Their loss.
The taxi goes too quickly around a corner, and I slide to the middle of the backseat—realizing a little late I’m not buckled—watching out the window as a streetlight winks off. We’re edging toward home, too fast and too slow, leaving me unsure if I ever want to get there or if I should change my mind and run far away instead.
And I know that’s dramatic.
We’ve been lucky so far; no suspicion seems to have come our way after Eva—or after any of the others. That we know of. I try not to think about the watch, or our joint alibi, and the longer it’s been since those nights—the longer we go without suspicion—the easier it is to believe.
Eva “disappeared” and Aidan did the smart thing by telling his bosses right away that Eva had seemed to back off. He’d acted embarrassed that she’d stalked him at all, showing his utter relief after she’d stopped. He toed the line between several appropriate emotions, and kept the conversations brief. So when the detective came asking, at least he’d already told someone. There was a trail to follow, previously laid. It may not have been a missing person’s report, but Aidan had rationalized to Harwell that stalkees probably don’t file those when their stalkers move on. Right?
But she had been reported missing, and right away, unfortunately, by someone else. Who the hell would have thought she, that psycho, had a boyfriend? And psycho means a lot coming from me, I mean…a freaking boyfriend, that childish woman.
A sister came out of the woodwork to report the same, but having a sister isn’t as surprising. We all have families, of some sort. Or had, at least. No one materializes out of thin air. Not even me; not even Aidan.
So with reports filed they came to talk to everyone, and found out she’d stalked Aidan. But Jason and the other bosses backed him up, said that she’d stopped days prior to her disappearance. With the multiple corroborations already, I guess they hadn’t needed mine.
Thinking about it now, though, the absence starts to pick at me. Shouldn’t they have corroborated his alibi for the night in question? He was with me; I’m sure that’s what he said. But no one ever even asked.
Actually, I don’t even know what the detective looks like. Hadn’t heard his voice until those ten words earlier, what feels like yesterday already.
Running my fingers through the strands of my wig, I tug it off after a tangle won’t come out easily. Shoving it into my bag, I see the cabbie raise his eyebrow in question, and it’s the first time I’ve noticed he has a face, that he’s a person driving me home.
I shake my real, longer hair out, trying to dry some of the sweat that’s collected as I watch him. His thick, black eyebrows slowly lower after I hold eye contact for too long. Intimidation, I’m better at it than you’d expect. Most people get uncomfortable quicker than I do, although tonight—this morning, I guess—I’m not sure it’s anything but a reaction to fear fueling. “Hot date,” is all I give for explanation, long after he’s turned back to the road, so long he chooses not to reply.
My phone beeps, still strangled by my white knuckles and throbbing fingers. But I can’t look. I don’t want to know this time. I wish I could undo my curiosity from before; maybe changing that would change the outcome of the phone call altogether.
I know I still have to listen to the message in full, but I can’t decide if it’s better or way worse to listen to it once I’m home instead. Pretend it’s new and let Aidan listen to it with me. Feign innocence for the protection of his comfort.
Though, I’m not sure poisoning Aidan with the black, suffocating anxiety I’m feeling now is worth it, let alone the right move to make in this chess game.
I sigh.
It never seemed that bad, when he’d been questioned, not at all. When Harwell and Aidan had their back and forth about reports and stalking, the detective did get a bit sassy with Aidan, asking repeatedly why he hadn’t reported her stalking, until Aidan asked what they would have done. And when Harwell didn’t have a good answer—we all know stalking is notoriously hard to prove, let alone charge or convict—they both let it drop. They’ve gone around with the same back and forth with each statement, each set of questions. But the last time Aidan was contacted, that was weeks ago. So many weeks ago.
I cover my eyes with a shaking hand. Breathe. There’s too much to worry about, too much to consider from every foreseeable angle.
My mind goes to evidence, forensics, DNA and all the lies that have piled up. But still…barely any questioning, and never about anyone other than Eva. Not yet. I shiver. It just hasn’t seemed that bad. But now, I don’t know, maybe it is. So I can’t completely stop the rising panic from clawing its way up into my throat, just inches from breaking out to run wild. I think rational thought has a hold on the fear, though, restraining it for the moment. I just hope that lasts.
God. Looking out the window, I bite my lip and shake my head. I’m so stupid. I’d thought the night was going so perfectly.
And now this.
This call lands in probably the worst twenty-four-hour period of the last few months possible.
Because of course.
Of course this morning had to bring this, this disillusionment, this crap.
As the driver pulls up to the stop sign a block and a half from Aidan’s house, I know time’s run out.
“Can you let the meter run for one minute?” I ask.
The stocky man, still nameless, still a little hazy around the edges, half turns to the back to face me, but then he thinks better of it. Instead he says over his shoulder, “Sure, sweet thing. You sure you want to stop here? I can take you somewhere else.” His tone is kind instead of condescending, but I still bristle at the words. I can see the apprehension in his features, every one pulled tight and filled with questions.
“No, no. It’s fine. I just need a moment.”
“No problem.” And he turns to grab his phone, giving me the illusion of privacy.
I don’t want to acknowledge that it feels like a paradigm shift, that my world has split—and I won’t, exactly. But there is a rift starting to tear into each second as it passes by, and the more I sink into myself, the more I run around and around the inside of my head speculating and going over details, the more it’s starting to feel like a before and after. Before the phone call, I was carefree. But after I heard Harwell’s voice come down the speakers in my phone, well after, I fear, won’t be so good.
That’s a potential I’d like to avoid, leaving my fear unfounded.
And the only way to do that is to be smart, which involves listening to the whole message in order to know exactly what I’m dealing with. It’s better to listen to it now, here, by myself, as the dollars stack up on the red ticker in front of me.
It’s always better to know.
“This message is for Beatrice Iverson. This is Detective Harwell.” Here he pauses to clear his throat, and I can’t help but see spots of red start to invade my vision, like a fog of rage rolling in, at his intent to draw it out, to make me nervous. “I have a few questions for you, about the disappearance of Eva Westfall.” Well, no shit. “I’ve spoken to your boyfriend,” here he pauses again—after getting our relationship wrong—as papers rustle down the line, like he actually needs to check who I’m connected with, “Aidan Sheppard. Just tying up some loose ends I haven’t had time to get around to yet. Call me back when you get a chance, at this number.”
And that’s it.
No “thank you.” No goodbye. He doesn’t even leave his number, assuming I’ll do the work.
As quickly as the fog rolled in, it rolls out, and in the absence it’s immediately replaced with anxiety. Blind, gray dread seeps in, chilling me through my clothes. I feel thick. There’s another tremor in my hand as I pull my phone away and click on his phone number.
I don’t give myself time to consider, because if I do I’ll lose my nerve. And I can’t seem nervous; I won’t.
His phone rings once. Twice. And after two more rings it goes to voice mail. A rushed exhal
e escapes past my lips, and I close my eyes as a robotic voice tells me to leave a message.
“Hi,” I say into my phone. And then nothing.
Then I freeze, having no idea what to say next.
Oh god, why didn’t I think for two seconds about what I’d say.
And as my tongue starts to work again, my jaw slowly unlocking, the words that fall from it nearly trip over each other to be the first out. “This is Beatrice. I got your message. I can do that. No problem at all.” As the driver leans back just an inch, clearly straining for context, I roll my shoulders and continue slower. “Let’s meet at The Wooden Spoon for coffee tomorrow morning. I’ll see you there at eight.”
And then I hang up, mimicking his abrupt end, his commands.
“Thanks for waiting,” I say almost immediately after ending the call, startling my cabbie.
“Oh, n—no problem.”
Tossing my fare and a generous tip into his hands, I finally get out of the car. Still cold as it drives away, I tug my thin coat tighter around my waist. Though some streetlights had blinked off on the way here, suddenly it seems too dark, and the black windows of the homes surrounding me feel too observant, almost insidious. They look like the black eyes of demons, watching on as I unknowingly walk right into the first level of hell.
With my heels in one hand, the other turning the key in Aidan’s front door, I’m still shaking—not sure how much to let slip to Aidan and when.
Then
My irritation mixed with anger, creating a toxic combination, and I struggled not to yell or kick someone. This was bullshit, and I only needed one more thing to piss me off before I completely blew up.
“You look lost, little lamb.” My eyes flickered up, and I did my best to conceal the annoyance before I met his eyes, whoever he was. “Need saving?”
My mind sputtered over a dozen smart-ass responses I’d prefer to give, because obviously not, and it was hard to stuff down the urge to roll my eyes at the idiot. But I took a breath as I buried the annoyance deeper inside instead, and added on a dazzling smile for good measure.
Pouting my lips and shrugging my shoulders, I tipped my head to the side after finally looking at him. “Don’t we all?” I said. He laughed, and though it felt ridiculous, even in the dim lighting, I batted my eyelashes. But my smile turned a little more genuine as he kept his eyes locked onto mine, and I let my shoulders fall a little more relaxed.
“Actually, I’m fine.” I added. “My friends just forgot about me and left while I was in the bathroom. Drunk jerks.”
“Their loss is my gain, I guess,” he said, his voice deepening a fraction as he took on his accidental role of unnecessary hero.
I’m not sure any knight’s armor could remain shining in there, though.
Swallowing, I took a step closer to him, widening my eyes and playing up both the innocence and charm. He was cute with his fair curls and the lightest green eyes I’d ever seen—at least I thought they were green; it was hard to tell with all the flashing neon and black lights.
And I could see the pain in those eyes, too. Something hiding behind the emerald flecks and cheeky grin that he was trying to bury, a grave beneath a grave. He may have thought I needed saving, but I knew better.
The tide changed, and I let out a sound I didn’t recognize from myself. Close enough then to reach over and grab him to lead us away, I moved my hands behind my back instead with restraint and swayed just a little. But I said nothing still, letting the music envelop us and carry the mood to stranger places.
His mouth opened as we flashed purple then dark, stopping him from whatever he had been about to say. A jolt of inevitability struck my spine, before the sweaty room lit up again in strobes, leaving me a little off balance.
“Is this guy bothering you?” I heard as a woman in nothing but a G-string and impossibly high glitter heels came up quickly. A hard line formed her mouth and rusty knives were in her eyes as she glared at my new friend.
“It’s okay, Cinnamon. He’s fine,” I said then pressed my lips together to suppress the rest.
My new friend’s mouth twitched as his head jerked to look at me.
Didn’t expect that one.
Cinnamon’s long, red hair whipped over her shoulder to cascade down her tanned back as she turned from him to me. “Are you sure? Bobby can kick him out if you want; you know he won’t hesitate for you, baby.”
“It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Barely reassured, she nodded anyway and started to walk back to the table she’d been bringing beers to, but after a moment she stopped and turned to him again. “Buy a few dances later, at least,” she added before plastering on a thousand-watt smile for the men anxiously awaiting her arrival.
“Do…” my new friend struggled, “do you work here?”
“I’m not a stripper.” I said, deadpan. “Why, would it be a problem if I were?” My eyes widened as I asked it, intricate layers of innocence and defiance throughout my words, daring him to walk away if he was stupid enough.
They were all stupid enough at some point.
He surprised me, though, when he said, “I just hoped,” and I let one of my brows lift before he continued. “Then I’d know where to find you tomorrow night.”
“But, what about tonight?”
***
Parker.
His name was Parker and he’d spent several hours asking me questions, taking away my annoyance over being left here by my so-called friends, making me forget where I was and about everyone else around us. He’s smiled every time someone here knew my name or nodded to me, asking again and again what I used to do when I worked at the infamous Broken Heart.
“Bartender,” I said again, relishing the sparkle in his eye that told me he still didn’t really believe me. I didn’t care, though. Let him think what he wanted, they all did anyway, and he didn’t seem to mind.
“I’ve never met anyone like you.” He sounded amazed as he let the words fall from his lips and into my lap.
I hid my pleasure, but I felt it sparking.
Parker’s eyes didn’t leave mine, not even when Candy came on stage to the loudest song of the night and dozens of deep voices grunted and hollered for her. Even I looked as she yelled to the crowd for more enthusiasm and appreciation.
“Are you enamored already?” I asked when I turned back to his sea green eyes. They looked like they were digging, trying to excavate the truth inside, hoping to find what made me me.
“I think I am.”
He smiled.
I turned toward the stage again, a whisper of my own smirk giving him just enough, giving him exactly what he needed. I felt his warm eyes on me, surveying the depth of me—at least what I was sharing—and I felt a whisper pass through me, drawing my attention back to his adoration.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
I jumped, almost falling off my barstool, at the gravelly sound bombarding me from far too close, and my muscles coiled in on themselves, taut and layered and ready to flee. The room went a little fuzzy as I blinked, turning toward the barbed voice.
“Can I help you?” I asked once I spun to look at the bald man, with tattoos stacked on top of rage stacked on top of ego, that had stomped toward Parker and me. I refused to stand.
“I said, what the fuck, Clementine?” he shouted in my face, his reddening as sweat beaded on his neck. He was angrier than I’d ever seen anyone in there, and it took everything I had in me to stay rooted to one spot.
Parker’s hand went to my hip, and several desires warred inside me—to brush it away or clutch onto his fingers for strength. But in the end I pushed myself to sit still and do nothing, a force of my own, confident and undeniable.
“I don’t know who Clementine is, but I already feel sorry for her,” I said with a faint smile.
The smile was probably a mistake.
The bald man grabbed my arm and lifted me from my barstool, pulling my face way too close to his. His breath was sour and his eyes suddenly looked out
of focus in a way I didn’t notice until an inch away. I almost gagged, almost screamed, but somehow I kept the panic at bay.
“My condolences, but I’m not her,” I said.
He grunted, baring his teeth like the dog he was, and I stuffed the fear inside of me down even further. I could already hear Bobby rushing toward the bar from his normal seat at the front door thanks to Parker’s shouts. I would be fine, I knew, but this dick deserved more than being thrown outside.
“I sure hope she finds you, though.”
“But…”
His face finally showed confusion, doubt, a moment before Bobby decked him. In the same handful of seconds, Parker had me in his arms and Bobby was dragging the loser out of the strip club in a chokehold. It happened so fast I felt dizzy. The changes came too quickly, and catching up left me feeling drained.
“And when she does, I hope she has her friends butcher, switch, and serrated with her,” I mumbled. Then I turned to Parker, back on my chair and a new drink in front of me on the bar. “Now, what were we talking about?”
He shook his head, moving a hand to either side of my face.
“I think I just fell in love,” Parker whispered after leaning forward to place his lips right next to my ear.
“Good,” I said.
Then I turned my head and kissed him, my lips melting into his as the fear and the tension from the last few moments slid away, and I let myself hope that he would be the answer to everything.
Now
My eyes roll back, so far that I can only see absence, void, the opposite of something. That blackness surrounds me, but it’s warm and encompassing. The heat laps at my skin, touching every part of me. And I moan, pushing myself deeper into the darkness, into the warmth. No idea where my limbs are, what they may knock into or cause problems for, I reach outward in all directions, looking for more connection, trying to grip harder, hoping to be closer.
Deeper into Darkness Page 3