Carved in Darkness

by Maegan Beaumont

  “I had everything under control.” It was a lie, but he said it with such conviction that he almost believed himself.

  Lark laughed. “Control? Please—you’ve been scrambling since day one, but I stuck by you. Did what I promised I’d do. But I never promised to die over this shit, and that’s exactly where the both of us were headed.”

  “Lucy—”

  “Was collateral damage. I just spun the top and set it down—I had no idea it was gonna knock her over,” Lark said with a shrug.

  “How? Who did you tell?” Lark was an outsider in Jessup, one that would be remembered. No way he acted alone.

  Lark looked out the window. “Your Aunt Gina.”

  It hit him hard. Harder than he thought it would. He wasn’t surprised though, not really. He’d never been close to her—she’d never understood Sean and Sophia’s devotion to him. It’d been Frankie she loved and raised as her own after her sister’s death. She would’ve done anything to find even a small measure of justice for the child she lost.

  “Lucy wasn’t collateral damage. She was my friend. She trusted me.” It was all he had, the only reason he could think of, but for a man like Lark, he knew it wasn’t enough.

  “Are you listening to yourself? She trusted you? Really? Come on, man—how many people have you fucked over in the past? How many people have you betrayed to your own end? Your friend? What about me? You left me high and fucking dry—ass in the wind—while you played hide-and-seek with that whacked-out headcase—”

  The draw was fast, so fast he didn’t even realize what he was doing until the gun was in his hand and shoved in Lark’s face. He pressed the barrel of it into his cheekbone, finger hovering above the trigger. “Yes. Lucy was my friend.” He touched the trigger for a half-second, felt the urge to pull it. “She trusted me, and I trusted you.” He forced himself to lower the gun and stood, shoved it back in to its holster. “She was a good woman—so good that she’d want me to forgive you. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

  Lark looked up at him and smirked. “Over a woman.” He shook his head. “Who would’ve thought El Cartero would go soft over a woman?”

  He reached for his gun again, but before he could draw down, Ben was in his face, pushing him back. “Wow. You are one intense motherfucker, aren’t you?” He shoved him into a chair, pointed a finger at him and shook his head. “Wheels down in five—save it for later.” He turned to Lark. “You say one more word to him, I’m gonna let him kill you.”

  Five minutes. Michael looked out the window and counted them down in his head. Tried to convince himself that the hard knot in his belly was just nerves, that it had nothing to do with fear. She’s fine. She’s safe … he repeated it over and over, but the more he tried to convince himself, the more sure he became that she was anything but.

  Seventy

  It took Sabrina a few seconds to find her voice. Her mother was alive. “Are you Kelly Walker?” she said to the woman in front of her.

  There was nothing, not even a glimmer of recognition to suggest that her mother knew who she really was, and she wasn’t surprised. For the whole of her young life, her mother had been either drunk or high. Her children had been nothing but bothersome strangers to her.

  “Yes, is something wrong?” Kelly said, her bright blue eyes settled first on the badge secured at her waist and then the gun strapped to her hip.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about a 1999 Chevy Cavalier registered to a Pete Conners. This address is listed as his residence,” she said in a tone that made it clear that Kelly really didn’t have a choice.

  “Alright.” Kelly widened her stance to push the door open, inviting her inside. “Would you like to come in? I’ve just started a pot of coffee.”

  That was exactly what she wanted. “I’d hate to impose.”

  “Don’t be silly—my Pete’s not here, and I don’t have to be to work for a few hours. Come on in,” she said, beckoning her up the steps and into a tidy kitchen. The house smelled clean, like fresh laundry. Nothing like the dank smell of cheap booze and even cheaper sex she grew up with. This was a Kelly she’d never met. Sober and healthy, clear gaze and steady hands. She felt a sudden, irrational stab of anger that she and the twins had been denied this life, had never known this mother.

  “Coffee?” Kelly said, pot in hand. She nodded and watched her pour it into sturdy ceramic mugs. “Cream, sugar?”

  “No, thank you,” she said, intent on listening to the house and its sounds. The creak of old floorboards, the faint whine of a squeaky hinge. Anything that would betray another person in the house, but it was silent. They were alone.

  Kelly handed her a mug with an apprehensive smile. “Is this about the parking ticket I got last month? I fed the meter—”

  “No, nothing like that,” she said as Kelly gestured for her to take a seat at the kitchen table. “Are you the only person who drives the car?” she said, her eyes trailing Kelly as she moved about the kitchen.

  “No, my Pete drives it when he’s in town, but he’s on the road a lot. He’s a truck driver,” she said. She pulled a few dessert plates from a cabinet. “Cake?”

  She could only nod as she watched Kelly lift the lid off a cake dome, set in the corner of the counter, cutting thick slices of buttery yellow cake. Kelly sat the cake in front of her with a prideful smile.

  “It’s lemon pound cake. My mama’s recipe, she makes the best in Texas,” Kelly said proudly, and she caught the present tense of her words. Kelly had no idea her mother was dead. Which wasn’t that shocking, seeing as Sabrina had had no idea her mother was alive. After that night, no one had heard from or seen Kelly Walker again. At least, no one in Jessup.

  She stared at the cake in front of her. The tangy scent of lemon coupled with the rich, buttery aroma of the cake brought a momentary flutter to her heart.

  “You don’t like lemon?” Kelly said with a slight frown as she sat down across from her, setting her own mug and plate on the table.

  “No, it’s great, thanks. How often is Pete home?” She forced his name past her lips, surprised it wasn’t delivered on a gagging sound. She lifted her mug to her mouth to hide her disgust.

  “As often as he can be. It really depends on the time of year,” she said.

  I bet. Sabrina made a neutral sound in the back of her throat. Politeness forced her to reach for her fork to sample the cake, but there wasn’t one on her plate.

  Kelly sighed and rose from her seat. “Look at me, forgetting the most important part. I’m so sorry.” She rushed across the kitchen to retrieve a pair of forks from the drawer. “Did Pete do something in my car?” Kelly returned, forks in hand.

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure. There was a hit and run a few nights ago, and the car registered to this address matches the description.”

  Kelly looked relieved. “Oh, then it couldn’t have been Pete. He’s been gone for the past few weeks now, and I usually walk to work—it’s right up the street.”

  “I’d like to see the car if I could, just so I can cross it off my list,” she said, turning in her chair to look at Kelly.

  “Of course. Here’s your fork,” Kelly said. She took it, nodding and smiling her thanks. Turning again, it took her less than a second to realize something was wrong.

  Kelly was still standing behind her.

  Before she could move, Kelly jabbed something into her neck. A pinch followed by a fierce liquid burn that swept swiftly and unchecked along her muscles, seeping into her blood. She jolted to her feet, knocking Kelly backward, into the counter.

  Her hand fell to the gun at her hip, but her arm was boneless, her fingers incapable of gripping and lifting it from her holster.

  She turned and caught sight of her mother. Kelly’s face was calm, eyes clear and free of the malice that used to plague them. The syringe in her hand looked tiny, easily co
ncealed and as if to prove it, Kelly recapped it and slipped it into the snug pocket of her pants.

  She felt her knees give way and she sank to the floor. She remembered this feeling, was no stranger to it.

  “Why?” She landed gracelessly on the kitchen floor, staring up with rapidly failing eyes at the woman who’d drugged her. Her mother looked down at her, her brow slightly furrowed for a second. It smoothed in an instant as she straightened her stance.

  “Because he told me to.”

  Seventy-one

  Michael started calling her the second the Lear touched down. No answer. He checked their motel room. The sensors and motion detectors were still in place and hadn’t been activated, but the room was empty. Sabrina was gone.

  He looked at Lark. Felt angry that he had to ask him for help. “Track the GPS in her phone.”

  Lark smirked, cut a get a load of this asshole look at Ben.

  “Do it,” Ben said.

  “Oh, it’s like that?” Lark said.

  “Yeah, it is. Do it,” Ben said again.

  Lark shook his head, muttered on his way to the Humvee to boot up his computer. He was back a few minutes later—the look on his face said it all.

  “GPS is disabled, but I got the name and number for the last incoming call—Christopher Strickland.”

  Michael dialed, paced the parking lot while Ben watched with avid interest and Lark leaned against the car, arms crossed over his massive chest, staring into middle space.

  “Strickland.”

  “Strickland, this is Michael O’Shea—”

  “Thank God.” He blew out a long breath. “Sabrina’s with you, right? She’s okay. Can I talk to her?” Strickland said.

  “No. She’s not with me. We were … working different angles on the case and got separated.” He turned his back on Ben. “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yeah, she called me this morning, asked me to help her find a car that she thought might be involved in the Sawyer case.”

  “What car?”

  “A 1999 dark blue Chevy Cavalier.”

  The car that matched the description of Billy Bauer’s last notebook entry. Why would she be looking for that car?

  “Did you find it?”

  “Yeah, in our own friggin’ impound lot. Long story—anyway, tire tracks match the ones found at the Sawyer crime scene but the plate and VIN were pulled—no way to match it to the name she gave me.”

  “Name? What name?” He looked up. Both Shaw and Lark were staring at him now.

  “Pete Conners.”

  Seventy-two

  He saw Melissa’s rental car parked across the street from Kelly’s and couldn’t help but smile. Knowing she was inside—that he’d played her so perfectly she practically fell right into his lap was enough to put a spring his step as he crossed the yard and let himself in.

  Kelly greeted him at the door, all wringing hands and eager smile. “I did it. I did just what you told me to. She was there, just like you said she would be. I invited her in and gave her the shot.” She smiled proudly. “She never knew what hit her, not until it was too late.”

  He ignored Kelly’s rambling, pushed past her. He had to see her—had to see his Melissa. She was there, sprawled on the floor at his feet. Right where she belonged.

  He knelt down, pulled the gun off her hip. Ejected the clip and tossed it under the fridge. He racked back the slide and popped out the chambered bullet.

  He set the empty gun on the counter, could feel Kelly behind—could practically hear her thinking. She knew she was being replaced.

  He made himself look at her, allowed himself to see just how old and used up she really was. She disgusted him.

  He forced a reassuring smile onto his face. “You did good. Real good.”

  Now she looked relieved. “I just want to make you happy, baby. I’ll do anything for you. Anything.”

  “Get me a roll of duct tape.” There was no doubt she’d comply, and she did quickly, eager to please. He looked away, back down at Melissa.

  He ran his hands over her face, felt the screws and plates that held it together. Changed it. The years spent running, the hiding. It had all been for nothing.

  He’d found her.

  Lifting the hem of her shirt, he exposed her stomach and the gift he’d given her. He traced the smattering of puckered scars with his fingertips, pleased to see the goosebumps his touch raised against her skin. Watched his fingers spell the word that made more sense to him than any other.

  MINE

  “You’re mine. I told you that. What made you think you could get away?” Reaching up, he pried her lids apart to reveal the colored lenses that hid her eyes. Sweeping them out, he was disappointed by what he found. Her pupils, totally blown by the drugs in her system, ate up the blue he’d hoped to see. Only the slightest ring of sapphire was left along the rim.

  Pushing his face to within inches of hers, he stared into her eyes. “Do you see me now, Melissa? Do you know who I am?” he said, the movement of his mouth brushing his lips against hers. Letting her lids slip shut, he continued to stare and was delighted to see tears seep between them. They swept across her lashes, down her cheeks and into her hair. Riveted by the sight of them, by the memories they stirred, his tongue snaked out, lapped the side of her face. He collected her tears, swallowed them.

  They tasted better than he remembered.

  There was a sound behind him, and he looked over his shoulder. Kelly was there, duct tape in hand. She must’ve seen her fate on his face because she fumbled the roll. It fell, rolled across the floor, bumped into his boot.

  He smiled, held out his hand to her. “Come here.”

  For just a second, he thought she’d refuse—finally do something interesting. There was a slight shake to her head and hands. He felt his excitement rise at the thought of a rebellion, but in the end, Kelly did what she always did.

  She did as she was told.

  Kelly took a few stumbling steps forward, enough for him to catch her hand and pull her down beside him. He swept the hair he loved so much away from her face, exposing her jaw and neck. “Do you recognize her? Do you know who she is?” He whispered in her ear—saw the flash of deep blue as her eyes widened in confusion.

  “You said she was a cop … that she wanted to take you away.” Kelly shook her head, looked at his face. “She’s just a cop.”

  He laughed, cupped the back of her neck, traced his thumb along her pulse. It pounded beneath his hand, faster and faster with each second. “You’re so pathetic. And dumb … how I stomached you all these years, I’ll never understand.” He turned her head, forced it down. “Look at her.”

  He felt a momentary stiffening in her neck, like she was going to fight him, but like before, it lasted only a fraction of a second. She relaxed and went willingly, let him push her face close to Melissa’s exposed stomach. “Do you see it?” He used his other hand to grip hers, made Kelly trace her fingers along the scars that glare up at her. “It says mine. I did that …” His voice trailed off, mesmerized by the reminder of all the damage he’d done. “She belongs to me.”

  Kelly shot a look at his face, began to shake her head. “No—no, I belong to you. I’m yours. That’s what you said. You said I belong to you.”

  “You do.” He gave her a shrug, tightened the grip he had on the back of her neck. “But I don’t want you anymore. I finally have what I really want. The only thing I’ve ever wanted. I have my Melissa back.”

  The name was like a bracing slap across her face. Kelly jerked away, struggled to stand. Chuckling, he pushed her even closer and made her look at the face of her long-dead daughter.

  “You know, I didn’t see it at first either. I had to really look at her, look past the face to see the truth.” He proved his point by peeling back one of Melissa’s lid again, exposing a lone blue eye.


  It must’ve been like looking in a mirror because Kelly started to shake her head, “No. No. No … ” she said it over and over, like a broken record.

  “Yes.” He said it once, turning her face back to his.

  She stared at him with wide blue eyes. “You killed her—you killed Melissa,” she screeched at him. She hit him. Actually swung and clipped the side of his jaw with her fist, more out of sheer luck than actual skill. He would’ve laughed it he hadn’t been so surprised. Finally—here was the fight he’d been waiting fifteen years for. Too bad his didn’t have time to play.

  “Well, I thought I’d killed her, but here she is—right where she belongs. Thanks to you.” He winked at her just to rile her some more and it worked.

  “You son of a bitch,” she screamed, swinging again, over and over. This time he was ready and batted her clumsy fists away with a few playful swats of his hand.

  “Watch where you’re swingin’ those things,” he said, laughing harder, and she doubled her efforts.

  “You raped my child.”

  “She’s not yours—never was. She’s mine.”

  She stopped swinging and jolted upward, like she’d been shot from a cannon. She was making a run for it. He reached out and snagged her ankle so she went down hard, her face slamming into the worn linoleum floor.

  Stunned by the blow, blood gushed from her nose, and he was able to drag her toward him without a fight. He lifted her into a sitting position so he could latch both hands around her neck and squeeze.

  The sudden lack of oxygen brought her around. She fought, swatted and scratched at his hands and arms, gagged and choked against the hold he had on her throat. Kelly’s face went red, then purple—then almost black from lack of oxygen. She finally went limp, but he kept squeezing. He glanced at the kitchen clock. A minute passed, and then another. He kept squeezing, just to be sure. He watched the sweep of the minute hand, counted five of them.