(2002) Chasing Darkness

by Danielle Girard

  She glanced at her hands and then back at him. “I want to apologize for not showing you the picture sooner. I brought it to give to you. I just didn’t want to spoil the evening. And I didn’t really want to discuss it, either. I’m not good at this, Nick. I’m trying, I swear I am.” As soon as the words were out, she focused on her skirt, picking at the lint that had accumulated on the navy wool.

  When she looked up, Nick was grinning. “What?”

  “I bet that’s the first apology you’ve given in years.”

  She smiled back, feeling the tension loosen. “Don’t push it.”

  He raised his hands in jest. “I’ll take it.”

  “Okay, maybe it has been a while. So, I said it.”

  He put his hand out and Sam took it in hers. “Forgiven,” he whispered. “I had a good time. I’d like to do it again.”

  She started to speak but he interrupted.

  “—sometime. I’d like to go out to dinner sometime. Can we leave it at that? I’d rather keep my hopes up than have you crush them right here after that great apology.”

  She nodded, watching the way his eyes lit up when he was being playful.

  He squeezed her hand. “Will you let me do that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He glanced down, and she caught him nodding to himself before he lifted his eyes to hers. He had something else on his mind. She could tell by the way his smile had disappeared so quickly.

  “Anything new with the case?” he asked.

  She thought about the two calls she’d gotten and the lights that had gone out. “Nothing. You?”

  Nick looked down at his hands. “I did get one piece of news.”

  She frowned. “What?”

  “It’s not good.”

  She leaned forward and braced herself. “What is it?”

  Nick’s expression was solemn, his eyes darker than they’d been a few minutes before. “You’ve got to keep this between the two of us for now.”

  She rubbed her shoulders, suddenly cold. “Nick, of course. Tell me.”

  He stared at his hands again.

  The silence seemed to go on forever. Her mind returned to Derek and Rob in the other room, and she suddenly had the urge to jump up and check on them. “Nick, what’s going on? What is it?”

  He leaned forward until his hands were almost touching hers. “It’s not about the boys. I got a call from Cintrello. Someone has it in their head that you should be considered a suspect.”

  Sam jumped back. “Me?”

  He raised his hands. “I don’t know much more than that yet. Cintrello called and said he had a source who thought you might be involved with the case. They’re all a little jumpy after the John Yaskevich mess. He indicated there was some evidence, but not enough to go on. And he wouldn’t tell me what. You know it’s just someone smoking dope. They’re pointing fingers because it’s an easy out—it was your murder case and your abuse case. That’s all. There’s no substance to it. They’re just talking out their ass.”

  Sam sank back in the chair, feeling the hard wooden back against each vertebra. The air seeped out of her. “Someone thinks I’m a killer?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Whitney Allen stomped through the front door in her pink tights and long sweatshirt and plopped down to take her shoes off. Dance class was so boring today. She never wanted to go back. The teacher was like Ursula, the big, mean octopus inThe Little Mermaid. And she hated getting a ride with Katie Sherman. Katie’s father always smoked in the car and Whitney hated the smell. It felt like she was choking.

  But Whitney knew better than to run inside with her sneakers on. Her mom hated shoes in the house. “The new carpet,” she always said when the kids walked around inside with their shoes on. Whitney couldn’t understand why her mother had replaced the carpet to look exactly the same as it always had.

  Even the ring of dirt on the carpet in the corner where her stepdad had put too much water in the plant was still there. But it had to be new. Otherwise, why would her mom say so? Her mother never said a word to adults about shoes. Whitney remembered when the guy from the cable company had come. She didn’t tell him to take off his shoes.

  Whitney started to yell that she was home when she heard low voices coming from the living room. Sneaking around the corner, she saw two policemen sitting on the couch. Barely sitting, actually. They were right at the edge of it like they were ready to leave. That’s how Aunt Emily was. She sat right on the edge of the couch when she dropped off Whitney’s cousin Teddy, to play with Randy, and then right away she’d say how many errands she had to do and she’d leave.

  Whitney crept to the door and stared at them. The police officer on the far side of the couch was talking. Both of them were wearing their shoes, and they didn’t even look clean. The one closer to the door looked straight at Whitney and winked. She burst into a fit of giggles.

  “Whitney Allen, what are you doing?” her mother said. “Get in here where I can see you.”

  Whitney stepped into the room and looked at her feet.

  “Hello, Whitney,” one of the policemen said. “I’m Officer Bernadini and this is Officer Hansen.”

  She looked up to see both of the police officers facing her. “We’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” one of them said, but she couldn’t remember which one he was. She thought the one with the big nose was the one named Houdini or whatever, but she wasn’t sure, so she didn’t use their names.

  Whitney looked at her mother, her heart racing. “Are they going to ’rrest me?”

  Both officers smiled, but the one furthest from her still looked mean. He was big, with dark hair and eyes that barely seemed to open.

  “Sit down,” her mother said.

  Without taking her eyes off the scary policeman, Whitney made her way to the chair beside her mother and sat.

  The nicer one was bouncing one leg up and down, up and down. “Do you play outside often, Whitney?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Randy does.” He was probably the one they wanted, not her. He was always getting in trouble, but because he couldn’t hear no one blamed him.

  “We want to know if you were playing outside on a Wednesday a few weeks ago . . .”

  “The day Molly’s mom died?” Whitney interrupted.

  The mean policeman raised an eyebrow and Whitney snapped her mouth shut.

  Her mother shook her head. “You can’t expect a child to remember a particular Wednesday over two weeks ago.”

  “I remember it,” Whitney argued.

  “Don’t you fib, Whitney Anne.”

  Whitney scrunched her nose. She hated her middle name. “I’m not fibbing. I swear.”

  “She can’t possibly remember one day,” her mother continued.

  “I do. I ’member cause it was Daddy’s birthday and you let me call him. But he wasn’t there, remember?”

  Her mother wrinkled her face up, and Whitney knew she was trying to remember. “I’ll be darned.”

  “Were you outside that day?” the nice policeman asked. She watched his leg bounce and wondered if he had to pee. Her mother always knew when she had to pee because of how she wiggled around. She wondered if her mother had told him where the bathroom was. Maybe he thought it was rude to ask.

  She looked over at the mean one. He was staring straight at her.

  “Were you outside that day?” he said again.

  She looked between the two of them and shook her head. “But Randy was.”

  The mean policeman moved in his seat and stared at her.

  “Where’s Randy now?” the other one asked.

  “In Ohio, with his mother. He’ll be back next week.” Her mother stood. “I don’t think Randy will be able to help you, though. He’s deaf and he lives in his own world most of the time.”

  “That’s for sure,” Whitney agreed. “One time we were getting ready to go to my aunt Emily’s house—”

  “Whitney,” her mother said, “the officers don’t ha
ve time for your babbling. Go upstairs and change out of your dance clothes.”

  Whitney frowned. “But—”

  “Now.” Her mother pushed her out the door, and Whitney took a last look at the police officers, wishing they would ask her some more questions. She didn’t want to leave.

  “Go. And get that room cleaned up.”

  Dragging her feet, Whitney went to her room. She wondered if this was how Cinderella felt. She took off her leotard and tights and put on her gray shorts and a yellow tank top and looked in the mirror. Rags, just like Cinderella.

  And she had to clean her room. She flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what Cinderella would do in her place. She’d be figuring out a way to get to the ball, probably. But Whitney didn’t even think they held balls out here. She thought about Randy and wondered what he was doing now. It was later in Ohio. Maybe he was in bed already.

  Instead of cleaning her room, Whitney got her hairbrush and sat in front of her closet door. She watched her reflection in the tall mirror as she pretended to get ready for a ball.

  She was still staring at herself in the mirror when her mother called her to dinner a while later.

  Whitney dropped the brush and ran downstairs.

  Her stepdad was already sitting at the table. “Like a herd of elephants. How can such little feet make so much noise?”

  Whitney beamed, and her stepdad mussed her freshly brushed hair.

  Dinner was all white and brown and Whitney imagined what Cinderella ate. Probably porridge, like Goldilocks, she figured. She pushed the potatoes around her plate and picked at the rest of it.

  “Eat,” her mother warned.

  The phone rang before she could protest. Whitney sprang up, but her mother answered it and waved her back to her chair.

  “It’s Randy.”

  Her stepdad stood, turned on the little computer on the desk next to the phone, and started typing with two fingers.

  “Can I try?” she said, getting up behind him.

  “Shh,” he scolded.

  “Sit down, Whitney,” her mother said.

  “Please, I want to ask him about that day—about being outside.”

  “Whitney.”

  “He might know something. Can you ask him, Tony? Just see what he says. Please,” Whitney begged.

  Her stepfather gave her mother an annoyed look. “Marge, please.”

  “Whitney, sit down and be quiet.”

  “Mom, but he might know who killed her.”

  Her mother grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her chair. “Talking to Ohio is very expensive, Whitney, especially like this. We’re not going to waste money on any nonsense.” She pressed her finger into Whitney’s shoulder.

  Whitney could feel the long fingernail biting through her shirt.

  “Now sit and eat your meat.”

  Pouting, Whitney kicked at the chair. No one ever listened to her. They listened more to Randy and he couldn’t even talk. “He could know something, Mom,” she said half under her breath.

  Her mother didn’t answer her.

  “Geez, Louise,” she imitated her mother, “can’t we just ask?”

  Her mother clenched her teeth. “Not another word.”

  Whitney stabbed at her chicken and then dropped her fork. It fell and knocked over her milk. “Uh-oh.”

  Her mother snapped her out of the chair. “To your room. I don’t want to see your face again. No dinner, no dessert. You go up there and think about your behavior, young lady.”

  Whitney felt the tears come. They rolled down her cheeks. “I was only trying—”

  “Now.” Her mother slapped at her bottom, and Whitney started to cry, running from the table.

  Sprawled on her bed, Whitney sobbed. She hadn’t meant to spill the milk. It was a mistake. She was worse off than Cinderella. She didn’t even have any mouse friends to play with. Her mother wouldn’t even let her have a pet hamster. She never got to do anything fun.

  She buried her face in her pillow and cursed the police and her mother and most of all stupid Randy.

  Chapter Eighteen

  He hadn’t intended to go in. He had only wanted to look in on them. But even with the flashlight he couldn’t see anything from outside. All the shades were drawn. He hadn’t been sleeping, and it was affecting his brain. He didn’t want to go through it again. He had to check on the girl, though. Why risk going in and leaving footprints or hair? He knew all too well what they would look for.

  He couldn’t see her through any of the windows, and she didn’t answer when he knocked. He heard her. He knew she was inside. Why hadn’t she answered the damn door? He just wanted to see Becky.

  He knocked on the door harder and waited, glancing over his shoulder. People in this neighborhood didn’t pay attention. No one cared who was visiting a crack mom.

  With his jacket shielding his hand, he jiggled the knob. The door creaked open.

  “Hello?” he called, making himself polite and harmless. But she hadn’t responded. Before he could stop himself, he’d stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The picture of the little girl popped like a flashbulb in his mind. Becky—just like his Becky. She needed him.

  He surveyed the room, taking in the stench of soiled clothes and unwashed dishes. He swallowed his own nausea. A dreary rainbow of stains marked a ragged gray carpet. The bed had been stripped, and a stained mattress was strewn with threadbare sheets. He remembered his childhood house, his own room, the misery that had followed him there.

  And yet as he looked around the dirty apartment, he realized he’d never had it this bad. Some might have even called him lucky by comparison.

  The terrible stench overwhelmed him and he wanted to leave. Becky’s face crossed his vision again. He halted. Turning back, he stepped over a moldy spill in the carpet and called out again. “Hello.”

  He could hear someone throwing things in a back room as he moved slowly through the apartment. A woman was cursing and crying. Cautiously, he followed the sounds.

  When he reached the bathroom door, he looked in. The toilet was unflushed and had overflowed. Someone had shit in the bathtub and it was dry, the smell stale and old like the couch in his parents’ house that stank of beer no matter what his mother did to clean it. A thin, strung-out woman was pulling medicine bottles down from a shelf. Glass crashed against the floor, the pieces crunching beneath her stockinged feet as she tore at the contents of the cabinet.

  “Where is it? Where is it?” she asked, her voice high-pitched and wracked with desperation.

  “What?”

  At the sound of his voice, she whipped around and bumped against the toilet, nearly falling in. Her face was yellow, and deep bluish-black rings circled her eyes. Her arms were thin and bare, and he could see the tracks the needles had made, like fat blue bugs crawling up her skin.

  She straightened slowly, her back slightly hunched, her teeth bared. He took a step back, but she lunged at him before he could distance himself further.

  Her claws lashed out. He turned to run, but she leapt onto his back and knocked him to the hall floor. “Where is it? Give it to me,” she screamed, scratching at his eyes and face. He lifted his hands to his face, protecting himself.

  She caught his ear between her nails, and he howled. Throwing his right arm up, he knocked her off him. Her head landed with a thud against the doorjamb, and she crumpled to the floor. He picked himself up quickly and ran the back of his hand across his ear. It was bleeding. “Damn.”

  He looked back at the woman on the floor. She groaned and turned over, holding her head.

  “Where’s Becky?”

  The woman frowned, but didn’t respond.

  He left her and walked into the back bedroom. It was worse than the others: the smells stronger, the foulness more penetrating. In one corner, Becky lay on the floor. Crossing the room, he started to stoop but caught himself. The grayish tint of her skin and her wide eyes stopped him.

  “What happened
to Becky?” he said, walking back toward the woman.

  Her eyes were wide and crazed. “I don’t know. She went asleep. Never woke up.”

  “When?” he demanded, shaking her shoulders. Her head snapped against the carpet as though it were attached by thread instead of bone.

  “Don’t know,” she said. “Can’t think. I need a fix. Please. I’ll do anything,” she added.

  He let go of her and she rushed out from under him. He knelt next to Becky. “Dear God. Another one. Two Beckys,” he whispered to himself. He had failed them both. Why hadn’t he come sooner?

  From his peripheral view, he could see the woman come at him again. A heavy kitchen knife was raised above her head.

  He stood up. “Put that down.”

  She crept toward him, her eyes unblinking as she prepared to strike.

  He looked for a way out, but he was trapped. “Christ.” He needed to get the knife away from her.

  Suddenly, she dove toward him and swung the knife. He ducked and ran into the living room. Right on his tail, she howled and he could feel the knife swish through the air next to his head. She was emaciated and weak but desperate. She caught his coat with the tip and shoved it through. He could feel the blade against the hairs on his arm. The knife was wedged in his coat—when he swung around, he took her and the knife with him. He grabbed her hand and tried to pry it off the handle.

  She twisted the knife back toward him, trying to free it from his coat. Ignoring the knife, he went for the source. He wrapped his hands around the fragile diameter of her neck and squeezed, trying to weaken her grip on the knife. Instead, she turned the handle, and he could feel the blade etch at his arm.

  His grip tightened. She pressed the knife deeper. Her cheeks turned purple, her eyes bulged, but she didn’t let go.

  “Let go of the knife.”

  “You killed Becky,” she choked.

  “No.” How could she say that? He would never hurt her. He squeezed tighter now, filled with rage, feeling a heavy throb in his forehead. His arms cramped and he felt a quick snap. The knife fell away from his arm and he loosened his grip. She was limp in his hands and he knew she was dead.