A Cry in the Dark

by Jenna Mills

  She sagged against Liam, didn’t care that she leaned.

  “I’ve got you,” he said quietly, and as she absorbed the warmth of his body, the solid, steady strength, she knew that he did.

  “He’s not here,” she whispered brokenly.

  “No, he’s not,” Liam said, guiding her from the grotesque room and back to the hall.

  More rooms awaited them, and in each they found the same. Darkness, shadows, neglect and decline. Until they reached the last room on the left.

  Danielle sensed the difference before Liam led her inside. Her heart lurched. Her throat tightened. Her lungs rejected the oxygen she tried to draw in. She felt a chill and warmth at the same time, one starting from within, the other encroaching from without.

  “Alex…”

  There’s no onre alive.

  Dread gripped her, but a bone-deep love, born of late-night lullabies and bedtime stories, grubby hands and skinned knees, finger-paintings and Popsicle stick vases, overrode the moment of paralysis. She surged ahead of Liam and burst into the small dark room, ran the beam of her flashlight along the sparse contents, the small table, the broken chair, the cot with a dingy white sheet pulled tightly beneath a pillow.

  And the shoe.

  She swayed. Or maybe that was the room. Or maybe it wasn’t a sway at all, but a violent cessation. For a moment everything froze, time, space, her heart. Then it jolted forward, faster, faster. Spinning. Darkness gave way to a flash of light, then a thick, cloying haze of gray.

  Gardenias.

  She smelled gardenias.

  And voices. The echo of children’s voices swirled around her, close, yet impossibly far.

  I don’t have a daddy.

  Everybody has a daddy.

  I don’t. My daddy went to heaven.

  Everything blurred then. The room, the voices. The past, the present. The future. Danielle felt herself lean, felt the ground slide from beneath her. Felt her knees hit the cold linoleum tiling. Felt the horror swarm the back of her throat.

  “Jesus God,” Liam swore, and then he was there beside her, on the floor, crushing her in his arms and cradling her to his chest. One of his hands sprawled against her back, the other stabbed into her hair.

  The sensations assaulted her. The need consumed her. She grabbed on to him with a force that stunned, held on with an intensity that staggered. “He was here,” she whispered into the soft cotton of the oxford-shirt covering his chest. “He was here.”

  “Shh,” Liam soothed, pulling her into his lap. There he rocked her, just rocked. “Shhh.”

  Deep inside, something broke and gave way. The sobs came then, deep, wrenching, torn from that dark place where she buried everything—memories of her mother, of Ty, of the unbreakable unity that had once knitted her and Liz and Anthony together. Once, she would have tried to deny the emotion, the fear. Once, she would have lifted her chin and pretended she was fine. Now she buried her face against Liam’s throat, not giving a damn about the tears she smeared against his skin.

  “It’s okay,” he kept murmuring, over and over and over. His voice was soft but rough, gentle yet bruised. It rasped from low in his throat and flitted around her like the kiss of a butterfly’s wings. “So help me God, everything’s going to be okay.”

  Logic, the cold, hard voice of fact and reason that had kept her alive and sane, rejected the promise. But the voice she’d tried to smother all those years before, starting the rainy night when she’d held Ty’s battered body in her arms while his blood spilled into her lap and his last breath rattled from his chest, the voice Liz and Anthony had called her luck, her salvation, whispered through her like the first warming breeze of springtime giving a wake-up call to the naked branches of the oaks and elms and maples.

  “Trust me,” Liam whispered through the darkness. “Trust me.”

  She didn’t want to go home. She didn’t want to step foot in the house she’d shared with her son, the house that should have been ringing with the joy of little-boy laughter or the ping of video games. She didn’t want to be alone with the memories.

  But even more, she didn’t want to be alone with Liam.

  Because somewhere along the line, he’d done the impossible. He’d earned her trust, and now that he had it, she could no longer trust herself—or the need that twisted through her. It was dark and greedy and primal, not a need of the body, but deeper, more fundamental.

  She watched him ease down the semilit hallway of her house, with his back to the wall and a gun in his hand. It was the farthest apart they’d been since he’d turned from her in the yard and walked inside. The urge to go to him, to sink into his arms and let him hold her blindsided her.

  It also sobered.

  Because it was wrong.

  Swallowing against the tightness in her throat, she looked at the small tennis shoe in her hand. The one she’d found on the floor of the deserted room in the hospital. And she remembered.

  She’d promised herself she would never lean again. Never make herself vulnerable to the piercing ache of loss. Whatever she felt for Liam, whatever draw, no matter how powerful, wasn’t real and wouldn’t last. It was just basic human need, the need for comfort, for solace. For hope.

  But it was also a need she could not succumb to, no matter how much she longed to return to his arms.

  It was a need that shamed her.

  He was a man consumed by shadows. She was a woman who’d vowed to give her son a life free from that dark place—days and nights of happiness and laughter, of sunshine and bright, vibrant light. It was as simple as that.

  “All clear,” Liam said, stepping from the doorway of her bedroom. He walked down the hallway toward her, a big man who moved through life without disturbing the world around him but who disturbed her on so very, very many levels.

  “You’re exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you lie down for a while. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

  “No.” The word shot out of her, strong, hard, because in truth, there was very little she wanted more than what he suggested. Only to have her son home, safe and sound and nagging her to go play ball. “That’s not necessary.”

  Liam’s expression hardened. He stopped and lifted a hand toward her, let it fall in the moment before contact. “If you’re worried about what I told you last night, don’t be. I’m not going to jump your bones the second you close your eyes.”

  The words were crude, not at all the quiet murmurings of the man in the basement of the hospital, and they stung.

  “I just want to be alone,” she told him. Needed to be alone, because what she wanted was so much more dangerous“Danielle,” he started to say, but then his cell phone rang. He swore softly and clicked it on. “Brooks here.” He was silent a moment, his expression completely unreadable. Then he let out a rough breath. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Problems?” Danielle asked when he disconnected the line.

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “My commanding officer is in town. He wants to meet with me ASAP.”

  Relief nudged against a quick swell of disappointment. “Then you’d better go.”

  His gaze lingered on her a long moment before he answered. “I’ll be back,” he said, then without another word, he strode past her and walked out the door.

  Danielle closed her eyes and let her head loll back against the wall. The house had been quiet before, but now the silence screamed at her. She wanted to run to the door and open it, call after him, ask him to take her with him or to hurry back.

  The roar of an engine broke the absence of sound, followed by a quick shriek of tires.

  Frowning, Danielle turned and walked down the hall to her son’s room. There she lay down on his bed and held his shoe to her chest, and stared at the white walls for a long, long time.

  “I’m not chasing shadows, damn it.” Standing outside Soldier Field, Liam stared at the tall, impeccably dressed man with the thinning gray hair, and reminded himself not to lose his cool. “I have reason to belie
ve Titan has struck again.”

  “You’re on leave,” Rod Bankston reminded him. The older man scowled at Liam, his slight jowls dragging at his face. “You said you wanted a few days R&R.”

  “I haven’t broken any laws,” Liam pointed out.

  “No, just your word.”

  It was a low blow and both men knew it. “I did what I had to do,” Liam said coldly. It was one thing for Bankston to disapprove of his actions, another to attack his character and motivation. “I won’t apologize.”

  Bankston slid his hands into his pockets. “I don’t want your apology. I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  Liam looked away from the man he’d trusted and respected for almost ten years and stared at the imposing facade of the Chicago football stadium.

  His desire to bring down Titan was no secret, but he’d made damn sure to never let Bankston or anyone else know about the fire that burned inside, the one that had started the night Kelly died. Deep in his bones he knew Titan was responsible, but it was a belief he never voiced, even when it torched everything inside of him. If anyone had known, anyone had suspected, Liam would have been yanked from the case so fast he wouldn’t have had a chance to blink.

  And that he could not allow to happen. Titan was his.

  Now he drew a rough breath, wondered how to explain. The only tangible link between Titan and the senator’s murder were the postcards—the one Liam had received after Kelly’s death, the one found in the senator’

  It was a link that damned, in more ways than one.

  “I received a tip,” he said, then checked his watch, working hard to keep the impatience from his face. The need to get back to Danielle ate at him like acid. He didn’t like the way she’d looked when he’d left. He didn’t want her alone. It was irrational, but unease spread through him like a cancer, deeper and colder with each minute that dragged by.

  “While I was in New York,” he continued, then went on to straddle a very thin line.

  “I’ll give you forty-eight more hours,” Bankston said at the end of Liam’s story. “Bring me a hard link to Titan and I’ll give you all the support you need.”

  If he didn’t, if he couldn’t, Bankston would order Liam to cease and desist.

  And that was something Liam would never do. He’d leave the Bureau first.

  The two men said a curt goodbye, then Liam forced himself to walk to his car when he wanted to run. His heart was pounding and a film of sweat cased his hands, reminding him of his training days, when he was wet behind the ears and too damn eager to please, still trying to learn the difference between reality and tests.

  Maybe there was no difference, he thought now, clenching the steering wheel in his hands. Maybe reality was the test. Maybe that was the riddle he’d failed to figure out all those years before.

  A smart man would whip the car around and go back to his hotel. A smart man would sever the pull he felt toward Danielle, the one that grew stronger with every moment they spent together—and those they didn’t spend together. A smart man, a good agent, would focus on the case without the distraction of the woman.

  Liam kept driving north, toward the quiet working-class neighborhood where he’d left her, close to two hours before. He picked up his cell phone and jabbed out her number, swore under his breath when she didn’t answer. Frowning, he took the turn into her subdivision a little too fast, had to slam on his brakes at the unexpected flood of cars stopped in the street.

  Then he saw the dark clouds puffing against the sky.

  Odd, was his first thought. The storm had passed hours before, leaving a ridiculously blue sky in its wake. There’d been no mention of a second front. No clouds marring the downtown skyline. And yet—

  His heart stopped. Memory slammed in. Reality sliced.

  Those weren’t clouds.

  It was smoke.

  Chapter 13

  Big, dark clouds billowed against the late-afternoon sky. Liam jerked his car around the spotless SUV stopped in front of him, swerved around a fire hydrant and onto the sidewalk. He gunned the engine, plowed over a bike on its side, mowed down a small bed of dying daffodils.

  Danielle.

  Memories crowded incked his heart into a painful rhythm. Dark spots clouded his vision. He clenched the steering wheel hard and ignored the older man shaking his fist at him.

  Danielle.

  Around the corner a trio of police cars blocked the street. Liam slammed on his brakes and threw open the door.

  Danielle.

  The sounds droned in his ear, the sirens and horns, the shouting, the sickeningly familiar crackle and hiss of the fire, the shouting of a man in uniform for him to stop.

  He ran.

  Maybe it wasn’t her house. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe he’d nodded off and this was just a nightmare. Maybe this was the price he had to pay for coming back to life.

  But then he saw her house, the quiet little white frame house that she’d turned into a home, surrounded by a ring of men in thick black-and-yellow water-resistant coats, pointing giant hoses toward her roof where flames licked toward the sky.

  Danielle.

  The past sucked him back even as he fought his way forward. There was no sun, not anymore. No bright-blue sky standing in stark contrast to the smoke. Only darkness as black as night. No clouds, no stars, just the smoke staining the horizon.

  Kelly.

  A barrel-chested police officer moved to block Liam’s path. “Hang on there, sir.”

  Liam jabbed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipped open his badge. “FBI.”

  The officer narrowed his eyes. “This is just an ordinary house fire, sir.”

  “Like hell,” Liam growled, pushing past him. The truth chased him every step of the way.

  Titan.

  “Danielle!”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” another man said, this one taller and wearing a fireman’s helmet. “You can’t go any closer.”

  He grabbed the man’s arms, stabbed him with his gaze. “There was a woman…” He tried to breathe, to suck in oxygen, but smoke burned his lungs. “Inside.”

  The fireman shook his head. “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  Liam pushed around him, tried to run.

  “You can’t go in there!” There were two more firemen, and they were all fighting to restrain him.

  “Danielle!” he shouted, but the greedy roar of the fire absorbed his words. He shoved with superhuman strength and broke free, then lunged toward the thick smoke pouring from the open front door. No flames there. He could get inside, find her. She’d be in her room. Maybe the bathroom, in a tub of water, trying to breathe. Or—

  God no.

  Titan could already have her.

  When he pushed forward, something hit him from behind and drove him to the ground. He rolled, found himself pinned down by one of the fireman. “Are you freaking out of your mind?”

  Worse, he thought to himself. “Why won’t you listen to me? There’s a woman—”

  She emerged from the thick cloud of smoke, and the world around him tilted, blurred. Stopped. “Liam!”

  He blinked hard, but she was still there, running toward him, her movements painfully slow. Her hair was wild and tangled around her face. Dark smudges stained the pale flesh of her skin. And her eyes were huge, dark. Horrified.

  “Danielle.” Her name scraped his throat on the way out. He shoved at the fireman holding him down, but before he could roll to his feet, she was there, on the wet grass beside him, pulling at him, urging him to her, wrapping her arms around him and holding on with a force that staggered him.

  “It’s okay, honey,” he whispered, forcing himself to be gentle when there was nothing gentle inside of him. He pulled back and took her face in his hands, ran his fingers along the dark stains on her cheeks, thanked God when the motion wiped them away. Not bruises, just soot. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. “I wasn’t inside.”

  Her wor
ds registered through a wobbly tunnel of time and memory. “You weren’t inside?”

  “I got a call,” she said. “Told me if I wanted to see Alex alive, I’d get out of the house.”

  Liam absorbed the words, the implications. She’d been warned. Titan hadn’t wanted her hurt. Just scared. “God, baby, I’m so sorry,” he said, smoothing the hair back from her face. “I should have been here.”

  She buried her face against his throat, pressed her hands into his back. “You couldn’t have known.”

  But he should have. God, he should have. He was a highly trained FBI agent. He’d been tracking Titan for years. He knew the man’s modus operandi, his penchant for playing twisted mind games. His love of striking when least expected. His desire to watch Liam squirm. Make him suffer. Make him pay.

  Which meant Titan knew. Titan knew Liam was in Chicago. Knew Liam had figured out his involvement in Alex’s kidnapping. Knew Danielle had become more than just a case.

  It also meant Liam was getting close.

  “He’s mine,” he gritted out against her smoky hair. He tangled his hands through the thick strands, held her as closely as he could. “That bastard is mine.”

  He just stood there. Danielle watched him, itched to do something, anything to break the horrible silence, the excruciating stillness. She’d known that Liam was a man of great control. That he had an uncanny ability to bottle everything up inside him, to shove the ugliness down deep and wrap the darkness around him.

  Knowing didn’t prepare for witnessing the aftermath.

  He stood at the window of his hotel room, with his back to her. Beyond, the darkening twilight sky sprawled endlessly, melding at the horizon with the azure hues of the lake. In the distance a few brightly colored sailboat remained, silhouetted, gliding serenely across the placid surface.

  Restless energy surged through her, but she remained seated on the edge of the Louis XIV bed. She didn’t trust herself to move, not when she knew if she did, she would go to Liam, put her hands on him, force him to look at her.

  To confront the darkness that consumed him.

  They’d stayed at her house until the flames had been extinguished and she’d answered all the officers’ questions. The fire itself had been small, mostly contained to the roof and garage, but the water damage made her home uninhabitable.