When Shadows Fall. J.T. Ellison

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      Her head whipped up. He was smiling at her, a lopsided grin.

      “What?”

      “Oh, hon. It’s a mystery, and you love a good mystery. It’s going to eat at you until you do it, so why not go? Take a couple of days, drive south with your pet cop.”

      She narrowed her eyes at him.

      “Teasing. Seriously, I think you should go for it. You’re ready for your classes. This will occupy all your brain matter until you figure it out.”

      “I don’t know what the school will say. I’m supposed to be available in case any students need prep prior to the semester’s start.”

      “They’ll be fine.”

      They would. She was looking for excuses now, and she was all out of them. Only one thing left to do, and that was go. “All right. Fine. I’ll go post his body. But that’s it. Why don’t you come with me?”

      “And do what? Watch while you cut the dude open?” He shook his head, tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I love you, honey, but not that much. Thor and I will hang out on the mountain, get our forest fix, do some fishing and wait for you to come home to us.”

      There was a note of melancholy in his tone, and Sam wondered if the city, her lifestyle, was getting to him. Of course it is, silly. He’s making a huge sacrifice to be with you. The least you can do is let him get away and reset. “Two days. Give me two days, and I’ll meet you at the cabin. Deal?”

      He kissed her softly, briefly. “Deal. Now. Before you run off to Southern parts unknown, I have something for you.”

      Sam couldn’t stop the smile. “A present?”

      “Yep. Shut your eyes.”

      She did, heard him rustling around, then he came back and she felt the couch sink under his weight.

      “Okay. Open ’em.”

      She could swear she felt her heart stop, just for a moment, then adrenaline poured through her system and it took off at Thoroughbred pace. There was a small robin’s-egg-blue box in his hand, with a familiar white ribbon tied in a lovely bow. Tiffany.

      Oh, God. She looked up to see Xander smiling widely at her obvious discomfort.

      “It’s not what you think. Well, not exactly. Open it.”

      She was possessed by an irrational thought—run. Run, now, out the door, and don’t look back. But she took a breath and unwrapped the box.

      Inside was an incredibly delicate band of diamonds set in platinum, so small, so perfectly tiny and exquisite they were nearly diaphanous. She couldn’t help herself; the words came out before she could think.

      “Oh, Xander, it’s beautiful.”

      “It reminds me of you. Strong, unbreakable, but fine and delicate and made of stars.” He took it from the box and picked up her right hand. “I know you aren’t ready to take a bigger step, so I had this made for your right hand. If you’re ever ready, we can move it to the left. But for now, I wanted you to have something of mine. Something of me. Something to remind you of us when you’re away from me.”

      He put the ring on her finger, then brought it to his mouth and kissed it. She was speechless. The panic was gone, replaced by a warm, gentle pulsing in her chest that signaled happiness, safety. A feeling she hadn’t had in a very long time. Tears hit the edges of her eyes and she used her left hand to wipe them away, then touched her wet fingers to his lips. “I love it. And I love you.”

      He was quiet for a minute. “I know you do, hon. I know.” He sighed. “Just promise me you won’t take too long.”

      * * *

      They didn’t see the face in the window, watching them hug, and kiss, and touch. They only had eyes for each other.

      Chapter

      8

      DARKNESS NEVER ENDS, even in the daylight. This is something I learned when I was a child, locked away in a dark, dank room, with spiders and centipedes for companions, and the occasional rustle of a mouse, or a rat, or a snake that slipped in through the grate after its prey. I had a tattered blue blanket I assume belonged to some other child kept in the hole, which I used alternately as a pillow and a cover. There was a chipped sippy cup I could use to catch rainwater when it dripped through the ceiling. The floor was dirt, and there was a bucket in the corner. Once a day, there would be footsteps, closer and closer until they stopped. The small window in the steel door would open, and something edible would be shoved through. Bread. Cheese. Once in a glorious while, an apple. And on the special days, the days I was briefly, brutally visited, after—if I’d been good—I was given an orange.

      I hate oranges.

      I hate the dark.

      And spiders and rats and snakes and mice and everything that reminds me of those days.

      Everything but him.

      I’ve often wondered how many children came before me. I don’t want to know how many came after. He told me, when we left, I couldn’t ever look back. Not to the time before, nor to my time there. Looking back would make me unhappy, and it was best to never, ever think about those dark days again. We would make a new life. A life looking forward. A life free from shadows, from pain and humiliation and sharp things in the night.

      I did my best.

      I always did my best.

      Even before, on the special days, when they came for me, blindfolded me, walked me one hundred and fifteen steps to the cold place. They told me I was special. That I was beautiful. Perfect. And when they were inside me, tearing me open, squeezing the breath out of me with their weight hard on my flat chest, they said unspeakable words, words I shudder to remember. Words children shouldn’t know. Instructions children shouldn’t get.

      Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

      Every step I take, deeper into the forest, the bad words come to me. I stop, stand against a tree, take a deep breath. Conjure his face, his kind, loving face. But now the vision is marred, his skin pale and waxy, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, the emptiness of his bulging eyes, the blood on his body. I will never see him smile again, never hear him read to me, or do flash cards at dinner, or watch fireflies as they gather in the twilight.

      Or chase away the nightmares.

      The truth can’t help me now. I crumple to the ground, sobbing so hard my body shakes. The forest screams at me, cicadas and birds and crickets and bats in an alarming cacophony; the trees shriek and stamp their feet, waving their arms, trying to catch the wind. Leaves rain down on me, dead and yellow, and I hear them coming.

      Oh, God, they’re coming. And there’s nowhere left for me to hide.

      SATURDAY

      “To think of shadows is a serious thing.”

      —Victor СКАЧАТЬ