by Lisa Gardner
Someone else was singing it, too. Softly. Outside the bedroom. From elsewhere in the dead woman’s apartment.
Hello, darkness, my old friend. . . .
D.D.’s hand shot to her sidearm, unsnapping the shoulder holster, drawing her SIG Sauer. She whirled, dropping into a crouch as her gaze scanned the shadows for sign of an intruder. No shifts in the blackness, no shadows settling into the shape of a human form.
But then she heard it again.
I’ve come to talk to you again. . . .
Quickly, she crept from the bedroom into the darkened hall, leading with her weapon. The narrow corridor didn’t offer any overhead lights. Just more shadows caused by the light from neighbors’ apartments casting through the duplex’s uncovered windows. A wash of lighter and darker shades of gray dancing across the hardwood floor.
But she knew this house, D.D. reminded herself, easing carefully forward. She’d already tread this hall, judiciously avoiding the pools of vomit, while noticing every pertinent detail. . . .
She reached the top of the staircase, still looking side to side, then peering down, into the pool of inky black that marked the landing below. The humming had disappeared. Worse than the singing was the total silence.
Then suddenly, a voice, whispering in the same lilting tone: “Detective D. D. Warren, my old friend . . .”
D.D. halted. Her gaze ping-ponged reflexively, trying to determine the location of the voice as it continued, slow and mocking: “I’ve come to talk with you again. . . .”
She got it then. Felt her own blood turn to ice as the full implication sank in. Why do you stage a scene? Because you’re looking for an audience. Or maybe, one audience member in particular. Detective D. D. Warren. Darkness, my old friend.
Still holding her drawn SIG Sauer, she reached belatedly for her cell.
Just as a fresh noise registered directly behind her.
She spun. Eyes widening. But where, how . . .
The hulking figure, looming out of the shadows: “Hello, Detective. . . .”
Instinctively, D.D. stepped back. Except she’d forgotten about the top of the staircase. Her left foot, searching for traction, found only open space. . . .
No! Her cell, clattering down. Her SIG Sauer, coming up. Trying belatedly to lean forward, regain her balance.
And then . . . the shadow moving. Herself falling.
Just like that. Down, down, down.
At the last second, D.D. squeezed the trigger. An instinctive act of self-preservation. Boom, boom, boom. Though even she knew, it was too little, too late
Her head connected with the hardwood landing. A crack. A shooting pain.
And then the sound of silence . . .