“I sure as hell didn’t bake it. Your grandma overnighted it.” She shook her head. “And that was a serious question. How long has it been since you’ve had any fun?”
Rolling the taste over her tongue, she pretended to think about it. The truth was, she’d never been to a party. Could never afford the luxury of being careless. Making mistakes.
“See—you can’t even remember.” Val pulled the fork back to feed herself another bite. “It’s your birthday for crying out loud. You’re young, gorgeous and obviously in need of a drink. Possibly several. I mean, how long has it been since you’ve even seen a boy outside the restaurant?” Val said, seconds before she winced, screwing her eyes shut against her own callousness. “Sorry... I’m a total shit.”
“Don’t be,” she said, the taste of sweet lemons going sour in her mouth. “You’re right—it’s been six months. Time to move on, right?”
Val heaved a sigh. “That’s not what I meant...” she stalled out, searching for the right words. “I just want you to be happy here.”
Now she smiled, a genuine lift at the corners of her mouth. “I am,” she said and she was. She had things here that she’d never had before. Anonymity. Freedom. Friends. If she had Tommy too, it would’ve been too much. Too perfect.
“But you still won’t come,” Valerie said and she smiled at her.
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’ll just call Josh and tell him to go without me.” Val gave her a single nod, meant to close the subject. “We’ll order pizza and finish off this cake. Paint each other’s toes—”
“Oh, no you don’t—you’re going to that party Valerie Hernandez. This is date number three with this guy and I’m not going to be the one who ruined it,” she said.
“Then come with me,” Val wheedled. She was good at wheedling and Melissa felt herself start to cave for a moment before she rallied.
“Third Wheel? No thanks.” She couldn’t go out and pretend that her life was normal. Nothing about her life was normal. Never had been. She looked over her shoulder at the clock. It was ten o’clock. “He’s gonna be here to get you any minute—you better go get changed.”
As if on cue, Val’s almost-boyfriend walked in, hand lifted in greeting. “Hey—you ready to go?”
“See—told ya so.” She smiled when her friend let out a yelp. “Go, get ready. I’ll ply him with baked goods,” she said, pushing Val in the direction of the break room. She turned to Josh, a plated slice, held aloft. “Hey, Josh—want a piece of cake?”
THIRTY minutes and two pieces of cake later, Val emerged from the break room, looking amazing in a pair of tight jeans and a halter top the color of raspberries, her long, dark hair hanging loose and thick over her shoulders.
The second he saw her, Josh sat up, letting out a low whistle. “Totally worth the wait,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
“Down boy,” Val said, giving him a wink before she turned toward her. “Last chance...”
Melissa just shook her head. “Not a chance. I’m gonna go home, soak in the tub and watch Conan O’Brien,” she said. Her tone was firm and closed the subject.
“Fine, you big party pooper...” Val said, finally conceding defeat. “At least let one of the busboys drive you home.”
“I live three blocks away. I’m perfectly fine to walk.” She looked down at the uneaten cake—she’d take it home for Jason and Riley. “And I better get going. I don’t like your mom out late at night.”
“You live across the courtyard,” Val said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She sounded irritable but she didn’t argue anymore. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning and tell you everything.” She leaned into pinch a corner off what was left of the cake and popped it into her mouth.
“You better,” she said on a laugh and blocked Valerie’s fingers when they tried for a second pass. “Take her Josh, before she eats all my cake.”
As soon as they were gone, she re-boxed the cake and carried it with her to the break room. She grabbed her sweater and purse from the hook and hustled out the back door before someone insisted on driving her home.
THIRTY
SHE PULLED THE LAPELS of her sweater across her chest with one hand while the other balanced the cake box. Early October was still warm in Arizona—the sweater was unnecessary but she wore it anyway. It was her grandmother’s. She’d found it in the backseat of the car before she’d sold it and she put it on whenever she missed home. Today, she missed it more than she’d ever thought possible. Not the place—the people.
Her grandmother. Tommy.
She’d lost her home so she’d made another. In many ways, this one was better than the one she’d left behind. She focused on that. Not on what it had cost her but on all the ways she was fortunate. She had Jason and Riley. Friends. A steady job. This was a good life. Maybe not the one she’d thought she’d have—or even the one she wanted—but she was safe and so were the ones she left behind. She had to let that count for something.
She was only a block from the apartment complex when she felt it. The neighborhood she lived in wasn’t the greatest but the people in it looked out for each other. Protected those who belonged from outsiders. The police. Immigration. People looking to cause trouble. After 6 months, she belonged... but tonight, it was quiet. No one sitting on their front stoops. No car radios blaring—not even a dog barking.
Just like that, her impossible dream shattered.
Picking up the pace, she looked around. The street was deserted. But she still felt it. That sense of fullness she’d had that night, staring into the thin slice of dark where her mother’s killer had washed his hands. Her legs moved faster, carrying her across the mouth of the alley when she felt a prickle. An uneasy slide, like something with scales had slithered across her nape. Footsteps, crunching across gravel, falling into time with hers, echoed behind her. She looked over her shoulder, felt herself tumble headlong down the rabbit hole.
He was here.
The hood of his sweatshirt was up and pulled low, concealing his face, hands jammed into the front pocket. His stride was long and full of purpose. Even though his face was hidden, she knew he was smiling.
He’d found her.
A strangled sob escaped her and she bobbled the cake box. It dumped out of her hands, her leftover birthday cake instantly forgotten. She ran down the sidewalk, her legs clumsy, her breath ragged in her chest. Slow… she was too slow. He was close, so close, but she didn’t look back.
She tried to run faster but knew it wouldn’t be enough. Please, please, please…
She couldn’t hear him behind her anymore. Maybe he’d given up. Even though she knew, hope dug deep—spurred her on. She was almost there. She could see the row of apartment mailboxes in front of her building, illuminated by the street light. She was fine, she was safe. She was going to make it—
A hand fell, hard and heavy, on her face. An arm hooked her from behind, lifted her off her feet and dragged her into the waiting dark.
Dying to know what happens next?
The story continues in Maegan Beaumont’s
Award-winning novel, Carved in Darkness...
ONE
Yuma, Arizona
1998
WAITING WAS ALWAYS THE worse part. The sporadic stretches of time between his visits—when he came and hurt her—were the hardest torture to bear. She had no idea how long she'd been in the dark. No longer trusted herself to count the days. It’d been October first when he took her. What month it was now was impossible to figure out but if every time he raped her marked the passing of a day, every time he cut her, the passing of an hour, then she'd been locked away for centuries and everyone she loved was dead and gone.
Shifting, she felt the pull of dried blood and unhealed wounds across her skin. She couldn't see them—the only kindness the darkness granted her—but she could feel them. Smell them. They were everywhere. Cuts, long and thin, ran the length of her spine. The inside of her thighs. Along the swell of her breasts. The sof
t flesh under her arms. The soles of her feet. The stench of old blood and infection mingled with the warm, revolting smell of the bucket she was forced to use as a toilet. She tried not to think about it. About what had been done to her body. About what she’d been forced to do to survive…
Sounds penetrated the dense folds of black that surrounded her.
Footsteps. Slow and measured.
Terror gripped her, forced movement into limbs no longer totally under her control. Lurching to her feet, she swayed beneath the almost impossible heaviness of her own body weight. She took a few shuffling steps, leaning heavily against the wall in order to stay upright.
He wanted to play.
Her hands were encased in duct tape—wrapped round and round until her fingers were fused together and rendered useless. Without working fingers, getting the door open was difficult, but not impossible. It finally swung open—step by step, she forced her legs and feet forward until she slammed into the wall opposite the door. Pressing her battered cheek against it, she dragged cleaner air into her lungs in ragged gulps.
Light glowed a dull, muted red against her lids. Instinct seized her, her brain sent the signal, tried to open her eyes even though she knew she couldn’t. Her lids wouldn’t budge—hadn’t since she woke in the dark.
Experience told her that going right was wrong. There were stairs to the right but they led to nothing more than a locked door. He wanted to chase her. It was his favorite game. She could feel him, standing at the base of the stairs.
Staring at her.
Her heart started its frantic kicking. It bounced around her chest, tried to claw its way up her throat. Turning left, she moved legs as fast as they'd go, her shoulder hugging the wall to keep herself upright.
Footsteps echoed after her, slow at first but then faster and faster.
He was coming.
HE reached the bottom of the stairs and smiled when the door flew open. Watched her stumble across the hall and slam into the wall in front of her. He took a deep breath—pulled the sweet smell of her blood into his chest and held it.
Even at a distance, he could feel the heat of it. The way it tingled across his skin. His mouth began to water. The need to taste her was a fire in his blood. He'd fought against the burn for years. Not because he felt like what he wanted to do to her was wrong but because he knew.
Eventually he'd go too far and end up killing her. Killing wasn’t the problem. The problem was the more he had of her, the more he tasted her, the less he was able to control himself. Every time he drew his knife across her skin, the urge to push the blade in just a little deeper grew stronger and stronger. Sooner or later, he was gonna snap. Wouldn't be able to stop himself. The thought worried him. He could feel it, circling closer and closer. Not that he didn't like killing—no, killing was fun. He’d killed lots of times. Animals—cats and rabbits mostly. A dog here and there.
Some people said animals didn’t have souls but he knew that wasn’t true. Felt them plenty as they wriggled free of the meat and bone that trapped them. Sometimes he had to force it out and sometimes that slippery thing seemed almost grateful to be set free. He liked it better when they put up a fight. Liked to peel back the skin—layer by layer—until the screaming thing beneath him simply... stopped.
But his Melissa was different.
There was fight in her. More than he'd bargained for—it thrilled him beyond measure. He’d had her for eighty-two days—eighty-three, if he counted today—and she hadn't given in. Hadn't wriggled free.
Not yet, anyway.
She lurched forward, her gait made slow and uneven by the drugs he kept her on. Her naked body smeared with blood he'd drawn. Covered in wounds he'd inflicted.
Beautiful. Almost too beautiful to be real. He swept his gaze over her face before they settled on her eyes and the neat row of stitches that kept them closed. He was sorry for it—not being able to see her eyes. He wanted to rip those stitches out of her lids and force her eyes open, make her look at him. Make her see him—but he couldn't. Seeing him would ruin everything.
His eyes traveled downward. The blood was freshest between her thighs. Thick and dark. Moist and warm. Seeing it killed his amusement, dried it up. The thought of nesting there—pumping himself into that slippery hole between her legs, cutting her while he did, over and over—moved him forward. He could see it. Her blood-slicked skin, marbled with his semen. His hands and cock covered in both.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the KA-BAR he always carried. The knife had been a gift from his father for his twelfth birthday. If he knew what he’d been using it for, his daddy wouldn’t be too happy. Thinking about it made him smile. He flicked the blade open and gripped it tight.
Looking at her always made him hungry.
He started after her, took the distance slow at first, but every inch forward pushed him harder and faster until he was nearly running. Fell on her, dragged her under and she went down swinging and screaming.
Just how he liked it.
SHE hit the floor, her skull bouncing off the unforgiving pad of concrete that had only seconds before been under her feet. Her arms swung wildly, hitting him again and again.
The sound of his laughter told her he found her efforts amusing. Anger roiled around with the terror. The scream forced its way out, nothing more than a dry croak that burned her throat as she drove the flat of her foot into something soft. He grunted in pain and let go.
Suddenly free, she rolled over, tried to crawl but couldn't. Digging her fingers into the rough floor, she pulled—dragged herself until she had nowhere to go.
Dead end.
Pressing herself against the wall, she drew her legs to a chest that heaved and wracked with dry, wordless sobs.
He'd recovered from whatever minor damage she'd managed to inflict, was standing over
her. He wasn’t laughing anymore.
She heard the jerk and snap of his belt as he yanked it off. Felt the bite and hiss of his zipper as he drew it down.
Battered knees forced themselves harder into her chest. Her swollen face buried itself against her thighs.
Please... please let me die this time. Let me go. Please—
His hand fell on her head, gripped her hair and flung her to the floor. He crouched beside her, his warm breath excited and hurried against her face and neck. Grabbing her arms, he looped his belt around her wrists, yanked them above her head. Bent them back until they felt like they’d snap in two. Her eyes rolled in her sockets. The red burn of light behind her lids went black.
Hands fell on her thighs and yanked them wide. A fierce burn, accompanied by the horrible pressure of him inside her as he rammed his hips against her—faster and faster—his grunts and moans a dull roar inside her head.
“Mine. Mine. Mine...” He muttered it over and over, each thrust accompanied by the only word she'd ever heard him say. She knew him, but every time she tried to focus on the voice behind the guttural tone, she got lost. Let herself drift away from what was happening to her until the pain and horror faded away into nothing more than shadow.
The tip of his knife sank in, dragged along her breast, skirted around the rapid, uneven rhythm of her heart but she hardly felt it. His tongue came next, flat and wet against her breast, lapping at the blood his knife had drawn. The feel of it turned her stomach—she was almost glad when he pushed the blade in further and she prayed this time he'd force it deep enough to kill her. It bumped along her ribcage, its journey made jagged and broken by each brutal thrust of his hips. The blade skated along her belly, his muttering became frenzied, almost enraged. The pounding between her thighs came even faster, even more violent.
Over. It was almost over—
The blade at her belly sank in deep, a vertical breach that stole her breath and answered her prayers.
The lift and drag of the knife being yanked from her torso set her on fire, followed by another thrust of both hips and knife. “Mine.” This time he sank the blade in at a diagonal angl
e.
Lift. Drag. Thrust. “Mine.” Diagonal.
Lift. Drag. Thrust. “Mine.” Vertical.
It was the letter M.
Something inside her broke free and floated away. The legs she'd tried so desperately to close, even with him between them, went lax. A sudden warmth stole over her and she smiled.
She was dying. She was finally free.
HE felt for a pulse. Nothing.
Watched her gore splattered chest for the rise and fall of breathing. It was still.
He bathed her and put her in the trunk before driving toward the place he’d picked out a few weeks before. It was far from where he’d kept her, even farther from where he’d taken her. A small building appeared to the left of the road and he turned. It was a Catholic church—St. Rose of Lima. The structure was squat and brown, hunkered in the dirt it sat in, as if afraid of the wide night sky and endless desert that surrounded it.
St. Rose served a transient congregation. Mostly migrant workers that labored in the cotton and melon fields that dotted the landscape. He drove around the back of the building and killed the engine. He watched the back of the building for a few minutes to ensure it was empty.
The first time he’d ever seen her was in a church—one much different from St. Rose. It’d been a Baptist church. Tall and proud. Surrounded by trees. He’d seen her sitting in the front pew with her grandmother—her stunning face so serious, her Sunday dress clean but faded and nearly too small for her growing frame—and knew she was meant to be his. She belonged to him. Looking at her, one word pounded through his brain, over and over.
Mine.
She’d been young, too young to be alarmed when she caught him staring at her. She’d looked at him from across the aisle with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen—and smiled. Just remembering it took his breath away.
Waiting In Darkness: A Sabrina Vaughn Thriller (The Sabrina Vaughn Series Book 1) Page 16
