A Raging Dawn (2 page)

“No. When I look, there’s no one there.” A strangled cry emerged with her words. “But I know it’s them.”

Seven months ago, Tymara had been viciously attacked. A man she barely knew had raped her at knifepoint. Then, he’d blindfolded and bound her and invited others into her apartment to do worse. They’d left her for dead after a night filled with degradations that were unimaginable—unless you were the ER doc performing her forensic exam and taking her history after she miraculously survived.

Tymara didn’t sleep much anymore. If I hadn’t convinced her that the conviction of the one man the police had caught would be our best chance to get him to reveal the names of his partners in crime, she wouldn’t even be testifying today. In the six months since he’d been arrested and placed behind bars, there’d been no actual threats against her, but that didn’t stop her middle-of-the-night phone calls to me.

“It’s going to be all right, Tymara.” I kept my tone soothing and gentle as I lied to her. I’d dealt with enough victims to know it would never be all right, but things would—could—get better. “I’ll come over.”

“No. No.” She blew out her breath. “I’m fine. It’s all in my head, I know. I just needed—”

“I don’t mind. Whatever you need. I can come to your place, or I can call the police—”

Cambria City barely had enough funds to keep the police department functional, much less provide anything extravagant like witness protection, but Ryder had friends who owed him. He’d offered to watch over Tymara himself, even though he didn’t start his new position at the Advocacy Center until today and technically, this wasn’t his case. He still felt a sense of ownership. Tymara was one of our victims, which meant we’d do whatever it took to bring her the justice she deserved.

“No.” Her tone was firmer now, filled with hope that this would all soon be over and she could reclaim her life. “I’ll be all right. It’s only for a few more hours.”

“I’ll be there by eight thirty to pick you up.” Today was the second day of the trial; administrative issues and the testimony of police officers and lab techs had consumed the first.

“I go after you, right?”

“No. I think Manny decided to start with you before lunch. And then me after.” Manny Cruz was the ADA prosecuting Tymara’s rapist, Eugene Littleton.

“Right, right. I remember. He’ll be there? In the same room?” She meant Littleton.

“Yes. But you don’t have to look at him. You’ve met Manny, just focus on him.”

“You won’t be there?” She was twenty-three, but the uptick in her voice made her sound like a little girl.

We’d gone through this dozens of times. I’d walk her through it a dozen more if it helped to ease her fears. “I’ll be waiting outside. I can’t come in, not until after I’ve testified.”

“Right. Sequestered. That’s what Mr. Cruz said. He’s nice, don’t you think?”

Actually, I didn’t. Manny Cruz was one of those competitive types who measure every encounter as a win or loss—and he liked to win, no matter the cost. Which made him the perfect prosecutor for this case. Once he won and Littleton was convicted, Manny would go after everyone else involved, knowing that with Littleton’s testimony in exchange for a lighter sentence, they’d all be easy wins.

Whatever it took. “Sure you don’t want me to come over?” Ryder squeezed my shoulder, offering his own services. It scared me that in only three weeks we didn’t need words. It had never been that way with my ex, Jacob, and he and I had been married two years.

Tymara’s voice drifted drowsily. “No. Really. I’m fine now. I’m going to go back to bed. Thanks, Dr. Rossi.”

“No problem at all. Let me know if you change your mind. See you soon.” I hung up.

“Coming or going?” Ryder asked from behind me, his breath stirring the small hairs on my neck. His tone wasn’t judgmental. Ryder never judged me, not even at times like this, when he had every right to.

I slid free of his warmth, stood, and steeled myself against the cold. “What do you mean?”

“Where do you go after I fall asleep? Even if I wake up in the morning and you’re still beside me, I can tell you’ve been gone during the night.”

It was a valid question. What kind of woman used a man for sex and every pleasure imaginable, but couldn’t remain in his bed for a full night?

Answer: the kind of woman whose brain is half-rotted by warped proteins known as prions.

Whatever my final diagnosis turned out to be, my brain was literally burning itself out. Which scared the hell out of me. And yet, during my time with Ryder, waiting for my lab results, I couldn’t help but convince myself that at any moment I’d get a call from the hospital telling me that they’d made a dreadful mistake, that everything was going to be just fine.

This is why doctors make the worst patients. Our knowledge leaves us powerless. Forces us to lie to ourselves, to those around us. To deny the truth and seek the impossible. But my lies were swiftly crumbling to dust.

“Going.” I somehow found the strength to tell him.

He glanced at the clock. “There’s plenty of time.” Another lie, but he didn’t know it. He patted the empty pillow beside him. “Come back to bed.”

God, how I wanted to.

“I can’t.”

He blinked, nodded. “Your appointment with your doctor. That’s today, isn’t it?”

I stepped back, away from him, from everything he had to offer. He was breaking the rules and he knew it—my illness was off-limits. Here, in his house, in his arms, it did not exist.

Anger flooded over me. He didn’t deserve it. They were my ridiculous rules, and he’d been patient for three long weeks, but still, I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t angry with him. I was angry with the entire universe. Heaven and Hell. From the farthest celestial body to the microscopic proteins ravaging my life. So damn angry. All the time.

One more reason to leave. Before my rage poisoned what we had together.

So I did. I’m not proud of it. I ran. From his questions, from his half-hidden glances of concern, from everything he offered without asking for a single thing in return except the one thing I couldn’t give him, not without destroying us: the truth.

What comes after dread? Fear.

I’m not used to feeling like this. Afraid. Usually, I’m the one people turn to when they’re afraid and need saving.

Except this time, I’m the one who needs saving.

I’m Angela Rossi. I’m thirty-four years old, and this is the story of how I die.

I’m a lover and ex-wife and sister and daughter and friend, and this is the story of how I betray them all.

Most of all, it’s a story of redemption.

And hope.

Guess it all depends on your point of view….

GLISTENING WHITE-SAND BEACHES
, gleaming ruby-turquoise sunsets, graceful arching palm trees…the Tahiti travel brochures duct taped to my refrigerator promised escape.

Sodden Pennsylvania December skies, diamond-edged sleet, wind chill hovering a few degrees above freezing…that was the reality outside my apartment windows. A cold front had moved in after I returned from Ryder’s house with Ozzie a few hours ago.

I downed my handful of morning meds and drank a stringy, green antioxidant shake straight from the blender before it had a chance to congeal. The stuff tasted as foul as it looked. But when you’re down to last chances, you learn to swallow your pride.

Since I’d arrived home, while Ozzie snored on the couch, I’d pounded away the miles on my treadmill, trying to force my body to produce the endorphins I’d need to keep me functional in court today. Endorphins that a brush of Ryder’s gaze and a single touch of his lips could produce effortlessly. I hated how I’d left Ryder, wished I were able to go back and invite him to stand with me when I went to the hospital today to learn my fate.

Hated myself even more for wanting that. Selfish. Cowardly. Leaning on Ryder, letting him get closer…that path led to heartache for both of us.

When the running didn’t work, I turned to my fiddle, my lifelong refuge from reality. But after my shaking hands produced an off-tempo, discordant symphony of missed notes, the strings escaping my fingers, I threw it down in frustration.

As the clock ticked down to when I’d have to leave for my appointment, I made a mental list—I couldn’t bear to write it down—of everything I’d need to take care of after today: telling my family, helping them mourn, making final arrangements. Death strikes in an instant. You’re there, then gone. But dying…dying is a logistical nightmare.

My mood turned as leaden as the sky outside. Not that Cambria City is known for its sunshine, but it seemed as if we were getting more than our fair share of gray and dreary this winter. Ozzie looked up from where he lay on my couch. I finished my shake and sat on the arm, idly scratching between his ears with one hand while I turned on the TV with the other. Animal Planet, his favorite. He thumped his tail in thanks.

I looked around my loft as if I might never return, already missing the old-brick walls, heart-of-pine floors, jumbled books, scattered medical journals, and dirty laundry. I lived in the same apartment I grew up in, above my Uncle Jimmy’s bar. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to a home.

Leaving the TV on for Ozzie, I grabbed my bag and left. I didn’t want to be late. The thought stopped me. Didn’t want to be late? I was headed to my neurologist’s office to see how long I had left to live.

I shook my head, torn between laughing and crying and settling on neither. Instead, I wrapped myself in the numb limbo I’d worked so hard to create these past three weeks. A calm before the storm. Or maybe simply a calm. Wouldn’t that be nice? Escaping the anger and bitterness and regret by embracing denial.

Denial. It was so unlike me, the rebel, the fighter; I felt like a stranger to myself. I hadn’t felt this way, this weird, almost out-of-body disconnect with reality, since I was twelve and my father died. God, how I missed him, even twenty-two years later. He gave me my first fiddle, taught me how to play, his foot keeping time, his smile bringing the notes to life.

Not even that memory could break through the brick wall my emotions hid behind. I clutched the doorknob to my apartment. It took all of my energy not to turn tail and run back inside and hide under the covers.

No.
I would not stop fighting. Could not give up hope.

But first, I needed to know who the enemy was.

Clattering down the stairs, I made the mistake of leaving by the front door, which meant crossing through my uncle’s bar. It’s a traditional dark-paneled, working-class Irish pub with high-backed booths, large tables scarred with cigarette burns and knife marks, and a stage for live music. Music is a family affair, going back to the ceili band my father founded decades ago. Dad was Italian, but with his love of traditional music no matter the nationality, he fit right in with the Kielys, my mom’s boisterous Irish clan.

My hopes of escaping undetected were shattered when I ran into Uncle Jimmy. He’s a Kiely, my mom’s older brother, and like all Kielys, except me, has strawberry-blond hair and a complexion prone to flushing when he drinks too much, which all Kielys except me are prone to do. Me, I’m a Rossi through and through with my dark curls, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes that mirror my dad’s so much that after his death, my mom couldn’t bear to look at me without breaking into tears. Thankfully my sister, Evie, two years younger than I am, takes after Mom’s side of the family and never makes Mom cry or look away or sigh.

Jimmy was taking inventory after the weekend festivities. He glanced up from his clipboard and frowned at me. “Didn’t you just get home a few hours ago? Where are you off to now?”

I was used to his prying. No one in my family ever minded their own business, at least not when it came to my life. It was the price I paid for being the prodigal returned home. “I have an appointment. Will you keep an eye on Ozzie for me?”

“It’s not even seven in the morning. What kind of appointment has you dressed like you’re going to Mass? Not that we ever see you there.”

I’d changed into my court outfit: my best slacks, an ivory blouse, and a red blazer. Last thing I’d admit to was a visit with a doctor. “I’m picking up a rape victim and taking her to court.”

I moved to rush past him, but he stepped into my path.

“Well, you can spare me a minute, young lady. We’re all worried about you, the way you’ve been acting these past few weeks. Out all hours, barely home at all, not bothering to visit your mom, only dropping by to play a few sets and then vanishing again.” He set his clipboard on the bar to give me his full attention. “Not to mention that new guy who keeps coming around. The cop.”

Ryder loved hearing me play my fiddle with the ceili band and would drop by the bar to listen. He understood that I needed our relationship to remain private. I couldn’t even fully explain why. It somehow made my time with him feel special, divorced from the ugly reality I faced every day. Last thing I wanted was him pulled into the drama my family generated as effortlessly as breathing.

Jimmy squinted at me when I didn’t answer. “Haven’t seen you take a drop, not here at any rate, but if I didn’t know better—”

I held back my impulse to tell him to look in a mirror. “I’m not an alcoholic.”