“You’re a fast learner.” He smirks, picks up the ball, and bounces it a couple of times.
I move in closer.
Shane warns me, “Be careful of my arm.” Then laughs when I back off.
Before I can move in again to block him, he turns and flips the ball into the air. It arcs up and then plummets right through the net.
“If you still had stitches in your arm, I’d take them out for you right now with a pair of rusty hedge clippers from that old shed over there.”
Shane finds this especially hilarious.
“I’d love to stand here and share a good laugh with you, but I have possession of the ball.” I’m quickly becoming addicted to the feeling I get every time I sink one.
I dribble up the court, and Shane comes after me again in a low crouch. He moves his hands all over the place and blocks every shot I try to take. I switch hands and attempt to dribble past him, but one of his long arms zooms out in front of me, and I can’t bump into it because it’s his injured arm and he’d scream foul.
So I pivot and he’s behind me, but only for a second. Quickly, he scoots in between the basket and me, and I switch hands again. He swipes the ball away mid dribble and holds it behind his back.
“Try to get it, Harps.”
“This isn’t how you’re supposed to play basketball. C’mon. We have to have some rules.”
“The rule is you have to steal the ball without hurting my arm.” He stands there, smirking, holding it behind his back. Taunting me. “You can’t get it. You’re afraid to try.”
“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”
“You’re afraid you’ll fail. You’re not strong enough or coordinated enough to wrestle this ball away from me.”
That does it. I fake dart to the right then dodge left, lunge at him, and reach for the ball. He’s too quick for me. He anticipates all my moves and hops away at the last minute. I lose my footing and stumble into him. He drops the ball and wraps his arms around me. I push at his chest, but he refuses to let go.
All of a sudden he gets serious. “Harper, I can’t stop thinking about that time we . . .”
He stops midsentence and kisses me, long and soft and sweet. I move my hands from his chest to the back of his neck and kiss him back. And he’s not under the influence of painkillers. And we’re not pumped full of fight-or-flight adrenaline. We’re just a boy and a girl standing in the sunlight with our arms around each other and our mouths fused together. Nothing can come between us. Except a killer’s murderous intentions. He can’t take Shane away from me. I refuse to lose another person I love because of him. And I think I might love Shane.
Before I can tell him, though, he lifts his lips from mine and says, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about kissing you, Harps. It’s torture being in the same room. Every time I look at those pretty lips, I want to plant one on them. Even when they’re sneering at me with sarcasm.”
I answer him by tightening my arms around his neck and pulling his mouth down onto mine again. The strength of his embrace lifts my feet off the basketball court. When he sets me down, I grab the bottom of his shirt and pull up. He finishes the job and flings it onto the grass. I kiss his bare chest and stroke his warm back. He sweeps me up into his arms and starts carrying me toward the house.
“Where are we going?”
“Up to my room.”
“Why? Is there another basketball court up there?” I laugh.
“No, just my bed.”
I stop laughing when I realize what he means. I must be the stupidest human on the planet.
“You look surprised, Harper.”
Oh crap! I don’t want to seem young and immature. I want to be as cool as the college girls he knows. But I’m not.
“I can’t. Not yet.”
He plunks my feet back onto the ground. “Then why did you take my shirt off?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see and feel more of you and it just happened. Then . . .”
“Then what?”
“Then when I stopped to think about it, I was glad your shirt was off, but I wished I hadn’t taken it off. All at the same time. I don’t know. This is all very confusing.”
“I’m not confused.”
“But I am. I think that now is probably a bad time.”
“When will it be a good time?”
“After we catch him.”
“Okay, Harper. I get it. I can be patient.”
But the expression on Shane’s face isn’t a patient one.
When I look at his beautiful, shirtless body, I don’t feel very patient, either. The killer could attack before we get another opportunity to be alone together. And if he succeeds, there will never be a good time. Ever again.
Chapter 21
Gabriel
Launching Plan B
Gabriel looked in the mirror, caressed his left cheek, tipped his head to the side, and admired his jawline. “Good thing I have a strong jaw,” he chuckled. The quiet sound echoed off the tiles in the immaculate bathroom.
“Time for plan B, which will be the endgame for better or worse. Better for me. Worse for Harper Flagg.”
Earlier in the day, he had made an important phone call, and it had gone well. Thomas Flagg’s voice had revealed no traces of suspicion. The detective had been clueless. He hadn’t realized that he was talking to his wife’s murderer. Gabriel hoped the rest of his scheme would be equally successful.
The killer ran fluidly down the basement stairs as if his feet were water flowing down a waterfall. Not even the suggestion of a limp. He was ready.
Even though he wasn’t planning to use his favorite blade quite yet, sharpening it always lifted his mood. Not that his mood needed lifting. He had run three miles that morning, a little slower than before the incident, but still pretty fast. Most importantly, he had felt no pain in his left foot for the first time in three weeks.
Life was good. The more he thought about his new scheme, the better he felt. It would showcase two of his most useful talents: deception and charm. Too bad he wasn’t playing this role in a film. His performance would definitely be Oscar worthy, but the prize he won would be far more valuable than a silly golden statue. If he could pull this off successfully, his trophy would be Harper.
He had never intended to kill her, nor did he want to now, but he had to punish her. She needed to learn discipline and respect before he showed her kindness and affection. He wouldn’t harm her beautiful face, though, like she had done to him. He was more civilized than that. He’d keep her safely hidden until she learned the rules. Until she learned to respect him. He’d only resort to physical cruelty if he absolutely had to. There were other effective ways to subdue her. Gabriel didn’t want to damage the well-oiled machine called Harper Flagg. He looked forward to running fast, by her side, as they raced through the remote paths in his woods. He was tired of looking at her through binoculars. They would form their own interesting partnership when she was finally humble and agreeable, when at last she understood how he had made her what she was today. If he hadn’t murdered her mother, Harper wouldn’t be strong, indomitable, and unique. She’d be just another super-entitled, whiny suburban teenager.
Perched on the high, backless stool at his worktable, he opened the first drawer on the left. His most prized possession lay nestled in the crimson velvet lining, next to the sharpening stone. He admired his equipment for a moment then reached up and grabbed a small bottle of oil off the top shelf. Humming a top-forties tune he had heard that morning on the radio, he began the ritual. First he applied two tiny drops of oil to the stone. Then in a slow, circular motion, he rubbed the grainy surface of it against the blade. He stopped humming for a moment and listened to the quiet grinding of the stone swirling against the blade. Gently and patiently, first one side and then the other, he ground it to a brilliant edge. Then he wiped it clean, folded it closed, and placed it back in its soft velvet bed. After he turned off the lights, he climbed the stairs as effortlessly as he had d
escended them.
In his bedroom, he took off his gym shorts, boxer briefs, and tank top and left them on the floor. Then he went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and stood under the pounding needles of hot water for a ten full minutes before he lathered up. His showerhead was custom-made to spray extra hard. By the time he rinsed off and stepped out onto the bath mat, every inch of his skin felt numbed. As the cool air touched it, he tingled all over.
When he was completely dry, he pulled on clean underwear, opened the door of the walk-in closet, and surveyed its contents. “Hmm.” He chose khakis, took them off the hanger, put them on, walked over to the full-length mirror, turned slightly to admire the back view, and announced, “Perfect.”
Next he put on a navy-blue, cotton knit collared shirt with a tiny red polo player over his left pectoral muscle. “Classic. Thank you, Ralph Lauren.”
He unzipped his pants, tucked the shirt in, and threaded a designer leather belt through the belt loops. Smiling full out at himself in the mirror, he zipped his pants back up and buckled the elegant belt around his narrow waist. Then he stepped barefoot into his favorite soft leather loafers. The smooth soles allowed him to move quickly and silently.
A quick spritz of cologne, and he was done. The killer took one more turn in front of the full-length mirror. Bravo.
I don’t look a day over thirty, maybe even twenty-nine. He patted his dark, close-clipped hair and practiced his most sincere smile. His big, white, gleaming teeth flashed bright in contrast to his tan. Placing the two-hundred-dollar sunglasses on the bridge of his handsome nose, he thought he resembled Tom Cruise a little, especially with the sunglasses on, except Gabriel was taller and younger. He grinned once more and then turned away from the mirror.
He jogged out to the garage and raised the door with the remote. He had traded in his nondescript sedan for a brand-new car, and there it was: his newest purchase. Some people might call it a Dodge Challenger SRT Hellcat. He called it bait. Wouldn’t Harper love this car! If she behaved and did as she was told, he’d let her drive it. Maybe today. With his butt perched on the leather seat, he swung his legs into the extraordinary machine, closed the door, turned on the ignition, and shifted into reverse.
Harper Flagg, you are in for the surprise of your life. He flashed his friendliest smile into the rear-view mirror and used the camera on the dash to back up to the turn-around before he shifted into drive and cruised on down the long driveway. He turned the music up and his exuberance down. When he walked in the Flaggs’ front door, he needed to seem confident, not giddy. Smiling a close-lipped, subtle smile, Gabriel headed away from his isolated home in the woods behind the ancient graveyard and toward a new adventure.
Chapter 22
Harper
The Visitor
Since the moment Dad told me who was coming, I haven’t been able to think about anything else, and finally, today’s the day. The second the doorbell rings, I race to the door.
Only Dad and I are at home. Shane’s at the park playing pickup basketball, and his father’s at work. Grams is still in North Carolina with her sister, Millie.
“I’ll get it, Dad!”
My father walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “No shit, Harper. I figured you’d beat me to the door. You’ve been lurking around, poised to sprint over there for the past ten minutes, but who’s counting?”
I tap in the code, swing open the door, and step aside so our guest can enter. When I shake his hand, our eyes meet, and he introduces himself.
“Gabriel Stone. And you must be Harper.”
He’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in my life, even if he’s old enough to be my father. He looks a lot younger than Dad, though, maybe because he has hair. Maybe he actually is younger. His face is smooth and tan, and his smile is big and white. He’s dressed like a model in a men’s fashion magazine. Only he looks better than most models. Wow.
I can’t think of anything to say. I want to tell him I’m sorry about Brittany, but I’m afraid that any words I speak will seem inadequate, because losing her must have been so horrible. I say something anyway.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to Brittany. I always think about her and what you’ve been through.”
“Thank you, Harper. That’s very sweet. I miss her. A lot. I think about her all the time, too.” His smile fades, and he looks down at the floor.
My father saves the moment from growing more excruciatingly awkward by stepping forward to greet the second husband who was left suddenly grief-stricken sixteen years ago: Gabriel Stone.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel. Thanks for contacting me. What brings you to Eastfield?”
“These recent tragic events. I’ve been living and working in New Hampshire, but when I heard about the latest attack, I couldn’t keep my mind on my work. I had to drive down and try to get involved. I’ve rented one of those businessmen’s condos off Route 138, over in Raynwater. I can run my business online from there.”
“So you’d like to help with the investigation?”
“I’ll do anything. I couldn’t just sit around up in New Hampshire doing nothing. I need to be here.” His gorgeous face turns my way, and our eyes meet again. His icy-pale eyes narrow and stare hard into mine, but the rest of his face stays expressionless. I turn away first. Afterward, I can’t lose the feeling that Mr. Stone’s still staring at me. Even when I walk out to the kitchen to get the cookies, I feel his eyes on my back. And I get that feeling Dad told me never to ignore: a fast, cold, tingle zips up my neck and over my scalp.
I shake it off and attribute it to those ice-blue eyes and his extraordinary good looks. Any girl would feel self-conscious. And I do, even though he’s old enough to be my father, which is creepy. That has to be why I’m all anxious and awkward.
I bring out the coffee pot, but he asks if we have any bottled water.
““We don’t usually buy bottled water. I can get you a glass of tap water, though,” my dad offers.”
“That’s okay. I’m all set.”
We sit around the coffee table in the living room and it’s awkward, because the cookies are arranged on a big plate, and no one’s taking any. My mouth’s watering from the smell, but I don’t want to be the only one eating.
So I ask him, “Would you like a cookie, Mr. Stone?”
“No thanks. I just had lunch.” He pats his flat stomach. “And please, call me Gabriel.”
He flashes his impressive smile and then quickly replaces it with a look of grave concern. His facial expressions change so rapidly, it’s like he’s flipping a switch. On for friendly, off for serious. The warmth is flickering on and off his face faster than I can blink. And it never reaches those arctic eyes.
“What’s happening in the investigation, Detective?”
“Please, call me Thomas.”
“And everyone can just call me Harper.”
Gabriel laughs out loud at my lame joke, then stops abruptly and fires his icy stare at me again.
I shouldn’t judge him. Losing his whole family has probably made him socially weird. He’s been through two horrific tragedies: his wife’s death and, more recently, his daughter’s. He hasn’t mentioned anything about remarrying or having other children. Maybe he’s really lonely. Maybe he doesn’t know how to act because he’s hardly ever around people. Still, the way he looks at me and doesn’t look away within an appropriate amount of time makes me nervous. And his laugh was way too enthusiastic for such a cheesy, lame joke.
I’d feel better if someone would just eat a stupid-ass cookie. Finally I reach out and take one. Then hop up and head toward the kitchen. “I’m going to get a glass of milk. Does anyone want anything?”
“I’m good.” Gabriel tones down his smile this time and only looks at me for a second.
“No thanks.” My dad’s sitting back, staring at our guest, waiting for him to make the first move. Stopping in in the doorway of the kitchen, I turn to look at Gabriel as he atte
mpts to fill the void left by my father’s silence.
“I saw on the news that Harper survived an attack fairly recently.”
“Yes, a few weeks ago.”
“And she’s okay. Thank goodness.”
“Yes, she’s fine.”
“Do the police have any leads?”
“Not much.” Dad seems determined not to give away anything. Gabriel Stone may be kind of strange, but I feel bad for him. He has no family to support or comfort him, and he traveled all this way to get involved. Quickly, I step into the kitchen, pour myself some milk, and then return to the living room. I need to stall for time, so I can think up something to say that will satisfy Gabriel’s curiosity but not annoy my dad. I sit down, dunk the cookie, finish it in three bites, grab another cookie, and repeat the procedure. After chewing and swallowing, I wipe the crumbs from my mouth on my forearm and spill a limited amount of information about the case.
“We think I injured him and he’s waiting for his more obvious wounds to heal before he shows up anywhere.”
“What types of injuries?”
“I kicked him in the face. So if you see a strange man with a bruised jaw, you should report him.”
Gabriel’s left hand flies up to cup the left side of his face. Then he laughs. “Ouch.” He laughs again. “Now I remember hearing about it on the news. ‘Be on the lookout for an average-size guy with bruising and swelling on the left side of his face. Also, he’ll probably be limping.’”
I wish Mr. Stone wouldn’t laugh. It’s hard for me to make conversation after listening to his laugh because it’s so loud and fake sounding. I shoot Dad a look, raising my eyebrows and widening my eyes to send him a silent question. Is that a weird-ass laugh or what? He just sits back, sips his coffee, and smiles a little half smile, as inscrutable as a muscular, bald Mona Lisa.
Finally, my father sets his cup down on the coffee table and asks, “How long do you think you’ll be in town, Gabriel?”
Hidden in the Dark (Harper Flagg Book 1) Page 16