Suddenly, he turned to find me staring at him. There was a light in his eyes, the tiredness and frustration of the previous day seemingly forgotten. He bent his head quizzically as he waited for me to speak, a slight smile on his lips.
“Good morning,” he said, almost asking it as a question.
I cleared my throat, finding myself unable to respond as I drank in the sight of him. “Morning,” I mumbled, awkwardly hiding my hands behind me and hoping he couldn’t tell the effect he was having on me. “I need coffee.”
He nodded. “Nothing here, I’m afraid. The water is turned off, so I sent Raph out to look for coffee or tea.”
I groaned. “No water? But I’m desperate for a shower,” I added, hoping that the cold blast of water I’d endured had managed to rinse away most of the sweaty smell of my run.
He nodded, ruefully. “We’ll have to use the public baths.”
“Public baths?”
“Just like the days of old. Some are still operational, though often just for tourists. We’ll take you to one of those, where they are more likely to speak English.”
“What do you mean, public baths? How public?”
He shrugged, watching me squirm under his gaze, my panic at the thought of bathing in public obvious. Slowly, he let a wicked grin spread across his face, letting me know how much he was enjoying my embarrassment.
“It’s no big deal, Carmichael. Hundreds of thousands of women and men have done it over the centuries. In fact, people pay big money these days to have this kind of authentic Istanbullu experience. Consider yourself lucky.”
I was so stunned that he’d lapsed into his old nickname for me that I almost didn’t catch what he’d said. “Women and men?” I asked quickly.
He didn’t even bother to hide his amusement. “Separate baths, separate entrances. Totally above board.” A light chuckle escaped his lips. “You know, for a modern woman, you really are a prude, Hope.”
He stood there, relishing my discomfort, when a shadow crossed his face and the set of his jaw turned hard. “Of course, you are probably worried about more than your modesty.”
I frowned at the sudden change in his mood, until I realized he was talking about my scarred skin.
“Michael,” I said quietly, knowing it was dangerous to even approach the topic. But it was sitting there, the obvious issue between us. If we didn’t confront it, we would never be able to trust one another.
I took a deep breath and pushed on, looking up at him tentatively. “It will heal in time. You said so yourself.”
He scowled, his fist curling on the top of the mantel as if he would hit something. “And yet you won’t let me help you. You refuse the very help that Raph could give you. You do it deliberately, to spite me,” he growled savagely, the words nearly torn from his mouth, as he moved threateningly close.
I backed away, his show of frustration frightening me. But, of course, he was right. I had refused Raph’s healing powers, all because I wanted Michael to be reminded of what he’d done to me. And I didn’t mean just the physical damage covering the length of my body with sores and scars. I wanted him to feel the distrust, the regret, and the anger. I wanted him to feel all of that. And yes, at the core of it all, I wanted him to feel the longing that could never, ever be filled.
I raised my chin, refusing to be cowed.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I breathed, knowing the words were lies.
“You should be,” he glowered, closing the distance between us in a few strides.
I looked down at his clenched fists, wondering just how far things would go before he would snap. We stood there, our breaths coming heavily, staring each other down. I longed to reach out and smooth away the furrow of pain, anger, and worry that was etched into his brow, but I didn’t dare move.
The door slammed below us, and we heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs. Still, we did not move.
“What’s going on?” Raph exclaimed from behind me. I heard him drop something to the floor and, in the instant it took for him to understand the situation, he leapt into the little space between Michael and me. “Get away from him, Hope. Just back away.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I protested, refusing to move.
“I didn’t say you did,” Raph said tersely, spreading his arms out to force some distance between us. “But you need to back away. Now.”
The urgency in his voice spurred me to back up.
“Now, your turn.” Raph directed Michael, his hand remaining on Michael’s chest. Michael’s nostrils flared at the disrespect of being ordered about, but he obeyed, turning and striding to stand in an empty corner. He stretched his arms out to lean against the barren wall, his back rigid from the strain of holding his temper.
“Where is Enoch?” Raph demanded sharply, addressing Michael’s back. “The only thing he had to do is babysit the two of you and what does he do? Leave you unattended until you’re about to tear her apart. Enoch!” He shouted, his voice echoing through the empty room. He turned toward the gaping archway and shouted again. “Enoch, where in God’s name are you?”
A door creaked somewhere down the hall, and we heard the telltale thump and shuffle of Enoch and his cane.
“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” Michael said, barely making himself heard over the sound of Enoch walking.
He turned from the wall, his eyes shining and full of tears, and walked straight to Raph. “I wasn’t going to hurt her,” he repeated, now looking over Raph’s broad shoulder to me, then Enoch as he entered at the far end of the room. “I would never hurt her.”
“Then why the hell are we even here?” Raph threw his hands up in frustration. “Isn’t that the whole reason you asked us here? Because you weren’t sure if you could trust yourself? My God, man. Love the girl if you must, but keep your wits about you. Keep away from her, so she has a chance to find this Godforsaken rock. If you don’t, we’ll all be dead.”
He stormed away, kicking over the bag of morning takeout he’d fetched for us as he left the room. I stared after him. The black stain of spilled coffee spread slowly over the polished wood, an accusation. I rushed over, kneeling next to the mess, and reached into the bag to find napkins. Deliberately, I began dabbing at the spill, mindful not to lift my eyes.
“Hope.”
I kept mopping at the mess until there was nothing left to clean. I could hear Enoch slowly crossing the room. I bent my head closer to the floor, rubbing away at an imaginary stain. Over the lingering smell of coffee, I caught a whiff of sulfur and choked back a sob. I dashed a tear away and kept wiping.
“Hope.” Michael’s voice was close now, practically in my ear. His hand closed on mine, stopping me mid-swipe.
I looked up from the floor to find Michael crouched beside me, desperation in his eyes. Carefully, as if afraid of my reaction, he dropped my hands and then held his own out, palms raised—a gesture of futility and confusion.
“I promise you, Hope, I won’t hurt you.”
“I know,” I whispered, wanting to believe it. But I had to look away.
I focused, instead, on Enoch’s last few steps toward us, until he was close enough to lean over and place a heavy hand on Michael’s shoulder.
“Raph is right. You shouldn’t be alone together. It will be better this way,” he said, his face grave. “Easier for both of you.”
I continued to watch them out of the corner of my eye. Michael swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and shook his head silently. His head fell down, his pose one of defeat. Enoch waited until Michael took a deep breath and rose to his feet, stretching out of his crouch to full height.
He stood tall over Enoch, but his eyes were as lost as a little boy’s.
Enoch patted him on the back and led him away, leaving me to sit in the crumpled mess of damp napkins and soggy food.
You’re running out of time, Henri whispered.
two
GEORGIA
The fluorescent light was givi
ng Mona a headache. Or maybe it was the slightly burnt coffee from the FBI’s kitchen. Or the uncomfortable chairs. She’d been here too long to know what exactly was causing her headache, and she didn’t really care.
She knew she could go home. That she probably should go home. But it made her feel more in control, to be here in the center of the investigation, even if she really wasn’t doing anything. At least she could walk down the hall and ask questions and get answers, instead of waiting by the phone for them to call.
If she ignored the fact that the answers never changed—no new leads—she could feel some semblance of control and hope. So, every day she bundled herself into Arthur’s hulking SUV for the ride to and from the FBI offices, pretending to herself that the trip was as routine as the countless airport runs on which Arthur had chauffeured her over the years, so she could keep her vigil. She could have driven herself, but Arthur had insisted and, frankly, she appreciated his comforting, calming presence by her side as she went back and forth, the days stretching on with no resolution.
But there was a reason for optimism, she reminded herself. Her daughter’s friend, Tabitha, had called after receiving a message from Hope. Mona didn’t yet know what Hope had said, or how long the message had been, but surely something would come of that phone call.
So Mona waited, resolute in her conviction that something would happen to give them new leads about her daughter’s disappearance.
A brief knock at the conference room door interrupted her thoughts. An agent she didn’t recognize was leaning through the opening of the door, careful not to violate her space.
“Do you want to talk to your daughter’s friend with us? She and her parents just completed their formal statements.”
Mona pushed away from the table. “Of course,” she nodded, her throat suddenly dry.
She followed the agent through the corridor to another dimly lit conference room. The room was smaller—closer to an interrogation room like the one that had held her estranged husband, Don, who’d been a suspect just a few days ago.
Don. Would he be there, too? She squared her shoulders and let the agent open the door for her, trying to ignore the riot of emotions surging through her at the thought of him.
An empty chair was waiting at the narrow Formica-topped table, beckoning Mona to join Agent Hale and Don, who’d already taken their seats. Don smiled at her and, despite herself, happiness surged through her; but it was a joy quickly chased by irritation at her own weakness.
It’s just because you’re tired. You’re worn down, she reasoned with herself, ignoring the memory of the awkward conversation she’d had just the other day with her boss, Clayton—while having him arrange for help from the FBI—a conversation during which she realized she still had feelings for Don. Really, what right did he have to be here, she reminded herself, trying to stir up some indignation, some old hostility built up over the decade; anything, really, to push away the giddiness that threatened to overtake her. But even that didn’t work, because, she grudgingly admitted, he had every legal right to be there. And in the back of her mind, she knew he had even more than that, for it had been on Mona’s watch that Hope had disappeared—this time. Swallowing her chagrin, she squeezed in between the FBI agent and Don, doing her best to avoid brushing up against either one of them.
Across the table, sandwiched between her parents, sat Hope’s friend Tabitha. She perched on the edge of her chair, ramrod straight, her hands clasped in front of her on the table. Mona had to look twice to be sure it was her. Tabitha had been stripped and scrubbed of all signs of rebelliousness—the funky hair, the fake tattoos and piercings, the ripped clothing—all of it was gone. Her hair was straightened and smoothed into a conservative flip. Pearls—just like her mother’s—graced her delicate collarbone and splayed against the subtle herringbone weave of her navy wool dress. She seemed smaller to Mona, the bravado of her larger-than-life alter ego gone, swallowed up inside her grown-up clothes. Mona could hear her nervously tapping her foot under the table and watched as she lifted her shaking hand to tug at the collar of her dress.
Tabitha’s mother reached up to smooth Tabitha’s collar and took Tabitha’s hand in hers, giving it a little squeeze. Ever so subtly, Dr. Franklin shifted closer to his daughter, as if he could prop her up in the chair through force of will and proximity. He was wearing his ministerial collar, giving him an air of quiet authority and calm that seemed to suffuse the room.
As she watched, Mona felt a little pang of regret that her daughter’s friend had been drawn into something so sordid. But just as quickly, she pushed it aside, knowing she couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Tabitha nor her parents. Not when her own daughter’s life was at stake.
“Tabitha. Dr. and Mrs. Franklin. Thank you for coming,” Mona said quietly as she took her place between Agent Hale and Don. “I know this must have been terribly inconvenient for you.”
Tabitha smiled nervously back at Mona, then darted a glance at Hale before answering. “No ma’am. I mean, I want to help.”
Mona smiled, a sad turning of her lips that did not reach her eyes. “Of course you would. You are a good girl. A good friend to Hope.”
Hale cleared his throat. “Normally we wouldn’t involve either one of you so directly in the investigation, Mrs. Carmichael,” he began. He had slipped into the formality of his official role, warning her that as far as he was concerned she and Don were still persons of interest and potential suspects. “But Tabitha wanted to speak with you personally to tell you what she knows. We thought it might be helpful to see if you can piece some of it together.”
Mona nodded, on her guard.
Mrs. Franklin patted Tabitha’s hand. “Go on, Tabby. Tell Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael what you know.”
Mona startled at the use of her married title. Mrs. Carmichael. Cheeks flushing, she stole a glance at Don. The slightest hint of a smile had crept across his face. He reached down the table, proffering his upturned hand. Slowly, as if not sure what she was doing, Mona took it, bracing herself for whatever Tabitha had to share.
Hale prompted, “Start from the very beginning, Tabitha. From the last time you saw Hope.”
Tabby shifted in her seat. “The last time I saw Hope was after school. We’d been working on our Contemporary Issues project. You know, the one with the shelter.”
Mona leaned her head in recognition. “Yes. Street Grace.” Don shifted in his seat, transferring his attention from Tabitha to her. She could see Agent Hale watching them both out of the corner of his eye, most likely watching their every move, every facial expression, for any signs. She felt herself flushing, cursing herself for not being able to stop it.
Instead, she ignored Don, willing herself to bring her attention back to Tabitha, stating simply, “The girls were doing a research project about human trafficking and had interviewed a young woman at the shelter about a month ago.”
“What’s that?” Don demanded. “You didn’t mention that to me.” Mona pulled away her hand and shot him a cold look, refusing to answer. She wasn’t in the mood to hear his criticisms of her parenting and knew that if it had been up to him, Hope would never have been allowed anywhere, least of all a home for girls like her—girls who had once been abducted.
“Human trafficking. That’s interesting,” Hale said, leaning forward onto the table.
“Exactly,” Tabitha said. “We’d been arguing because we were having trouble getting all the information we needed for our paper, and we knew we’d get a bad grade if we didn’t get it all done.”
Mona’s forehead crumpled. “Arguing? You and Hope?”
Tabitha leaned forward, eager to have the adults’ attention. “No,” she said, her face becoming more animated as she recounted her story. “Hope and I wanted to go back to Street Grace and interview that girl we’d talked to before. Maria. But Michael didn’t want Hope to go back there. He didn’t think it was safe. They had a big argument about it. I sided with Hope, of course.”
“Hope never
mentioned that.”
Tabitha shrugged slightly. “Michael is always really protective when it comes to Hope, but this time he was a little overbearing, in my opinion. It turned out it didn’t matter, though, because when Hope called down to see about setting up a visit, we found out that Maria had disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Don asked. “Just like that?”
“We just agreed we’d have to finish the paper the best we could. We had divided it all up, so we just had to work on our own pieces and then I was going to put it all back together.”
“When exactly was this?” Don countered, deeply interested.
Tabitha looked at her mother. “We think it was a Wednesday or Tuesday. Because the paper was due that Friday.”
“Right before her birthday,” Mona mumbled to herself.
Hale interrupted. “It sounds like the right window for the night of her disappearance, as best as we can tell.”
“That was the last you saw her?” Mona was impatient to hear the rest of Tabitha’s story.
Tabitha nodded and licked her lips. “And Michael. He’s been gone since that day, too.”
Mona could hear the clicking of the industrial clock mounted on the wall. Michael? Missing, too?
“Michael. And Hope. Tabitha, do you think they are together?”
Tabitha bit her lip. “I don’t know, ma’am. Michael used to miss a lot of school, anyway, with his emancipated teen status. It’s just that …”
“What?” Mona demanded, a bit too sharply.
“Well, usually he comes back after a few days. But he hasn’t come back this time. I mean, at least not yet.”
Mona’s mind raced. “Does he tell you where he goes when he misses school?”
Tabitha’s face fell. “No, ma’am. And I don’t ask him, because I really don’t care. We don’t get along all that well.”
Mona found this last statement curious. Michael was extremely likeable and had been nothing but a positive influence on Hope, as far as she could tell.
Dark Rising Page 4
