Into the Dark

by Green, Stacy

  “Leave me alone,” she cried.

  “I can’t do that.” The blob was directly in front of her now. “Let me help you.”

  A hand reached out, its fingers coming to rest on the arm that was now pressed in front of her face.

  Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. A bloodcurdling scream tore through the hallway—her own.

  Fight or flight.

  She wrenched the hand off her arm, her fingernails digging into flesh.

  “Ouch! Emilie, stop. You know me.” The voice was masculine, husky, and tinged with emotion.

  “It’s Nathan. Remember me?”

  She searched her cloudy mind. “The hostage negotiator?”

  “Yes. You’re safe. You’re at the police station. Open your eyes.”

  Emilie cracked one eye open. Nathan’s features came into view: broad shoulders, a scruff-covered, angular jaw, striking blue eyes.

  He stood in front of her, worry etched on his handsome face. Behind him, several officers gawked. She’d drawn a crowd.

  Emilie took a step forward. Dizziness threatened to overtake her, and she stumbled. Nathan caught her by the arms. His hands were warm and rough with calluses.

  She spoke into his broad chest. “I need to get out of here.”

  “You need to sit down.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve calmed down.”

  “I just want to go home.” She pressed her hands against her ringing ears.

  Nathan touched her shoulder. “Please sit down and rest.”

  She didn’t have the energy to refuse him. Nathan steadied her as she wobbled to a nearby wooden bench.

  “I’m not crazy.”

  “Of course not. You’re traumatized.”

  Emilie hated that word. It made her feel like a victim. “I don’t know what happened back there.”

  “You looked like you were having a flashback.” Nathan sat down next to her.

  The significance of the Taker’s words sent her reeling again. She clutched the edge of the bench to keep from falling face first onto the floor. “He knows about my past, about my parents. He knows me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Nathan struggled to think of the right response as Emilie rocked back and forth on the bench. He was afraid she’d tumble off if he let go of her arm.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Emilie demanded.

  She looked worse than she had last night. The bluish-purple bruise on her cheek had a distinct shape—the butt of a gun. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she had gotten little rest. A tear clung briefly to the edge of one of her long eyelashes before losing its grip and slipping down her cheek. The moisture landed on her full upper lip, but Emilie didn’t seem to notice.

  “What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

  Another tear, this one trickling through the smattering of freckles across her nose. “My mom, the way she treated me. That I left home when I was eighteen and haven’t spoken to her since. He knows.”

  A copy of The Sun stuck out of the top of her bag. Emilie’s history had been a sad surprise. Her mother’s cold indifference toward her daughter was easy to see in her malicious quotes.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because of what I just remembered,” Emilie said. “The Taker talked about my wearing white and how only kids were innocent enough to wear white. Then he talked about protecting them and how there’s no worse sin than mistreating a child.”

  “And you think he was referring to you?”

  Color rose in her cheeks. “Listen, you have no idea the kind of person my mother is and what she did. She resented me and spent most of her life pretending I didn’t exist.” Emilie’s tone changed. The vibrating sound of fear was replaced by a raw timbre of pain.

  “Is that why you left?”

  She finally met his gaze. Surprise and then mortification flickered across her face. Emilie crossed her arms over her chest and twisted her body away from him.

  “Doesn’t matter,” she backtracked. “I found out enough to open my eyes and send me packing.”

  “And you think the Taker knew?”

  “Isn’t that what he meant about mistreating a child?”

  “Maybe, but he could have been talking about himself, too. Many people with psychoses had bad childhoods.”

  “But I thought his voice sounded familiar.”

  “Really? Could it have been your ex?” Nathan’s instincts told him Evan Shaw had preyed on a vulnerable young girl. That kind of man could be capable of anything.

  “Evan?” Emilie scowled. “Hell no. He’s not smart enough to pull off an escape like that, and I would have recognized him in an instant.”

  “One of his friends?”

  “I suppose it could have been. But I doubt Evan shared my past with them. He wanted everyone to think he had the perfect little wife.”

  “Do you think,” Nathan began, fully expecting his question to be rebuffed, “that because of the information in the paper, you’re projecting? If you hadn’t read that article, would you still think the partner was talking about your family?”

  “That article has no relevance to my thoughts.”

  They both knew that was a lie. But asking any more questions would only cause her to retreat further into her own mind.

  “Well, you need to tell Avery what you remembered so he can look into that angle, but I have a feeling the partner was talking about himself.”

  “Avery.” A sneer flitted across her face. “He’s an asshole.”

  “You still need to tell him.”

  A smile played at the corners of Emilie’s mouth. “I notice you didn’t deny he was an asshole.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Nathan couldn’t tell her how right she was. “Who’s the FBI agent assigned to the case?

  “Sia Ronson. You know her?”

  “SWAT worked a case with her a year ago. She’s very good.”

  “You helped search last night, didn’t you? Was there really no sign of him?”

  “Nothing. He covered his tracks very well.”

  “Avery said you couldn’t go in very far. The police don’t know the tunnels that well. Is that true?”

  “Unfortunately. It would take days to search the entire system.”

  “But if he’s in there—”

  “We’d end up going in circles.”

  “So he just sits back and laughs while the police chase their tails and I freak out. Is that it?” Emilie slumped back against the bench.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault. If it weren’t for you, God knows where I would be.”

  “Right.” If Nathan had done his job, Emilie wouldn’t be here right now. “Let’s go find Ronson.”

  “She thinks there’s an insider helping him,” Emilie said as they approached the squad room. “Someone with knowledge of the bank.”

  “It’s likely.”

  “But that’s dozens of people. How is she supposed to find the right one?”

  “By doing her job and narrowing down the suspect pool. Trust me; Ronson is one of the best.”

  The agent was nowhere to be seen, but Avery sat at his desk stuffing a candy bar into his mouth. He glared at Nathan as they approached. “What are you doing with my victim, Madigan? Your job ended last night.”

  “Lay off.” The sooner Nathan got away from Avery the better. “This isn’t the time or place for your issues. Emilie’s got something to tell you.”

  Avery’s eyes glazed over as Emilie spoke. “So? He could have been talking about his own childhood. Or just babbling. You’ve got nothing else?”

  “You said to tell you everything,” Emilie said.

  “By everything, I meant pertinent details from last night. I didn’t mean for you to waste my time playing detective. Let the big boys do the real work, please.”

  “Is there anyone more competent to work with Agent Ronson?” Emilie’s shrill voice made every head in the room turn in their directi
on. “Because it sure as hell seems like you’re either too busy or too stupid to be bothered.”

  “Excuse me?” Avery looked as stunned as Nathan felt.

  “You’re more interested in checking out my legs and insulting me than finding the Taker. I’m sick of it.”

  Nathan knew he should stop her, be professional, and diffuse the situation. He was good at that. But he just couldn’t muster the effort. Not for Dalton Avery.

  “Ms. Davis, I’m a law enforcement officer trying to solve your case.” The vein in Avery’s forehead bulged above his quivering lips. “The least you could do is have some respect.”

  “Then do something to earn it. You’ve insulted me, accused me of having an affair with my boss, and called me crazy. So I ask again, is there someone more competent to replace you, or can Ronson handle the case on her own?”

  Avery flushed crimson from the top button of his fancy dress shirt to the top of his receding hairline. “You…I have never…”

  Nathan swallowed the laughter. “I’m sure Detective Avery will do his best. You’ve got to be emotionally drained. Why don’t I walk you to your car?”

  Emilie crossed her arms and stared up at Avery. “I don’t want to talk to you again. If you have more questions for me, send Ronson.”

  “No problem.”

  Nathan followed as Emilie stomped out of the station. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her back rigid. She whirled on Nathan in the parking lot. “How in the hell did that man ever make detective?”

  He stepped back at the force of her anger. “He knows what he’s doing—”

  “Oh bullshit. You don’t have any respect for him either. The animosity between you is obvious.”

  “We don’t like each other, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think he can do his job.”

  “Don’t tell me a cop like you thinks that man is competent.” Emilie shaded her eyes. Her knuckles were bruised, and her fair skin looked even more delicate in the bright sun.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “It matters to me. Do you think Avery has the ability to catch the Taker?”

  Nathan could have lied, but Emilie deserved better. The truth was the least he could offer. “Honestly? I’m not sure anyone has the ability to catch him.”

  “That’s great.” Emilie unlocked her car and groaned as the sweltering heat rolled out. She fished a pair of bronze-colored sunglasses out of her bag and slipped them on. “Well, look on the bright side, I guess. At least someone out there is interested in me, right? Not everyone can say she has her very own stalker.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I suppose I should keep that information private if I ever get a date. Might turn the guy off to know creepy-stalker-man is watching.” Emilie pushed her hair off her face.

  “You never know. Some guys like that sort of thing.”

  “Right.” She looked back at the station. “Thanks for helping with my situation in there. I don’t know why that happened.”

  “You’ve been through something terrible. You should talk to someone.”

  “Nathan, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’m fine.” Her friendly tone was gone. She stepped away from him.

  “Counseling could help, especially with the guy still at large. Once you recover from the shock, the real mind games will start.”

  “Thank you again for everything.”

  Nathan took her extended hand. It was small and soft. “You’re welcome. Listen to the police. It’s the best way for you to stay safe.”

  “Take care.” She withdrew her hand.

  He grinned at her clear dismissal. “You too. Don’t forget what I said.”

  Emilie gave a curt nod and then hopped into her car. Nathan watched as she sped out of the parking lot, tires squealing. She couldn’t leave fast enough.

  The drive home was a blur. Emilie just wanted sanctuary—to curl up with Otis and hide under the covers. She swerved in and out of traffic, cutting off cars and ignoring honking horns.

  Reality was too much to handle right now: the Taker, her mother’s nasty words, the embarrassing experience in the police station. And Nathan Madigan.

  He was too perceptive. Too kind. Emilie’s carefully constructed guard slipped in his presence, making her forget her rule of maintaining a safe distance.

  She’d babbled on about her mother. Why had she said so much? And then when he mentioned the paper, Emilie had wanted to crawl into a hole. But there had been no judgment on Nathan’s face, just genuine concern. Maybe he was a good guy.

  Didn’t matter. She would never see him again, and that was a good thing. Enough of her secrets had already been laid bare for the world to see.

  In her apartment, she stripped to her tank top and got into bed. Otis joined her, pawing at the blanket until he’d tunneled his way underneath, snuggling against her arm. Emilie would sleep now and deal with life tomorrow.

  Chapter Ten

  Twenty-three years ago.

  An early morning fog bathed the landscape in an eerie mist. In a nearby cotton field, strange figures moved through the vapor like long-dead slaves returning to tend the crops. He knew the wandering forms were likely the neighbor and his hired man examining the cotton, but reality lacked imagination.

  To the east, a faint pink glow merged with the fog. Still sleepy, he scrambled out of his narrow bed. He wanted to see the sun break through the mist from a favorite place in the swamp where the cypress trees ruled and the vapor would be at its thickest.

  The fog was not as thick in the village, but it still gave the old homes a sad, haunting quality. The old Kate Chopin house stood over them all, still grand despite its age.

  As he walked, a strange sensation crept over his skin. Something was different—a rare change in the village’s everyday routine. At first glance, the community was still mostly quiet. A few lights were on, and there was little traffic. A rusted, white and green Ford F100 lumbered by. Henri Coulon waved, a Marlboro dangling from his lips.

  But at the southern end of Main Street, the new addition emerged out of the dim cover of fog like an angelic spirit. A girl sat alone on the front steps of a weather-beaten cottage. She was about his age, the frayed hem of her white dress scarcely reaching her bare knees. A cluster of white lilies, probably picked from the Chopin yard, lay beside her. Her black hair lay draped over her shoulders, her toffee-colored skin glowing in the sun-tinged fog.

  She stared as he approached. Chill bumps erupted across his arms. His insides began to churn, and his legs grew wobbly.

  In her delicate hands she held an empty Mason jar.

  “What’chu gon’ to put in that thing?” He could barely get the words out.

  “Don’t know yet. Maybe a frog, or even a dragonfly if I can catch it.”

  His body quivered at the melodious sound of her voice. “How you gon’ catch a dragon fly?”

  “Run faster than him, I reckon.” Her eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, were a brilliant green scattered with tiny flecks of gold.

  “You gon’ to keep it for a pet?”

  “’Course not. I jus’ wanna watch him for a bit. Then I’ll let him go.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why let him go? Jus’ keep him until he’s done for.”

  “What’s your name?” She cocked her head and leaned back on the cracked step.

  “Julian.”

  “Well, Julian, you can’t keep somethin’ trapped forever. Living things is meant to be free, jumping or flying or whatever else they was made for. And my mama says killin’ another living thing is the worst sin there is, so I’m gonna make sure whatever I catch lives. God don’t want killers in heaven.”

  Julian didn’t understand. His father and brothers hunted in the swamps all the time.

  “What ‘bout eatin’ what you kill?”

  “Like huntin’? That’s different. You’re makin’ use out of it. God understands that. Just don’t be hurtin’ or ki
llin’ animals for fun, you hear?”

  Julian nodded. He would have done anything she asked at that point. She was the most beautiful and fascinating creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

  “How old are you?” she asked, her eyes once again boring into him.

  “Eleven.”

  A small smile flickered across her face. “I’m twelve, jus’ last week. We just moved here.”

  Julian paced the floor of his large study, his footsteps muffled by the Persian rug covering the Brazilian hardwood floor. Thick drapes were drawn over the picture window, blocking out the sun and the rest of the world. One wall of the study was devoted entirely to books while the other exhibited his favorite works of art, including a commissioned oil painting that displayed a place forever frozen in his mind, a place where the oak trees were swathed in Spanish moss and the spirits still ran wild. The piece was a reminder of a dark past he didn’t want to think about today.

  His mind raced with the need to see Emilie. He needed to smell the scent of jasmine drifting from her neck—to be with her. She’d ruined everything. Her rejection burned hotter than the Nevada sun.

  One replacement had already failed. She now rested in the earth not far from the place that had ruined his life. He wasn’t going to make the same mistakes with Emilie.

  Alongside the paintings, Miss Emilie’s face adorned the walls of his study—sketches he had drawn from memory. Every picture was different, but each was perfection.

  He had to be free once again to observe her life and figure out a new way for them to be together.

  But that would require a carefully thought out plan. Police were undoubtedly watching her apartment, hoping he would make a mistake. Common sense said to pack up and move on as he’d done before. There were plenty of warm places to go, and he could adapt anywhere. The past few years had proven that. But he just couldn’t leave her, not after spending those blissful hours together.

  He had to send her a message. She had to know he would find another way for them to be together. And perhaps her memory could be tweaked. If Miss Emilie could only recall their first connection, she would understand. Maybe even come to him on her own.