Dark Mysteries (2 page)

And
maybe she had been expecting him to be older. Bulky, almost fat, but
not quite. With thinning hair. An air of menace hanging around him
like cigarette smoke.

She
definitely hadn't pictured this man. This impossibly good-looking
guy. With his six and a half feet of solid muscle, the arms out of
his white t-shirt unnecessarily large, his shoulders wider than any
football player she had ever seen. His face was stern with strong
black eyebrows, a wide, square jaw, and dark brown... almost black
eyes. The fierceness of them only softened by the thick black
eyelashes any woman would die for. His hair was black. Longish, a
strand falling over his forehead into his eyes. He had a long
vertical scar running through his upper and lower lips. White,
long-healed, but wide and scary looking.

He
stood there silently, arching a brow at her. Blocking her path.
Making it clear he wasn't the kind of man turned to putty at the
sight of a damsel in distress. He needed facts, figures. He needed to
know what she needed from him.

When
she asked him for help, a pit in the stomach from being so needy, he
looked almost taken aback. Surprised. His hand fell from the door
jam, moving backward. A silent invitation for her to enter.

His
office was bare. A brown leather couch was lined underneath the huge
front glass window which he had blacked out. The material was ripped
in places, worn. A desk was in the center of the room, looking like
something that had been put out to trash. There was writing all over
it, in graffiti style letters. One leg was shorter than the others,
a small wooden door stopper was wedged underneath it. An old desktop
computer was on the surface, dusty, on still though he must have
already closed up for the day. A black metal folding chair was in
front of it. The wall behind was covered in corkboard, a huge
assortment of candid pictures, newspaper clippings, and handwritten
notes tacked up with brightly colored push pins. A few of the items
had strings connecting them. Work pictures, she decided, looking
away.

Xander
walked past her, moving down a hallway and leaving her alone in the
office. She turned back around, walking to the main door and turning
the lock. She looked down at her hands, turning them over, feeling a
strange sort of detachment from her own body. Maybe it was just the
rain, the cold numbing her to the pain. Or maybe it was some kind of
shock.

He
walked back in a few minutes later, holding a towel and two cups of,
what she assumed, was coffee.

“Here,”
he said, handing her the towel and placing the coffee mugs on the
desk. He stood there watching her as she towel dried her hair for a
minute before wrapping herself up in the fabric. She was so cold.
Bone deep cold. The kind of cold that made you think you would never
get warm again. “What's your name, sweetheart?” he asked,
the endearment falling too easily off his tongue. Like he called
every woman he crossed paths with sweetheart.

“Ellie,”
she said, reaching for the coffee and wrapping her hands around the
mug, greedy for the warmth.

“Alright,
Ellie,” he repeated, going around his desk. He pulled a gun out
of his pants, unloading it and slipping it inside his desk drawer. He
reached for a pad of yellow paper and a pen, coming around his desk
to perch on the edge. He waved her toward the folding chair. “What
do you need help with?”

“I
can't pay you,” she blurted out automatically, wishing she
could suck the words back in. Way to go, Ellie. Now you're going to
get thrown back out on your ass. Brilliant.

“I
didn't ask that,” he said, his tone almost sounding bored.
Unconcerned. Like he did things out of the goodness of his heart all
the time.

Ellie
looked at him suspiciously. He didn't seem like the kind of person
who had a heart. She shook her head, looking down at her coffee. She
sipped it wearily, wincing at the bitterness. Who the hell drank
their coffee black?

“Don't
make me repeat myself,” he said, looking at her with eyes that
looked tired.

“Sorry...
I...” she took a breath, trying to calm her nerves. She had to
do it this way. She had to only give him half of the picture. It was
safer. For her. She looked up at him, feeling guilty. Safer for her.
Not for him. “I'm being... followed. Or... stalked... or
something.”

Xander
felt a knot build in his stomach, gripping his pen so hard he almost
snapped it. Another stalker case. He tried to push away the sudden
feeling of inadequacy. He failed his last stalker case. Failed
miserably. And she could have died. Almost did.

He
looked over at Ellie who had a name as sweet sounding as her
mouse-quiet voice. He couldn't let that happen again. He couldn't let
another woman get hurt on his watch. Not even if she couldn't pay. It
wouldn't be the first time he did something just because it was
right. Maybe this was his chance to make things right. Prove to
himself he still had it. Protect the girl.

“Okay,”
he said, looking at his notepad as he wrote, “how long has this
been going on?”

“Well,”
she said, looking downward. Trying to not let her eyes betray her,
“since I moved here,” she said. Lies. Lies.

“How
long has that been?”

“Four
months,” she supplied.

“And
where were you before this?”

“Portland,”
she said automatically. Inwardly adding: Seattle. And Philadelphia.
And D.C. And, originally, Trenton.

“What
made you think you were being stalked?”

“Small
things as first,” she said, leaving out how familiar she had
become at looking over her shoulder. How it had been her life for
years. How every shadow made her heart jump into her throat. “Like...
thinking I saw someone behind me all the time. Stopping when I
stopped somewhere. I brushed it off at first. This is a new city and
I...”

“Thought
you were being paranoid,” he supplied.

“Exactly.”

“And
it escalated?” he asked, writing, scribbling furiously away.
Even though she wasn't saying enough for him to be writing that much.

“I
started getting phone calls.” True enough. No matter how many
burners she went through. There were always calls.

“Unknown
numbers?”

“Yeah,”
she nodded. Nope. Not unknown at all.

“Alright.
Did you ever get a good look at him?”

“Yeah,”
she said, not wanting to meet his eyes. She had gotten plenty of good
looks at him.

“His
handiwork?” Xander asked, reaching out toward her face. She
flinched, pushing backward in her chair. Like only someone who had
had hands raised to them in anger could. She had been beaten by
someone. At some point. And now she had some creep stalking and
traumatizing her all the more.

“Yeah,”
she mumbled, letting the front feet of the chair hit the ground
again. “Sorry... I...”

“Don't
apologize sweetheart,” he said, writing again. “So what
happened tonight?”

Ellie
took a deep breath, shivering still from the cold. Here goes. At
least in this she could be mostly truthful. “I got home from
work...”

“When?”
he interrupted.

“At
twelve,” she said, feeling his eyes fall on the top of her
head. “I work at a diner. I had a lot of tables tonight,”
she explained.

“Did
you walk home?”

“Yeah,”
she answered. Like she could afford anything else. All the money had
to be put away. Just in case... in case she needed to disappear
again.

“Okay.
So, you get back to your apartment?”

“Yeah...
and I dunno. Something felt off at first I guess,” she
admitted. She had become acutely aware of the sensation of the hairs
on the back of her neck standing on end. Of knowing something was
wrong before you could see or hear anything that suggested so. “That
sounds stupid...”

“Nope,”
he cut in, his tone clipped, “keep going.”

“Okay.
Well, I kinda brushed it off and locked all the locks, put my stuff
down next to the door. I turned on the light as I walked toward the
kitchen... and then I saw him.”

At
her pause, Xander looked up. “I'll get a description later.
Keep going.”

“He
was standing in my kitchen, leaning against the counter. The kettle
was on,” she recalled, not realizing that before.

“Maybe
that was what was off,” Xander said, looking down at her. Her
brows were furrowed, like she was confused about something. “Tea
kettles make a... humming noise when they're on.”

“Yeah,
maybe,” she shrugged.

“I
assume you drink a lot of tea?”

Ellie
looked up, almost wanting to smile. Almost. “Tons,” she
admitted.

“So,
this guy knows you pretty well,” Xander concluded.

You
have no idea. “Yeah, I guess,” she said instead.

“So,
what happened next? Did you scream? Did he say anything?”

“He
said,
'You're home late'
and then he sniffed the air and said,
'diner work doesn't suit you. You smell like stale hashbrowns and
hopelessness'
.”

“That's...
odd,” Xander said, looking at her. “You wear that to
work?” he asked, knowing his tone sounded suspicious and not
caring. He needed to know everything.

Ellie
looked at him, lowering her brows at his words. Insulted that he
thought she was lying. Though she knew it was ridiculous. Because she
was lying. Just not about the diner. She stood up, putting her mug
next to his hip on the desk, and reached for the hem of her sweater.
In one quick motion, she pulled it off and discarded it on the floor.
Underneath, she wore an awful mustard-colored shirt with black
stripes. A golden name tag hung from her collar with her name on it
in silly, frilly script. “No,” she said, waving at her
shirt, “I wear this to work.”

He
almost wanted to laugh. Almost. Half at her somewhat defiant
attitude, and half at how insanely ugly her work shirt was. He
coughed, bringing his hand to his lips for a second to hide his
smirk, before looking down at his pad. “Okay. Go on,” he
urged.

She
reached for her coffee, her fingers brushing against his legs,
sending an unexpected jolt of desire through his body. He shook his
head. She was a job, he reminded himself. And she wasn't even
remotely his type.

Ellie
sat back down, even colder without her sweater, soaked as it was. She
was going to skip the next few lines of conversation that actually
happened. “Then, ah, I... grabbed an old mug of tea from the
morning and hauled it at him.”

“Good
girl,” he said, shocking himself. He hadn't meant to say that
out loud.

“And
I ran for my bedroom. Past him. I had to run past him. There's a fire
escape from my bedroom window,” she explained. “But... he
was too quick. He grabbed me and we both went down.”

“He
wanted to hurt you? Or did it just happen because you were
struggling?” There were so many kinds of stalkers. He needed to
know what he was working with.

“Oh
he wanted to hurt me,” she said. He wanted to hurt me more than
you could ever imagine. “I scratched at his face, he punched
mine,” she said, motioning toward her eye. “Then he
grabbed my wrists and held them over my head and...”

“And?”
Xander asked, trying to keep his tone professional. He had a feeling
this was about to go from bad to worse. She squirmed in her chair
uncomfortably.

“And
he kissed me,” she said, looking away from Xander. She could
still feel his lips on hers, bruising, punishing. His tongue shoving
into her mouth, gagging her. “I bit his tongue,” she
recalled, remembering his screams as he reared upward, looking down
at her, disbelieving.
You fucking bitch. You stupid fucking bitch
.
“And I kneed him in the groin. Then ran for my bedroom. I had
just made it onto the fire escape when he grabbed my ankle, sending
me falling onto my face,” she said, touching her sore lips. “I
kicked and scrambled down. He was behind me, but I was a few feet
ahead. I had to jump off the landing to grab the ladder and pull it
down with me. It didn't reach the ground,” she recalled, making
a mental note to check that out when... if... she ever needed a new
place. “And he... slammed his foot down on my hand so I
fell...” she said, remembering the hard ground beneath her
hands and knees, the sick fear that maybe she could have broken
something. The cuts, the burns.

At
her long silence, Xander took a deep breath. Trying to keep his mind
straight. Trying not to think of how terrified she must have been.
How amazing it was what she kept her wits about her in such a crisis.
Most people froze. Most people forgot there was any exit aside from
the front door. Most people didn't fight.

“And,
um. He jumped down. Knocked me over in the process. We... fought. I
got a few punches in,” she said, holding out her knuckles. God,
it had been such a good feeling for her fists to collide with his
skin. She never would have considered herself a violent person
before. But, that was... before. Before him. Before... everything.
“He got... a lot of punches in,” she said, her hand
snaking across her stomach and ribs. Which she was sure we bruised.
Maybe broken. Painful, making it almost hard to take a deep enough
breath. God, how had she run so far like that? “And then
someone yelled.”