Dark Secrets: A Paranormal Romance Anthology

by Colleen Gleason

  Alex’s skin was on fire. It felt like he was burning from the inside out. Stumbling to the kitchen, he clumsily poured himself a glass of water, savoring the cool sharpness as it went down. His hand swiped for a chair and he slumped down in it, drinking his water slowly, trying to catch his breath.

  It was Finn; it had to be. She said those things to impress him, or because she was embarrassed, or trying to fit in. There had been no mistaking the meaning in Finn’s words. Like the rest of the island, Finn didn’t appreciate all Alex did to help people. Well, Alex didn’t much respect Finn’s motives, either.

  Andrew St. Andrews had been a good man; unorthodox, but good. Those qualities seemed to have skipped his sons. Jon was reclusive and sometimes even rude to people for no apparent reason. And Finn? Well, he was a skirt chaser. There was no way around it. Alex didn’t like gossip, but he knew Finn had charmed half the women on this island, and not settled down with a single one of them. He was going to do the same thing to Ana. Alex was certain.

  He was so angry at himself for leaving like that, when what he should have done was put an end to the nonsense before it went anywhere! And now, the storm was coming in heavy. He couldn't just drive back over there now, could he? Worse, he thought, it was possible the snow would act as a reason for Finn to stay with her, or for her to go over to Finn’s, to ride it out.

  With a furious curse, he kicked the chair across from him and it landed with a clunk on the hard linoleum. He could not—would not—fail her the way he had failed those other women! In each case, there had been that one moment; a moment of perfect clarity where he knew he would either save them or he wouldn’t. Alex felt he was fast approaching that moment for Ana.

  His mother’s voice was coming back to him now. “‘Lotta women will tell you their man beats them because it helps ‘em, keeps ‘em in line, but it ain’t true,” she had said to him several times, usually after a particularly rough row with his father. “The men do it ‘cause they’re weak... and powerless... and this is the only power they know. The only power they’ll ever know is the one they feel standing over a helpless woman who cain’t fight back.”

  Alex couldn’t remember a time when his father had not sought to subdue his mother with his fists. And if not fists, sex. Many nights Alex had heard the sounds from their bedroom. His father’s disgusting grunts, mingled with his mother’s terrified screams.

  While his father said nothing, his eyes would meet Alex’s as if daring him to say something, to challenge him.

  “I hated you both,” Alex whispered. He went to put his glass in the sink but he missed, dropping shattering it all over the dirty, peeling linoleum. Ignoring the mess, he opened a wooden drawer near the fridge and pulled out a set of keys. Alex stormed down the hall toward a very special room seldom used anymore, but containing things more important to him than anything else in the house. There is more meaning in this room than there is on this whole godforsaken island, he thought.

  He fumbled with the keys, dropping them twice before successfully unlocking the door. In his agitation, the door swung open too quickly, tumbling several things from his old wooden desk to the floor.

  The room was nearly bare of furnishings. It held the old wooden desk, which was chipping and even listing to one side. A dirty cloth chair went with the desk, and a dented file cabinet was so overflowing with paperwork the doors no longer closed. It wasn’t the few pieces of tired, cheap heirlooms that made this room special to Alex, but what he had done with the walls.

  The color of the room was light blue, but anyone coming into this room would never know that because there was not even an inch of bare wall to be found. It was covered in pictures and newspaper clippings, wall to wall, ceiling to floor... even the ceiling itself. There were several old poster and cork boards holding some of the cutouts, but many of them were taped or tacked to bare walls. In one corner, the clippings had been put up using drywall screws, when Alex had run out of traditional adhesives. Light shining through one section of newsprint served as the only sign a window existed. It highlighted the dust swirling through the air.

  Alex sunk silently into his creaky chair, and a sense of peace came over him. One he only found when surrounded by these memories. His sense of purpose—of knowing what he was born for, what he was meant for—was back, unmarred by all the other emotions he had experienced earlier. Especially, his least favorite feeling: a loss of self-control. Looking from face to face, from one smile to the next, Alex was back in the driver’s seat.

  As his eyes scanned the room, he habitually started with the ones who meant the most. There was an entire wall dedicated just to these three:

  Carla Edgewater, 18, and Lionel Shepherd, 18, fell to their deaths from Casco Bay Lighthouse in bizarre murder-suicide. Next to the clipping, Alex had taken a color picture of Carla—a candid—with her beaming cheerleader smile and long mahogany hair.

  Sandra Finnerty of Portland, 23, found at the base of Casco Bay Lighthouse following apparent suicide. Alex’s picture of Sandra was taken at the Thirsty Wench on Androscoggin. She was holding up a beer and toasting to a celebration, but she wasn’t looking at the camera. Her mouth was open in a cheer; her short blonde hair pulled into a ponytail.

  Emily Caldwell, a beloved member of the Summer Island community and recent widow was found this weekend after an apparent suicide. Caldwell, 26, is survived by her parents, Richard and Susan Jarvis, of Bangor. In this picture, Emily was getting into a car outside of the Lutheran church. She was crying, because the photo was taken at her husband’s funeral. Her eyes had caught the camera momentarily and there were two hollow orbs staring back, buried behind long, dark hair.

  There were multiple articles and clippings about each of these women, alongside more of Alex’s private photos.

  The other three walls and ceiling were covered in similar articles and black and white news pictures, but these were women who had perished tragically. Women from Oregon to Hawaii to Georgia.

  The one thing all of these women had in common was simple: someone had failed them. Specifically, someone had failed to save them.

  Not all women wanted to be saved. Not all women were grateful toward those who tried. His mother was one of those women.

  “Why are you angry with me, Ma? He will never, ever hurt you again,” Alex had pleaded, while still holding the bloody axe. It was heavy and yet impossible to let go of. A thousand thoughts and motivations drove him, but at the forefront had been the smile he imagined on his mother’s face when he came to release her from her prison.

  But her eyes had been hard as steel, filled with tears, but not tears of joy. “You killed the only thing I eva loved,” she said. There were never words, not then or ever after, that cut Alex as deeply.

  When a woman was that detached from reality, there was only one way to handle it. He always prayed it wouldn’t come to that.

  These were Alex’s reminders of why he was here, and why, no matter what stood in his way, he could not falter.

  For Ana, there was still hope. He just needed to get her away from Finn long enough to show her.

  * * *

  16- FINNEGAN

  Despite having seldom prayed in his life, Finn found himself not only praying but begging, pleading, and bargaining. This was not happening. It could not be... he refused to believe it.

  It seemed an eternity before Jon reached him, but when he did, Finn could feel his brother’s shock before he was close enough to see it. “Christ,” he heard Jon whisper.

  Jon’s hands were on his jacket, pushing him away, but he couldn't move. The blood was frozen to her head; so much blood, she looked dead. Jon pushed him again and this time Finn moved, his gaze still fixated on her, unbelieving, terrified.

  Jon lifted Ana, his arms supporting her knees and shoulders. Standing up, as he moved Ana higher into his arms, her coat shifted and something dropped from the side pocket. Keys. Finn’s keys. Oh no, Finn thought. She was coming to our house, for me, to give these to me. Tears burn
ed in his eyes, but there was no time for that. When he looked up, Jon was already heading back to the house, moving as quickly as he could through the deep snow.

  Finn pulled himself up out of the icy drift and ran back to the house, though he couldn’t see a foot in front of him. His internal sense of direction carried him true, as it must have done for Jon, because when he reached the back door, it was still wide open and neither Jon, nor Ana, were anywhere to be seen.

  He caught his breath and saw Jon's shoes were at the bottom of the stairs. Finn flew up the steps in pursuit, uncaring of the muddy prints he left.

  Jon had laid her out on their parents’ bed, and was taking off his own jacket, gloves, scarf, and hat. There was a stark contrast between Finn’s panic and Jon's quiet, methodical, and efficient demeanor. Jon’s face betrayed no emotion other than determination. He looked up at Finn and instructed calmly, “Help me get her clothes off.”

  “WHAT!” Finn stood with hands on his head, panting. “She's likely to freeze to death and you want her clothes off?”

  “Finn. Calm down,” Jon ordered. “Help me get her clothes off.”

  “She's dying. We're gonna kill her, this will kill her, she's gonna die,” Finn choked. He was pacing, restless.

  Jon slapped Finn across the face. The sound bounced off the walls, the sting intentionally startling. “She is going to die if we don't get her out of the wet clothes.”

  “Right,” Finn said, dazed. “Right.”

  Jon was already pulling off her jacket and shirt, when Finn started on her shoes. They weren't even snow boots, just sneakers. Oh, Ana. By the time his shaking hands unlaced her sneakers, Jon was waiting impatiently to pull off her pants, already done with the rest. “Go draw a warm bath. Quickly. Not hot,” he barked at Finn.

  Finn fumbled with the knobs on the old porcelain tub, trying not to think about what she looked like lying there, or what could happen. He focused on one step at a time: right knob hot water, left knob cold water. Plug the drain, test the water. More hot water. Test the water.

  Jon stood in the doorway with Ana in his arms, naked and dead to the world. Finn felt a moment of clarity when he saw his brother's arms come around her sides, his fingers brushing the underside of her naked breast, his other hand resting under her bottom. Jon's face was all business.

  He nudged Finn out of the way, and placed her gently in the bath as Finn stood motionless. “Go get Dad’s medical bag,” he instructed Finn. “Make sure the stitches kit is in there. If not, find it.” When Finn didn’t move, Jon said, with more force. “Finnegan. Please.”

  It took a moment for Finn to register the request. He had almost forgotten Jon had been trained by their father. It was easy to forget, when Jon himself refused to acknowledge his abilities. But Jon was trained, and Jon had a gift. If anyone could fix her, it would be him.

  Finn returned with the bag to find Jon kneeling next to the tub, gently cleaning Ana’s face with a wet washcloth. She was still unconscious, but there was some color in her face now. The ashen grey pushed back with hints of healthy color, she no longer looked dead.

  “She has a pretty serious head wound. Also, I don't know how long she was outside in the cold or what effects that caused.” Jon turned to look at his brother. “Tell me truthfully, how long are we going to be stuck here with this storm?”

  “I... I don't know.” Finn was pacing again, his voice cracking.

  “Finn, calm down and talk to me. Finn.” He felt Jon’s hand on his leg. “I need you to help me. I need you right now.”

  Jon had never said he needed him before. It had the calming effect that Jon had evidently been hoping for. Finn took a deep breath and predicted, “It might be awhile. Days, maybe weeks.”

  Jon lowered his head and sighed. “I can stitch up her head wound. We can feed her, and keep her warm. But I don't know when she will wake up. Hell, I don’t even know what equipment still works...” Jon’s voice trailed off and Finn knew he was thinking of all the things in the medical office Jon had studiously avoided for years. “I have no idea how serious her wound actually is.”

  Finn nodded. He understood what Jon was saying, even if he didn't like it. “You can fix her now, but she might not be okay, is what you're saying. You can do your best, but it still might not be enough…”

  “Let's get her dried off and into something warm,” Jon decided, once again lifting her limp body into his arms. This time Finn didn't hesitate when he stepped toward them and wrapped a towel around her.

  * * *

  17- JONATHAN

  Jon sipped his coffee slowly, watching for hints of the sun over the horizon. The snow continued to come down relentlessly, lasting longer even than Finn had expected. Through the thick falling white flakes, Jon could still make out the sunrise’s edge.

  The adrenaline from the night had worn off, leaving Jon feeling weak, tired, and helpless. The gash in Ana’s head was deep. It was hard to tell for sure, but she seemed to have lost a lot of blood; enough that she might need a transfusion. He knew the equipment was there, and two healthy and willing donors were in the house, but without knowing her blood type he couldn’t give her their blood and risk killing her.

  That he had even entertained attempting a blood transfusion told him how tired he was. He’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours now. The early morning was unbearably exhausting, but he was afraid to sleep. Every hour he went up to the bedroom to check on Ana, afraid if he didn’t see her chest rise and fall it would be because he had failed.

  They had dressed Ana in their mother’s old flannel pajamas. Finn insisted they put more than one pair on her, but Jon explained they didn’t want her to overheat, either. She was likely to develop a fever once her body started to stabilize and that could make her worse. Finn then insisted on double pairs of socks, and Jon relented.

  Finn was upstairs in the bed with her, holding her, but he wasn’t sleeping any more than Jon was. If Jon was anxious, Finn was far worse. He was watching her breathe vigilantly, worried she might have a deadly concussion they couldn’t diagnose in their home; that she might have a brain bleed, or a hemorrhage. Jon wanted to reassure him, but he had the same worries.

  Finn had calmed down long enough to get Ana cleaned up, dressed, and settled in bed before he lost it again. He rambled on about keys, and how the whole thing was his fault. Jon insisted he take a valium, and Finn reluctantly complied.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here. God… if you had stayed later with the McElroy dog, or if we had waited until morning to start the shoveling. Jesus Jon, did this really happen?” The medicine had calmed him, slowing his emotions to a steady stream of guilt and fear.

  “You can’t think of the ‘what ifs,’” Jon said. What else could he say? Finn was right, but those things happened every day. Paramedics arriving late to a crash scene; a pedestrian unknowingly walking past someone who can’t cry out for help. This is why he went into medicine. To be the one who could make the difference; to make the seconds that counted, count for something. When he was tending to Ana, his awkwardness and anxiousness around her vanished. He was a doctor, at his father’s side, his only concern keeping her safe. As stressful as the night was, it was the first time in a long time Jon felt alive.

  Once Ana had been stabilized, Finn buried his face in his hands and cried. Not tears of the moment, of fear, or of anxiousness, but real tears. Jon felt his heart lurch for the only person he really loved.

  He put his hand on Finn’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go lay down with her. It might help you relax, and I’m sure she will want a familiar face when she wakes.”

  Finn looked up. He was a young boy again. The thirteen-year-old who wanted to be a sailor. “Will she? Wake up I mean?”

  “Of course,” Jon lied. He honestly couldn’t say when, or if, she would. The brain was a mysterious organ and doctors still had so much to learn about the effect of trauma on a patient. As much as he wanted to comfort Finn, he really needed to be
alone. He put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Go on.”

  Finn nodded without another word and went upstairs. When Jon checked on them throughout the night and morning, Finn would be staring at her, one arm propping himself up, the other wrapped protectively around her. Her face was still and unmoving, but her breathing was steady. By some miracle she hadn’t suffered any frostbite so he hoped the worst was over.

  In a couple of hours, he would need to insert a catheter and start her on fluids. If she was still asleep by the evening, he would need to begin a feeding tube to filter her nutrients. These were all things he remembered how to do; had, in fact, done them many times at his father’s side. He presumed all of the requisite supplies would be easy to find in his father’s office, but he wasn’t ready to go in there. He wanted to enjoy what was left of his quiet morning.

  As the sun continued to rise—now a hazy orange glow pushing through the blizzard—he thought again of his father. Andrew St. Andrews would have been both proud and ashamed of him last night. Proud of how well he acted under pressure, proud of him for saving that girl. Ashamed afresh that Jon gave up his career in medicine.

  He never understood, Jon thought. No one did, but especially not him. Jon didn’t need understanding, though. Mostly he needed to be left alone.

  I’m not you, he had said to his father, when he delivered the news that he had left medicine behind.

  No… you’re sure not.

  He finished the rest of his coffee and gave another glance outside. When Finn was more alert, he would have to ask him what he thought about the weather... if things were going to get worse. He laughed to himself that he, a pragmatic man of science, would believe so deeply in his brother’s senses. Explanations notwithstanding, Jon couldn’t deny his brother’s abilities.