by Damien’s dagger.

  Jake should have told me.

  But I should have understood why he didn’t.

  I was awful.

  I move quickly down the hall and into Canaan’s room, where the fear that ate at me that night is too much to push through. I back out of the room and lean into the wall. The angry words I threw at Jake scream at me from the silence, and I’m not ready to face them. I turn away from Canaan’s room and take six steps before turning into the room at the end of the hall.

  Jake’s room.

  As always, it’s a mess. The floor is covered with all the little details that make up Jake’s day-to-day life. T-shirts and jeans cover most of the floor, but there are books, too, and CDs. I’ve been trying to convince him to upgrade to an mp3 player, but he doesn’t see the need.

  “What

  What indeed.

  With my toe I carve my way toward his dresser. By far it’s the cleanest two square feet in the room. There’s a picture there, on the corner. It was taken in early May, I think: Jake and me in our climbing gear getting ready to rappel off Crooked Leg Bridge. Jake propped the camera on the railing and set the timer. We must’ve posed a billion times to get the exact shot he wanted. Both of us leaning back in our harnesses, his lips on my cheek, my blue eyes staring at the camera. He’s digitally enhanced it so that all the colors are ultra-real. Everything’s too bright. But it’s exactly how that moment felt. I can almost see the Celestial in the work he’s done.

  I run my index finger along the frame, and a tiny cloud of dust gathers beneath my nail. I turn away and promise myself that we’ll do that again. Jake and I. We’ll spend a day rappelling and taking stupid pictures of ourselves. Pretend we’re great outdoorsmen.

  But pretending makes me tired, and I fall onto Jake’s bed, tummy first, careful to keep my dirty feet off the sheets. He has my permission to be a slob, but I can’t quite give myself the same courtesy.

  I press my face to his pillow and breathe it in. Coffee. Sweet and robust. I slide both hands beneath the soft pillow and burrow deeper. My fingers connect with something hard, something square, but before I can flip my hand to grab it, I’ve knocked it to the floor.

  I scrabble off the bed, hoping I’ll be able to identify the culprit amidst everything else on his floor. Careful not to put my knee in a cereal bowl he’s stored beneath an old camera bag, I press my face to the carpet and peer beneath the box spring.

  Ironically, the floor under Jake’s bed is nearly as clean as the dresser. And there, wedged between the frame and the wall, is a thin, square box. I have to stretch to reach it, but I succeed.

  The box is wrapped in brown paper with a piece of black twine holding a tag of sorts. I flip the tag over and read: Brielle.

  Jake’s taken pains to write neatly, something he’s not known for. I run a finger over my name and wonder if this is the surprise he never got around to giving me. With Mom’s empty grave being unearthed and the Sabres showing up in Stratus, with Dad stumbling into an old addiction and my world imploding, I’d forgotten. The box is too thin to be the missing jewelry box from the chest, but I’m intrigued nonetheless.

  I twist my finger in the twine and pull. It snaps in half, and I dig at the tape with my fingernails. Eventually it comes free, and I unfold the gift within.

  Another photograph.

  At first glance I think it’s of Jake and me, but it’s not.

  And this picture wasn’t taken with a camera’s timer; this one was taken by a bicyclist that Ali and I nearly plowed over on the waterfront. After we apologized profusely, we begged the poor guy” Jake says. “inow to take our picture.

  In it, we’re dripping wet, Ali’s on my back, her cheek pressed to mine, a tangle of bridges crossing the Willamette River in the background. With her hair slicked back and her lips curled into a crooked grin, it’s no wonder I first took her for Jake. Tanned skin and hypnotic eyes, the two of them have a charisma that transcends the lens. It’s that camera-ready stage presence so many have to hone.

  I run my hand over her face and sort of laugh-cry at the memory. We’d spent the day walking around Portland, snapping shots, wasting film. And when the day was done, we celebrated with a little romp through the Waterfront Fountain. We regretted it thirty minutes later when the sun set and the night turned cold. But it was a fun half hour, and the picture is gorgeous.

  “Thank you, random bicycle man,” I whisper.

  The picture is from a roll of film I asked Jake to destroy. The very first day I met him, actually. I pry the brown paper away from the edges of the frame, and an envelope jostles loose.

  I lift it from my leg and open it. Inside is an index card and a rumpled film strip.

  The very same film strip I thought I’d never see again.

  I leave it in the envelope and withdraw the card. Jake’s hand-writing’s not nearly as neat here, and it takes me a couple tries to get each sentence decoded. Once I have it, I read again just to relish the sound his silent voice makes in my head.

  I was going to destroy this film strip, Elle, I really was. But curiosity got the better of me, and I had to have a look first. Once I saw the film, I couldn’t do it. Your life is full of great shots. I hope you know that. Forgive me for breaking my promise.

  I slide the index card back in the envelope and withdraw the film. I lift it to the light and run my finger down the silky strip. It bumps here and there over the crinkles, but the strip’s not too bad. Most of the pictures can be salvaged, I’m sure.

  I whisper a quiet thank-you to Jake. I’d give anything to throw my arms around his neck and thank him in person, but that’ll have to wait. I tuck the strip of film back into the envelope and look once again into Ali’s face.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing, Al. You should have been the one with this gift, with my eyes. You would have known what to do with them. You would have been brave. But I’m not brave. Canaan thinks I am, but I’m not. I’m scared all the time. Of what I’ll see. Of what I won’t see. Of not understanding what any of it means. And I’m scared of losing everyone before I figure it out.”

  I have to put the picture down on my knees because I’m crying again. I dry my face with the corner of my shirt, then rewrap the picture in the brown paper. The twine is split now, so I just slide the rectangular package under Jake’s pillow without it. I press my face to the mattress and pray that he’ll make it back here. To his messy room and the surprise he’s kept under his pillow relief in that.

  oute. I pray he’ll make it back to me.

  When I’m done I stand, grabbing what I can of the courage Ali’s image left lingering in the air, and I make my way out of Jake’s room, back down the hall toward Canaan’s. As pristine as Jake’s is disastrous, white-and-black decor contrast everywhere. With stalling steps and a tremulous prayer shaking my lips, I make my way to the chest at the foot of his bed.

  If it weren’t for the desperate need I have to find Jake, I don’t know that I’d open this chest again. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven the Throne Room for taking my ring, the ring Jake planned to propose with. But it doesn’t matter now. None of that matters. Finding Jake is the only thing that’s important, and the Thrones can help with that.

  6

  Marco

  Liv starts the car in silence. A fancy thing. Red, like her lips, like the heels she’s wearing. Marco tries not to notice these things about her, but everything about this woman reminds him of what life was like before all the pain. Before Ali. Sometimes that’s a sweet escape.

  She walked in the door five minutes ago, and true to the chairman-of-the-board persona she’s adopted, demanded his presence in her car. Her tone irritated him, but after waiting for hours, he elbowed past his pride and complied.

 
They speed through the West Hills, her car hugging the turns, earning her a shout from a stroller-wielding soccer mom. When they pass the entrance to the Rose Gardens, and the reservoir below it, Marco’s stomach tightens. It’s not excitement. Killing a man is nothing to be excited about, but there’s so much adrenaline blasting through his veins, he’s light-headed at the thought.

  Everything about this neighborhood is familiar, and memories stretch their spindly arms out to him as Liv navigates each turn. Marco turns his head away from her and closes his eyes, hoping for some small reprieve, but the fire burns brightest beneath

  Liv’s going the wrong way. She cranks the wheel hard, gunning it up the ramp and merging onto the highway.

  “Whoa, whoa!” Marco cries, one hand bracing against the door, the other against the dash. “Why are we getting on the highway? Henry lives here. In Portland. That’s what you said.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So why are we leaving the city?”

  She drags blood-red fingernails through her hair but doesn’t answer.

  Marco slams his palms on the dash. “Liv!”

  “Change of plans.”

  “What? Why?”

  “You could use some sun,” she says. “You’re getting pasty.”

  His hands twist in the seat belt. “You promised me Henry.”

  Her brows lift. “You get Beacon City instead.”

  “Beacon City? Are you kidding me?”

  She grabs her phone from the console and scrolls through it with one hand. With the other she steers the car away from the embankment.

  “You like that girl, Brielle?” Her voice is calm, her posture relaxed.

  “What?”

  “Forget it. I’m not going to talk to you when you’re all tetchy like this. I’m heading to Beacon City and I’d like you with me. But if you’re going to be awful company, I’ve got the radio.”

  She drops her phone in the console and flicks it on—talk radio, some kind of political soapbox channel. Marco grits his teeth and slams his back into the seat. Clenching his bag tight to his chest, he turns his face away and watches the trees fly by. Patches of shadow and light roll over the car. Shadow. Light. Shadow. Light. It’s disorienting to be pelted by one after the other.

  Twenty minutes pass before he’s calm enough to look at her again. Tired of hypocritical rantings, he reaches forward and turns down the radio.

  “How can you listen to that guy?”

  “I was just trying to outlast you.”

  In the console between them, her phone beeps. Keith Matthews flashes on the screen, but she slides her finger across it, ignoring the call.

  “What’s with you two?” Marco asks.

  “Keith? Nothing. He’s interesting, I guess.”

  “You’re such a liar.”

  “What? You don’t like him?”

  “I don’t dislike him, but he’s not interesting. Not to someone like you.”

  “You haven’t seen me since we were kids, and you somehow know what I find interesting. How’s that?”

  “I just do,” he says.

  “You’re full of it.”

  “I do. Liv, I know you.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  There’s a bitter edge to her voice, and it silences him.

  “What about you?” she says, shaking the hostility from her face. “His daughter, Brielle. You think she’s interesting?”

  “She was Ali’s best friend,” Marco says, “and between her and Jake I never went more than two days without some sort of call or doughnut-laden care package while I was holed up getting poked and prodded like some kind of science experiment. She’s beyond interesting. She’s family.”

  “But she can be a bit much, right? Her intensity level’s off the charts.”

  Marco smiles. “Yeah, she’s a lot like this other girl I know.”

  “What, me?” she says, feigning surprise. “I’m intense?”

  “You are intensity defined.”

  “Yes, well,” she says, fumbling for something in the console. “I’ve got grown-up responsibilities. Some of us are paid to be intense.” Her shoulder slides out of her silky blouse as she jams a cigarette between her teeth. It trembles.

  “You want a light?” he asks, punching the cigarette lighter.

  “Nah. I don’t smoke. I just, you know . . .” She pulls the cigarette from her mouth and puts it back in.

  He narrows his eyes. “No, I don’t think I do.”

  “Oh, come on,” she says, her laugh hollow. “You’re an actor. You pretend all the time. It’s cathartic being someone else for a while, isn’t it?”

  “So the cig helps you pretend.”

  “Sure. Like a prop.”

  “Like a prop?”

  She rolls t the Prince’s haloSJowhe window down and lets the wind suck on her hair while she chews the end of the unlit cigarette.

  Marco watches her for a while. Finally curiosity gets the better of him, and he calls loudly over the wind, “Why are we going to Beacon City?”

  She glances at him then, pulled from whatever thought had her miles away. “You ever been there?”

  “When I was a kid. My mom took me. Ice-cream cones and kites on the beach. Water too frigid to swim in.”

  “That’s right,” she says, nostalgia written all over her face. “You remember the Bellwether?”

  “Sure,” Marco says. The Bellwether Lighthouse. It was decommissioned years ago. “We used to climb the rocks on the cliff there. Why?”

  “’Cause I bought it.”

  The highway grows dark as the road narrows, trees growing up on every side. Through the shifting light he watches her, confused.

  “You bought a lighthouse?”

  “Well,” she says, lifting a piece of tobacco off her tongue, “the foundation bought it.”

  “Does the foundation make a habit of acquiring assets that technology has made outdated?”

  “Only since I’ve taken over. Henry would never have allowed such a thing.”

  Henry’s name sits between them. It festers like an open wound for a solid minute before Marco regains enough of his composure to speak in measured tones.

  “I hate him, Liv. When you stormed into the house today and said ‘Get in the car,’ I thought that’s where we were heading.”

  It’s another painful minute before she answers him. “You’re not the only one who hates Henry, and you’re not the only one who wants him dead. But I’m not taking you to him.”

  Marco explodes, measured tones forgotten. “Then why am I here?”

  Unfazed by his frustration, Liv flicks the cigarette out the window, and with the press of a button the wind is closed outside. “Let me tell you about the lighthouse, okay?”

  He’s angry and confused, doing his best to not think about all the crazy that’s found him since the psych hospital gave him a clean bill of health. But it’s the gleam in her eye, the excitement there—about a lighthouse, of all things—that does it. Girls have always been his Achilles’ heel. Beautiful, passionate girls. He deflates, settling against the seat once again.

  “Go ahead. Tell me about your bouncing baby lighthouse.”

  She smiles. The first real em; margin-bottom: 0em; text-indent: 0em; } .tx1D1Aone he’s seen since they stumbled into one another at the lake last week.

  “Well, about a decade ago this old couple cashed in their retirement and bought the Bellwether. They converted the light-keeper’s house into a pastry shop. Adorable little place. A rock garden out back, sea spray on the air, and the best chocolate tarts you’ve ever had, I swear.”

  She removes a hair tie from the emergency brake, and with both hands pulls her hair into a ponytail. The car veers slightly left.

  “Geez,” Marco says, moving to help with the steering wheel. She swats his hand away and steers with her knees as she continues to talk.

  “It wasn’t long before the unthinkable happened.”

  “The economy tanked?” Marco guess
es.

  “Yes, and this poor old couple went belly-up. Their life savings, retirement fund, children’s inheritance, everything.”

  “Sucks,” Marco says. It does suck, but it’s a story heard ’round the world these days.

  “So the Bellwether sat on the market for months. I watched it, watched the price drop. Finally, when it dropped far enough, I jumped in and snatched it up. I’d like to use it one of these days.”

  “Use it for what?”

  “Here’s something I bet you didn’t know about Beacon City. It houses one of the largest group-home programs in the state. Thought it’d be a great work project for them . . . if we could get it up and running. Teach the kids to cook, teach them to run a business.” She shrugs. “I paid next to nothing for the place. If it fails, it fails. But if I can turn it into something, it’ll be great press for Ingenui and a great pick-me-up for a seaside town in desperate need of some help.”

  He’s still annoyed but kind of impressed. “I didn’t know you were such a bleeding heart, Liv. Thought you were all business.”

  “My heart bleeds a bit.”

  But Marco can tell this is more than just a side project to her. He knows what it is to dream, to put yourself out there and cross your fingers that it all pans out.

  And he knows what it’s like when the foundation your dream is built on crumbles.

  “It’s a kind thing to do, Liv. A great idea. Really.”

  “Yeah, well. Don’t go all sappy on me. For now that’s all it is. An idea. The board doesn’t even know I bought it.”

  “Don’t you need permission?”

  Another shrug. “I do what I want, and the board usually backs me. It’s when projects go astray that they leave me high and dry.”

  “Happen often?”

  “No,” she says, a wicked little smile curling the right corner of her mouth. “Not often.”

  “So that’s where we’re heading? Bellwether? Why?”

  She stabs at the radio, snapping the nail on her index finger. She curses and jams the injured finger into her mouth.

  “Liv, why are we going to Bellwether?”

  “I’m letting the old couple rent the keeper’s house back from me for now,” she says, her voice muffled over the finger. “Mostly because I’m in love with their salted caramel truffles. You’re going to die when you taste them. Gosh, that hurts,” she says, withdrawing the finger and prodding it with her thumb.