by Beth Andrews
A trickle of ice rattled down her spine.
The camera cut away to a city at night. Cars rushed by. The clandestine camera bounced, then focused on a couple, standing across the street beneath a garish neon sign. Pedestrians hurried by, oblivious. The man was dark and sketchy, in a leather jacket and jeans, his hand a manacle around the thin arm of a young girl. She was slight and blonde, wearing a cheap faux-fur vest, a tiny, too-tight miniskirt and knee-high stiletto boots. The camera zoomed in on her face.
Sam dug her fingers in the edge of the leather cushion, frozen in horror. The girl wasn’t more than thirteen; her cheeks still held a preadolescent plumpness and pimples showed plain, in spite of a heavy layer of makeup.
Older than you were.
When the man leaned in, his shadow falling over half her face, the girl flinched. Her eyes darted, searching for help. For a microsecond, she stared straight into the camera.
The tortured panic on the girl’s face shot a matching bolt through Sam. Her hands twitched as adrenaline mainlined into her blood. Sweat popped on her forehead. But that wasn’t the worst.
It was the too-old look of anguished resignation in the girl’s eyes—as if she knew there’d be no reprieve.
And she was steeling herself to survive what came next.
“What is it, Sam?” Nick stood over her, a cup of tea in his hand. The alarm in his voice made her aware the fear must show.
She shot to her feet. Get out. “I have to go. Now. My head is killing me.” She sounded like an automaton. A defective one. “And I forgot something. At home.”
She tried. Focusing on her feet, she tried to walk slowly. But by the time she hit the door, she was running. She scrabbled at the handle, twisting and pulling at the same time, getting nowhere. She sniffled, focusing only long enough to jerk it open. Then she was flying down the stairs into the cold, welcome night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HER FEET POUNDED pavement to the beat of the words in her head. Get. Away— Get. Away. It was late; the streets were blessedly empty. The streetlights were cold circles of revelation. She sped up, her feet flying until they barely touched the ground.
He saw. He knows. You told.
Shame slicked the inside of her mouth. When a shadow-filled street opened on her left, she plunged into the cold arms of the dark.
Her lungs were bellows, fired by adrenaline. Her collarbone screamed.
After six years of running, her past had caught her. Shadows, deep in her mind had exploded into the light.
Now she understood why she’d fled Ohio.
She must have known on some deep level that if she stopped, her secret, the one the little girl whispered of, would catch up.
Dark, shrouded houses gave way to black, empty spaces. She ran, her stomach roiling. Tonight it had awakened.
The horrible monster she hid in the closet all these years was loose. And someone saw!
She had always remembered. The bruising of unwanted hands. His rancid breath in her face.
Her years from nine to eleven had been the iceberg in the cold waters of her childhood.
What she realized tonight was that she’d held only the physical memory. The emotional memory—what it felt like—was the terror lurking beneath the waterline. And everyone knew the bigger part of an iceberg lived underwater.
She stumbled to the side of the road and, leaning over, vomited into the weeds. Her lungs screamed but her stomach clenched like an iron fist, heaving. Can’t. Breathe. Dizzying white spots whirled behind her eyelids. A wave of vertigo dropped her to her knees.
Something grabbed her. She flinched, and her breath hitched. She choked in a coughing spasm. A fist pounded her back. Her throat unlocked, and she sucked icy air in huge lungfuls. She rocked, helping her body pull in more.
“Just relax.”
Nick’s calm voice flowed over her, soft and quiet. She didn’t try to know the words, but they wound around her like a spell. Her stomach, still a burning fist, loosened, and her gorge settled.
She sat back against her heels, wiping a sleeve across her face. It came away damp with tears and spit.
His hand at her elbow guided her to her feet. “Here, get into this. It’s freezing out.” He shrugged out of his fleece-lined leather jacket and helped her into it.
Nick’s denim shirt was a lighter shadow against the blackness of the March night.
“Let’s go.” Hand on the small of her back, he steered her to the asphalt. Their footsteps carried in the stark air. She shivered. No, that was like calling a tornado a breeze. Her skin prickled, deep muscles contracting until her bones shook. Her teeth chattered in cyclical spasms. Her soul was a desiccated husk, ready to flake away in the cold wind that howled through her emptiness.
She stepped away from Nick’s touch.
“If you want to, tell me.” The calm voice of her nights came from the dark. “Or not.”
They walked on.
Her mouth opened. Words came out. The words. A sliver of her awareness stood apart, shocked. After all, this was the first time the story had been told out loud.
“Have you ever been so wrapped up in something that time seems to stop? You know, ‘the zone.’ Working with my dad that day at a job site was first time I ever felt that. Like time was suspended.” Her shivering made the words shaky. Or maybe it was the words themselves.
He made an I’m-listening sound.
“I was carving a newel post. The wood worked like hard butter—like I didn’t need the detail knife—I could shape it in my bare hands.” She remembered the heft of the wood, the smell of pine sawdust. “I felt eyes on me. I looked up. Mr. Collins was staring at me like he was starving. And I was turkey dinner.”
His face appeared in front of her: greasy nose, snaked with tiny spider veins, weasel eyes and pudgy, questing fingers. The smell of ancient cigarette smoke that hung on him like the stench of the grave.
“I was nine that first summer my dad gave me small jobs to do. I was so happy.” Another shudder ripped through her. “My dad supervised me, but that day, Mr. Collins sent him to the lumberyard. They were building a house in a new subdivision, on the edge of town.” She crossed her arms, shoving her icy hands under the jacket. “Mr. Collins said he needed my help—something only I could do. He led me to the back of the house. It was too quiet.
“When I asked where everyone was, he told me the crew had left for lunch, in town. He led me down the hall to the master bath, where he’d dropped a coupling under the sink, into the wall. His hands were too big to reach it.”
Stop. Right now, stop. But her confession spewed like the vomit had: bitter and unstoppable.
“So I knelt and stuck my head under the sink. I put my arm down the hole. I’d just touched the fitting, when he touched me.” Her throat clicked when she swallowed. “I jumped, and smacked my head on the counter—knocked myself silly. He pulled me from under the sink and acted all concerned—said he’d make it feel better.” She turned her head to spit out the vile taste the words.
She turned to where Nick’s face would be. It was suddenly, critically important he understand. Maybe if she convinced him, she’d buy it herself. “I wanted to get the hell out of there—but Mr. Collins was my dad’s boss. He reminded me that my dad was a drunk. Like I needed reminding. He said if I ‘played nice,’ he’d keep my dad on. Otherwise, he’d kick us out, and I could figure out how we’d survive.
“My dad had been ‘laid off’ from so many jobs that even a kid like me knew this was his last chance.”
Nick touched her arm.
She hugged herself tighter and stepped away. “I really did try to weigh my options. But I didn’t see any. The social worker had already been to our house once. I saw the doubt on her face. If she had to come back again, they’d take me. What would happen to my dad? What wou
ld happen to me?” She dragged in as much breath as her taut muscles would allow. Almost done.
“Mr. Collins must have seen the answer on my face. He sat next to me. Told me I was his ‘good girl.’”
Her teeth chattered over the words. Her mind jittered over the pictures.
“Then he put my hand on his crotch.”
Nick growled, low in his chest.
“It went on like that, about once a week. I started doing badly in school, and I lost weight. But Dad was so wrapped up with his demon, he didn’t see mine.”
Nick reached across the gap between them, his hand hovering a moment over her arm. Then it dropped to his side.
“You know, it’s funny—you kind of dig a hole in your mind and bury the bad stuff. The memories become something that just happened. Some kids’ parents divorced, or siblings died. We recognized darkness in each other, passing in the hall. We knew things the other kids didn’t. We knew there were things that grown-ups couldn’t fix.”
The words ran out. She cast about in her mind, to see how she felt. Only hollow silence echoed back.
When they approached the lights of Hollister, she glanced at Nick. Did he buy her excuses? His profile looked like the faces on Mount Rushmore looked, at night. Cold, white, shadowed.
“How long?” The anger threading through Nick’s voice held the words tight—like rebar in concrete.
She ducked her head. “About two years.”
“How did it end?”
“It turns out, you can’t live scared forever. One day I just got mad.” The echoed memory of that anger heated her guts, banishing the shivers. “I woke up one day, and knew it was over.”
They’d reached Hollister and turned right, toward the garage. “I told Mr. Collins if he touched me again, I’d tell. I’d tell the police. I’d tell my teacher. I’d tell anyone who would listen.”
“He said my dad was as good as fired.” Sam stepped into the street to avoid the exposing circle of streetlight. Nick walked close, but not too close.
“Then the answer popped into my brain, fully formed. If he fired my dad, I’d tell then, too. In fact, my dad would keep his job forever. I’d paid that debt in full, the past two years.
“Of course, I was bluffing. I didn’t know what would happen if I did tell. Would anyone believe me? Could I live with everyone knowing? Talking behind their hands, ‘there’s that poor girl...’ But it didn’t matter. Nothing could be worse than having his hands on me. Ever again.”
“Did you turn him in?”
They’d reached her car. The past fell back into the past. She shrugged. “Why would I? He kept his part of the bargain. I kept mine.”
Air whistled through his teeth.
Her keys jingled as she pulled them from her pocket. “My dad worked for Collins Construction until the cirrhosis got bad. Mr. Collins continued Dad’s medical coverage, even though it was obvious he’d never work again.”
Nick’s mouth opened, then closed. A deep line formed between his eyebrows. “Are you saying that no one ever knew?”
She stood, hand on the door latch. “Not until tonight.”
* * *
NICK DROVE HIS loaner Toyota slow, keeping the taillights of Sam’s Jeep in view. He knew she didn’t need his help; she’d made it across country, on a motorcycle, alone. Tonight, he’d learned that wasn’t the bravest thing she’d done.
Jesus. He shivered in spite of the heater blast of hot air. How could a person survive something that twisted, that evil, that young, all by herself?
Josh’s little girl, Courtney, just turned nine last month. He imagined Sam at that age: tall and thin with bony foal legs, blond hair still in pigtails. His knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel in the moonlight. All he wanted was a half hour with that guy, a live battery and some jumper cables.
At the turnoff onto Foxen Canyon he idled, waiting for her to get ahead a bit. Another car on that back road was rare during the day. She’d worry if she saw headlights behind her at night. It wasn’t like she was in danger, anyway, out here in the country. He followed more for himself. It was as if he wanted to save her, retroactively. He knew sleep wouldn’t come if he didn’t see her safely in her door.
He also knew that what she shared tonight hadn’t been given freely. He was only a witness to the meltdown, not a confidant. He shoved the heater gauge to max. Sam had no way of knowing that he understood the shame she felt. If this relationship was going much farther—and he wanted it to—he was going to have to tell her about his own family. His own shame. Maybe it would help her, knowing that he, too, understood the darkness.
Was that why she never stayed in one place? Did she think if she kept moving that the past wouldn’t catch up? Well, tonight it had. Not that he was throwing rocks—his old method of liquid anesthetic was more self-destructive in the long run.
He thought about their dance—it seemed like days ago. Her strong, lithe body light in his arms. The elegant line of her neck, enticing his mouth to the hollow above her collarbone. Her laughing up at him as he dipped her, the look of a startled fawn in her eyes. After tonight, he wanted her in his arms—safe.
He flipped off the headlights for the last mile—an almost full moon cast more than enough light to see. When her lights climbed the driveway’s incline, he pulled over, parked and turned off the car. A hunting bird screeched overhead, and he heard the clunk of her car door closing. He lost her in the dark, until she climbed the porch steps and was caught in the lamplight spilling from the front window onto the porch. Her back was straight, her head up.
He smiled in the dark. Samantha Crozier was a looker, no doubt about that. But tonight, he’d discovered a lot more to admire, deeper in. She was a survivor.
She unlocked the door and opened it, bending to pet the dog. Then she was gone.
Nick crossed his arms over his chest and settled back. He’d just hang around awhile and keep an eye out, just until the light went out, and she had time to fall asleep. She didn’t need him standing guard.
But it made him feel good to do it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT THE CELLAR DOOR, Sam stepped forward, watching as her shaking fingers grasped the knob, turned it and pulled the door open. Her other hand fumbled on the side wall, feeling for the light switch.
The bulb came on, illuminating the stark space, the backless plank stairs and concrete floor below. She stopped, every sense straining for the source of the danger jangling in her mind.
What was that smell?
This basement was finished. She’d been down there several times.
Then why did it smell as dank as an old root cellar? And under that, there was the whiff of corrupt roadkill.
In spite of all that, she wanted to go down there. Needed to. The need pulled, even as instinct held her back. After teetering on the brink for seconds, Sam did the unimaginable. She took that first step down.
The dim light faded halfway down, swallowed by the basement’s inky dark. Of course the lights were out.
At the bottom landing, she patted the wall to guide her forward. Five steps in, her boots scuffed dirt. The cinder-block wall ended in damp earth that crumbled away beneath her fingers.
A sliver of moonlight filtered in from a small, high window. When her eyes adjusted, she realized the darker shadow opposite was a cavelike opening in the dirt wall.
The fear she felt earlier had been a trickle compared to the dread that now leached into her soul. Somehow she knew, with every vibrating cell in her body, that even if she left this room alive, she’d no longer be the person who had walked into it.
* * *
A DOG’S BARK jerked Sam out of the dream in the exact same spot it had ended the night before. She fought the sound, wanting to reach the end—win, lose or die.
More barking. She
opened her eyes to the darkness, and to Bugs, panting by the side of the bed. Not barking.
She’d forgotten; she’d recorded his bark as a ring tone. She glanced at the alarm clock. Three. Three a.m.? Has to be. If it were p.m. it would be light outside.
Heart hammering, she groped on the milk crate nightstand for her cell. “What?”
“Sam, it’s Beau. Look, I’m really sorry to call. But I need help.”
She bolted up. “What’s wrong? What—”
“Look, it’s no big deal, but I got picked up tonight. By the cops. I’m at the police station, and I really don’t want to call my parents. They’d freak out, and I just can’t deal with that right now. I don’t know anyone else to call, and my mom will lose it when she finds out I’m not in bed in the morning, and—”
“Beau! Give me a second, here.” When she got out of bed, she tripped over Bugs and almost went down, her collarbone punishing her for clumsiness. Fumbling for the light switch, she grabbed the pencil and pad from the floor beside the bed.
“I’m ready. Give me the address. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Thank you. I’ll make this up to you, I promise. I’ll put in extra hours, I’ll—”
“We’ll talk when I get there. Just give me directions.”
She tossed on some clothes and her leather motorcycle jacket, and within fifteen minutes, parked the Jeep in front of the Widow’s Grove Police Department, the only fully lit building on the block. She pushed through the glass door, squinting in the fluorescent glare, shivering in the arctic air-conditioning.
Municipal-green linoleum led up to a faux-wood front desk. A massive officer sat behind it. His salt-and-pepper crew cut did little to disguise either his retreating hairline or his glistening scalp. His small, sharp eyes surveyed her while he shuffled papers with blunt, Vienna-sausage fingers.