Dark Turns (24 page)

“N
ia? I’m looking for Nia Washington.”

She heard Dimitri’s voice over the din in the police station. The sound of it brought fresh tears to her eyes, washing away the last of the adrenaline that had kept her answering Detective Kelly’s questions for the past two hours. Dimitri had come to take her home.

Nia stood from her chair beside Detective Kelly’s desk. She could just make out Dimitri’s face, darting between two uniformed cops at the entrance to the room. She tried to wave to him, let him know she was okay. He couldn’t see her.

Her throat was still too sore to yell, and he wouldn’t hear anything less.

Someone, probably a student, had tipped off the media about all the police activity on the Wallace campus. Phones screamed from desks, and the station was full. Nia guessed
that catching Lauren’s killer and the pedophile that had driven the girl to it had brought all hands on deck.

She turned to her host. Detective Kelly spoke into a phone. “I said, we have made an arrest. That’s it. No comment. You’ll know when charges are filed.”

He rubbed his forehead. Bags hung beneath his eyes. He needed sleep almost as much as she did.

“What part of ‘no comment’ don’t you understand?”

Nia guessed that the folds beneath Kelly’s eyes would only become more pronounced in the coming weeks. The media would have a lot of questions, and if the nightly news shows liked putting Lauren’s face on the news, they would love showing Aubrey.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Nia Washington.”

“Wait here, we’ll ask. No one gets past this line.”

“Is she here?”

Dimitri sounded panicked. It was her fault. She’d asked him to pick her up at the state police station. He’d answered from somewhere outside. Wind had rattled through the speaker, making it hard for her to hear. She’d caught pieces of his questions: What had happened? Was she okay? She hadn’t had the energy to put it elegantly. She’d said, “Peter tried to kill me. I can’t be here anymore. Please come soon.” Then she’d hung up.

Eventually, he would want the full story. The detailed explanation would be worse.

Kelly slammed the receiver into the holder. He looked up to the ceiling. Praying for the night to end?

“My friend is here to pick me up,” she said.

Kelly nodded. He opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a plastic bag. He pushed it across the desk to her.

Nia recognized her phone. “I’m good?”

“It’s all clear. We found the SMStealer app on Aubrey’s phone. Those texts sent from your number were included in the app’s logs. The digital forensics team came in and verified it. The message to Lauren from Theo’s phone was there too.”

“So I’m free to go?”

“Yes.” He stood and extended his hand. “Thanks for all your help. I am sorry about the way things turned out for you.”

Nia shook. She was done feeling sorry for herself. It could have been worse. She did, however, feel sorry for Aubrey. Peter had taken an apparently beautiful, brilliant, vulnerable girl and unhinged her.

“My clothing and all the rest of my stuff is in Peter’s car. Do you know when I can get that?”

Detective Kelly rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it seems crazy, but we have to get a warrant to go through Peter’s trunk and get your bags back. It’s going to take some time.”

“I understand,” she said. “When will he be charged?”

“Monday,” Kelly said. “We’re seeking attempted murder charges for what he did to you and first-degree sexual assault charges for Aubrey and Lauren, since they were both fifteen at the time. And now that they have a good theory for his motive, my guess is that Brooklyn PD will be taking a long, hard look at their evidence to see if they can tie Peter to his ex-wife’s murder.”

So many crimes, each with long sentences. If convicted of them, Peter could go away for the rest of his life. Nia couldn’t see how he wouldn’t be. The police had the video of him assaulting Lauren, and they would have her testimony and whatever Aubrey said.

“What about Aubrey?”

Nia had to ask. As much as she disliked the girl for what she’d done to Lauren and Lydia, she blamed Peter for destabilizing her. Maybe Peter’s abuse coupled with her father’s violent death had flipped an awful switch.

“She’s sixteen, but I know the district attorney will want to try her as an adult.”

“What about the abuse?”

“It’s up to her lawyers to argue that was a factor, and I’m sure they will. The mom came up to get her with an army, shouting about suits against Wallace.”

“Excuse me. I’m looking for Nia Washington.”

She couldn’t make Dimitri wait any longer. She shook Kelly’s hand. He promised he would be in touch.

She waved as she walked to the exit. When he saw her, Dimitri pushed through the officers in front of him. His arms wrapped around her.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m . . .” Nia forced a weak smile. Her sore throat tightened. “I will be.”

She leaned into him. He brushed his palm against her hair. “I’m so sorry.”

He supported her weight as they walked out of the station. She could see the questions in his dark eyes, but they didn’t talk. He knew she needed time.

He opened his car door. She sat in the passenger seat.

“Where do you want to go?”

Nia didn’t have a destination in mind. She only knew that she needed to get away from Wallace. The farther, the better.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a chance to speak with my mom. I just,” Her eyes welled with tears. The stress of everything had broken her family rule about crying. “I just need to get out of here.”

“Then let’s go.”

Dimitri backed out of the station and turned down the road leading to the interstate. He entered the ramp to I-95 South. New York City.

Nia closed her eyes. She let the rumble of the car lull her to sleep. She was safe here, in this car, with Dimitri.

She woke a few hours later to the glare of sunbeams reflecting off of skyscrapers. They danced on the metal facades like ballerinas in amber tutus. The Hudson River shone golden below.

They’d passed Queens and were traveling down the West Side Highway. Nia could guess their destination. Dimitri was taking her to the Upper West Side. His place. Their old place.

She looked over the river and smiled at the warm light. She was headed home.

Four Months Later

T
he floor was fast. Nia’s pointe shoes traveled across the black vinyl like a pebble skipping across water. She was supposed to hate the slippery feeling beneath her toes—it was the mark of a temporary floor placed in less-than-ideal humidity conditions. But she liked how it made her just a little out of control.

She spun and then froze, hands behind her, head tilted to the golden lights in the ceiling. The classical guitarist increased the speed of his fingerpicking. She kicked her leg toward her head, held it for a moment in the air, and then
shook it down to the ground. She pivoted and then, just for kicks, performed another grand battement.

The director liked the little touches she added. Melanie Wyles bragged that BalletProchaine maintained the discipline of more renowned companies but took the perfectionist edge off of its dancers, enabling them to really feel and move. The live music helped with the emotion. Nia fed off the energy of the varied guest musicians, picking up on the idiosyncrasies of the players, the way one stressed the last note in an arpeggiated chord while another always emphasized the downbeat. Unlike an orchestra, the visiting musicians never played the same way twice. As a result, performances were never rote. There was room for improvisation. For fun.

Nia loved the freedom. As much as she’d dreamed of dancing at the New York City Ballet, she’d never been a good fit for the company. Here, in this small group of eight dancers, it was different.

She felt stronger than ever before. For first time in eighteen months, she could trust her body. Three months of therapy with a New York orthopedist, at Wallace’s expense, had made her feet feel solid. Once again, she had the confidence to jump and turn, let loose, without worrying about aggravating old injuries or damaging fine ligaments and tendons.

She performed a series of pique turns across the floor and then jumped as the guitarist switched to a faster rhythm. Her legs parted in a split, as rehearsed. She landed on her toes and then traveled backward, arms moving wildly as though she were buffeted by an invisible wind.

An alarm rang from somewhere in the audience. The guitarist stopped.

“Okay.” Wyles stood up from her seat in the front. “I like it. Even more motion with the wind, though. Really let it take you. You can pick up there tomorrow.”

The show was in a week. It had taken some getting used to the schedule: learn a dance in four days, perform in six. But after three weeks of dancing with the company, Nia was getting into a groove.

She thanked the director and then descended the stage steps. Dimitri was waiting for her in the aisle. He held open a puffy black coat that would cover her dance gear until she got home to change. The coat was relatively new, like most of her clothing. Her suitcases hadn’t arrived until the first week of December.

“You looked good out there.”

Dimitri’s lips landed on her own, a familiar peck between two people at ease with one another. It had surprised Nia how quickly they’d fallen into their past rhythm. It was as though their relationship had muscle memory.

They held hands as they left the performance space and stepped out into the freezing January night. Heavy white clouds hung in the sky, illuminated by lit antennas atop skyscrapers. The smell of roasting nuts and powdered sugar wafted from carts on the corner—leftovers from Christmas.

She huddled into Dimitri’s side for warmth. “Snow again?”

“Looks like,” he rubbed her arms through her coat.

“What a miserable winter we’re having.”

He kissed her neck. “Best winter in a long time.”

They’d spent the season together. She’d never returned to Wallace after leaving the police station. All involved parties seemed to prefer that her leave become permanent. Though Battle and Ms. V hadn’t ultimately blamed her for anything, they also hadn’t wanted her presence to become a “distraction.” Battle had broken the news. Nia was fine with it. Wallace had continued paying her, as though she were on a medical leave. Battle had even put in a good word at BalletProchaine.

Dimitri raised his arm, hailing a cab. A yellow taxi pulled over to the side of the street. Her boyfriend let her in first and told the driver their address.

They leaned into one another as they traveled uptown on Eighth Avenue, both tired from a full day of dancing, comfortable with the silence. Nia’s days were longer than Dimitri’s, mostly because her season was shorter. BalletProchaine packed more performances into a tighter amount of time.

She looked forward to a night cuddled beneath blankets, watching television. Maybe they’d order a movie.

“I read something about the case today,” Dimitri said.

His words interrupted her reverie. He always referred to it as “the case.” Lauren was “the victim.” Aubrey was “the murderer” or “the blonde.” Peter was “the devil.” Dimitri said he didn’t want the names to bring back bad memories. The monikers suited her fine. It made the whole experience seem surreal, as though September had happened to the heroine in that film she’d seen.

“What did you read?”

“The
New York Times
said that the blonde struck some deal by claiming the devil’s abuse made her do it. She said he tricked her into getting rid of the victim because it looked like the victim might tell her family.”

Nia sighed. She didn’t buy that defense. Aubrey was ruthless when it came to competition. If she could maim a dance rival, she could murder a romantic one, unaided. But then again, Nia did believe Peter had sent the girl overboard. If he hadn’t led Aubrey on and then pushed her to keep silent about the whole affair, maybe she wouldn’t have become so crazy.

“I don’t know. I hope she gets help. In an institution. With locked doors.”

When she blinked, she saw Aubrey going for her neck. The image often came back to her, accompanied by a phantom soreness in her throat. She pushed away the picture with thoughts of the inside of her refrigerator. What would she cook for dinner tonight? They had a whole chicken and an onion. She could put it in the oven, though it would take a bit.

Nia had taken up cooking again during the holidays. Dimitri’s mother had seemed particularly happy about her cranberry sauce, or maybe it was just her presence. A couple of Bordeaux glasses in, the woman had pulled her aside and said she was happy they’d gotten back together. “I guess, sometimes people do just know,” she’d said.

Nia relished the memory. She knew. She had a gut feeling about Dimitri—the same way that, deep down, she’d had a worrying sense about Peter. That day in the hallway, when she’d surprised Peter walking with another student, she’d known something was odd. But she hadn’t wanted to think badly of him.

Now Nia knew better. She would trust her instincts.

The taxi pulled up to their apartment. Nia paid the driver as Dimitri held open the door. They hurried up the stairs to their first-floor unit. Once inside, they slipped off their coats. Nia walked toward the bedroom, ready to change into something more comfortable.

Dimitri grasped her hand, stopping her forward momentum. He stepped toward her and wrapped his arms around her waist. His full lips landed on hers, soft and familiar.

Sometimes, you did just know.

S
omeone, maybe Einstein, defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Yet that’s what first-time authors do. We write and rewrite the same tortured tale and then send it out to agents and publishers hoping that, this time, someone will be crazy enough to believe in us.

Thank you to all the people who had faith in me over the years. I owe an immeasurable debt to my agent Paula Munier of Talcott Notch. Paula helped me understand the mechanics of a good thriller and how to tinker with my novel so my story could run. She encouraged me to keep writing when my first book stalled and also gave my ego the jumps necessary to restart my engine.

I am overwhelmingly grateful to Matt Martz and Dan Weiss, who saw how my story could look cleaned up and on its meds. I am fortunate to have Matt as my editor. In addition to launching a publishing company, he helped me re-envision my novel and craft a much-improved book. I don’t know how he has the energy. Nike Power, his assistant, is a force. She not only pinpointed plot problems but also somehow knew when I’d used the same adjective twice within fifty pages. An author could not ask for a better team than the folks at Crooked Lane.

Big thanks to my mom, Angela Holahan. Some moms encourage their kids by patting them on the back. My mom mailed my first fiction story—written and illustrated by me at age seven—to a large children’s publishing house for consideration. She also saved the very nice rejection letter telling me to keep writing, and she never gave up emotionally supporting my dreams.

Thank you to my dad, Jay Holahan, for believing that I could be a thriller writer and encouraging me, even if he couldn’t understand why on earth I would want to be one. Gratitude to my grandfather, Jim Holahan, for showing me that wordsmiths, storytellers, and dreamers can do great things. You’ll always be an inspiration.

I am immensely blessed to have my daughters, Elleanor and Olivia. My ferocious love for them inspires the fear that I channel into thriller plots. More importantly, they are each joyful, smart, caring human beings who force me to be a better person on a daily basis.

Thanks to the first readers of my story or earlier works: My brother, James Holahan, for your honest and considered criticism. My sister, Tara Williams, for your gentle critiques and encouragement. Linda Honneus for not just reading it but getting excited about it. Saundra Ayala for the long lunches and letting me voice ideas. Margot Rayhill, for telling me that I was destined to be a writer and using examples from our childhoods to back it up and also being a great cheerleader and friend. Denize de Aquino for letting me talk through plot points for hours, asking random questions, and keeping me sane.

Thanks to my writing buddies Sue Homola and Daniel Davis. You each have a wonderful way with words. Your criticism and conversation were immensely helpful. Sue, you tell beautiful stories and you are just a great gal. Dan, you write
poetry capable of scaring people’s pants off. A rare talent. Thanks to Michael Neff and the Algonkian Pitch Conference for introducing me to Paula, Sue, and Dan.

Thanks to the dear friends and family members that read my story or earlier work before I could claim anything close to a publishing deal. Lisa Hsu, you’ve read the good, the bad, and the worse and still told me to keep at it. Karin Kin, my sounding board for decades with the patience of a saint. Where would I be without you? Shana Travis, the kind of girl who is so amazing that her willingness to count you as a friend makes you believe in your own worth. My grandparents Gloria Fidee and Madeline Holahan, for reading scenes that were in no way their
cup of tea
and still insisting that I’m a good writer. Paul Holahan for not only reading it but also wanting to help sell it and for providing sound career advice. Megan Holahan, Julie Holahan, and Gabrielle Ayala for being the kind of folks that offer to read and critique and mean it. Signian McGeary for reading the story and your love of ideas. Michelle Shuey, a fun-loving new friend. You made me feel legit instead of like an ex-journalist who might just have made the biggest mistake of her career. Thank you.

High-five to John Melloy for congratulating me when I left my job to write full time. Other bosses would not have been so understanding.

Thanks to the friends and family who encouraged me along the way: Erika Van Natta, Ken Monahan, April Campos, Tamiko Zetrenne, Jen Ferriss-Hill, Soroya Campbell, Madeline Banks, Dyandra Canty, Dennis Lin, Garth Naar, Cheryl Naar, Sydney “Nino” Mullings, and Stacy Esser. Thanks to my dog, Westley Honneus, cuddler extraordinaire and woman’s best friend.

Big thanks to Tom Szaniawski for driving your motorcycle in the middle of the night after talking me through
contract law for hours. Much gratitude as well to Jeremy McCurdy for explaining how guys handle things.

Thanks to Myung Sook Chun for teaching ballet to a thirty-two-year-old woman with no dance experience for two years so she could write a better novel.

I’ve had some wonderful writing teachers over the years that improved my craft and inspired a lifelong love of words. Kathryn Watterson and Barton Gellman, who taught writing at Princeton: thank you. Also a big thanks to Teaneck High School English teachers Alice Jacobs Twombly and Rhetta Maide.

Above all, thanks to my wonderful husband, Brett Honneus. The fact that you are not an avid reader makes your unwavering willingness to support me all the more incredible. You’ve encouraged, listened to, and believed in me. You’ve fallen asleep to a keyboard clicking beside your head and insisted we get help so I could work even when my “work” didn’t involve monetary compensation. You’ve listened to me read aloud entire pages. I’d break into a Bette Midler song if this paragraph were recorded and not just notes on a page. I love you. I am blessed to have you. You are my better half and, for the record, are not and could never be the inspiration for any male villain.

Last but not least, thanks to God. I know some people equate believing in a higher power to a kid having faith in Santa Claus, but all the aforementioned people are the only proof I need. And if that makes me crazy, so be it.