TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  Confused, I slipped from bed and hurried through the darkness of the house, downstairs, to the front door.

  "Police! Open up."

  The sleepy haze shattered, leaving me lunging for the door and going up on my toes to peer through the peephole—

  Two men stood there, both middle aged and dressed in what looked like NOPD patrol uniforms. Behind them, in the street, a black and white squad car sat parked, lights flashing.

  My mind raced.

  Twisting around, I searched for Aidan—

  More knocking. Louder.

  "This is a courtesy check," one of the officers said, the one who stood slightly in front of the other. "Open the door."

  So much hit me at once, questions and dark possibilities: Aidan wasn't here, but the police were. Something could have happened—

  I moved fast, scrambling with the lock and yanking open the big front door—

  The alarm did not blare.

  Which meant it had not been set.

  But there was no time to process what that might mean, not when the two stone-faced officers greeted me with their badges.

  "New Orleans P.D., ma'am. I'm Officer Graham," the taller one said, a blond with stern, don't-mess-with-me eyes. "This is Officer Rooney."

  The shorter of the two, with military-like dark hair and narrow eyes, nodded. "Ma'am."

  I swallowed. Fine, I told myself. Everything was fine.

  Except they were cops.

  And they were here.

  And it was still dark outside.

  "Is something wrong?" I asked.

  Officer Graham kept his gaze on me, while his partner peered beyond me, into the shadows of the tired old mansion. "That's what we'd like to find out."

  Spinning. Everything started to spin, disconnect. "What?"

  "Had a call, ma'am, about a possible disturbance...."

  I clutched the door tighter. "No," I said. "No. Everything's fine here."

  Office Graham's eyes narrowed as his gaze swept down, then back up. And it was only then that I realized what he was seeing, how I must look. That I'd fallen into bed last night—actually only a few hours before. No shower. No washing my face. I'd only taken the time to shove off my clubbing clothes and slip into a thin sleep shirt.

  "You don't live here," he said.

  And then I started to panic. "No, I'm a guest—"

  "Where's Mr. Cross?"

  I was holding the door so, so tight. Or maybe it was holding me. Because the spinning wouldn't stop. "I-I don't know..." I tried to think, remember. He drove me home. We came inside. Then... "Maybe still sleeping."

  Officers Graham and Rooney exchange a quick, pointed look.

  "We'd like to talk to him, too," Officer Graham said. "Can you go get him?"

  He'd led me upstairs. Or at least, that's the memory I found. Him. His arm around me as he guided me to my room. The door opening. Stumbling toward my bed. Then...

  "Is that really necessary?" I asked.

  "Maybe we could have a quick look around," Officer Graham suggested. "Make sure everything looks okay."

  I started to say no. I wanted to say no. But this was Aidan's house, and all that Sloan had told me the night before, about Laurel and Danielle, and the subsequent investigations whispered through me.

  If I didn't let the cops look around, they'd come back. The press might catch wind of it...

  "Of course," I said, backing away so they could enter.

  Officer Rooney headed toward the kitchen.

  "He might be in the carriage house," I offered. "Working."

  Office Rooney nodded in acknowledgement and kept going, while Officer Graham headed upstairs. "Mr. Cross? Mr. Cross, we need to talk to you...."

  I followed.

  At the top of the stairs, he flipped on a light, revealing the hall stretching in both directions, all the doors closed, except for the one leading to the room I was using.

  "Which room is his?"

  It should have been an easy question. I should have known the answer. I'd been his guest for close to a week, after all...

  "I don't know," I said truthfully. "I-I never asked."

  Officer Graham shot me a look—I knew how ridiculous my answer sounded.

  "Mr. Cross?" he called, checking first one door, then another. They were both locked.

  Third door-locked.

  That left one final option, at the end of the hall on my side.

  Graham knocked. "Mr. Cross?"

  Nothing.

  So he tried the knob.

  It, too, didn't budge.

  "Does he always keep these rooms locked?"

  I wrapped my arms around myself. "I think," I said again. "That's what he told me."

  "Kendall."

  The voice came from behind me, smooth and quiet, and had me twisting around to find the tall, dark-haired man at the top of the staircase.

  Recognition came fast.

  He looked younger in the early morning shadows, younger than the pictures I'd found online. But I knew him anyway, the closely-cut hair emphasizing his high, angular cheekbones and narrow, acutely-assessing eyes.

  "Detective Edwards," I greeted.

  Here. In Aidan's house.

  The detective I was scheduled to meet with on my last day in New Orleans...the one who believed Aidan guilty of premeditated murder.

  Because of the report—about a possible disturbance.

  "I came as soon as I got the call," he said, closing the distance between us, until he stood so close I had to tilt my face to see his. "You're alright?"

  "Perfectly," I said. The lie came easy.

  I had no idea why.

  Of course he recognized me. Since dancing with Aidan at the book signing, my picture had been everywhere. The fact that Marc Edwards was here, that he looked like a man on the edge of a crime scene, meant nothing.

  "Where's Cross?"

  "I already covered this with Officer Graham—I don't know."

  "But you're here, in his house," Edwards said, dipping his gaze to slide along my nightshirt.

  "I am."

  "When was the last time you saw him?"

  Memories shifted, blurred. "A little after midnight, when we came home—"

  "You came back here...together?"

  The censure in his voice was obvious.

  "In the same car," I clarified.

  His eyes remained on mine. "Then what?"

  The kitchen. I remembered that, coming inside. The darkness, unbroken by lights. His hands on me as he led me to the stairs.

  "We said goodnight," I lied. Or maybe it wasn't a lie. Maybe we did say goodnight.

  Spinning. I remembered the spinning, the ground sliding from beneath me.

  Aidan reaching for me, steadying me.

  Arms then.

  Maybe.

  Or maybe that was only a dream.

  Even now, hours later, edges blurred.

  "This is the last place you should be, Kendall, you do know that, don't you?" Edwards asked. "Here, alone with that man?"

  I knew what he thought. It was obvious. "It's the best way to understand his world."

  The lines of his face tightened. "What do you say we get out of here? Let me buy you breakfast, we can talk—"

  "That's not necessary."

  "But I'm already here, and I know you've got questions for me. Why wait?"

  Because I could barely stand up.

  Because every time I tried to think, remember, my thoughts scattered like drunken ants. "I appreciate the offer, but my answer is the same—"

  "Found him," came another voice, and then Officer Rooney was there, at the top of the staircase. "Cross has been located. Story checks out."

  Edwards looked back at me, suspicion still sharp in his eyes.

  I answered the glare with a smile.

  "Thank you for your time," Officer Graham said with a polite nod.

  It wasn't until we were back downstairs, by the front entrance, that Edwards stopped me with a hand to my for
earm, nudged me away from the beat cops, and lowered his voice.

  "Living a lie doesn't turn it into truth." His voice was cool, hard as he pressed a small card into my palm. "I'm never far away—three minutes, five, and I can be here."

  I stared down at the embossed lettering of his name and phone number.

  "There's always a way out," he said, his voice still so dangerously quiet. "Even when every door seems...locked."

  And then he was gone, all of them were, striding through the pale light to their cars and driving away, leaving me standing there in the cool breath of morning, wondering what had just gone down.

  And where Aidan Cross had been...located.

  Aftermath

  Answers, at least a few, came two hours later, when I gave up on falling back asleep, showered, then settled down with my laptop. Out of habit, I checked my email, hoping to find a response from A.

  Instead, I found fifteen messages from Sloan.

  The first one was time-stamped a little after midnight. From there they arrived every half an hour:

  Kendall, let me know you're okay.

  Kendall, I'm sorry I couldn't keep him away from you.

  Let me know you're okay.

  Kendall, I have your phone.

  You have to realize what a dangerous game you're playing.

  Kendall, I saw the look on his face when he dragged you out of there.

  You need to let me know you're okay.

  I sat there, clicking one message after another, wondering if Sloan had really thought I'd be checking email during the middle of the night.

  Kendall, it doesn't matter

  why you're in his world.

  You're there. That's all that matters.

  The fact you're his agent's niece

  won't change anything.

  Kendall, I'm going to return your phone.

  He's got cameras everywhere.

  Did you know that?

  That he's always watching?

  That he knows everything?

  I know where the blind spots are, though.

  I'll leave a bag for you in the bushes

  on the north side.

  Kendall, I'm sitting outside the house. It's dark and quiet.

  Are you in there? Are you okay?

  Please message me back.

  Kendall, I'm still here. I don't want to leave

  until I know you're okay.

  I failed the others. I won't fail you.

  I didn't realize how clenched my jaw was until it started to ache. My whole body was tight, tensed. Sloan sounded convincing. He sounded concerned. But I could still see him. Still see him at the club, the indifference on his face as Aidan led me away, and the whole world spun out from beneath me.

  Only one person had ordered me drinks.

  Only one person had insisted I keep going, after that first awful sip.

  Only one person hated Aidan—wanted to see him suffer.

  And for the first time I began to wonder, who was playing whom? The game, the players, the sides.

  The rules.

  The pawn.

  Kendall, you're scaring me.

  Kendall, I'm calling the police. I have to.

  I can't leave, can't do anything

  until I know you're okay.

  That he didn't hurt you, too.

  I see the police car. They're inside.

  God, please be okay.

  Okay, they're gone. I stopped Edwards as

  he was leaving.

  I pretended to be a neighbor,

  and he assured me everything was fine.

  Kendall, message me. We need to talk.

  Kendall, I see lights on.

  With a horrible twist inside me, I scrambled from bed and down the stairs, to the library, to the big window overlooking the front yard, looking, looking—

  It was daylight now. The street was awake. A few cars drove by. The now familiar older couple was walking their little white dog.

  There was no sign of Sloan's Porsche.

  And the house was still quiet.

  I didn't hesitate. I didn't care about what Sloan said about cameras. I went outside, to the front yard, the bushes along the north side of the house, the profusely blooming wild roses, and found the small plastic bag. Inside, my phone.

  Back upstairs, I paused for a moment, looking at the locked doors, then returned to my room, and found the video message.

  I thought about not watching, just as I had no intention of responding to any of his (overtly manipulative) emails. But curiosity got the better of me.

  He was in his car. The lighting was bad, leaving most of him in shadow, allowing only the green of his eyes to glow.

  "Hey," he said, and his voice was soft, intimate, as if I were sitting right next to him, and for an unwanted moment, I was on the dance floor again, his arms around me, body to body. It was all so jumbled and blurry, but I remembered moving with him, him holding me while the world started to fall away.

  "I'm sorry I didn't see him in time. I would've kept him away, if I had. I would've gotten you out of there. That wasn't how I wanted the night to end. You didn't deserve that, whatever happened after. But I couldn't go after you. You know that, don't you? If he'd seen me, if he'd known we were together, whatever happened next would've been so much worse. Please let me know you're okay. And please know I'm here for you, whenever you need me, in whatever way you need. Anything. Anytime. Just reach out, and I'm there."

  The screen went blank, leaving me sitting there, cross-legged on the big beautiful sleigh bed, wondering what in God's name Sloan thought was going to happen to me.

  #

  I dreamed of him. I dreamed of him for the first time since that night. I dreamed he came for me. To me. I dreamed he wanted me. I dreamed he took me. And I gave. And it was like before. But better. Because this time he didn't hurt me. And this time I didn't cry.

  Then I woke up.

  Alone.

  I sat there, covers pulled to my chest, cold and shaking, wondering how. Wondering why. Why after so long. Why after so much. I didn't want to dream of him. I didn't want to remember. I didn't want to want to feel—

  Then I saw the knife, and the blood on my hands.

  And realized I was naked.

  And that I had no idea where I was.

  I didn't mean to spend the afternoon reading. I only meant to skim the first few pages. I knew he wanted me gone. I knew whatever trust I'd been building already was. But I sat on Aidan's sofa anyway, his latest book, Crimson, open in my lap. Because I wasn't going to give up or stop. I wasn't going to run like a scared little girl. Too many questions remained.

  And I wanted too much.

  It was three o'clock when the courier delivered the envelope.

  My name. Aidan's address. Both neatly printed in a black marker. No return name or other information.

  So much hit me at once, possibilities and questions, a rush of unease. But I slid my finger along the seal anyway, and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

  The same handwriting. The same marker. An address, a time, and four words.

  The choice is yours.

  Purveyor of Darkness

  He stands in the shadow of a crumbling angel. His eyes are narrow, squinting against the relentless glare of the sun. His t-shirt is sweat-stained, his shorts baggy, his shoes like those worn by so many others. There is nothing remarkable about him, no entourage or security guard. No designer sunglasses. No air of self-importance or flashing neon sign announcing his presence.

  And yet even there, on a dusty gravel path lined by beautiful, old, historic crypts, he is the one drawing the crowd. They stop and turn, stare. They press closer. Point. Take pictures. They gather and smother, surrounding him as though he is one of the concrete statues.

  For this man who moves so easily among the shadows, the sunlight is a different story.

  Perhaps that is why he walks the streets at night—because it is the only time he can. Perhaps that is why he visits a
club with no name, where pulsating lights yield only glimpses before falling back into darkness. Where no one pays attention to him. No one wants anything.

  It's the only time he can go off-script.

  The only time he can be free.

  Confession time. This is not my first encounter with Aidan Cross. I first crossed paths with him fifteen years ago, when we were both children. And I can still see him, see him shooting hoops in my uncle's driveway, a skinny kid in perpetual motion. I remember watching him, wondering. Wondering where he came from. Wondering where he went when the sun went down. Why he never came inside, even when invited. I'd see him sometimes, staring up toward the house, where I sat crouched on the floor, watching through a window. I would instantly pull back, as if he could see me somehow. As if he knew I was there, watching. There was a curiosity inside me, one that grew with every passing day. I found myself wanting him to come inside. Wanting him to smile. Wanting him to be okay. Because even then I knew that something was not right, that he stayed outside, on the periphery for a reason.

  And now, the more I watch, the more I see. The more I see, the more I realize what he doesn't want anyone else to know—why he crafts and molds and bends each and every moment, why he holds on so tight. Why he demands such strict adherence to his script. Because he's still there, the unwanted child living on the fringes. He tries to do that now. He wants to be invisible. To exist along the edges of darkness and melt into the periphery. But that's not possible. Everywhere he goes, he is recognized.

  Except the club with no name.

  There, he can be who he wants to be.

  No one.

  Night 5

  The House

  Overgrown roses climbed the beautiful house, leaves and flowers in all stages of life shrouding the weathered, white brick beneath.