“Thom wasn’t the first person in your life to kill themselves, I’m certain of that. How many others have there been?”
Natalie poured herself another rosé. She looked at Micki over the rim of the glass. “We have many things in common, you and I.”
“I doubt that.”
“Oh, but we do. We’re both confident in our abilities and will fight for what we want. And we’ve both suffered terrible losses. Me, my beloved Thomas and you, your beloved friend and mentor. What was his name?”
She was talking about Hank. The breath lodged in Micki’s chest. How could she know about their relationship and how she’d lost him?
King pinned her with her malevolent gaze. “That’s right, his name was Hank.”
The blood rushed to Micki’s head, and with it, a tidal wave of grief. She trembled with the force of it. She couldn’t think, let alone speak.
“It hurts to lose the one you love most in the world, doesn’t it? I’m sure you wouldn’t want to experience that kind of pain again.”
Mick curled her hands into fists. She pictured her gun, the shoulder holster nestled against her side. “Are you threatening me?”
The same thing she’d said to Blackwood. The same panic in the pit of her gut.
“What do you think?”
Micki saw herself reaching for the gun, curving her hand snugly around the grip, pointing and firing. She saw the woman’s look of surprise, then disbelief. Then that beautiful face . . . exploding.
Get out, girl.
Now.
Micki reacted automatically to the voice in her head, turning, striding toward the door. She yanked it open and stepped out into the hall.
King followed her. “Thank you for stopping by, Detective. This was fun. So much fun, in fact, I don’t think I’m ready for it to end.”
King stopped in the doorway and she called after her, her tone amused. “Give my regards to your friends in your special little club. Tell them their secrets are not safe either.”
She knew about Lightkeepers, Micki realized. Zach. Eli and the professor. Angel. Arianna. Which meant one of two things. She was one of them. Or she was a Dark Bearer.
The truth of that took her breath. It changed what was—and wasn’t—possible. Micki lost her balance, stumbled, her hand going to the wall to steady herself.
Instead, she sagged against it.
Her heart pounded, as if she had just run a mile, flat-out. Her legs felt weak. Shaky. That day six years ago came thundering back. Everything—the sound of Hank’s voice on the phone, how she had wondered if something was wrong. Realizing Blackwood was gone, that she had slipped through their fingers. The message Blackwood had left for her:
Better luck next time, Detective.
Finding Hank dead. The collapse of her world. How she had been certain Blackwood had gotten to him. Certain, anyway, until sanity sank in.
Hank had suffered a heart attack. Sudden and fatal. The only link between his death and Rene Blackwood was one of timing.
And she’d bought in to all that logic—until now.
Now, she knew Blackwood had killed Hank. And crazy or not, Blackwood and King were the same person.
How did she prove it?
The fury from minutes ago returned, full force, untempered by grief. Making her strong. And fearless.
This woman had killed Hank. She had orchestrated her own husband’s death, and was now a threat to anyone Micki loved. She wasn’t going to let her get away with it.
She flew back to King’s apartment and pounded on the door.
“Open up, bitch! Or I’m going to kick this fucking door down!”
Natalie King opened the door. Her expression was expectant and pleased, as if she had been waiting at the door, expecting Micki back.
“I know who you are,” Micki said. “And I know what you did.”
“Is that so?”
King’s subtle amusement made her blood boil. “You killed Hank.”
“What if I did? How are you going to prove it?”
“I don’t know, but I will. And I’m going to make you pay.”
As Micki moved to take a step back; the woman grabbed her wrists, her fingers clamping around them like vices. She jerked her forward, across the threshold and into the apartment. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” King hissed. “Or who you’re messing with.”
“Let me go, bitch. Now.”
Instead, she pulled her closer. Her touch was cold. As if ice rather than blood ran through her veins.
“Who do you love most in the world, Michaela Dare?”
Almost exactly what Blackwood had said to her. And then Hank had been gone.
No. Not again.
Cold emanated from the woman’s hands, crawling up her arms. The cold—like tentacles—circling, digging, creeping toward her bones, organs, the very center of her being. Soon they would reach her heart.
And it would stop.
And she would fall.
Is this what had happened to Hank? Is this how she’d killed him?
King’s gaze had turned almost black. Micki tried to look away, but couldn’t.
“Who would it hurt most to live without?” she asked.
Zach . . . Angel . . . Eli . . .
Micki sensed her glee. The white hot anger from moments before turned to icy cold terror.
More names, more faces.
Jacqui . . . Alexander . . . Professor Truebell . . .
She could target any one of them. Or all of them. A sound of horror rose up from the depths of her being. What had she done?
Micki told herself to fight—Natalie King and the cold. To fight the fear that held her frozen.
She thought of her friend and mentor, how much she’d loved him.
Hank, help me. . . .
Warmth rushed up from the vicinity of her heart, like a spark, growing and blossoming, doing battle with the cold, beating it back.
King’s eyes widened in surprise. “You should be more careful with your secrets,” she hissed. “You never know who might use them against you.”
Then, as suddenly as she had grabbed her, she let go. Micki stumbled backward, into the hall. The door slammed shut.
From the other side came the sound of Natalie King’s laughter.
Chapter Twenty
4:40 P.M.
By the time Micki reached the Nova, she was soaking wet. She unlocked the car and climbed in, grabbing the blanket she kept for emergencies from the back seat.
She wrapped it around herself, shivering uncontrollably.
“You have no idea what you’ve done.”
Micki brought her hands to her face. How could she have been so stupid? She should have left it alone. Moved on. This case, today. And the other case, back then.
Hank was dead because of her. She’d pushed Blackwood—and she’d paid the ultimate price.
“Who do you love most in the world, Michaela Dare?”
Who would it be this time? Who had jumped into her head first? Who second? A sob rose in her throat. She had to warn them.
Her phone went off. She found the device, checked the display. Zach. Again.
Zach. He’d been the first she thought of. She had to warn him. She went to answer, but missed him. She had hesitated too long.
She started to call back, then stopped. Calling would lead to questions, ones she wasn’t ready to answer. Ones she wasn’t sure she knew the answers to.
She decided to text instead.
Hey. I’m working out some stuff. Personal stuff. If you hear from Natalie King, don’t talk to her. And whatever you do, don’t meet with her. I’ll tell you everything soon.
She reached to set her phone on the dash and her sleeve hiked up, revealing an angry red mark curving around her wrist. She looked closer. Not a bruise. She drew her eyebrows together. A burn.
She checked her other wrist. It, too, was red and felt numb and tingly.
It hadn’t been her imagination or purely psychological. She imagin
ed those icy tentacles reaching her heart. Her blood slowing. Her heart stopping.
Micki moaned. Hank’s heart attack. Her fault. Her fault. Her best friend had died because of her.
She brought her right hand to her chest, to Hank’s medal. Her eyes brimmed with tears she didn’t allow to spill over.
I’m so sorry . . . forgive me . . .
Her hand warmed. The tingling in her wrists ebbed, then subsided altogether. She looked.
The red mark was gone.
Had she imagined it? No. But now, she had no proof. Not even to reassure herself she wasn’t crazy.
Just like Hank. No marks. No bruises. Just stone cold dead.
Calm down, girl. Take a deep breath.
She responded to the voice in her head. A voice she recognized. Deep and kind.
Hank. It was Hank’s voice.
She followed his instructions, breathing in and out. Again and again, in a soothing rhythm.
Figure it out. You’re Mad Dog Dare. You can do this.
Calm began to overtake panic, reason to obliterate terror. She could do this. Last time she didn’t know what was coming, didn’t know who—or what—she was up against. But this time she did.
And this time she had friends to help her.
Eli. Professor Truebell. Parker.
And Zach. She squeezed her eyes shut. Not him. She couldn’t lose him, too.
“You should be more careful with your secrets. You never know who might use them against you.”
Her secrets. What did King mean? Her thoughts. Her fears? Her desires?
Who she loved?
Figure it out, she told herself again, fighting back a whimper. What secrets did she mean to exploit? And how could she use them against her?
Eli would know what to do. He and Professor Truebell would know what kind of monster she had unleashed.
She grabbed her cell, called up Eli’s number. The call went straight to voicemail, and she wished she could communicate with him telepathically, the way he did her.
“Eli, it’s me.” She heard the edge of desperation in her voice and knew he would, too. “It’s important. Call me back as soon as you can. I think I’ve done something . . . I’m not sure how bad it might be. I need your opinion. The professor’s too. Call me.”
Chapter Twenty-one
7:20 P.M.
Angel squeezed her eyes shut, her heart thundering. The time was up but she was afraid to look. She knew in her heart what the answer was going to be, but a fervent, three-word prayer played over and over in her head anyway:
Please, God, no . . . Please, God, no . . .
She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.
A single, vivid blue line stared back at her.
The stick slipped from her fingers and clattered into the sink. She sank to the floor and brought her knees to her chest.
She was pregnant. At least three months along.
How could she have been so stupid? So irresponsible?
What did she do now?
The possibility she was pregnant had occurred to her only yesterday. She’d never had regular cycles, and had blamed her recent queasiness and lack of appetite on heartbreak. Then, yesterday, she hadn’t been able to comfortably button her jeans. She hadn’t been eating enough to gain weight; indeed, all her other clothes were too big.
So she’d started trying on other garments. All too big. Except for the waist. Then she’d realized her breasts were sore. The way they got before her period. The period that hadn’t come.
Angel rested her forehead on her drawn-up knees. A sob came from what seemed like the center of her being.
Seth, she silently cried out, where are you? When are you coming back? You promised!
He wasn’t coming back.
No. She shook her head against the thought. She wouldn’t believe that. They loved each other.
Then, where was he?
She had risked her life for him. And he had deserted her. And now she was alone. And pregnant.
She imagined Micki’s response.
“I told you he was no good.”
“I warned you he would break your heart.”
What was she going to do? A ragged cry spilled past her lips. That first sob led to another and another, and she curled into a tight ball on the cold, unforgiving tile floor. She cried until she was totally spent, until the harsh light of afternoon became the chill gray of evening.
Finally, stomach cramping from hunger, Angel pulled herself up. She gazed defiantly at her own pale reflection, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Seth was coming back. He would collect her and their baby, and they would go somewhere safe. They would be a family.
Micki was wrong about him. There was a perfectly logical reason he hadn’t come for her. He’d been hurt, escaping that day. Or he was being held somewhere against his will. Maybe he had amnesia.
Or he was dead.
Angel swallowed hard and shook her head. No. Wouldn’t her dreams have told her? Wouldn’t she have awakened compelled to draw what she dreamt?
But her dreams had been weirdly silent. They hadn’t even revealed her pregnancy.
Maybe that part of her died with Seth?
She shook her head. She couldn’t go on if he was dead.
But she’d have to. Because of the baby. Their baby.
She brought a hand to her belly, splayed it over the small swell. She turned sideways and squinted at herself in the mirror. She was definitely starting to show. Seth would know, if he was here. But nobody else would, not yet anyway.
Angel frowned. What was one supposed to do when pregnant? No drugging, drinking, or smoking, but she didn’t do any of that anyway. Besides eating right, she seemed to remember something about special vitamins.
Her stomach growled at the thought of food and she headed for the kitchen. But what else was she supposed to do? Go to the doctor, she supposed. Have him check, make certain everything was all right.
She made a peanut butter sandwich and poured herself a big glass of milk. The sandwich made her think of Micki.
She’d been a good friend. She’d given her a home, believed in her art before anyone else, and had encouraged her to enroll at the University of New Orleans. She’d literally saved her life. Twice.
Angel took a big bite of the sandwich. The peanut butter taste filled her mouth and she realized how hungry she was. She gobbled down the whole sandwich, taking gulps of milk in between, then made herself another.
Micki deserved the truth. She’d be disappointed for her—but mostly worried. But wasn’t that what family did? Worry about each other? Because they cared?
Micki was her family now. So was Zach. And Eli and the professor. Family stuck together. And they didn’t keep secrets.
Chapter Twenty-two
9:40 P.M.
Zach couldn’t sit still. He’d tried TV, then a book. Nothing took his mind off the questions he’d been asking himself since this morning.
Who was the amber-eyed woman? What part had she played in Thomas King’s life—and death? What did she want from him?
And most pressing, why had she transformed into Mick?
The energy he picked up from crime scenes—and the images that energy manifested—were of the past, not the future. Static, not interactive.
The only exception had been the Dark Bearer’s energy. It had been angry and aggressive; it would have killed him, if it could have. Which, even so, was much different than this sensual invitation.
As if the energy had become a manifestation of his own thoughts and desires.
He glanced at his phone, re-reading Mick’s text message.
I’m working out some stuff. Personal stuff.
The letter from Hank? Probably. He understood that. But the last part of the text, about Natalie King. That, he didn’t understand.
If you hear from Natalie King, don’t talk to her. And whatever you do, don’t meet with her.
The knock on the door wasn’t totally unexpected
, although it was late. Mick, no doubt. Come to make good on her promise to fill him in.
He opened the door, her name dying on his lips.
“Hello, son.”
“Arianna. This is a surprise.” He saw the flicker of hurt at his use of her given name, same as he always did. And same as always, he felt a pinch of guilt over it.
He stepped aside. “C’mon in.”
“You were expecting Micki?”
“No, not expecting her. I just thought . . . we had a couple things to discuss.”
“Are you two seeing each other?”
“No. Of course not.” He shut the door. “Why would you think that?”
“I thought I picked up those vibes. I’m sorry if I . . . overstepped.”
“You didn’t.” Zach jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “What’s up?”
A small frown formed between her eyebrows. “I never heard back from you, so I took the chance and came by. I hope that’s okay?”
“Sure. That’s fine, of course. Sorry about the call. I got busy with the case and— Actually, I forgot.”
“That happens. You’ve got a lot going on.”
They stood that way a moment, just inside the door, awkwardly gazing at one another.
She cleared her throat. “Do you mind . . . could we sit? I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Sure. Sorry.”
He led her to the living room and motioned the couch. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Soft drink?”
“No, thanks. I’m good right now.”
Zach shifted from one foot to the other. “How about a glass of water?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
They both sat. This time it was Zach who cleared his throat. “So, what did you want to talk about?”
She looked down at her folded hands, then back up at him. “Parker’s offered me a job.”
Her brother, his uncle and boss at the FBI. He frowned. “What kind of a job?”
“Training recruits.”
“Sixers?”
“Yes.” She refolded her hands. “He feels my experience uniquely qualifies me for it.”
“Where? Not at Quantico?”
“No. Another facility.”
“But not here?”
Fallen Five Page 9
