Into the Dark

by Alison Gaylin

  Brenna thought about the way he’d looked when Annette had found him—a definite blow to the old expectations—but she kept that to herself. “You’re always hot.”

  “Whoa.” He grinned at her. “Can I please get you saying that on video?”

  “No.” She gave Trent a quick hug good-bye, then moved out of the way as the orderlies pushed him out. It was then, only then, that she realized the little girl three beds down was no longer crying.

  Brenna headed down the hallway, something tugging at her, a sadness. She didn’t want to, but she found herself thinking again about Diandra. Diandra, who had stolen RJ’s computer, who had called herself Clea, who had killed Errol, drugged Trent, and run off, taking this whole case with her. Taking Lula Belle with her.

  Cement mixer/Turn on a dime/Make my day ’cause it’s cement time . . .

  From across the hallway, Trent was yelling something at her. “What?”

  “Lockbox!” he yelled again, as the orderlies wheeled him into a waiting elevator. “It’s the name of Tannenbaum’s cloud storage gateway! Remember it in case I don’t.”

  Brenna watched one of the big orderlies easing him back down, the other hitting the button to close the elevator doors.

  At least I’ve still got Trent, she thought.

  It was well past midnight when Brenna got back to her apartment. Their honorary last night of Chanukah was officially over and she’d never lit the candles with Maya. As she opened the door, guilt pulled at her. No gifts, no latkes . . . The apartment was quiet. Of course it was. It was close to 1 A.M. and Maya wasn’t a night owl like both her biological parents. At slumber parties, she was always the first one down.

  Brenna moved through the office space and kitchen, a million voices running through her head—Lula Belle’s whispery accent and Diandra’s velvety hello and Trent asking Brenna, What if Diandra is her? Gary Freeman over the phone: I’m afraid something may have happened to her. I mean . . . God . . . If she ever existed to begin with.

  And then other voices, far back in her memory, muffled as though she were under rising water . . .

  Scooch up a little, weirdo, you’re making me lose my balance.

  Come on girls, smile for Daddy’s camera . . . Do you guys like it? Your brand-new bike . . .

  A ten-year-old girl, smiling for her long-gone father. A faded face from a high school photo. A haloed vision in Brenna’s dreams. A name given to a lonely desk clerk by a psychotic Barbie doll with no real name of her own . . .

  Clea, are you real? Will you ever be?

  Brenna was at the end of the hallway now, outside her daughter’s open bedroom door. She listened for Maya’s sleep-breathing—the one sound that never failed to calm her. She heard nothing.

  She stepped into the room. Moonlight streamed through the window, casting a glow on Maya’s bed. Maya’s empty, neatly made bed. Brenna’s throat clenched up. She flashed on seven hours ago—Trent’s apartment, still smelling of incense, her heart pounding, the letter opener clasped in her hand and Trent’s bed, empty . . . Brenna dug her nails into her palms and she was back in Maya’s room, flipping the light on to see the note left on the pillow, her daughter’s rounded handwriting noticeable even from where she was standing. Brenna moved over to the bed, picked up the note with her hands —shaking.

  Mom,

  I’ve gone to Dad and Faith’s. Your Chanukah present is on your bed. Open it any time.

  Maya

  Brenna exhaled hard. She’s okay. Thank you. On the floor next to the bed was Maya’s phone. Must have dropped it in her hurry to write the note and get out of the empty apartment.

  Brenna picked it up, checked the screen. Maya hadn’t read her text, but would it have mattered? When your mother ditches you on a night you’ve been looking forward to for weeks, is it any consolation to know it was because her assistant had “eaten some bad fish”?

  Maya’s okay. But she’s definitely pissed, and who could blame her?

  Brenna left the room and headed into her office area, too exhausted to sleep. Trent still hadn’t taken down the Persephone pictures on his bulletin board, and it made Brenna feel nostalgic to look at them—a glimpse back into that time, two days ago, when she didn’t feel so torn up inside.

  She slipped into her desk chair, checked her e-mail. There was one new one, from Nick Morasco.

  Brenna,

  Thanks for the doctored pic of RJ. I’ve attached his police file for the B&E.

  Also, I need to talk to you about something personal. I think I should tell you face-to-face. Are you free tomorrow?

  Nick

  Brenna’s stomach clenched up. “What do we need to talk about?” she said out loud. “What exactly do we need to talk about face-to-face tomorrow?” She thought of the way he’d been looking at her lately—the pity in his eyes—and she got up from the computer, walking away from it fast and biting her lip to keep from reliving one of those moments.

  Before she knew it, Brenna was in her bedroom, the Chanukah present glaring up at her from her bed, a Post-it attached:

  I’m sorry it isn’t wrapped—I couldn’t find the paper.

  It was Maya’s sketch of Brenna. Framed.

  “Thank you,” she whispered. And then, after a long while, “I’m sorry.” Not just to Maya, but to Trent and Errol and Jim and Nick Morasco and Gary Freeman and anyone else who’d ever gotten involved in Brenna’s haunted, screwed-up life expecting anything good to come out of it.

  Brenna stared at the portrait—into the penciled eyes, focused on some distant point, a point in the past . . . Thinking about Lula Belle, she knew. That’s what I was thinking about. Lula Belle.

  Tears sprang into Brenna’s eyes. She picked up the phone, called Morasco.

  He picked up after one ring.

  Brenna took a deep breath. “Did I wake you?” Stupid question. People who are woken up don’t answer after one ring.

  Nick said, “No. How are you, Brenna?” God, she did not like that tone of voice. He sounded like a concerned psychotherapist.

  “Don’t you mean, ‘How do we feel today?’ ”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Listen, thanks for sending Tannenbaum’s police file along.

  “No problem.” He cleared his throat. “How’s the case going?”

  She closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t do the small talk. “I don’t like the way you’ve been looking at me.”

  “What?”

  “Like you feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t mean to—”

  “And I don’t want to talk about anything personal with you, Nick. Not face-to-face tomorrow or over the phone right now. Not ever.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry if my e-mail upset you.”

  Her jaw clenched up. She wanted to hang up on him, to never talk to him or see him again, lest she remember this conversation, this feeling . . . But instead she kept talking. “Errol Ludlow is dead.”

  “What?”

  “Heart attack. Drugs might have been involved.”

  “Ludlow?”

  “And Trent was fed an overdose of benzos. He got to the hospital in time, but the woman who gave him the drugs was the same one who killed Ludlow, and I don’t know her last name or where she lives or anything about her, other than she was an Errol’s Angel, she’s in her early twenties, and she dresses like a cartoon on a cocktail napkin,” Brenna drew a breath, long and ragged. “And she might be Lula Belle.”

  “Oh my God, Brenna.”

  “She told a desk clerk her name is Clea.”

  “Oh . . . man . . .”

  “And . . . and now she’s gone . . .” Brenna’s vision blurred. Her voice felt choked. “Someone is messing with my mind, Nick. Someone out there knows all these stories about my family and they’re making performance art out of it and this . . . this . . . this freak of a girl is somehow involved but I don’t have any idea how to track her down so whatever it is you have to tell me that’s so damn important . .
.”

  “It can wait.” His voice was soft, kind.

  “Forever?”

  “Yes.”

  Brenna heard a car whiz by on the street beneath her window, the thudding bass of the stereo within, and she wanted so badly to escape—not from her apartment but from her own mind. A few tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Morasco said, “How do we feel today?”

  More tears. Brenna swatted them away. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “I’m here.”

  “Lost,” she said. “Confused, scared, unsafe.” She drew another long, shaking breath. “Lonely.”

  For several seconds, Morasco said nothing. Neither did Brenna. They just stayed where they were, both of them breathing into their phones.

  “Brenna?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “Yes.”

  He hung up before she could change her mind.

  Chapter 19

  They didn’t talk things through, didn’t speak at all. There was no discussion about what this meant or how they were feeling about this or where they were going with this or what was on their minds regarding this or even what they would say to each other once this was over.

  There was just this.

  Brenna opened the door for Nick and fell into him, her lips on his, on his neck, his chest, inhaling his soap smell and yanking open his shirt, his hands in her hair, on her body . . .

  She went for his belt buckle.

  “Wait,” he said. “Maya.”

  “She’s not here.” But still, she was pulling him down the hall, leading him by both hands into her bedroom. She was closing the door behind them and she was locking it. She didn’t want to be out in the open.

  Brenna pulled him to her. His glasses were fogging up, and when she took them off, there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen there before. No softness, no sadness, no pity . . . The opposite of pity, actually. Her pulse raced.

  “My walls are thin. We have to stay quiet,” she whispered. More to herself than to him.

  And then he was pushing her up against the wall, both of them tearing at each other’s clothes. There were buttons flying and zippers ripping open, there were hands and lips and tongues searching and so much breath, breathing together, and such exquisite closeness in that breathing . . .

  Nick’s hands gripped Brenna’s wrists, forcing her back, her legs wrapped around him. She broke free, but just for a few moments, just long enough to guide him in with one hand, both of them breathing, still breathing like that, breathing and moving together and then . . . this. Just this. Just now.

  “Thanks, I needed that,” Brenna told Nick as they lay in bed, drifting to sleep after round two. It was probably the first time either of them had said a coherent word to each other in the two hours he’d been there.

  He leaned in and kissed her gently. “It was the least I could do.”

  Brenna grinned. “The least? Really?”

  “Brenna. I think—”

  “Sssh.” She put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not talk. Please.”

  “I was just going to say that I think my arm fell asleep.”

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t want to talk, either,” he said. “Just so you know.”

  Brenna pulled him closer, smiled. You may be the nicest person I’ve ever met. She fell asleep. She didn’t dream.

  Nick left early to go to work. He could have snuck out without Brenna even knowing—that’s how soundly she’d been sleeping—but instead he stopped by the bed, kissed her awake. “Bye,” he said.

  She smiled. “Bye.”

  “Look, I know we’re not talking. But can I just ask you one thing?”

  She sighed.

  “Last night.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “You didn’t . . . You didn’t seem to go anywhere.”

  She looked at him. “I didn’t.”

  “Not once? Really? You didn’t have one single memory?”

  “Not one.” She smiled, realizing it herself. She and Nick had made love twice—and as fast and urgent as the first time had been, the second had been quite lengthy. It was probably the longest she’d ever been awake in the past few years without lapsing into at least a brief memory—and that included times she’d been with other men. “You’re like an anti-nootropic,” she said.

  “Awesome.” He put a hand on her cheek, and for a moment, she saw a hint of it—that sorry, sad feeling . . . But then he pulled away and grinned at her. “I always wanted an FDA classification.”

  She kissed the palm of his hand and closed her eyes again, falling asleep as he left.

  Brenna woke up two hours later, at seven-thirty. She slipped out of bed, tugged on the oversized Columbia T-shirt she usually slept in, and headed toward the kitchen. But when she passed Maya’s room, she stopped. The door was closed. She cracked it open and saw her daughter asleep in her bed, the room sweet with the sound of her breathing.

  She came back.

  Brenna watched her for a while, hoping her return had happened after Morasco had left. She wasn’t ready to have that conversation yet. For one thing, she had no idea what to say that wouldn’t gross Maya out. (Turns out Detective Morasco is great in the sack, honey. But we’ve made a pact not to talk about it . . .)

  “Mom?” Maya’s eyelids fluttered open. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” Brenna said.

  “Is Trent okay?”

  “Yes,” Brenna said. “He’s fine.”

  Maya stared at her for several seconds, her face so flat, it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “Must have been some really bad fish,” she said finally.

  God, what a dumb excuse. “You got my text.”

  “This morning.” She lay back down and turned over, onto her stomach. It was as though she was rolling her eyes with her entire body.

  Brenna looked at her. “Let me guess,” she said. “You didn’t want to come back, but Faith convinced you to let her drop you off here on her way to the show. She told you I mean well and that you need to cut me some slack. I have an affliction. But you’re sick and tired of cutting me slack—not to mention my affliction—and who the hell cares if I mean well? I left you alone on the last night of Chanukah. That sucks, no matter how you look at it. And while we’re at it . . . Bad fish? That’s seriously the best I could come up with?”

  Maya was sitting up now, watching Brenna.

  “Am I right?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Brenna sat down on the edge of the bed. “Look,” she said. “I’m not even going to try and make excuses for myself, other than to say that Trent’s life really was in danger. And if I told you what actually happened to him, you’d beg me to replace it with a story about bad fish.”

  “Is he okay now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Brenna put her hand on Maya’s. “I loved your drawing, Maya,” she said. “I swear to God, you’re so talented, it takes my breath away.”

  She smiled a little. “I’m glad.”

  “And I don’t blame you for being mad at me. But can you just do me one favor?”

  Maya frowned at her. “What?”

  “Can you let me give you your Chanukah present?”

  Maya sighed. “A present isn’t going to make everything better, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  “You need to think about who’s a real part of your life and who’s a memory,” she said. “I’m tired of losing out to your job all the time. I’m tired of losing out to Clea.”

  Brenna looked at her. “You’re right.”

  Maya hugged her knees to her chest, brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Okay,” she said.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay,” Maya said. “I’ll take the present.”

  Brenna hurried into her bedroom, and returned with the wrapped iPod box.

  Maya’s eyes lit up at the shape
of it. Her voice pitched up an octave. “Oh my God. Is this . . . is this what I think it is?” She shut her eyes tight, took a few breaths. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

  Brenna’s face twitched into a smile. Who said a present couldn’t make everything better? Maya jumped out of bed and flew at her, throwing her arms around Brenna’s neck. “Thank you so much, Mom,” she said, and Brenna was glad for her memory. She could hang on to this moment, keep it with her always. She could take it out on a bad day like a favorite sweater or a framed photo and relive it—these few seconds of pure joy . . . “How do you know what it is?” Brenna said.

  “Oh Mom, it’s so obvious!” Maya ripped at the wrapping paper—same way she had done at four years old, tearing into her Polly Pocket Hangout House Playset on the last night of Chanukah 2000 . . . “Yay, Mommy, yay!”

  “Thank you!” Maya screamed, the unwrapped iPod in her hands. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Brenna went back to 2000 again, Maya hopping from foot to foot and hugging Brenna’s leg with all her might, such a tiny bundle of happiness. So much love. “I love you, Mom,” she said, both then and now.

  Brenna made breakfast for Maya as she played with her iPod, making sure not to even think about work until 11:30 A.M., when her daughter was dressed and out of the apartment and on her way to lunch and the nearby IMAX theater with her friend Ruby, as per the plans she made with her via one of her brand-new apps.

  At that point, she went into the kitchen and brewed another pot of coffee and drank a cup in front of her computer, accompanied by two of the Twinkies she kept stashed at the back of the pantry. Yes, she’d had eggs and tea with Maya, but thanks to Nick Morasco she was still starving. She devoured the first Twinkie in two bites, her hunger only starting to fall into place with the second.

  She checked her e-mail. “Whoa,” she whispered. She’d actually gotten a reply from CompanyHead@HappyEndings.com. Brenna opened it up:

  If you want to talk about RJ, come by the offices today (12/21) at 1 P.M. We won’t be open before then.

  Sincerely, Charlie Frankel

  PS Pokrovsky speaks very highly of you.