Darkness & Shadows (8 page)

She was extremely attractive and much younger than he’d expected, probably in her late twenties. Slender and well dressed, she wore a beige skirt, high above the knee, six-inch heels that didn’t look cheap, and a sheer, lavender silk blouse. Platinum blonde hair, flat-ironed pin straight. Pouty, well-formed lips beneath a pair of huge Chanel sunglasses that looked like monster goggles.

“Ms. DeFrancisco?” Patrick said from behind as she reached for the door.

She spun around, pulled the gawks down. Gave him a slightly curious but mostly flat gaze.

“I apologize for bothering you. My name is Patrick Bannister, and I work for
National Monthly
.”
Just don’t ask my ex-boss.

Her expression fell flatter, and her silence showed no signs of lifting. Patrick couldn’t tell if she was surprised, frightened, or just plain annoyed. He went with the latter.

“I’d like to talk to you about Charlene Clark, if you have a moment.”

“I don’t,” she shot back, then turned around and entered the store.

Patrick followed.

“Can I ask why?” he said, working to keep up with her. She moved as fast in her heels as she did in her dragster.

“Because I don’t want to,
that’s why
. Now get lost, asshole, before I call security.” She quickened her pace, kept her focus forward. Apparently, losing him had taken precedence over shopping, because she bypassed Nordstrom and headed right for the mall.

“Look,” he said, still trailing her, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

Lilliana screwed her lips into a scowl, abruptly changed direction, and headed straight for the exit door.

But he wasn’t about to let her go, not after he’d worked so hard to find her, and not when she might be holding on to information he needed. All at once, he lost his cool, gained some nerve, and something else took hold of him, something that felt like heartache and reckless desperation slamming together. “She’s dead! DEAD! Don’t you even give a damn?”

Lilliana stopped in her tracks. She turned around. She wasn’t pleased. In fact, she was downright pissed. Patrick backed away a bit, fully aware he’d pushed the envelope but still managing to keep his gaze and mind steady.

“Of course I give a damn!” she said, pushing the words out beneath a tightly curled upper lip. “Why the hell do you think I
went to her goddamned house to check on her? And why do you think I then called the sheriff, you stupid twerp? Fuck you.” She spun on her heel and was off and running again.

Patrick followed doggedly. “Nobody has to know you spoke to me, not even your husband if you don’t want. I can offer complete confidentiality.”

“A scumbag hack like you has nothing to offer me. Now get the hell away!”

He pulled to an abrupt halt. Now
he
was pissed. Name-calling rolled off his back—he was used to that after all these years—but insulting his work and his competence was crossing the line. He knew the filter was about to come off, his words slinging heedlessly. He let her have it.

“Then let me offer you
this
, Ms. DeFrancisco. Your best friend’s body was dumped in Mexico like a pile of stinking refuse. Maybe shot up full of holes, maybe with her head bashed in, maybe even raped with her throat slashed. And you could help find out why, but apparently shopping for a pair of goddamned shoes means more to you!”

She stopped but did not turn around, not at first—when she did, there was red-hot anger burning wildly in her eyes. Through a tense, cutting whisper, she said, “Get away from me. Now.”

Patrick moved swiftly toward her. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… It’s just that—”

“
Stop!
” she said, aiming a palm at him. “Just. Stop.” Her mouth was trembling, tears and fury in her eyes. Message received: he’d gone too far. Damage done. Situation officially out of control. He was ashamed, and now all he wanted to do was make amends, but it was far too late for that.

He tried anyway, taking in a deep breath, letting it out fast. “I apologize, Ms. DeFrancisco. I don’t know what got into—”

She was already turned around, heading toward the exit.

Patrick watched his best shot at finding out the truth storm through the door.

C
hapter
T
hirteen

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

Patrick was squeezing the wheel so tightly that his fingertips turned red and numb. He loosened his grip, shook his head.

He’d screwed up. Big time.

His intensity was way off the map because he was nearing his emotional limit.

Yeah, right, Mr. Head Up Your Ass
.
Who the hell are you kidding? You’re already there, have been for days.

He’d let his anger push him over the line, the same ire that had sent him into a flying rage against Harold Freely. His actions hadn’t been as severe this time, but they came from the same place. He couldn’t even do his damned job anymore—the one part of his life that had still made sense, where he could maintain consistency and balance. He was losing everything. He was losing his mind.

He drove toward the cottage, beating himself up the whole way. When he walked in, Bullet was fast asleep on the rug. Patrick wondered if the dog had woken up at all while he was away, wondered even more how he could sleep so much.

He closed the door. Bullet snorted and opened his eyes.

“Great watchdog,” Patrick remarked, heading for the kitchen. “I could have stolen half the place by now.”

Bullet grumbled.

“What’s the matter? Rough day?”

The dog whimpered.

“Yeah, well, join the club.”

Bullet appeared inappropriately excited by the comment. He strutted toward Patrick, leaped up, threw him the Tongue Shot. Right in the face.

The dog’s timing sucked.

Actually, everything sucks. Just everything.

The dog did his signature head-tilt.

“Not your fault,” Patrick said, scratching behind the boy’s ear. “It’s mine. Bad daddy.”

While Bullet gobbled down some food, Patrick sat on the patio watching rancorous swells curl toward the shoreline, hoping the sea air might untangle his scrambled mind. So far, it wasn’t working.

A young couple strolled by. Patrick zeroed in on them and zeroed in on a memory.

A lazy afternoon, their second day at the cottage.

He and Marybeth walked along the boardwalk hand in hand, warm sunlight on their faces, hot concrete burning their bare feet. Patrick hardly noticed—he felt as if he were living in a dream. If there was in fact a thing called love, he was pretty damned sure he’d found it.

Suddenly, she ran ahead of him and spun around. Slipping a camera from her pocket, she grinned and said, “I want to take your picture, right now! I want to remember this moment forever.”

Patrick shielded his face with both hands. “I’m a mess.”

“You are not!” she said. “You look hot. C’mon!”

Patrick let his hands fall to his sides, rolling his eyes.

“Lose the pouty face, handsome, and smile big for me.”

She was about to take the picture—but suddenly her mouth dropped open, and the camera fell from her hands, hitting the concrete, popping into pieces.

He rushed to her. “Baby, what’s the matter?”

Marybeth looked like she was trying to talk, but nothing came out, her eyes rounded by fear, her gaze fixed behind him. He spun around but saw nothing.

“Baby?”

She turned and ran.

“Marybeth, wait!” Patrick shouted and went after her. “What’s wrong?”

She kept running, and Patrick chased her all the way to the cottage. Inside, he found her in a rattled frenzy, sobbing hysterically, and stuffing her belongings into her suitcase.

“What happened?” he said, standing in the doorway. “What’s the matter?”

“We’ve got to get out of here!” she said. “We’ve gotta leave,
now!”

“But what’s going on? What did you see back there?”

When she didn’t answer, Patrick reached for her wrists and gently pulled her toward him. He looked directly into her eyes, and fear stared back—no, it was worse than that. It was terror.

In the calmest, firmest voice he could find, he said, “Tell me what’s the matter.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, shook her head.

He tried again, a little firmer. “Baby,
please.
Tell me.”

Then in an instant, her terror spun into rage. With surprising force, she shoved him hard, sending him sailing backwards. He landed with a crash onto the end table, and it collapsed beneath him. Patrick lay there for a moment, speechless and stunned, his back stinging with pain, the wind knocked from his lungs. Marybeth looked shocked as well, perspiration and hair stuck to her trembling face, breathing tortured and strained. Just minutes before, he’d been sure he was hopelessly in love with this woman. Now he wasn’t even sure who she was.

Marybeth ran over and dropped down beside him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, sobbing. “Baby, promise you’ll never let anyone hurt me.
Please,
just promise me.”

Patrick didn’t say anything—he was too stunned.

Within minutes they were on the road and heading back toward campus. Marybeth sat frozen and dazed, eyes fixed ahead. Then, in a small, fractured voice she muttered, “Oh, Patrick… this world will break your heart.”

He glanced at her. He wanted to know what she meant, but after seeing her reaction at the cottage, was afraid to ask.

And just like that, their wonderful weekend was over.

The next day, Marybeth fell into her typical pattern—as she often did after one of her frightening outbursts—becoming overly affectionate and somehow managing to erase everything that felt wrong for Patrick. It worked every time.

Now, all these years later, he wondered if whomever she was running from that day had caught up with her again.

More waves crashed into the shoreline, jarring Patrick from his thoughts.

More questions without answers
, he thought.
More uncertainty.

More of the same.

C
hapter
F
ourteen

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Patrick stared out the window in Dr. Ready’s office, his mind drifting deeper into waters of ambiguity, his expression marked by sadness.

She watched and waited with patience.

His voice seemed as far away as his gaze when he said, “It took me a while to come to terms with the shock. That she’d been alive all these years, and now…”

“Now what, Patrick?”

“Now come the feelings.”

“What kind?”

He let out a weighted sigh.

“What feelings?” she said again.

“It’s like losing her twice.”

She settled into her chair. “Let’s go back to your feelings.”

“I don’t know where they are anymore. I’ve lost them.”

“They’re still there,” she said slowly and patiently. “They don’t go away—they just hide. Try to find them again.”

He shook his head.

“You can do this.” Her voice was quiet but uncompromising. “It’s important. Describe what you are feeling right at this moment.”

“I’m just trying to figure out why she left me. I keep wondering whether she even loved me. If she—”

“You’re focusing on facts,” she said, gently redirecting. “Go back to the feelings, Patrick.”

He closed his eyes, took a quiet breath.

She watched him in silent attention.

He said, “I feel so lost… so abandoned.”

“Good… anything else?”

“Angry, but I don’t know if I have the right to be.”

“You don’t need permission to feel something.”

He looked toward the window again, biting his lower lip, struggling against his thoughts, and then, “I can’t do this… It’s too hard.”

“Why is it hard?”

“I don’t even know why she left me. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. Maybe someone took her… or made her do it.”

“That could be, but it’s irrelevant. It doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel angry.”

He considered her for a moment, looked down at jittery hands.

She said, “You don’t have to place blame anywhere if you don’t want to right now, but it is important to focus in on how you feel. This is a difficult process for you, Patrick, something you never learned to do. Your fear takes you to the last place in the world you want to go, where you list your feelings instead of actually allowing yourself to experience them. It’s where your wires got crossed as a child. Now that you’re an adult, you can fix them.”

“Fix them how?”

“By taking this first step. By giving yourself permission to be angry with someone you love. This is where your emotions get tangled—it’s where you learned to disconnect. Let it flow. Allow them.”

“But it doesn’t feel right.”

“Nothing new ever does. You’re learning.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Emotions don’t come from logic. They just come. And you can’t deal with them if you don’t know they’re there.”

“I’m angry,” he said, nodding, as if coming into an agreement with himself.

“Good.”

“And I was lied to.”

“Back to the feelings, Patrick. How does being lied to make you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you do.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated, shaking his head.

She waited.

A tear rolled down his cheek.

“Allow it, Patrick.”

He swiped at the tear, but like a bold act of defiance, another followed in its path.

“Patrick… just say it. When you were lied to, how did it make you feel?”

And then he said it. A scarce whisper in a cracked voice, but he said it.

“Unloved.”

C
hapter
F
ifteen

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

Punishing sunlight shot through the window, striking Patrick in the face like an angry slap. His eyes snapped open, and he threw his arm up, squinting against the rays.