The Dead Place. Rebecca Drake

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СКАЧАТЬ She nodded, understanding. She wasn’t protected anymore. She knew what it was like to be so worn down that sleep seemed like her only refuge.

      Except it wasn’t. Deep sleep evaded her here just as it had in the city. Ever since that awful day in her studio, she hadn’t been able to sleep continuously for more than a few hours at a time. Knowing that she’d dream about the assault undoubtedly caused anxiety, but all the relaxation tips she’d tried did little to help.

      Ian fell asleep quickly just like always. She watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, envying it, before reaching up to switch off her bedside light. She waited for the darkness to settle, for the various shades of black to emerge. Everything was new here, even their bed. Ian had been excited that the space was finally big enough to get the king-size bed he’d always wanted, but now the emotional gulf separating them had become a physical gulf as well. She could reach him only if she stretched her arm to its farthest point. She didn’t.

      Rolling onto her side, she stared at the faint stripe of moonlight coming through the filmy curtains, a perfect line of ivory across charcoal. Chiaroscuro. Light and shadow. It wasn’t only art that could be explained with this concept. And if her life before had been tipped further toward light, then she’d just been lucky.

      She thought again of the student they’d been discussing at the party, Lily Slocum. She tried to imagine someone simply walking down a street and vanishing. Light and shadow. Shadow and light.

      She drifted into half sleep with the image of Lily Slocum in her head, picturing her as a line of moving light receding into darkness.

      Chapter Two

      Ian Corbin stood in front of the mirror adjusting his tie and ran the new job title through his mind. Dean Corbin. Ian Corbin, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences. He’d been Professor Corbin or Dr. Corbin for so long, it was going to take time to make the switch.

      Red silk tie in place, he dropped his arms and looked at himself. Pressed white shirt, new charcoal suit, and a tie Kate had picked for him. It was going to be hot today. He’d probably ditch the jacket as soon as he got to the office.

      He had a sudden memory of that late summer day, all those years ago, when he’d taught his first class. Only two years into his doctoral program, he’d been completely green and barely older than the undergrads he was being asked to teach. It had been a hot, sultry morning just like this one and the sense of excitement just the same.

      He smiled at his reflection. Except for a slight blurring of his jawline and the silvering of his temples, he looked essentially the same. It was only if he looked closer, stared deep into his eyes and counted the fine lines creasing the skin around them, that he saw the profound change.

      He’d been single back then, a small-town boy made good, his own savings and a handful of scholarships making it possible to get his undergraduate degree. It was still some years before he became a husband and a father, a time in his life when he worried he didn’t fit in with the other students, the ones who traveled from wealthy suburban towns followed by an endless supply of money from parents who were alumni. He’d rented what was virtually a cold-water flat near the train station, the hot water a trickle when it deigned to appear. The walls of the building were so thin that he could hear every word of recrimination between the couple next door and sometimes startled awake fearing that a whistling engine was about to run over him.

      He’d been so strapped for cash that he donated plasma for a couple of bucks each week and pulled discarded newspapers out of waste bins to look for coupons. Cans of crushed tomatoes made barely edible soup. Cheap white bread and ramen noodles. A box of eggs made to last a month and the cheapest cuts of stew meat. A diet of bad food and not enough of it.

      He was constantly hungry, his dreams filled with visions of tables groaning under the weight of holiday meals, the gnawing of his empty belly ever present, along with the guilt that he’d left behind his mother.

      The sound of the piano broke his reverie. Ian shook his head to clear it, moving toward his dresser and scooping up the gold wristwatch that had been his father’s, the last vestige of that time. He slipped his calfskin wallet into his back pocket.

      The swell of Chopin’s Prelude in E Minor grew stronger as he headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Grace was sitting at the Baldwin upright that had survived the move from Manhattan. It had been a lot easier getting it into this house than into the loft eleven years ago. Intent on the music, the sound loud enough that she couldn’t hear his footsteps, Grace kept playing as her father entered the room.

      One tiny strap of her black tank top had slipped down her tanned shoulder, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and wearing khaki shorts and sandals, she looked younger. For one brief moment he thought she was ten again, happy to see him, eager to have him listen to a new piece she’d learned, her smile radiant as she’d barrel across the loft to hug him as he came in the door.

      Grace saw him and the music stopped abruptly, the face turned toward his scowling. “Stop staring at me!”

      “I wasn’t staring, I was watching.” Ian dared to rest a hand lightly on her dark head, but she jerked it off.

      “I’m trying to play.”

      “So pretend I’m your audience.” He tried to coax a smile out of her by making a goofy face. “Look, I’m dressed for it. Just pretend.”

      They’d done this when she was little, calling it Carnegie Hall, and sometimes she’d made her own tickets and issued them to her parents and their friends.

      Now the scowl remained firmly in place. “It isn’t ready.”

      Yet she was already a better pianist than he’d ever be. Ian had made peace with his own middling talent years ago, choosing to go into teaching because he’d never be able to support himself as a performer, but there were moments when he felt almost envy for his daughter’s talent and annoyance at her lack of awareness of it.

      He resisted the urge to force some point of connection with her, and said instead, “Where’s your mother?”

      Grace shrugged, her attention already back on the sheet music. “The studio, I think.”

      The music began again, haunting and lilting, as he walked from the living room down the hall to the kitchen where he grabbed a cup of coffee before heading out the back door.

      He saw Kate before she saw him. She was bending over a box, her brow furrowed in concentration. It was a relief to see her out here. A relief to think that she was moving forward. Maybe everything would be okay.

      He tapped lightly on the door and her head flew up, eyes wide with fear.

      “It’s okay, it’s just me.” He hurried to reassure her, chest tightening with sympathy. Her eyes narrowed, the deep blue turning black.

      “Don’t sneak up on me!”

      “I didn’t think I was. It’s okay, Kate.”

      He meant to calm her down, but it seemed as if everything he said just inflamed her. Between the frown and the thick titian hair made thicker by humidity and fanned about her head like a fiery halo, she looked like some mythical demon.

      “I am calm! Or I was before you snuck up on me.”

      “Fine.” He held up his free hand in surrender. “Whatever.” The СКАЧАТЬ