by A. C. Dillon
"Autumn..."
Serpentine and familiar, the voice in ear startled her. Oh, no, not now... Glancing around anxiously, she willfully ignored the shimmer of lavender in the reflective door of a fire hose cabinet. Barrington was moving swiftly ahead of her, eager to confront her suspect. Autumn was eager, too.
"Remember the story..."
She massaged her temples, silently pleading for the voice to leave her be, lest the cop think she was crazy. Remember what story? she stewed angrily as she rounded the corner. Barrington was a good ten feet ahead, jamming the elevator button with a vicious thumb. Just behind her, an orange-red shimmer danced off her wavy locks, evoking the eerie image of a woman on fire. Fire...
Autumn froze in her tracks, her thoughts scattering like pennies cast into a wishing well. Snippets of conversation collided with fragments of fiction, reality and fantasy blurring into something that could only be described as a momentary truth.
Chapter eighteen. Trust and lies. Laurel follows the mystery vehicle to her school and sees her former lab partner, who's since dropped out of the program. Zoe's warning: "Sometimes, we see what we're meant to see..." Closing her eyes, Autumn struggled to keep focus. Laurel sees her lab partner because the killer wants her to see him. From behind, they're doppelgängers.
Bile rose in her throat as intuition and insight fused into a harrowing reality. From behind, Morgan Barrington could be mistaken for Jeremy Dixon.
"Autumn? Are you coming?"
No. Her eyes flew open, scarcely able to focus on the fist that slammed into the side of her skull. With a sputtered protest, she crumpled to ground in a dizzy heap.
Morgan's voice was devoid of emotion as she loomed over Autumn. "I'm sorry, but this is the only way."
Helpless, Autumn shut her eyes as a firm hand tangled in her hair and drove her skull into the floor once, twice—before mercifully, she succumbed to the blackness.
TWENTY-ONE
Nothing was comforting to Veronica.
As much as she loved Evan (and she did love him, perhaps more than ever before), waking up in his arms only served to remind her that she wasn't in her own bed in her somewhat rundown but homey apartment, fighting over breakfast cereals with Gabriel. The glowing red numbers affirming it was ten in the morning were etched into her brain. They were the proof she wasn't at Tuesday morning choreography rehearsal. And why was she not at work, doing the one thing she had always loved?
A psycho was killing people, all in the name of loving her.
Pulling herself on top of Evan, she kissed him hard, rough and needy as her hand reached down to stroke him. Grateful for his ever-swift reactions to her touch, she lowered herself onto him with one powerful movement, ignoring the twinge of pain as her body fought to accommodate him. No foreplay, no easing into it: she needed him now. She needed to feel something more intense than the fear that smothered her at night, waking her up in a gasping sweat.
"Veronica," he cautioned her knowingly.
"Love me," she demanded hoarsely, her rhythm hurried and hard.
She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the raw scent of him: a hint of cologne, more than a hint of sweat. It was him. It was strength, security... Not a monster lurking in the shadows. Evan's reticence was soon overwhelmed by the stimulation and his hands grabbed for her hips, driving himself deeper into her. It was a hurt of a good kind, toeing the line between too much and never have enough.
"Jesus fuck, Ronnie!" It was half-plea for mercy, half-vow.
She was so close, so very close to the surrender, to the place where her mind was blank and her heart full of him, of them, of how she couldn't imagine any other man ever making her feel so alive. Grinding her hips, she pressed her forehead against his, whimpering his name.
"Now?" he grunted.
She nodded furiously, unable to speak. Words shattered the connection. Words told stories. Words lied and deceived. Obediently, his left hand slid between them, igniting her with delirious circles of pleasure. His right hand gripped tighter, surely bruising her flesh. She welcomed it now. She wanted to tattoo him upon herself, imprint his love on her bones and carry it in her marrow.
Erase it all, she begged him with her eyes. Just for a moment.
And there it was: the heat built until she was ablaze, her desperate cry of relief melding with his release. Their mouths met in panting, frantic kisses as they became a united force, her blonde hair cloaking them in honey as she fell onto his sturdy chest.
One beautiful, sheltered minute of peace. One. And then, it flooded her senses: the blood, the guilt, the terror. And she was weeping anew, still straddling her lover.
"Oh, Veronica... Shh. I'm here, baby."
"I'm so tired," she sobbed, slipping free and curling against his side. "I'm sorry..."
His arms held her tightly, yet she still felt unstable, unsafe. Like at any moment, she could be torn from him and left bloodied and alone. No, there was no comfort, no shelter from this storm. It raged on inside her skull, swept through her heart and left devastation in its wake.
* * *
The first thing Autumn recognized was the Christmas tree.
Proudly towering over her, yet drunkenly leaning against the wall, it taunted her with its broad branch arms and glittery star. Groaning softly, she blinked hard in an effort to keep it from multiplying, as it seemed wont to do. One star. Three stars. One star.
She knew this place, once the mental fog relented. The storage room. The 57th floor. I'm still in the hotel.
From somewhere behind her, a radio softly piped out an 80s song Autumn would never be able to enjoy again. She'd never fully appreciated the dark undertones of "Waiting For A Star To Fall"—but oh, she could write a bloody essay on it now. A soft, feminine hum accompanied the synth-heavy melody, reminding Autumn she was not alone.
Morgan Barrington. Superstar detective of Manhattan and beloved granddaughter of a former Rockette. Broadway enthusiast. She was furious that she hadn't once considered the possibility of the cop being a predator. Female-on-female stalking of the romantic type was something her research had never touched on, but it could happen.
I will never trust another cop in my life.
Rolling her neck slowly, Autumn gave a tug on her wrists and immediately regretted it as a surge of pain shot through her shoulder. With a few moments of tugging and stretching, her fingers were able to trace the heavy plastic feel and ascertain that she'd been restrained with zip ties. Crap. Had she been bound in front, this would be a simple enough escape; from behind with damage to her ribs, it was going to be a nightmare. She'd need time and possibly a cocktail of narcotics to keep from screaming.
"You're awake," Morgan observed. "I'm glad. Veronica wouldn't be happy if you were no longer with us. I tried to be careful, but knocking someone out isn't exactly friendly."
"What have you done with her? Where is she?"
"I don't know, although I plan to find out. You see, I have some questions for her." Smirking to herself, Morgan spun in a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. "It's poetic, I suppose, being back here after ten years."
Back here... Autumn's eyes widened. The orb. The woman. Her revenge... Morgan was connected to the murdered woman who'd held her hostage in here the other night. Did she kill her too?
"Did you murder someone here, too?"
Morgan's eyes flashed dark as coal as she lunged forward and grabbed Autumn by her shirt, shaking her roughly. "I never hurt Danielle! I could have never... I loved her. And that selfish bastard refused to let her go. He couldn't fathom how a woman could satisfy his wife."
Danielle. The fiery ghost had a name. A love triangle. Maybe Morgan was being honest. Maybe she hadn't pulled the trigger. Regardless, she was very capable of violence.
"Morgan, you have to accept that Veronica is not in love with you," Autumn stated calmly. "It's not personal. She's already committed to someone."
The detective laughed bitterly, reaching for a knife on a nearby box. "Evan Kowalczyk? I'
m sure he's a very nice guy, but he's no match for her. Stars like Veronica come along so rarely. She'll be in high demand on stage and screen for decades to come. He can't cope with that, can't let her shine without him. No," she asserted, waving around the blade. "No, he's not right for her. High school romances usually die, and with good reason. They're immature."
"But you're mature." Keep her talking, Autumn told herself. Figure out the game plan. Her novel was of no help from this point: her climax was a meeting of a secret society and the betrayals of past generations being taken out upon the children.
"I'm a highly-decorated officer of the law, with an appreciation of how busy a working actress will be. I understand her ambition, her passion." Reaching for a leather case, she sheathed her blade and sighed. "This time, everything will be perfect."
Autumn tugged weakly at her restraints, her heart sinking. Fuck, these are tight... "Veronica... She's straight, Morgan. She's an ally, no question—we both are—but she isn't attracted to women."
"How do you know?" Morgan countered. "You think because you're her friend that you're her ambassador? I didn't come out to my friends until I was twenty-five. Friendship isn't an all-access pass." Huffing angrily, she turned up the music. The song was looping.
"Okay, fine then. Let's say I don't know anything. What makes you think she'll be okay with shacking up with a murderer?"
Morgan snorted, pacing somewhere beyond Autumn's field of vision. Struggling to keep her eyes open, Autumn fixated on an enormous four-leaf clover against the far wall. So tired... Have to stay awake... Have to know her plans...
"You foolish bitch!" Morgan sneered. "I haven't killed anyone, remember? Jeremy Dixon is the only person of interest in this case. And I am the one who'll be bringing him in." Autumn shivered at the venom in her captor's tone. "Of course, he'll deny it. But they always want to deny it, don't they? You know they deny everything in court, don't you?"
"But I know the truth!" she protested.
Morgan stepped back into view and shrugged. "Like I'll let you tell it. This isn't your precious novel anymore, Autumn. It never was, not really. It was convenient. Framing the narrative, as the expression goes. And Jeremy... Well, he really does have a bit of an obsession with Veronica. His love's not pure like mine, of course. It's just lust." She drew out the word, a guttural hiss. "I just helped the investigation along."
“You set him up.”
And she would know how. She would know what evidence would be the most damning.
Morgan huffed. “He set himself up. Lying about his credentials, obsessing over Veronica... All I had to do was grill him for a few minutes, make him realize how guilty he looked to a cop. Even innocent men run, with the right motivation.”
Acid roiled within her stomach and her eyes rolled back. Concussion, she recognized. She'd been hit hard several times. It was no surprise.
"As much of a relief as it is to finally share my dedication to my star with someone, I do have one final, critical task to attend to." Crossing the cluttered storage room, Morgan rummaged through a plastic bag, humming triumphantly as she held up a roll of duct tape. "These walls can muffle a gunshot, from what I remember, but just in case..."
"No, please don't!" Autumn begged weakly, her head lolling. "I feel so sick... I... Throwing up..."
Coherency was eluding her as the headache swelled to a sickening crescendo. Blinking hard, three violent stalkers approached with a strip of sticky silver. Tugging her head to the left, she was dismayed to learn that stalker number one was the reality. She literally drove her own face into the tape.
"That's a good girl. Don't worry, I won't be long."
A muffled scream was Autumn's final protest before the door slammed shut, a click affirming that she'd been locked away within. Tugging at her hands, she fell face-first onto the concrete and began to weep. It was hopeless: battered, bruised and fighting a losing battle with unconsciousness, she didn't stand a chance against an armed woman with no qualms about murdering people in her way. Autumn's legs kicked the air behind her in frustration.
Andrew... How would he know she was gone? How would he ever find her? Why didn't I call him? Or text? Her eyes fluttered closed, the cool stone beneath her cheek soothing. Veronica... She would trust Morgan. They'd all trusted her. We saw what she wanted us to see. Lost little puppets, they'd let her pull every string.
Ghosts, killers, it didn't matter: she was always someone's meek marionette.
Think. How could she get out of this? There had to be a way. She couldn't accept that after all she had endured, this was the end of her life. And Morgan would kill her; that she understood with crystal clarity.
But the dizziness, the tide of slumber, it was rising now, looming over her. Pawing softly at her restraints, Autumn felt its undertow claw her ankles, dragging her into the murky depths.
* * *
Veronica was blow-drying her hair when Evan's phone rang for the fifth time.
Flipping the power off, she stared at him intently. He'd been dodging his father for the past three days, screening his calls and returning none of them. While she'd assumed his trip was spur of the moment, she’d only learned later that he hadn't bothered to consult his family before leaving the country. Aside from a brief email of explanation, it had been radio silence.
"You should talk to him."
"He's just going to scream at me for a good twenty minutes," Evan replied, sending the call straight to voicemail. "I'm 19."
"But you're still his son, and you live at home," she countered gently. "And maybe he's heard about my predicament and is worried for your safety."
"It's you that I'm worried about, Veronica."
Veronica slammed the dryer down on the bathroom counter. "Funny, since you're more likely to be targeted by this sicko. You know, because you're dating the object of his delusional affections?"
The phone rang again. Impulsively, Veronica stormed over and snatched it from Evan's hand, swiping to answer the call. "Hello?"
"Veronica, damn it!" Evan muttered, snatching at the air in a futile attempt to get it back.
"Why hello, Mr. Kowalcyzk. I understand completely why you've been concerned about Evan. He didn't tell me he came out here without clearing it with you, and for that, I apologize... Yes, the news stories are true, but we are under 24-hour protection. Why don't I let your son explain it to you?" Handing over the phone, she glared at Evan. "It's for you, obviously."
Evan greeted his father and immediately shrunk in his chair. The browbeating he was getting was so loud, Veronica could make out the occasional word from across the room. No more of this, she seethed, brushing her hair roughly. Maybe she was easily irritated; maybe a part of her felt that driving Evan away—driving him out of the damn country—could keep him alive. Either way, at least his dad would stop calling.
A knock on the door set her off anew, Veronica growling in frustration as she stomped to check the peephole. Wasn't this Kevin's job? He had a key card of his own; he wouldn't need to knock. Squinting, she recognized Detective Morgan Barrington, waiting patiently in the hallway.
Opening the door, Veronica slipped outside, shutting in Evan's heated argument with his father. "Detective Barrington? What brings you here?"
Down the hall, a hotel concierge waved to her, offering a thumbs up gesture. Ah. Kevin's stepped away. It was getting close to four—his changeover time with Ray, who’d swapped shifts with Mirza. Probably met him downstairs.
"Well, Ms. St, Clair, I wanted to ensure you heard the news from me," Barrington replied. "We've arrested Jeremy Dixon this afternoon."
A tremendous weight lifted as Veronica leaned against the door, exhaling loudly. "You're serious? You caught him?"
Barrington nodded. "He tried to board a train to Rhode Island, but our BOLO alerted the ticket agents at the train station. Security apprehended him and he was turned over to NYPD. Now, here's the thing: we want a confession out of him. So far, we've found nothing of evidential value to tie him explicitly
to the disappearance of Sophia Bradley, and aside from the letters, we have nothing to prove his attack on Amanda Lafleur."
"But... But the letters were him! And they bragged about it! He's not going to walk, is he?"
"Not if I can help it," Barrington assured her. "We're got him on aggravated stalking, but the legal system is frankly weak when it comes to that offense. Every time I've asked him to talk, he's insisted he'll only tell you the truth."
The blood drained from Veronica’s face as she rocked back on her heels. "No. No way. I can't... I can't be in a room with him."
"I know it's a hell of a lot to ask of you, after everything he's put you through. But he needs to pay for what he's done, Veronica. I would be right there with you."
"Evan?”
Barrington winced. "Mr. Dixon has been very combative at any mention of him. I'm afraid if he believes he's near, he'll shut down and not tell us a thing."
Biting her lip, Veronica quickly mulled her options. Evan wouldn't be happy about sending her off to face him alone, but the others... The women Jeremy had hurt... She couldn't allow him to get away with it.
He's restrained in a police station. I'll be safe.
"Okay, let's go."
Barrington smiled. "Thank you, Veronica. You're doing the right thing."
On their way to the elevator, Veronica pulled the concierge aside, asking him to fill in Kevin upon his return. He promised to deliver her message and she was on her way, stepping into the elevator and leaning against the mirrored wall, eyes closed.
Peace. Once he's confessed, I can have a little peace. We all can.
A pin pricked her arm and she winced, opening her eyes in surprise. It dug deeper as a firm arm leaned into her neck, pressing against her windpipe.
A needle? What the fuck? Her hands flailed and tore at the detective's arm, but it was fruitless: she was simply too strong and the drugs were invading her body, lulling her into submission.
