“You mean that?”
Drew looked deep into her eyes and smiled. He reached out slowly and brushed a curl away from her freckled cheek.
“I know I come across as an ass sometimes, and I’m sorry. Guys are idiots. We know it. But if you give me another chance, you might find out that I’m really not half bad.”
She flashed a timid smile. It wasn’t much, but Drew knew it was a good start.
She sipped her drink and wiggled out of her perch. “I need to freshen up. Maybe you could find something to listen to.” She gestured toward the stereo buried underneath a stack of DVDs.
He shuffled through an avalanche of fashion magazines and found the remote pinned between the current issues of Vogue and Glamour. Drew turned the stereo on. Z100 was blasting some insipid Kelly Clarkson song. He flipped stations until he found Deep Tracks. It was playing a trance remix of ZZ Top’s “Asleep in the Desert” to set the mood. Mellow and psychedelic, it was the type of song you dropped acid to back in the 1970s or made out with a girl to in the back of your father’s pickup truck. Perfect.
Satisfied, he dropped the remote on the littered coffee table. It rattled against Gretchen’s phone.
Drew couldn’t resist the temptation. Tossing a quick glance over his shoulder, he thumbed the power button. No passcode was set, so he clicked on the instant messaging client. His eyebrows arched as he read Gretchen’s last text.
I guess this means you’re not coming.
There was no response.
Quickly Drew scanned the message stream and grinned.
He’d known Gretchen had a crush on Liam. Anybody with half a brain could have picked up on it. But Drew had had no idea Liam had taken full advantage of the situation. Gretchen was Liam’s fuck-buddy. Alicia probably didn’t realize exactly what was going on between them. She wouldn’t approve. Unlike Gretchen, Alicia would realize Liam was just using her friend, while poor little fucked-up Gretchen harbored fantasies of having an actual relationship with the bastard.
A toilet flushed near the back of the apartment, and Drew placed the phone on the table where he’d found it. It clattered against an empty plastic vial. He spun the bottle so he could read the label.
Prozac. He shook his head.
Gretchen settled back into place, and Drew stretched an arm out along the back of the couch. He touched her hair.
“So, tell me about this mystery guy of yours.”
Gretchen sighed. She rattled the ice cubes around in her glass and took a gulp of liquid courage before she spoke.
“Not much to tell. He blows hot and cold. One minute he can’t wait to see me, then he avoids me. I don’t know what he wants. If he doesn’t like me, why does he pretend?”
Drew propped his chin on his fist and met her gaze head on.
“Liam’s a little shit, Gretchen. You know that, right?”
She gaped at Drew in wide-eyed alarm. “I didn’t say anything about Liam.”
“You didn’t have to. I saw the way you looked at him the other night.”
“You mean how he looked at Alicia?”
“That too.”
Drew placed his hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Gretchen didn’t pull away.
“Why waste your time on someone like him?”
Her eyes misted over and she stared down at the drink in her hand. “When it’s just the two of us, he makes me feel special.”
I’ll bet he does.
Drew paused, letting the emotional charge of her words dissipate before he spoke again.
“If he hurts you, Gretchen, he’s not your friend.”
“How do you know?”
Drew flashed a sympathetic grin. “Because I’m a guy.”
Gretchen turned her head. Her eyes brimmed with fresh tears. They leaked over her eyelashes and flowed down her cheeks. She brushed them away with the back of her hand. Mascara pooled beneath her eyes. She looked like a crying panda.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she sniffed.
“Because you deserve the truth.”
“The truth? Ha. That’s funny. Liam thinks you’re lying to Alicia. He’s hired somebody to check you out.”
Drew’s heart skipped a beat. He shouldn’t be surprised. Clearly Liam had no idea what a dangerous game he was playing.
Sensing the shift in his mood, Gretchen asked, “Are you okay?”
Drew cracked a wicked smile.
“You know what they say about a fool and his money? Well, if Liam wants to waste his time and money on a private investigator, let him. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m just saying that a girl like you deserves better friends. Better than Liam, anyway.”
Gretchen took a sip of bourbon, and Drew thought about the Prozac. Mixing alcohol with antidepressants was a bad idea. Or maybe it was a good idea. The combination had sent his father into a deep pit of depression that only electroshock therapy could touch.
“I’m sorry I was such a bitch at the bar,” she said.
Dreamy guitars played in the background, and Drew curled a fat red lock around his finger. Gretchen froze like a spooked raccoon. Vulnerability and desperation flickered across her face. Her bottom lip trembled.
“Who am I kidding? I’m not the kind of girl anyone looks at twice, not around Alicia. She’s so smart, so beautiful. No one looks past her to me.”
A fresh stream of tears flowed down her face. Drew swiped them away with the pad of his thumb. She shivered.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked again.
“Because you’re a good person. Smart. Funny. And pretty.”
She swiped her nose with the back of her hand, her eyes wide. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Look at you.” He ran his finger down her round cheek. “Gorgeous red curls. Cornflower-blue eyes. Perfect skin. What makes you think you’re not pretty?”
Steeling himself, Drew leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. She tasted like salt water and Wild Turkey. Gretchen moaned. Her eyes fluttered closed. She slid against him and Drew deepened the kiss.
Music filled the silence between them. The song ended and Gretchen opened her eyes.
“What about Alicia?”
Drew brushed a stray curl off her wide forehead.
“Alicia’s not here. How about another drink?”
Chapter 19
Rain pattered through the tree branches and pelted the forest floor. Brooke shrank back against the wall and stared out into the gloom. Her breath billowed around her in a misty cloud of dew. Fuck, it was cold out here. The damp mist cut through the layers of clothes and blankets swaddled around her shivering frame to her very bones.
The front half of the cabin had caved beneath the weight of the fallen tree. A towering Douglas fir had crashed through the roof, sending glass and debris flying in all directions. Shattered glass from the window high on the wall had gashed her arm. She’d dressed the wound as best she could with a dirty pillowcase to stop the bleeding. The thin mattress she crouched behind shielded her from the worst of the rain.
Somewhere in the dark, beyond the line of trees, a yellow light wavered. She blinked, narrowing her eyes, trying to bring whatever it was into focus. Was it real or was she just seeing things? Judging by the way she felt—burning muscles, aching joints—her blood sugars were soaring up into the stratosphere. She hurt.
It was no use. She couldn’t see anything clearly.
God, she needed a shot. When her sugars were high like this, her blurry eyes were like lenses coated in gel. She clenched her chattering teeth together and kept her eyes on the light. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Still, she couldn’t look away. A tiny sliver of her heart hoped that maybe someone really was out there, someone who could help her—that she wasn’t already dead.
Her mouth, as dry as sawdust, yawned wide to catch the soft rain falling through the trees. The thin moisture coated her mouth. She swallowed. What she wouldn’t give for a bottle of water. Hell, right now she’d take whatever she cou
ld get her hands on and guzzle it down in seconds. Of course, in five minutes she’d have to pee again. It was a vicious cycle.
The spark of hope in Brooke’s heart flickered and died under the weight of the certain knowledge that her body was dehydrating and that she was going to die here alone at the bottom of the valley.
She had, what, maybe an hour before she lost consciousness altogether, and then maybe a few hours more? That was it.
She wanted to cry, but she had no tears left. Tree branches whispered in the wind, and she thought about her mother. And Kelly. And the life she had left behind. School. About Tess, and how close to perfect everything had been until this . . .
Brooke closed her eyes. Part of her wanted to give up. Dying would be easy. But then she thought of her mother and sister, and pictured his face in her mind. Anger displaced the desperation she felt. This was his doing. His sick plan. She couldn’t let him win. Not while she could still move. Her eyes snapped open.
Where was her insulin pen? She swung her head from side to side. It was so dark. She couldn’t see much of anything. And then there was the debris. Somewhere under the layer of glass and wood and branches was her insulin pen. She had to find it.
If she didn’t, she was dead.
She shifted, rolling painfully onto her knees. The mattress shielding her body from the rain fell away. Inch by inch she crawled as far as the chain allowed. Her fingers scrabbled across the debris field, digging. Searching.
Wet strands of matted hair fell across her face, and she shook it out of her eyes. A quick stab of pain shot through her finger and she reared back. Glass. Dammit. Rubbing the cut against her leg, she pitched forward again.
She heard a noise from out in the trees beyond the clearing. Her heart jolted. It wasn’t the wind or the rain; it was something louder. Like footsteps. Something was moving out there.
An animal? A wolf? Oh God.
She sank back onto her heels and looked up. The yellow light was closer now. It darted through the trees, moving toward her. A flashlight?
Hope swelled in her chest.
Was it the police? A hunter? A search party? Had someone heard the tree crashing and come looking?
Please. Please, God, let it be help. Let it be anyone but him.
The yellow light swayed like a lantern in the gloom. She blinked. Her eyes refused to focus. Another sure sign her sugars were high and she was in trouble.
“Help,” she cried, her voice dry and raspy. “Over here. I’m over here.”
She could see something. A shadow. A man. Moving closer. She thrust her heavy arms above her head and waved them frantically, praying the motion would catch his eye.
She called out again. Louder. Blood rushed in her ears as his every step brought him closer. She squinted as hard as she could, willing her eyes to focus, wishing she could just see his face.
The light stabbed her eyes and she averted her gaze.
She waved her hands. Her heart pounded. It had to be the police.
Please, God, if I ever asked you for anything . . .
Footsteps scraped against the wooden floor. She wasn’t easy to get to. She heard the crash of wood and debris as he cleared a path.
Her arms dropped to her sides and she wrapped them around her shivering body. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her mother and sister again. She wanted to be safe. She wanted . . .
“I’m back here,” she called, her voice cracking on the words.
Finally he stood above her. Desperate, she reached and grabbed a fistful of wet jeans. She looked up. Even this close, she still couldn’t see a goddamned thing. He was a shadow, a blur, a black shape in front of her eyes.
He hunkered down. His hands gripped her shoulders. She stared into his shadowed face.
“What am I going to do with you now?” he asked.
Brooke shrank back, twisting free from his grasp. A high, keening wail wrenched from her chest. Her face dropped into her hands and she sobbed.
Chapter 20
Marissa stepped into the Smith Tower’s elevator car. Her head pounded. She’d barely slept, and what little sleep she’d managed had been plagued with nightmares about Brooke. She’d woken in the gray light of dawn, her pillow wet with tears.
All she wanted to do was hide under the covers and disappear into a cocoon of grief. But she couldn’t do that. Brooke needed her. Kelly needed her. So, like a zombie, she dragged herself out of bed and faked her way through the morning routine.
Making herself small, she slid to the back of the elevator, not wanting to see anyone she knew. Trading pleasantries was beyond her capabilities this morning. She stared down at her shoes. Her arm collided with another passenger’s, but she didn’t look up.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“Ms. Rooney, I was under the impression you no longer worked at the firm.”
Benoit’s sharp face was inches from hers. Like a Doberman pinscher’s, her thin lips were pulled back in a sneer to expose a small row of mean teeth. Marissa groaned.
“Ms. Holt offered me a job.”
“A job? Doing what?”
Marissa heaved a sigh. “Maybe you should ask her.”
There was no time for a retort as the elevator reached the sixth floor. Shooting Marissa a nasty glare, Benoit elbowed her way through the crowd and exited the elevator.
With Benoit gone, Marissa’s thoughts turned to the day ahead, and her stomach sank. She had no idea what Elizabeth Holt expected from her. She’d said yes to Holt’s job offer out of desperation. She needed to support her family and find Brooke, but now, in the harsh light of day, she feared the two goals of helping Holt launch her foundation and finding her daughter couldn’t be more different. And she had no skills or experience to qualify her for either.
The elevator stopped and the doors parted. Marissa stepped out onto the floor. Everywhere she looked she saw people. The high ceilings amplified the noise into an overwhelming crescendo of voices. Desperate, Marissa scanned the room, looking for the one person she recognized in the crowd.
Elizabeth Holt stood tall and straight in the center of the room, a pillar of sanity amid the churning sea of chaos. Fully in command, Holt barked orders and channeled traffic, making it all look easy. Behind her, Marissa spied a three-foot image tacked to the wall. Brooke’s face stared out from the missing-persons poster. Marissa’s shoulders sagged. Fear clenched tight around her heart.
Holt looked up. Her cobalt eyes caught Marissa’s gaze, and she brusquely waved her over.
“Good. You’re here,” Holt said. “There are some people you should meet.”
Holt’s icy hand gripped Marissa’s elbow lightly as she steered her through the crowd toward a slight, dark-haired woman at the center of the group. The woman handed a stack of flyers to a man standing beside her. She turned toward Holt.
“Marissa, this is Alice Chang. She’s heading up the volunteer squad.”
“Volunteers?”
Though Chang’s hand was small, her grip was firm and sure. She nodded, angling her head close to Marissa’s so she could be heard over the crowd.
“We’re sending people out to post the flyers around the city, with the heaviest concentration around the university district, Wallingford, Sand Point, and Capitol Hill.”
Marissa blinked, imagining seeing her daughter’s face plastered on telephone poles and store windows across the city. A wave of heat shivered through her, and she felt like she might throw up.
“Are you all right?” Chang asked.
Marissa swallowed and forced a nod. “Yeah. I mean, yes.”
“Good. We have a group of volunteers manning a tip line. The number is on the flyers. Any tips that come in will be logged and passed along to the police,” Chang explained. “Then there are the searches.”
“Searches?”
“Local parks, greenbelts around the university and Capitol Hill. Places where Brooke might have gone,” Chang explained.
Panic spiraled at the pit of her stomach.
Images flashed into her head—Brooke bleeding by the side of the road; Brooke trapped, unable to call for help; Brooke left for dead somewhere on the forest floor. She could be anywhere. How were they ever going to find her?
Her gaze shifted to the groups of volunteers getting their marching orders for the day—a sea of ordinary faces, good people who were here to help. A hoarse thank-you was all she could manage before Holt directed her away.
“The police will be here at ten o’clock sharp for the press conference.” Holt glanced at Marissa sternly. “Ten o’clock. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The media will spread the word about Brooke’s disappearance. The chief will kick off the press conference, but you’ll need to say a few words.”
Marissa’s knees turned to water. Naïvely she’d hoped Holt would handle the whole thing. Stupid. She had been so focused on herself, on her own pain, that she was totally unprepared.
What was she going to say? How in God’s name was she going to get through this?
She trailed behind Holt to her office. The doors closed behind them, dropping the noise to a dull roar in the background. The familiar smell of lemon furniture polish and stale cigarette smoke filled the air.
A man sat behind Holt’s desk. Thin, middle-aged, he had close-cropped red hair and freckled skin. Short, strawberry-blond stubble covered his cheeks. He looked up from the monitor and stood as they approached.
“Marissa, meet Henry Cahill. He’s an Internet security specialist. I’ve asked him to look into Brooke’s case to see what we can find out about her social networking site.”
Cahill nodded and shook Marissa’s hand. His hands were callused, not the type of hands she’d expected from someone who spent his days behind a computer.
Marissa sagged into the comfortable green armchair across from the desk and scratched at the patch on her arm. If Holt offered her a cigarette now, she’d cave in a second. Holt didn’t offer, so Marissa folded her hands in her lap and focused her attention on Henry Cahill.
“I’m analyzing the photos uploaded to Brooke’s page.”
In the Dark Page 12