The Edge of Night

by Jill Sorenson

  Noah thanked the detective and left his office, excited by the opportunity to explore a new lead on his own. He probably should have mentioned his talk with Eric Hernandez, but he was glad he hadn’t.

  He didn’t want to press his luck.

  He was also surprised by Santiago’s reaction to the disclosure about April. He’d expected stern disapproval at the very least. Santiago hadn’t seemed concerned. As long as he was discreet, Noah could continue dating her.

  If she’d let him.

  His gut clenched in anticipation of seeing her again. He hadn’t shown “too much heart” last night. Pinning her arms behind her back, screwing her against the refrigerator. He’d been so intent on having her that using protection had almost slipped his mind. He’d wanted to plow into her, with no barriers between them, and damn the consequences. The condom hadn’t slowed him down much, either. He’d taken her fast and hard.

  God.

  He’d never been so rough with a woman before. The fact that he’d treated April that way tore him apart inside. She’d opened up to him about the abuse she’d suffered. And what had he done in return? Banged the hell out of her.

  He was sorry he’d left so abruptly, but he couldn’t regret the encounter. He’d enjoyed it too much. Besides, she’d practically begged him to continue.

  Damn. That had been off-the-charts hot.

  Stifling a groan, he shelved the memory. Tomorrow he would stop by her house, try to talk to her. Maybe he could find a way to smooth things over. For now he had an investigation to reactivate.

  Cautiously optimistic, he went down to the archives to pull the cold-case file.

  19

  Meghan rode her bike to Cristina’s viewing.

  The funeral parlor was five miles away from Noah’s house, in a quiet residential neighborhood. She stopped at a shady little park across the street to drink cool water from the fountain and lock up her bike in the rack.

  The funeral Mass would take place on Saturday, complete with a Catholic service and cemetery burial. She planned to attend with Noah. Today’s viewing was a less formal occasion. Anyone could drop by and visit the body, from early afternoon to late evening.

  Meghan felt apprehensive about seeing Cristina. She wasn’t sure why she’d come. Morbid curiosity, she supposed. And a bellyful of guilt.

  When she stepped inside the parlor, it was just past 4:00 P.M. She smoothed her hair away from her flushed forehead. Riding a bike in appropriate attire was difficult, so she’d worn knee-length black leggings beneath her lightweight summer dress. The air-conditioned interior felt chilly against her sun-warmed skin.

  She rubbed her bare arms, self-conscious.

  There were three middle-aged women in the waiting room, faces crumpled, tissues fisted in their hands. She nodded politely as she passed by. Near the entrance, a table had been set up for flowers and cards.

  Meghan signed the guestbook, automatically perusing for Eric’s name.

  It wasn’t there.

  Pushing her thoughts of Eric aside, she crossed the room, pausing before a set of closed doors. She tried to imagine what was on the other side. She’d never seen a dead person before. Would Cristina look peaceful?

  She hesitated, glancing at the other women. Cristina’s relatives were having a private conversation in Spanish, their voices choked with sorrow.

  Meghan looked away quickly, feeling out of place. She didn’t belong here. She’d known Cristina for only a week. These women were in pain, and Meghan was intruding on their grief.

  But she couldn’t leave now without paying her respects.

  Heart pounding with trepidation, she went through the door and slipped into the viewing room. A short aisle separated two groups of empty chairs. An open casket was set up on a raised platform.

  She walked forward on unsteady legs, her palms slick with sweat. She felt strange and light-headed, almost as if she’d taken another puff of Jack’s weed. Her eyes had trouble adjusting to the softly lit interior of the building.

  Taking a deep breath, she approached the casket.

  Cristina lay inside the velvet-lined box, wearing a demure blue dress with a high lace collar. Her eyes were closed and sort of sunken-looking. The youthful buoyancy had been stripped from her face, and no amount of makeup could replace it. Her features were slack, almost unrecognizable.

  She didn’t look like she was sleeping.

  When Meghan pictured Cristina’s vibrant smile and mischievous eyes, her chest tightened with sadness.

  This was horribly unfair.

  Her gaze slid down to the lace at Cristina’s throat, because it seemed so incongruous with her fashion sense. Meghan realized that the accessory covered a skin discoloration. And just like that she was taken back to that terrible night, assaulted by memories of Jack. She felt his knuckles digging into her collarbone, his hand fisted in her tank top. She felt him behind her, ripping her underwear and yanking down her pants.

  How much worse it must have been for Cristina! Her attacker hadn’t been thwarted. He hadn’t only stripped her clothes. He’d pushed inside her, violating her body, tearing her open. He’d held her down and choked her, stealing her last breath.

  Imagining Cristina’s final moments, Meghan stifled a sob with the back of her hand. It might have happened to her if Eric hadn’t come along. Overwhelmed with terror and guilt and relief, she turned away from the casket, sinking into a nearby chair.

  At the bonfire, she’d been jealous of Cristina. She’d wanted to take her place.

  Now she buried her head in her hands and cried. She didn’t know if she believed in God anymore, but she begged for his forgiveness.

  Maybe she’d been wrong to leave her parents’ house in Cedar Glen. She felt so lost and alone. The elements of the city that had seemed exciting to her a few days ago now seemed cruelly foreign. Her only friend had been murdered. On the way to the viewing, she’d passed a hundred strangers, no one her age, no one who spoke her language.

  She sat there for a long time. Crying for Cristina, for herself.

  A few minutes later, a young man came in to pay his respects. He knelt at the casket for several long moments, murmuring a prayer. When he was finished, he drew a chain from beneath his shirt, touching the cross to his lips.

  It was Eric.

  He must not have noticed her as he came in, but he saw her then. Letting the crucifix fall under the collar of his shirt, he stood. His dark gaze wandered over her, taking in her anguished eyes and tearstained cheeks.

  “Come,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She walked with him into the sun-dappled gardens. There were several headstone samples beneath a shady oak. The sound of rush-hour traffic on the freeway overpass seemed to insulate the space rather than detract from its quietude.

  “Do you believe in God?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “Because I’m alive.”

  “Haven’t you ever been uncertain?”

  “No.”

  “When something bad happens to you, don’t you wonder if God has forgotten you? Or if he even exists?”

  Eric shrugged. “Not really. I don’t blame God for any of my problems. Everything bad in my life, I’ve done to myself.”

  “So … you believe that people deserve their suffering?”

  “No,” he said softly, watching the passing cars go by. “Most of the time, no. Life isn’t fair that way. But I don’t think it’s God’s fault.”

  “It isn’t his plan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hate God.”

  He laughed, putting his arm around her shoulders. Although his touch thrilled her like nothing else ever had, she was disturbed by the contrast between his handsome vitality and Cristina’s untimely death. It seemed wrong for Eric to smile so easily and for Meghan’s breath to catch at the sight. “It’s not funny,” she murmured.

  “Sorry,” he said, sobering. “I never thought I�
�d see you again, Mía. But here you are. Being with you makes me happy.”

  Her heart sang to hear that. She leaned into him, basking in his warmth. “When I was a little girl, my mother told me that she loved God more than she loved me. She said all good Christians did. Do you think your mother felt that way?”

  His eyes searched hers, seeing her pain. “No,” he said, after a pause. “She’s very religious, but no. I think she loved my father more than she loved me, though. And he was as far away from God as a man could be.”

  Meghan didn’t know if that answer made her feel better or worse. She only knew that she felt connected with him. Getting closer still, she slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry, Gusto.”

  They stayed that way for a short time, finding a measure of peace. Meghan hoped Cristina wouldn’t have felt dishonored by their actions. After coming face-to-face with death, it seemed more important to cherish special moments, to embrace life.

  “Your brother is going to arrest me,” Eric said.

  “For what?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Are you guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed, pressing her face to his collar. He was dressed nicely today, in dark jeans and a button-down shirt. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Your judgment is off. Way off.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I drove.”

  “You have a car?”

  He hesitated, skimming his hand down her back.

  “Yes.”

  “Take me someplace.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  He walked her out to the parking lot, where a shiny brown car rested in the shade. It was an older model, sleek and fast-looking.

  “Did you steal this?”

  With a wry smile, he opened the passenger door for her. “No.”

  She sat down on the black vinyl bench seat, securing a lap belt across her waist. It felt … dangerous.

  They drove down the freeway, windows open. Jay-Z and Beyonce’s “Bonnie and Clyde” played on the radio. The late-afternoon breeze rippled through her hair, plastering the front of her dress to her body. She thrilled at the sensation of being totally free, living for the moment, leaving her troubles behind.

  He took her to Balboa Park, in downtown San Diego. She’d been there several times with Noah. It was a huge space, encompassing acres of botanical gardens, various playhouses and music stages, and more than a dozen museums.

  Meghan didn’t ask what they were doing. She didn’t care.

  At one of the smaller museums, there was a photography exhibit. Eric paid a small price at the entrance and escorted her inside. The ambiance was casual. A handful of chic twentysomethings stood around, talking about art.

  Eric ignored them.

  The exhibit featured local graffiti. She’d seen the scrawled tags on the underpasses, along block walls, and on fencing slats. Before now she hadn’t considered it art. Upon closer inspection, some of the workmanship impressed her. There were colorful geometric shapes, intricate block lettering, whimsical details.

  The accompanying images were disturbing, urban, violent, religious.

  When they stood before a beautiful interpretation of a thorn-studded heart, Eric glanced sideways at her, gauging her reaction.

  “Did you take these photos?” she whispered.

  “No.”

  She looked closer, trying to understand his connection to the work. At the bottom of the heart, she noticed a cryptic lowercase e. “You did this,” she realized, searching for his signature on the other pieces. “You did almost all of these.”

  He gave the group of photography students a warning look, conveying a silent message not to approach. “Shh. I don’t want anyone to know.”

  “Why not? These are amazing, Eric. Obviously the photographer thought so, too.”

  He shrugged, uncomfortable. “It’s illegal.”

  She gave each of the images he’d created another examination. The subject matter was decidedly adult. Prostitutes on a street corner, waiting for customers. A man tying off the vein in his arm to shoot up.

  The work revealed a lot more about Eric than his artistic talent.

  “You could get paid to do this,” she said. “Graphic design, murals. Have you ever thought about going to art school?”

  Instead of answering, he took her by the hand, ushering her outside. “Did you hear those kids? They were talking about styles, and symbolism, and … time periods. I can’t do that. I’m just a tagger from the ghetto. They’re from … Hillcrest or some shit.”

  She smiled, finding it ironic that a boy from Castle Park could be intimidated by residents of a quirky, gay-friendly community. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “I guess I wanted you to see a different side of me. To pretend, for a little while, that I was an artist instead of a criminal.”

  “I like all the sides of you, Eric.”

  “You don’t even know me.”

  The assertion stung. She glanced toward the exhibit entrance, deliberating. “Is that stuff autobiographical?”

  He avoided her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “It’s based on things I’ve seen and done. Real life.”

  “Do you sketch first?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What’s your favorite surface?”

  The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Smooth-finished concrete’s pretty sweet.”

  “Are you making a statement about society?”

  “Shit,” he said in a dismissive tone.

  “You can keep up with art students, Eric. You can do anything you want to.”

  His eyes cruised over her body in a slow caress. “I wish.”

  Her pulse kicked up a notch. “I’m flattered that you shared your work with me,” she said, fingering the buttons on the front of his shirt. “And I wouldn’t mind continuing this discussion … in private.”

  His brows rose at her insinuation. The other night he’d been reluctant to touch her, maybe because they were in Noah’s house. Today he seemed different. More willing to go after what he wanted.

  Nodding his agreement, he led her back to his car. At dusk, the parking lot was almost empty. He drove to a quiet corner, facing a slope of bottlebrush trees, and killed the engine. “Is this private enough for you?”

  There was no one around right now, but they could get caught by a random passerby at any moment. “It’s perfect,” she said.

  He glanced out the back window, making sure they were alone. Meghan started to unbutton the front of her dress. He watched intently as her bra came into view, his eyes lingering on the lacy cups.

  “What’s this?” he asked, sliding his hand beneath a synthetic string that was hanging from her neck.

  She’d forgotten she was wearing the whistle he gave her, tucked into her bra. When he tugged, it popped free, the metal mouthpiece warmed from her flesh. He lifted it to his lips, testing the heat.

  Her tummy fluttered at the sight.

  “Why do you have this on?” he asked, encircling the object in his fist.

  She cupped her hand around his knuckles. “Because it’s yours.”

  He pulled on the string again, until his mouth was just inches from hers. “Why are you here with me?”

  She moistened her lips. “Because I want you to touch me.”

  His gaze dropped to her half-exposed breasts. “I’m going to hell anyway,” he muttered, lowering his head to kiss her. But he winced slightly as his lips met hers, as if the pressure pained him.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked.

  “Nothing serious.”

  Upon closer inspection, the corner of his mouth looked red and swollen. Realizing that he’d been fighting—again—a wave of protectiveness washed over her. She proceeded to kiss him in a way that wouldn’t bother his injury, flicking her tongue hotly against his. With a low groan, he followed suit, kissing her with a
wet, open mouth.

  The shallow strokes were very arousing. Perhaps because he couldn’t crush his mouth over hers like she wanted him to, the rest of her body ached for a more complete satisfaction. She panted against his lips, working on his shirt buttons.

  He moved away from the steering wheel to give her easier access. She pushed his shirt off his shoulders and straddled his lap, smoothing her palms over his taut, well-muscled chest. “You have a beautiful body.”

  His hands gripped her hips, pressing her down on his erection. “Fuck.”

  Keeping her dress on would give them a modicum of privacy, but the voluminous fabric annoyed her, so she yanked it over her head. He filled his palms with her breasts, squeezing her tingling flesh. Lost in sensation, she wrapped her arms around his neck and arched her back, squirming on his lap.

  He tugged down the cups of her bra, his breath fanning her nipples. His hot mouth closed over one pink tip, then the other. She moaned, raking her nails across his bare shoulders, caressing the back of his skull.

  Without warning, the interior of the car brightened. While they’d been getting friendly, darkness had fallen.

  Meghan froze, trapped in the headlights of an approaching vehicle.

  Eric pushed her down on the seat, holding her beneath him until the threat was gone. His heart was pounding against hers—he’d really been startled by the other car. She pressed her face to his chest and giggled hysterically.

  When she quieted, he shifted to the side, finding them a more comfortable position. She nestled into the crook of his arm. Maybe doing it in a public parking lot wasn’t the best idea they’d ever had.

  He kissed the top of her head, sighing.

  She trailed a circle around his flat nipple, admiring a finely etched tattoo of two praying hands on his upper chest. Moving on, she tried to read the cursive script around his biceps. “What does this say?”

  “Perdóneme, Padre, porque he pecado.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “You aren’t wearing your wristband,” she noted.

  “No.”