Gone Dark

by C. J. Lyons

  “No.” That was all he said. Then he was gone, vanished back into the night, swallowed by the storm.

  The counselor—Call me Brian, he said—acted all sugary-nice, like he really wanted to help, but I’d noticed that he knew as much gossip about me and my family as Warren did. No one mentioned my dad’s war medals or the way my gran worked two jobs or the fact that I’d made honor roll every semester except for fourth grade when the two soldiers came knocking with the news that Dad had been killed. No, we were all just Sunset Court trailer trash to them.

  “I need to know,” Brian asked, his pen hovering over a form, “are you or could you be pregnant?”

  “No.” I didn’t bother to remind him I was only fourteen—I’d seen girls younger than me make that mistake. Funny how the guys who loved them so much never stuck around—and always blamed the girls, calling them sluts, saying they couldn’t even be sure it was their kid or not.

  That’s when it hit me. Hank didn’t like-like me. How could he? Just because I’d been watching his football exploits from the sidelines since I was little, there was no reason for him to have any idea who I was. He and Jack were eighteen, both seniors; I was only a freshman. He didn’t want to be with me, to take care of me. He’d wanted to have fun with me—would have probably let his creepy brother watch and then have his turn as well. God, how could I have been so stupid?

  Anger finally burned away my shivering. I sat up straight, gathering the swaths of white plastic fabric overall into my fists.

  “They didn’t rape me,” I told my new friend Brian. “I guess maybe they were going to, but it didn’t go that far.”

  He gave a little shake of his head as if whisking my words away, his gaze never rising from the paper. “Didn’t ask, and it’s not for me to know or decide. That’s on the courts. This is a medical history form, that’s all.”

  He seemed more bored than interested as he droned on: “When was your last period? Any sexually transmitted diseases? Current medications? Allergies? Suicidal thoughts? History of self-harm?”

  On and on it went until he had more of my life down on paper than anyone in the whole wide world. Finally he put his pen down, although I could see that there was still one last question on the form. Later I realized it was perhaps the most important question of all, but reading upside down across the desk I saw he’d already filled in the blank, answering it for me with a no: “Is there any reason why you feel as if your life might be in danger here?”

  I frowned, trying to puzzle the reason behind the question, but he still wasn’t watching me as he pushed the paper across the table. “Sign here and we’ll get you a shower, some dry clothes, and a bed for tonight.” He glanced at the clock: 4:40 in the morning. “Or what’s left of it.”

  Scribbling my name, I looked at the phone beside the computer that he hadn’t even bothered to turn on. It took all my courage to meet his gaze and ask, “When can I call my gran? When do I get to go home?”

  He stood and gestured for me to stand and walk before him. “Remember these rules. You never walk behind a staff member, always in front where they can see you. You stop before any door and ask permission to enter. You never open a door on your own unless staff instructs you to. No touching or initiating any contact with staff. If you have a question, ask permission first, then you may speak.”

  We reached the door. I started to reach for the doorknob but remembered what he’d just told me and instead stood and waited.

  “Say, permission to cross,” he told me. It sounded strange, but I guess it made sense since it worked whether you were leaving or entering a room.

  “Permission to cross,” I intoned.

  “Granted. Open the door.”

  I did as he instructed, and we continued down a featureless corridor with walls made of cement-block and painted that same shiny white that made the overhead lights bounce back and stab you right between the eyes.

  “Excuse me, Brian,” I said, not sure how to ask permission to ask something. “But when can I go home?”

  At the end of the hall, another staff member opened a locked door and waited for us. Brian never answered my question as the two of them escorted me to a small room barely wide enough to hold a sink, toilet, and a cot.

  I never saw home or my grandmother again.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her work at Beacon Falls wasn’t as boring as Megan had feared, but no way would she ever admit that to her mother. While Lucy, TK, and Wash tracked down people who had known Cherish eleven years ago and did their initial phone interviews, Valencia gave Megan her own private office—it was the size of a broom closet, but she had her own computer and everything—and asked her to create a chronology of the initial evidence and compare it and the forensics to the original witness statements and police reports.

  “Pretend you’re the judge looking at all the evidence,” Valencia had said. “It’s your job to decide a person’s fate.”

  “I thought that’s what juries did?” Seemed like twelve people working together would have better luck than one person, even if that person did know the legal technicalities. Of course, lately all the news was filled with juries that couldn’t get things right either.

  “Not for juvenile cases,” Valencia told her. “Just a judge. Unless he decides to move the defendant to adult court; then it can be either a judge or a full jury.”

  Huh. She hadn’t known that. Was that better for kids or worse?

  “When you’re done, you can present your case to me. I’ll see if it holds merit.”

  Megan had forgotten that Valencia had been a lawyer once upon a time. She was so stylish, dressed with such timeless elegance, that Megan sometimes forgot how old Valencia was—older than her grams, even. “So, if I convince you that Cherish is guilty, then what happens? How does that help you find her?”

  “It doesn’t, not directly. But in my experience, someone running because they’re guilty—they never stop running.”

  “So if she was innocent, why didn’t she turn herself in? Why did she run away at all?”

  Valencia’s smile reminded Megan of her dad’s. “Good question. Let me know when you find an answer.”

  Megan spent the rest of the day organizing. There were papers—so many papers, despite the fact that the case was only eleven years old, so it wasn’t like they didn’t have computers back then—as well as computer files, some that duplicated the paperwork, others that were only on computer. In the end, she’d created two timelines with sticky notes telling her where to find the documentation: one following the events of the crime, the other how the investigation unfolded.

  By the end of the day when her mom came to get her for their drive home, she wasn’t satisfied with either timeline. Both had gaps, leaps of logic that made no sense, stories that contradicted each other, and very little hard evidence. In fact, the forensic evidence didn’t point to any one person’s guilt—not like on TV, although she knew from countless tirades from her mom when she used to have to testify and convince juries that real life wasn’t like CSI. But still, she’d thought this case wouldn’t be like that. After all, it was open and shut, right?

  Cherish was guilty. Otherwise the juvenile judge wouldn’t have sent her to adult court where she could be sentenced to spend the rest of her life in adult prison. In fact, that was the reason why Justice for Youth had gotten involved, not because they thought Cherish was innocent.

  Plus, she ran. You didn’t run if you were innocent. Cherish had to be guilty.

  Megan mentally sifted through the facts as Lucy drove them home, trying to arrange them into a picture that made sense. She only wanted peace and quiet to think about everything, but Lucy had other ideas.

  “Ready to talk about last night?” Lucy asked.

  “Are you ready to listen?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was trying to stop something bad from happening.”

  “To you?”

  “To Emma. She was drunk and high, and I thought, I was afraid
, this boy was going to take advantage of her.”

  “Doesn’t explain why you didn’t just call me—or why Emma’s parents didn’t drive you home before your curfew like we’d arranged.”

  Megan shifted in her seat. “Emma told her parents you were driving.” Lucy opened her mouth, her eyes tightening with judgment, but Megan kept going. “I didn’t know until we were already at the party. Traci’s mom was there, just like she told you she’d be, so I figured it would be no big deal, I’d just call you when we were ready to leave.”

  Lucy closed her mouth and nodded to Megan to continue. “But then after Traci’s mom took everyone’s car keys, she went to her room, and we didn’t see her the rest of the night.”

  “Did she know about the keg? And the drugs?”

  “She bought the keg. Traci said her mom says it’s safer for kids to party at home instead of sneaking off to the woods or somewhere they could get hurt or drive drunk. Says we’re all going to drink anyway, but at least this way she knows we’re safe.”

  “Drunk, around a pool, hard liquor, drugs—” Lucy blew out her breath in exasperation.

  “She didn’t know about all that. Just the beer.” At least as far as Megan could tell. “She didn’t know about the older kids who showed up later either. I’m not even sure if all of them even go to our school.”

  “You should have called me sooner.”

  Megan took a deep breath. Why was talking to her mom always about what should have happened instead of what actually did happen? “Maybe. Yes. Okay. But I lost track of time—”

  “You were drunk.”

  “I was having fun. At least at first. Then this guy started flirting with Emma and things went too far and I tried to pull her away and he, he—” Her cheeks burned as she remembered her humiliation.

  “He did what? Megan, what did he do?” Lucy’s speech grew rushed and Megan felt the tiniest surge of pleasure for making her fear the worst, even if it was only for a moment.

  “He pushed me into the pool. That’s why I couldn’t call you.” At least Lucy didn’t laugh. Unlike Megan’s so-called friends. “And then you came and got us and called the cops, and now I’ll never be invited to another party for as long as I live.”

  “Not a problem since you’re still grounded.”

  Seriously? Megan rolled her eyes and hunched in her seat. Had Lucy heard nothing? She’d done the right thing, tried to help a friend, only to pay the price.

  Then Lucy reached across to squeeze her shoulder. “Grounded for the drinking,” she amended. “Until your father gets home and we get a chance to discuss things. But despite that, I’m very proud of you. Standing up for your friend like that. Emma’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  Megan sighed. Not that Emma would ever speak to her again after Lucy had brought her home drunk and made sure Emma’s parents knew. “So now you know what really happened—and that it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I never said it was your fault. I only said you needed to take responsibility for your actions.”

  “But you judged me before ever knowing what those actions were.” Why couldn’t Lucy understand? Her dad would have, if he were here. He would have listened, said something to cheer her up and make her laugh, and then they would have gone for ice cream or something fun. Not her mom. Lucy was all about consequences and learning lessons. “Is it because of this case? I’m not like Cherish Walker—not stupid enough to end up alone with two older guys or to grab a gun and start shooting at them.”

  “Megan Noel Callahan. You have no idea what really happened to that girl that night. No one does.”

  “Her fingerprints were on the gun and the kid who lost his eye saw her shoot his brother before he blacked out. After she shot him. He’s lucky to be alive, his brother’s dead, and her case gets thrown out on a technicality. What’s fair about that? Where’s the justice for the Kutler twins?”

  “It’s not my job to judge Cherish Walker, it’s my job to find her.”

  Where was her mother, the crusader for victims young and old? What had this new job done to the passionate FBI agent Megan had once been so proud of? Lucy had only left the FBI to spend more time with her family—and to hopefully never again put them in the crosshairs of a killer like the man who’d murdered Grams. As much as Megan resented the time Lucy spent helping other kids instead of being with her, she’d never wanted her mother reduced to someone who just went to work because it was a job.

  Then she realized—this wasn’t about the case, it was about Megan and what happened last night. “I’ll bet if Cherish was a guy and the two kids shot were girls, you wouldn’t feel that way. You’d be all over the fact that a predator escaped custody. You’d do anything to find justice for those victims. To prevent the same thing from happening to anyone else.”

  Lucy was silent, a certain warning sign. Megan ignored it.

  “How are you going feel,” she asked, trying and failing to keep her tone neutral, “when you find Cherish Walker? Knowing that you’re helping a killer go free?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Worst thing about it,” Lucy told Nick later that evening as she sat alone, her laptop and case notes failing to fill the empty space on his side of the bed, “is she might be right.” She being Megan, of course. “Cherish might be guilty. Probably. You should hear what the people in her hometown say about her.” She’d spent all afternoon on the phone interviewing anyone they could locate who had known Cherish.

  “Let me guess—she tortured animals, wet the bed, started fires, and threatened to kill anyone who got in her way?”

  “No. Just the opposite. Her old teachers all used almost the same words. Quiet. Never made a fuss. No one ever noticed her until the shootings.”

  “Ouch. What about the kids locked up with her?”

  She sighed. This whole case was so damn depressing. “So far we haven’t been able to find any of them to speak to. They’re all gone.”

  “You mean moved out of the area?”

  “I mean dead. Mostly from overdoses, a few car crashes. The ones we’ve found still living are in prison.”

  “Sounds like the odds are stacked against Cherish Walker. And against you finding her.”

  “At this point I feel more like a bounty hunter than an investigator. I don’t understand why Justice for Youth is spending their money on this. I mean, granted, they can only afford a week—”

  “Are you sure it’s actually coming from them? Maybe this McCabe is paying out of his own pocket, and that’s why the deadline. You said he was over-involved in this case.”

  She sat up, her laptop sliding off Nick’s pillow as she pulled the phone closer. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe the deadline is because he’s using his vacation as well? But why? I mean, if we find her, odds are she’ll either go deeper underground, or sooner or later she’ll be dragged back to Craven to face a murder trial. If he really cares about her, why do all this?”

  “Was he involved in her case from the start? Maybe he feels like he let her down.”

  “No, he’s only a few years older than she is. He would have been a kid himself back then.” She paused, remembered the intensity that radiated off McCabe. “He wants to meet her.” Not want—need? It felt right. Definitely put McCabe’s behavior into better perspective. “Maybe he somehow thinks he’s in love with her?”

  “Like that Gene Tierney movie I always fall asleep during when you make me watch it? The one with the cop who falls in love with the murder victim’s portrait.”

  “Laura.”

  “You think he’s obsessed with her?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s he from? Maybe he heard about the case when he was a kid.”

  “His accent is kinda Southern, but subtle, almost a non-accent. Like he’s too smart and educated to have one. Not at all like the people from Craven County—at least not the ones we spoke to today.”

  “So not as distinctive as my gentlemanly Southern drawl,” he said, in a
parody of his own Virginian accent. “Or youns’ Pittsburghese where you outen lights and read up your room and warsh your car.”

  She laughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. “I don’t sound that bad.”

  “Bless my heart. Y’all just have no idea.” Now he sounded exactly like his mother had the first time she’d met Lucy.

  “Stop, stop.” She wiped an errant tear away. “I have to get back to work. You’ll be home tomorrow night? I might need to go to Craven myself, but Megan can wait at Beacon Falls. You can pick her up there.”

  “Yeah. They were worried that tropical storm in the Gulf would come this way, maybe delay flights out, but it looks like it’s heading toward New Orleans.”

  She hadn’t even checked the weather. Or the news. “Tropical storm?”

  “Delilah. They said it might upgrade to a hurricane.”

  “But you’re okay there in Florida?”

  “We’re fine. Other than the fact that it’s a hundred degrees in the shade—I haven’t even left the hotel.”

  “Not out carousing with the other trauma counselors? Swapping tales of PTSD over shots?”

  “Speaking of carousing—”

  “What are we going to do about Megan? I’m still not sure she’s telling me the whole truth about everything that happened at that party.”

  “She’s a kid. Did you tell your mother everything at that age?”

  “Low blow.” He knew she and her mother barely spoke when she was Megan’s age. “But point taken.”

  “I’m just saying, don’t interrogate her. She knows she made a mistake—”

  “More than one.”

  “Mistakes. But she also did the right thing to help Emma.”

  Except that was exactly where Lucy was pretty sure Megan was hiding the truth. Or part of the truth, at least. “Maybe you can get more out of her when you get home and I’m in Tennessee. She’ll always talk to you more than me.”

  “It’s my Southern charm.” She could practically hear his smile. “Wait. That’s why this case has you so upset. You want Cherish Walker to be innocent. Because if she didn’t actually pull the trigger, if she’s a victim instead of a killer, then somehow that means Megan—”