by Alex Gates
“Do you?”
“I have a lot of work to do.”
“Okay.”
I stared at the files. My fingers refused to open them again. Which was good. My eyes couldn’t handle another word.
James shifted closer, wrapping his arm around my waist. He brushed my hair away from my shoulder and kissed the delicate skin.
“I think you need to relax a bit, London,” he said. “Coincidentally, so do I.”
This wasn’t the way. “I really, really need to work.”
“I haven’t seen you at all this week. Literally and figuratively.” He chuckled into my neck. “I should make good use of whatever time I have left with my vision. Hate for this to go to waste.”
The blankets tugged down. I held the comforter in my fists. “Don’t talk like that. I can’t worry about your eyes now too.”
“Don’t worry about me.” His lips traced down. “I’m good with my hands.”
Yes, he was.
And yet I shifted away.
“I…”
We needed to be close. It’d been two months, and that was two months longer than we’d ever gone without each other.
My desire bled into darkness, but the burden was mine to carry. Nothing could change what had happened, and telling him what we’d lost would only destroy him.
But James sensed my hesitation. Had for the past few weeks. He stayed quiet, but even the most patient man, the most understanding man, would eventually ask questions.
And I had no words, only that ache deep inside. An emptiness I never realized existed until it was all that remained.
“Okay.” He pulled away. “Can’t blame you for working late. If we’re lucky, I’ll be doing the same in a few weeks.”
He adjusted the blankets and lowered the volume on the TV.
I dropped the files again. “What?”
“The interview,” he said.
“The what?”
A thread of disappointment crested his features. I covered my mouth.
“Oh my God. The specialist interview?” This was why my phone needed a reminder for me to set a reminder. “That was today?”
“I told you this morning before I left. You wished me good luck.”
Yeah, but I always wished him good luck. Traffic was murder leaving from Shadyside.
And besides…we hadn’t really talked about it. Just mentioned it.
“I didn’t think you were seriously considering it,” I said.
James nodded. “Me either, but the pay is definitely better. It’s a good opportunity, especially now. The consulting work is mainly group presentations and one-on-one communication. Less computers, more trips to locations that need help.”
“But…” It was too late in the night to talk about something of this magnitude. I preferred the awkward kissing. “Are you sure you can…”
He tensed. So did I.
But one of us had to confront that evil truth—his vision would never get better, and we had absolutely no plans for when it got worse.
“I can work this job even if circumstances change,” he said.
A relief, but short-lived. I pushed the files to the nightstand, my movement slow as I considered the implications. “I…thought the job was located in DC?”
James went quiet.
Oh, absolutely not. “You can’t really be considering—”
He smiled. Usually it disarmed me. Now it shortened the fuse. “I don’t know if I’ll get it. My vision is a major factor. They liked my history, my experience, my reports. And the book deal helped. But they might prefer someone who could lead an investigation on a scene. I might not get it.”
Who was he kidding? A man with his credentials? They’d fly him to DC tomorrow if he agreed.
But I stilled, a headache pulsed in my temples. The slick bastard. He knew the interview was coming.
“That’s why you didn’t want the surgery,” I said. “In case they hired you immediately.”
James didn’t deny it but he tried to deflect. “I wanted to save for the wedding.”
Oh, he was saving something all right, but it looked for all the world like it was his own ass.
“You’re risking your sight for this job! Are you crazy?”
He took my hand, kissing the finger showcasing the diamond. “Look, it’s a longshot, but I had to take the chance. You know I’d risk everything to give you a good life, London.”
“Your vision?”
“My life. You know what you mean to me, and you know what I can offer you.” He brushed my cheek and focused until I was sure he could see me. I wished I could smile. “I will transfer across the country, give my vision, do whatever it takes to make sure you were happy. I promise you that.”
And what about me? What could I offer him?
The life he imagined was a dream, but I’d already destroyed our future.
How long could we last without hope?
9
Every man loves the chase.
-Him
“There’s a new video.”
This morning, Ben delivered bad news.
What I would have given for a partner who brought me coffee before ruining my day. Hell, even spilling a piping hot latte in my lap would have been a better start to the morning.
The station was bustling. Our colleagues laughed, played music in their cubicles, passed around a box of donuts stolen from Narcotics. Only a few guys rushed out on calls. Most everyone else lingered a bit longer near their desks, awaiting the delivery of their paychecks.
I’d give my money back if it meant Ben were mistaken about the video.
Hell, if it stopped him altogether, I’d have surrendered everything in my bank account.
No one was that lucky.
“Is it bad?” I asked a dumb question.
They were all bad.
Every. Single. Video.
Every. Revolting. Photograph.
At first, we thought we’d handle the images. Take frequent breaks. Watch some funny cat videos on YouTube to clear our heads.
We were so goddamned stupid.
Now, we functioned by not talking about it. Or anything anymore. We did our jobs, searched for evidence Simms and his FBI consultants might have overlooked, and forced a sandwich down our throats at lunch. The hard part was preventing it from coming back up.
Ben cleared his throat. Raspy. How much had he smoked this morning? His occasional habit had become a vice in the span of two weeks.
“It’s not…like the others. But you need to see it. Adamski’s waiting.”
The guilt hit me hard. Poppy Drive was now my case, but Adamski was my superior officer. His reluctance to give me the case was his own hesitance to view the brutality. Most the officers with kids—small or fully grown—avoided it at all costs.
“He said he couldn’t watch the videos,” I said.
“I think everyone’s gonna see this one.” Ben led me to our converted office—a cramped storage closet stuffed with a laptop and television. We couldn’t soundproof the space, and headphones only made the sounds that much…clearer. But we’d agreed—no subjecting the rest of the department to our work. The less they knew, the easier everyone would sleep.
Except us.
Adamski met me with a frown, but he tried to keep his voice light. “How are you doing, London?”
A month ago, he’d have greeted me with an assignment, not a pleasantry. This case obviously worried him. I hated causing him that stress.
“Good,” I said. “Let’s…get this over with.”
Ben opened the door for me, and Adamski passed the headphones. I sat at the chair, but they left the door opened. That was good. Meant there wasn’t much questionable on the tape.
The video faded in from black. Strange how I could be relieved and horrified at once.
Sophia.
She was still alive.
Like every video, the room never changed. She, and all the girls, remained in a single space. The white-washed room had been
transformed into a mockery of a girl’s bedroom. Pink rugs. A rainbow painted on the far wall. Dollhouse and toys on the floor.
And yet…it wasn’t anything like a little girl’s room
The metal frame of the king-sized bed allowed for restraints, though the pink bedspread hid them most of the time. The toys on the nightstand weren’t meant for children. Neither were the types of books and movies left to entertain her.
Fortunately, Seven Harry Potter books dotted the shelf too. Unfortunately, Sophia had to earn each book. The FBI’s reports stated those were the most-downloaded videos of the girl.
But Sophia was unharmed—always was, save for the occasional bruise on her wrists. She also appeared healthy and decently fed. She dangled her feet off the edge of the bed, wearing a princess pink dress, ruffled and entirely impractical for everything but a Confirmation. The white Mary Janes clicked as she tapped her toes together.
Sophia watched the man behind the camera before grabbing the paper at her side. She smiled as she displayed it for her viewers.
I’d be sick. “Oh, God…”
The glossy portrait caught the light, but the camera was quick to pan and capture the image.
What the hell was this?
Sophia held a photo of me in her hands.
The image featured me in a stunning black dress with perfect makeup and obedient hair. I’d smiled convincingly enough for the photographer as I shook the hand of Judge Edgar Reissing. It was his night, but he’d honored my quick action in rescuing an abandoned baby I’d found in a public bathroom. Later that evening, I’d ended up dunked in the Monongahela River and nearly murdered. The dress had been ruined, but at least it looked good enough to threaten me six months later.
Sophia’s sweet voice had an artificial quality to it. Practiced. She must have read from a card behind the camera. “You have to help me.”
For a moment—a foolish and irresponsible moment—I thought she spoke to me.
And I was so wrong it stole my breath.
“This is a bad lady. She wants to take me away from all of you.”
“Jesus Christ…” I turned to Ben. “What’s he making her do?”
Ben’s sigh was heavy. “He’s starting a war.”
It was too early to drink, so Adamski took a shot of Pepto-Bismol. He offered me the bottle. I’d rather take the whiskey he hid in his bottom drawer.
“Her name is London McKenna. And she lives at 234 Pembroke Place in Shadyside. She’s a police officer and works in the city. And she wants to take me away.”
Sophia’s voice trembled, as if she believed it.
As if she were afraid of me.
“She said she’s going to do bad things if she finds me. You have to help! Stop the bad lady!” Sophia didn’t have to read from the card now. She looked at her captor, her lip quivering. “I don’t want her to hurt me!”
The video ended.
And I bolted from the room.
I pushed past Adamski and escaped to the hall, dragging cold air into my lungs. It didn’t help.
“How does he know?” I nearly threw up. “How does he know I’m the lead detective now?”
“Most people know,” Ben said.
“We didn’t publicize it.”
“The families know.” Adamski frowned. “That’s all he needs. If he’s still watching the street, he’ll know everything. Presume any information you give the families, he’ll also learn.”
Jesus.
I rubbed my forehead. My address, my identity. Who the hell was he making the video for?
“How many downloads?” I met Ben’s gaze. “How many people got that tape?”
“The FBI found it last night on his favorite dark web haunt,” he said, almost apologizing. “Had five thousand downloads in twelve hours.”
“Five thousand?”
“On that torrent alone. Others have popped up throughout the night.”
“So anyone—anyone—could have seen that video?” I swore. “He put a goddamned hit on me, and it went viral!”
Son of a bitch.
The tension ripped through me. I forced myself to breathe, to think, to not let the panic and rage and absolute helplessness control my thoughts.
And yet…
A new confidence surged through me.
“Know what this means?” I asked them.
Ben nodded. “The girls aren’t the only ones in danger.”
I’d take that challenge. He couldn’t stop me now.
“No.” I grinned. “This means we’re getting close.”
10
If only you knew how many men wanted you.
I’m not lucky. Just smart enough to take what’s mine.
-Him
I received two Christmas cards and three anonymous death threats on the day of my niece’s fifth birthday party.
No postage on the letters.
At least no mysterious threat could be as frightening as the electricity bill for my old Victorian home. It’d take a lot more than some enraged pedophile to scare me from my house—unless they barged into my living room masquerading as ever-increasing energy costs.
A Saturday off was nothing short of a miracle, even if James and I arranged only for a few hours’ time. Normal schedules were luxuries afforded to people in more stable professions, and we chose to spend our day…
At a five-year-old’s birthday party at the Children’s Museum.
Clementine was my only niece, and I loved her to bits.
Her mother, Vienna, was my only sister, and I tolerated her.
Besides, RSVPing to the party meant the hysterical voicemails from my mother could stop.
She’ll only be this age until Vienna has her next baby!
Don’t you want to spend this time with your family?
What if you had broken your neck and not your leg? You’d never see Clem again!
Your father’s heart is weak, make every moment count!
Dad’s heart was fine—his only episode a bout of acid reflux that sent the McKenna family scrambling to the hospital for a thousand-dollar antacid.
Still, he didn’t need the stress. And I was pretty sure the twenty-one kids Vienna had invited to the party didn’t need the cake.
The room bounced with energy. Yelling kids. Pizza. Presents. The temperature rose ten degrees in fifteen minutes, the sticky hot kind of air that followed herds of children.
I shouldn’t have been terrified, but I kept a strict account of every child. A scan of the head once a minute or so. Three boys at the door. The group of girls kneeling on their chairs to lean over the table. The cluster of excited kids surrounding the birthday girl.
Sophia had been taken from a birthday party like this. Disappeared without a trace.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the update from Ben.
Another call from one of your friends
Put the mouth-breather in your voicemail and sent a patrol to his house
Adamski is shitting himself
My sergeant didn’t need to worry. I had it under control. The kidnapper must have been terrified if he was sending men after me. That was good. I wanted him scared. Anxiety led to mistakes. The more he made, the easier it’d be to catch the bastard.
James tapped his fingers over my bouncing knee. “You can relax.”
Easier said than done. “I’m fine. Just a text.”
“And?”
“They’ll survive without me.” A poor choice of words. “I’m not worried about the pedophile army banging down my door.”
“I…wasn’t aware they’d formed a militia.”
“London!”
My mother’s voice did not need to be amplified through the cavernous halls of the museum. On her best days, she tutted. At her granddaughter’s party, she full-on fretted. She smoothed a hand through her pixie-cut—a platinum statement that she believed would make her appear more youthful. It hadn’t worked, and Mom tried to distract from it by wearing fire-engine red lipstick. It…definitely garne
red the attention away from her head.
Our most recent telephone conversation had lasted ten minutes, and I was unable to warn her about my death threats as she delighted in telling a story about my Great Aunt Bev and her new grand triplets out in Michigan. I didn’t know I had a Great Aunt Bev, and I swore that side of the family had lived in one of the Dakotas, but it was for the best. Even if I had the opportunity, this was the season to be jolly. No need to worry everyone with the possibility of a yuletide assassination.
“London.” Mom took my hand and grinned. “We had a fantastic idea. What would you say if I told you…Christmas at your house this year! You get to be our little hostess!”
Oh. Sure. That’d be merry. I’d invite Mom, Dad, and Vienna and her family into my home to share turkey and stuffing with half a dozen of Pittsburgh’s most dangerous pedophiles.
“Mom, you know I probably have to work on Christmas,” I said.
“Work on Christmas?” Mom crossed herself. “What about Mass?”
Fantastic. A heaping helping of Catholic guilt to pile next to the pedophiles’ mashed potatoes.
James laughed. “London? At church?”
A quick tap-turned-stomp on his toes changed his tune to a hymn. “I haven’t had a Sunday off to go to Mass in…a little while.”
James searched the bottom of his red solo cup for a new conversation. He wouldn’t find it or the rum to mix with the Coke Vienna had promised.
Mom was having none of it. “I can’t believe you’d work on Christmas. It’s supposed to be a time with family.”
And I was doing my damnedest make sure those little girls made it home in time.
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m working a really big case. We can’t do Christmas at my house. What about Vienna? I thought she was hosting?”
The H word enraged the beast. My sister whipped around from the cake, brandishing a knife stained pink with icing. Dad eased Clem out of the way before Vienna started talking with her hands.
“You can’t expect me to host Christmas.” Icing flew off the knife and splattered on the tiled floor. “London, there’s food and decorating and cleaning and all the stress. I am four months pregnant. I shouldn’t be lifting a finger.”
