In the Dark

by Chris Patchell

  His phone beeped and he looked at the display. It was a one-word text from his boss, Lieutenant Alvarez.

  Update?

  Seth groaned. The chief wants an update. He was already an hour and a half late with his daily report. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed the keyboard, composing the e-mail in his head. If he delayed any longer, the text would turn into a call. And a missed call would turn into a summons.

  Half an hour later, he sent the report. Tension coiled tight around Seth’s spine. He tilted his head slowly from side to side, stretching his neck. It was late. He should go home.

  Home.

  The word sounded as hollow and empty as the house where he slept. He eased the desk drawer open a few inches and slid his hand inside. His knuckles scraped against wood and he hissed. He couldn’t look at her face. Not tonight. Not if he wanted to sleep.

  #

  Seth pulled into the driveway of his house. The security light flashed on, scaring off the neighbor’s cat. The orange tabby leaped from the railing and landed with a thud on the hood of Seth’s car. He raced by the windshield and disappeared through the laurel hedge.

  Truth be told, Seth didn’t mind the cat. He’d thought about getting one himself. Having another living thing in the house, even if it was a stupid cat, didn’t seem so bad.

  Seth glanced through the windshield at the house. The windows were black. Silent. Empty.

  He put the car in reverse and pulled out of the driveway. Halfway down Fremont Avenue, he saw the bright neon lights of the Dubliner Pub and slowed down. Instinctively he looked for an open parking spot nearby. He could stop in for just one beer. Just one. Then he would go home. Then he would sleep.

  The street was jammed with cars, no opening in sight. Disappointment rushed through Seth with relief following close on its heels. For a split second he thought about circling the block or maybe heading across the bridge to the Nickerson Street Saloon. Instead he pressed down on the accelerator and skimmed along the lakeside, heading south.

  #

  Marissa Rooney answered the door in a white T-shirt and yoga pants. Seth didn’t have to ask how she was doing. Her puffy red eyes spoke volumes about her state of mind. Marissa stared at him for a second or two, not speaking. Rain hammered against the door, and she ushered him inside.

  “I’m making tea. Do you want some?”

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  There was nothing fancy about the house. It was a whitewashed Cape Cod on a nondescript street. The rooms were small, cozy, and simple—not quite as manically precise as Martha Stewart, but close. He followed her into the kitchen. It was painted a sunny yellow that set off the white cupboards and gave a homey feel to the space.

  Marissa set the teapot and cups down in the center of the round IKEA table and settled in the seat across from him. She folded her arms and crossed her legs, one foot jiggling in the air.

  “Do you have news?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I have a few more questions.”

  More than questions, really. He wanted to know what kind of mother Marissa Rooney was. Whether Brooke had had a reason to run away.

  “What about Jesse Morgan? Have you found him yet?”

  “I spoke to him.”

  “And?”

  “He’s got an alibi for the night Brooke disappeared.”

  Marissa raked her long blonde hair away from her face, looking like she had more to say.

  “I understand they were close.”

  “They were.”

  “You didn’t like him?”

  “I didn’t approve of the relationship,” she said, sounding defensive. “He was older than her, the kind of kid without a plan.”

  Seth nodded, filling in the blanks. Parents instinctively wanted to protect their kids, and it didn’t take a genius to do the math. Marissa was in her midthirties, which would have made her a teenager when Brooke was born. The last thing she’d wanted was for her daughter to get knocked up by a high school loser. Whatever sins she’d assigned to Brooke’s father, she no doubt foisted them off onto the Morgan kid.

  “Did he ever do anything that made you worry for Brooke’s safety?”

  “Like hurt her? I wouldn’t have thought so, but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Marissa huffed out a breath. She crossed her arms and glared at him.

  “It seems strange to me that within a few days of his popping back into Brooke’s life, she disappears. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”

  He’d thought the same thing initially, but Jesse’s buddy had backed his story. So, with nothing more to go on, he’d pushed this lead onto the back burner. Unless the cyber-techs found something on Brooke’s e-mail or social media accounts to contradict what Jesse had said, he had to look elsewhere.

  “What about other boyfriends?”

  “There were a few in high school.”

  “Anyone you can think of who might hold a grudge?”

  “Of course not. Everybody loves Brooke.”

  He knew it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Unless Brooke was an angel or a saint, there was someone out there who didn’t like her. Hell, even the pope got death threats. How many parents claimed their perfect children were incapable of committing the crimes they were accused of? He knew everybody had their own version of the truth—a story you told yourself so often you actually believed it. Even him. Especially him.

  Marissa leaned forward, pouring hot tea into both mugs. Seth watched her. She was stressed, no doubt about it, but nothing she’d said or done so far gave him the impression she was lying or hiding information. And for some odd reason, he was glad. He wanted to like her—believe her.

  The scent of orange and spice wafted off the hot steam. He thanked her and grasped the cup. Just then the door banged open, and in walked a tall, lanky teenage girl. She had straight blonde hair, jade-green eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her nose. Catching sight of him, she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Kelly, this is Detective Crawford,” Marissa said.

  Kelly nodded without saying hello. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s investigating Brooke’s case. Come sit,” Marissa said.

  Kelly dropped her backpack beside the wall. Her motorcycle boots scraped across the floor, and she slumped into the chair beside her mother.

  Marissa’s brow furrowed. “What did you do to your face?” she asked Kelly, pushing her daughter’s bangs off her forehead.

  A red abrasion was visible at the top of Kelly’s cheek. Kelly jerked away. She shook her head, and her hair settled back into place.

  “It’s nothing, Mom.”

  “What happened?”

  Kelly scowled at her feet. “I cut myself shaving.”

  Marissa shot her a look and Kelly dropped her gaze.

  “I took a basketball in the face, okay?”

  Seth watched her eyes and knew she was lying. The fine pattern of scabs was more like road rash than an impact mark, like the kind he got when he wiped out on the gravel with his bike. Whatever her reasons, her closed-off body language made it loud and clear that she had no intention of opening up.

  “Your mother and I were just talking about Jesse Morgan. Do you remember him, Kelly?”

  Kelly hitched a shoulder in a grudging shrug. “A little.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Cool. Brooke liked him. He came over after school sometimes when Mom wasn’t home.”

  Seth caught Kelly’s sidelong look at her mother, as if waiting for some reaction. None came, and Seth continued.

  “Did you know that Jesse and Brooke were back in touch?”

  “So what if they were? I don’t remember him well, but he didn’t seem creepy, like the kind of guy who would do something crazy.”

  “How would you know?” Marissa snapped.

  Kelly tensed. She glared at her mother through narrowed eyes. “How would you? You were never home.”

  “I was working.”


  Kelly crossed her arms and lapsed into a stony silence. Seth sipped his tea.

  He remembered what it was like to be raised by a single mother, long hours alone, just him and his kid sister. Cooking macaroni and cheese for dinner because his mother was still at work. Most nights they had eaten hunched over their bowls in front of the television, watching Spider-Man.

  Things had changed after his mother remarried though. His stepfather was a good man. A cop. At last there had been someone else to help out around the house, someone who showed up at his soccer games and took him camping. Over the years they’d become a family. They were lucky. It didn’t always work out that way. Looked like it hadn’t for Kelly’s family.

  Setting the cup back down on the table, Seth pressed on.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Brooke?”

  He studied Kelly’s expression carefully, watching for any flicker of emotion on the girl’s face, anything indicating she was hiding a secret. Sisters sometimes did that for each other, but Kelly shook her head.

  “Family? Friends? Boyfriends?” he prompted.

  “Family?” Kelly scoffed. “Mom’s been divorced three times. Apparently my father was Robert Plant. Mom screwed him in the back of a tour bus and ended up with me.”

  “Kelly,” Marissa gasped, horrified.

  The kid was a grade-A smartass. Barely acknowledging her mother’s rebuke, she kept her level gaze fixed on Seth.

  “Well, it might as well be true. It’s not like I ever met him. Come to think of it, Rick was a bit of a nutcase. Him and his creepy son.”

  “Who’s Rick?” Seth asked, trying to keep up.

  “Rick Bowman,” Kelly answered, swinging toward him with two fingers raised in the air. “Lucky husband number two. The only one who hit us.”

  Seth tensed as a gruesome image flashed through his mind. A woman’s face beaten to shit—shattered cheekbone, broken teeth, and vacant blue eyes. If the 911 call had come fifteen minutes later, she would have been dead. With the husband strung out on coke, it had taken Seth and his burly partner to subdue him. Days later, released from the hospital, she bailed the bastard out. She went back. Most of them did.

  He wondered how bad things had gotten before Marissa had called it quits.

  Seth glanced over at her. She stared down at the table, a bleak expression on her pretty face. At least she’d gotten out. Often the danger peaked when the woman left the relationship, but sometimes things happened later to trigger a violent episode. It was worth checking out.

  “Rick Bowman?” Seth asked. Marissa nodded. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “It’s been years, at least five.”

  “Do you think he’s the type of guy to hold a grudge against you?”

  “You think this is about me?”

  “I don’t know. I have to examine a case from all angles.”

  Her fingers brushed her lips as she answered in a toneless voice. “Rick and I didn’t have an amicable split, but I can’t imagine he’d come after us. Why would he? Why now?”

  Rick Bowman wouldn’t be the first guy to blame his ex-wife for the bad things that happened to him. After five years of silence, it was a stretch, but he’d seen crazier shit. He’d check out all the people close to Brooke to see if something popped. The alternative was far worse. Stranger abductions were rare and difficult to solve. If a stranger had taken Brooke, odds were good she was already dead.

  He felt Marissa’s gaze on him, and he was glad she couldn’t read his thoughts. Glancing down, he changed the subject.

  “Is Brooke still on your medical plan?”

  Marissa nodded. “I called the pharmacy. She picked up insulin three weeks ago. Based on what I found in her dorm room, the pharmacist thinks it’s unlikely Brooke has a vial of insulin with her. She probably has an insulin pen, maybe two.”

  “Remind me of the difference.”

  “The pen is a fast-acting insulin. She would use the pen to inject herself to counteract the spike in her blood sugar levels after she eats. She would take the other kind of insulin once a day, to lower her blood sugar levels over time.”

  “Can she manage with just a pen?”

  “For a while. She needs shots every four to six hours to stay in control, but when it runs out . . .” Marissa’s words trailed off. She didn’t need to say more. Seth already heard the ticking clock in his head—with each shot of insulin, time was running out.

  Chapter 18

  Gretchen settled into the deep leather seat beside Drew. He shot through the yellow light and raced down Pike Street toward Belltown. Traffic was uncharacteristically light, and Drew zigzagged through the other cars like they were standing still.

  “Christ, Drew. Where’s the fire?”

  “Relax.”

  “I just want to get home in one piece,” Gretchen said. He saw her clutch the armrest as he dodged a slow-moving Toyota Camry.

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t lost anyone yet.”

  Gretchen didn’t respond. She stared straight ahead through the windshield. The thick floral scent of her perfume nauseated him, and he cracked the window an inch or two, just enough to let in the fresh air. He glanced her way.

  “What’s got you down tonight, Gretch? Man trouble?”

  Her lips twitched and he could tell he’d struck a nerve.

  “So, who’s the guy?”

  “No one you know,” she snapped.

  She sounded so defensive he knew she was lying. He also knew there weren’t many guys in Alicia’s small group of friends. Confident he knew the answer, he kept prodding.

  “Was he supposed to meet you at the bar tonight?”

  “Something like that.”

  “And he stood you up?”

  Her sullen silence was confirmation enough. Drew turned onto Fourth Avenue. He spotted her building up ahead on the right. Gretchen heaved a sigh and sank lower into the leather seat.

  “It’s his loss, you know,” Drew said, sounding part big brother, part concerned friend.

  Gretchen’s shoulders sagged. “Why do men have to be such shits?”

  “Hey, we’re not all bad.”

  “All you want is a nice rack and a size-two ass warming your beds.”

  “Who said you didn’t have a great rack?”

  Gretchen snorted as Drew slid the car smoothly into a parking spot. She stared out the window with a forlorn expression on her cheeks, like it was the last place in the world she wanted to be. In the dim light, he could see tears streaking down her face. She brushed them away.

  “Seriously, are you okay?”

  Gretchen swallowed. Her breath came in short, stuttering hitches. “Do you want to come up for a nightcap?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Pocketing the car keys, he trailed her down the hallway and waited while she unlocked the apartment door.

  “My place is a bit of a mess,” she said, looking embarrassed. “Work’s been busy and I wasn’t expecting guests . . .”

  Drew stepped inside. A mess? It looked like a bomb had gone off in there. There were clothes, magazines, and dirty dishes scattered everywhere. The sight of blue mold spores growing in the bottom of a bowl on the kitchen counter turned his stomach. Avoiding contact with the germ-ridden surface, he folded his arms and leaned up against the wall.

  Gretchen slid a stack of dishes into the sink to clear a space on the counter.

  “I was planning to clean up tonight, before I went out, but . . .”

  “Don’t sweat it. You should see my place,” he lied.

  “Really? Alicia told me you were a bit of a neatnik.”

  “I clean up when I know she’s on her way over.”

  “She’s always telling me I should hire a cleaning lady.”

  Drew heard an edge in her voice, and he shrugged. “Easy for her to say. She’s the one with a trust fund.”

  A smile played at the corners of Gretchen’s plump lips. “I know, right? We’re not all loaded like her
old man.” She opened a cupboard crammed with booze. “Her father pays her rent while I’m drowning in student loans. Drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “Pick your poison.” She swept a hand toward her collection of liquor bottles.

  “Surprise me.”

  She plucked a bottle of Wild Turkey off the shelf and went in search of clean glasses. She yanked open the dishwasher and pulled two off the rack, then rinsed them under the spray from the tap. She dried them with a grimy dishtowel. He eyed the greasy sheen of slime smeared around the rim and made a face, half smile, half grimace, silently praying the Wild Turkey would kill off any fatal germs.

  Ice cubes tinkled in the glass, and she poured a generous splash of bourbon into each. Holding his by the rim, she handed him the glass. Hers slipped from her slack fingers and shattered on the floor.

  “Dammit,” she said.

  “Don’t sweat it.” Drew shrugged and handed her his glass. Stepping around the mess, he grabbed the bottle and headed toward the living room. The couch was littered with clothes. She scraped them into a heap and pitched them onto a nearby chair.

  Drew sat on the edge of the spongy red sofa. He smelled dirty laundry and rotting food. The stench reminded him of his father’s place. Rick had been a slob at the best of times, but when he was off his meds and on a bender, it had been like living in a crack house.

  Drew took a sip from the bottle and eased back against the couch.

  “Nice place you have here.”

  “Thanks. It’s close to work.”

  Looking as nervous as a teenager on her first date, Gretchen fidgeted with her hair.

  “Relax,” he said. “It’s only a drink.”

  Gretchen stared at him, the corners of her lips sagging down, like she already regretted inviting him up here. Taking a hit of bourbon, he glanced at her, wondering how he could get her to open up. What would he say to Alicia if she were the one sitting across from him and he was trying to make a good impression? He dropped his voice, speaking softly to her, like a friend confiding a secret.

  “Look, Gretchen, I’m on your side, I really am, and I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I’d like to start over, if you’re willing.”