Dark Sky Falling

by Richard Ryker

  DARK SKY FALLING

  Copyright © 2018 by Richard Ryker

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons living or deceased, establishments of any kind, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For any parent

  who has sacrificed all

  for the sake of a child.

  Chapter 1

  “You’re blaming this on Alyssa?”

  “That’s not what I—”

  “I know exactly what you meant,” Marcus said, staring down at Mr. Boggs, his daughter’s weak-kneed principal.

  Mr. Boggs glanced tenuously at the other family in the room—the parents of the boy who had been bullying Alyssa for the past two weeks. He wanted to discuss something called a shared responsibility agreement. A load of crap, in Marcus’s humble opinion.

  “This is being blown way out of proportion,” the boy’s father said. He crossed his arms, revealing a faded, saggy tattoo of a woman with long legs and high heels. “My boy was just doing what boys do.”

  “Our son is the one with the black eye,” his wife added. She wasn’t bad looking, but the scowl chiseled into her face was an unfortunate counterbalance to her stylish hair and meticulous makeup.

  “Your son, an eighth grader, was bullying my daughter, who happens to be eleven years old,” Marcus said.

  The mom dismissed him with an eye roll. “She punched Axel.”

  “In self-defense. And you,” Marcus said, nodding at the father. “You have the balls to blame this on boys being boys—”

  Alyssa pulled on Marcus’s sleeve. “Dad, don’t say balls—”

  “You’re raising him to be a bully. A coward.”

  Mr. Boggs held out his hands, a traffic cop trying, too late, to stop a car wreck in progress. “I understand you’re upset, Marcus. But I hoped we could come to an agreement. Talk things through. So maybe—”

  “Maybe she asked for it,” the boy’s father said, leaning back in his chair with an air of confidence.

  Marcus’s jaw twitched in agitation. He wanted to handle this the right way, but it sure would feel good to knock this poster boy for bad parenting on his ass.

  The principal probably figured Marcus was thinking lawsuit. Marcus was an attorney, after all. Everyone expected lawyers to threaten litigation at the slightest offence. But Marcus wasn’t going to sue anyone. He didn’t have to.

  Marcus stood. “Alyssa, let’s go.”

  He turned to Mr. Boggs. “You know who’s at fault here. I will assume you have the ball—”

  “Dad—”

  “The…courage to give him the punishment he deserves.”

  “And this boy,” Marcus said, looking down at the red-haired oaf with a black eye where Alyssa had slugged him, “I hope he knows enough to be embarrassed about picking on a girl. Not to mention he got his butt kicked by an eleven-year-old.”

  Alyssa didn’t say a word until the two of them were on the steps of the school.

  “You left before he said what he was going to do.”

  “The principal? He knows I’m right.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, that’s how.”

  “But sometimes people who don’t do anything wrong get in trouble.”

  “Not today,” Marcus replied, pulling her into a sideways hug. “Don’t forget, I’m home late tonight.”

  “Oh yeah. The date.”

  “That’s right, the one date I’ve had in the past year.”

  “Second.”

  “Lydia from down the street? That doesn’t count.”

  “It counts if there’s physical contact.”

  Marcus arched his eyebrows as his memory searched for confirmation—there hadn’t been anything physical, had there? And if there had, God forbid Alyssa found out about it.

  “She kissed you on the cheek. You told me.”

  “Oh, that.” He exhaled. “Fine, then it’s my second date in a year.”

  He paused for a moment. “Are you okay with this?”

  In the years since Anna’s death, Marcus had gone out of his way to show Alyssa that he wouldn’t try to replace her mom.

  “Duh. Why would I care? It’s just a date. Her name’s Stormy, right?”

  “You sure?”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “Aunt Kamila is picking you up from school—”

  Alyssa rolled her eyes. “What you mean is I have to find a way to survive an evening alone with my crazy aunt—”

  “Alyssa…” he warned her.

  “Seriously, she’s been acting really weird. More than normal.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her,” Marcus said. He didn’t want to tell Alyssa that he’d already warned Kamila that she’d have to leave their home. It was better to keep Alyssa out of the conflict brewing between Kamila and himself. “In the meantime, get to class.” He put his hands on her shoulders, turning her so she faced the school. “And watch your back. I don’t want you alone around that boy.”

  “I can handle him,” Alyssa said, twisting toward him as she threw an uppercut.

  He caught her fist in his hand. “You should have walked away. You got lucky this time,” he said, trying hard to hide that he was proud she had blackened the boy’s eye.

  “You wouldn’t have walked away.” Alyssa reached into her pocket. “I almost forgot. Give me your wrist.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just do it.”

  Marcus held out his arm.

  “It’s a friendship bracelet.” She tied the bracelet, strands of yellow and white string woven together, onto his wrist. “There, now you have one that matches mine”

  “I’ll wear it proudly.”

  “You’d better.”

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he said. “Love you.”

  “Love you more.”

  Chapter 2

  The girl was eleven years old and her name was Alyssa, but Kamila never called her by her name. The time would come when the girl was no longer useful, and it would be easier if Kamila didn’t think of her name, or that the girl was her niece.

  Kamila had just brought Alyssa home from school. A bag of bread lay open on the counter, jars with lids half screwed on.

  “Clean up this mess.”

  “Huh?” The question smacked from the girl’s lips through a lump of peanut butter and jelly. She was too much like her father: high cheek bones, green eyes, and always that contemptuous smirk. The only thing she had inherited from her mother—Kamila’s sister—was her wild, sable hair.

  Alyssa had changed out of her school clothes and was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt. “Just...go upstairs and get ready to go,” Kamila said.

  “Why? We never do anything on Fridays.”

  “We’re going out.”

  “You do know my dad has a date tonight, right?”

  Kamila flinched at the mention of Marcus’s date.

  She closed her eyes, prodded the rage back into the tiny, dark room where she kept it. When she opened her eyes again, Alyssa was watching her.

  “I have plans for us. Just you and me. We’re going to go somewhere very special.”

  “If it’s so special, why isn’t my dad coming?”

  “Later. A different time. You’ll see.”


  Alyssa wouldn’t want to go anywhere with Kamila. But what had Kamila ever done but take care of her—and Marcus—every day since Alyssa’s mother had died? The girl glared back with creased eyes as though trying to imitate the way a grown-up looks when they distrust someone. “Whatever.”

  When Alyssa had gone upstairs, Kamila unzipped her purse and for the third time in the last hour leafed through the documents she’d worked so hard to get.

  It wasn’t too late to change her mind. And what if she did? She was out of time, out of chances. She had to leave one way or another. Just yesterday, Marcus said so himself.

  It was because of Anna that Kamila had come to America, leaving behind their father, and their homeland, Chechnya. Anna had promised Kamila that if she did things right, went to school, then she too would get to stay, make a new life for herself. But cancer had taken Anna, leaving Kamila alone with Marcus and Alyssa. Now, Marcus wanted Kamila gone, had told her to make plans to return home.

  So, she made a plan.

  Kamila had been up all night, thinking, forgetting, starting over, making lists, burning the evidence.

  She pulled her hair to one side, wrapped its dull black strands around her finger and bit down. The bitter flavor of cheap shampoo cut across her tongue.

  “Kamila, what are you doing?”

  She wheeled around, frightened by the angry tone in Marcus’s voice.

  But he wasn’t there. He was at work.

  “Don’t,” his voice echoed from the empty room.

  Not this. Not now. She wasn’t schizophrenic, even the doctors agreed with that; the voices were only a sign of stress, lack of sleep.

  “Shut up,” she replied.

  “He doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even care about the girl,” a woman's voice hissed.

  “I do care. I always have. Don’t listen to her. She’s telling you to do bad things.”

  “Men are liars, Kamila. He promised you…”

  “Shut up, both of you shut up!” Kamila shouted.

  She reached across the kitchen counter and turned on the stereo loud enough to drown out the noise in her head.

  It was too late to change her mind now. Marcus wanted her gone, and she would do what he asked.

  On her own terms.

  Kamila had known loss and pain her entire life.

  Now it was Marcus’ turn.

  Chapter 3

  Ten years. That’s how long it had taken to get from hello to tonight. There are things you miss in the fluorescent glow of the workplace. The way her lips moved, the way she twisted the napkin in her lap. Stormy was perfect.

  Not perfect. Just right. Why had he taken so long to ask her out?

  Because he had responsibilities, most of all Alyssa. She was probably waiting up for him now. Not to mention that stinging jolt his stomach gave every time he thought of his wife.

  It had been thirty-eight months since Anna had passed. According to the experts that was long enough. Marcus’s eyes tracked the string of pearls as they dipped below Stormy’s neckline, reminding him that now would be a good time to move on.

  He pulled his eyes away before she noticed. He glanced at his watch. Marcus had promised to call Alyssa before bed.

  “Do you have to get going?” Stormy asked.

  “I’ll just check in.”

  Marcus dialed the home phone from his cell. After several rings it switched over to voicemail. He’d call back later.

  “Her aunt’s watching her?”

  “Kamila’s my temporary nanny—going on a few years now.” Marcus said. “I’ve advertised for a replacement.”

  “Not working out?”

  “I kept her around because she was Anna’s sister. She doesn’t have to do much. Pick up Alyssa from school and watch her until I get home. She’s paid well and there’s no rent.”

  Stormy’s eyebrows rose. “She lives with you?”

  “No,” Marcus said, unable to mask the defensiveness. “She stays in a mother-in-law apartment behind the house.”

  Stormy took a long drink of ice water, as if to help her swallow the idea. “She sounds flakey.”

  “Kamila just needs to get focused. She might have to do that back home.”

  “Right. She and your wife were from Chechnya.”

  “Yes, but Anna and I met in Moscow, while I was at the Embassy and she was—”

  “Finishing up med school. I remember now,” Stormy said, her fingers tapping triplets against her empty glass.

  Marcus drained the last of his Pinot Noir and watched the oily residue glide down the arc of the crystal. The conversation was veering into an area he had no interest in discussing at the moment—Anna.

  “You said Kamila might have to go back to Chechnya. Is she in trouble?”

  Marcus nodded. “If she doesn’t do school, she can’t stay. It’s been a hard year...” Marcus looked down at his phone. “I should call her cell.”

  “Let her sleep,” Stormy said in a tone that was flirtatious, or maybe something more…seductive? She slid her hand over his. “We could stop for dessert.”

  That invisible leash—responsibility—tugged at him as he imagined Alyssa, impatient for a goodnight kiss. He didn’t expect Stormy to understand. She didn’t know what it was like to have another person, a child, totally dependent upon her.

  Or maybe it was just another lame excuse preventing him from getting over Anna.

  He looked down at his phone again.

  “I’d love to, but I really should get going.”

  Outside Marcus handed his card to the valet. A damp spring breeze harassed them as Marcus stepped closer to Stormy and massaged warmth into the crease of her back, anticipating her response: would she ask him to stop? Or worse, tense up and say nothing?

  She bent down a little—she was only an inch or so shorter than Marcus—and let her head rest on his shoulder. Strands of hair sauntered down her neck, and in the unfocused light its red tones came to the surface, and he wondered if it was too late to change his mind about dessert.

  Chapter 4

  Marcus took Stormy back to her condo where, against his better judgment, he declined a final offer to extend the evening. Despite the premature end to their date, a passionate goodnight kiss made it clear she wasn’t too upset with him.

  Back in the car, Marcus tried the home phone again. No answer. He called Kamila’s cell. It went to voicemail on the first ring. Maybe her phone had died. He could try Alyssa. He had bought her a phone for moments like this, when he needed to know where she was, that she was safe. But it was late now. She might be asleep.

  He should have called earlier. But it wasn’t like he went on dates every week, and not for lack of opportunity. Over the past few years he’d learned how attracted some women were to the lonely, single dad, as if to fulfill an archetypal drama where they, the woman, would come to his rescue, the maternal hero. He called it the Sleepless in Seattle effect.

  Stormy was different. Earlier in their careers, they had been more competitive than cooperative, each trying to beat out the other, vying for attention from their law firm's senior partners. Both Marcus and Stormy had highly valued experience in Russian law. The years passed and Marcus, happily married and starting a family, became Cook and Daniels’ most sought-after international law attorney.

  Stormy, meantime, ended up as lead counsel for several large environmental groups, including a handful in Russia. She had a way of getting to both sides and working out a settlement, often one that heavily favored her clients. Now, after years of knowing Stormy as just another attorney looking to make a name, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  Marcus pulled onto the freeway. Next time he went on a date with Stormy, they wouldn’t be ending the night early. He’d find a better sitter for Alyssa. One that answered the phone. As for his own reservations about dating after Anna’s death, he’d get over that at some point. Tonight was a good first step.

  Marc
us rounded the corner into the cul-de-sac.

  Kamila’s car was missing.

  The porch lights were off, the entire house hidden behind a veil of black and gray.

  Kamila never left the lights off.

  He parked the car haphazardly, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  In the dark, Marcus struggled with the keys, found the right one, and threw the front door open.

  He stepped into the living room and an overwhelming silence knocked the air from his lungs like a kick to the gut. In the darkened room, solid objects—couches and tables and chairs—were blurry, surreal shapes floating through the blackness around him. He listened. No talking, no footsteps, no Alyssa shifting in her bed.

  Marcus went into the kitchen and flipped the light switch. A few dirty dishes were scattered across the counter. Peanut butter and jelly jars left out. A partially eaten sandwich. The radio scratching out music from a half-tuned station.

  Maybe they were asleep. It wouldn't be the first time Kamila had left a mess like this.

  But her car was gone.

  He glanced down as his foot punted something across the hardwood floor.

  A large chef’s knife.

  Marcus picked up the knife, surveying the room for signs of struggle. Just the usual mess. Nothing out of the ordinary. He put the knife in the sink, then turned back, taking a closer look this time—just to be sure. It was clean.

  Upstairs, Alyssa's bed was made. Shirts, still on hangers, were scattered across the floor. In her dresser, most of her undergarments and socks were missing.

  Marcus sat on the edge of Alyssa’s bed, recalling the day’s events. He had left for work at 8:30, reminding Kamila he would be home late. Had Kamila picked Alyssa up from school? If not, the school—and Alyssa—would have called him. Once they got home, what happened? Someone made a sandwich. That had to be Alyssa. Kamila didn’t even like peanut butter. So Alyssa had made it home. Then what? Was the knife a coincidence?