As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (15 page)

“What do you think?” My mother patted her sleek, shiny bob. With her new style and the coloring, we looked even more like sisters than mother and daughter.

My father’s smile turned bemused, and I blurted, “Her new haircut,” hoping to save him, but he’d already asked, “What do I think about what?”
 

“My new look!” My mother did a slow pirouette.

I’d been impressed with Julia’s selections. The colors were bold, certainly, but she’d found elegant sheath dresses and paired bright tops with black or gray slacks and skirts. The colors were different for my mother, but they suited her. She wore an emerald green dress with a navy cardigan and tan pumps.

I winced when my father said, “It’s a little cold out for a dress, don’t you think?”

“Oh, boy,” Julia whispered behind me.

The smile fell off my mother’s face, and she spun without a word and retreated into the house.
 

My father glanced at me, bewildered. “I’m guessing that wasn’t the reaction I was supposed to have.”

I jerked my head toward the door, and with a long-suffering sigh, he replaced the lid on the grill and followed my mother into the kitchen. With a reluctant look at the smoking grill, the dogs trotted after him, and I closed the door as Julia and I followed them inside.

My mother whirled from where she stood in front of the open refrigerator. “You don’t see me anymore, Jacob.”

“I’m looking right at you. I’d have to be blind not to see you.”

She threw her hands in the air, slammed the refrigerator door, and fled up the stairs.

“I’m always saying the wrong thing these days.” He yanked open the back door, and the dogs bolted out ahead of him. “Women! And menopause just makes them worse!”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” I warned.

Even after he shut the door, I could still hear him muttering.

Julia and I glanced at one another.
 

“Damage control?” she asked.

“Maybe we’d better.”

“I’ll take your mom. I could use a session of venting about men.”
 

Daniel had turned her down a second time.

I smiled and said, “It’ll do you some good.”
 

She turned to follow my mother.

When I opened the back door, my father said, “Bring a plate with you, these steaks are almost done.”

I grabbed a platter from the cabinet and then joined him at the grill.

“She looked nice in that dress, but it
is
too cold out for it,” he said.

I chuckled. “Maybe you could skip the practicality next time and just go with the compliment. Besides, it’s too cold to grill, too.”

“It’s never too cold to grill.” Using a pair of tongs, he collected the steaks from over the fire and placed them on the platter. “But come on, I’m freezing out here.”

Laughing, I followed him inside, and the dogs trailed after me.
 

When Sydney wasn’t flying, I spent time with her. I helped Julia at the bakery. I repainted all the walls in my apartment with my mother, and ate dinner with Vera one evening. Timothy texted me frequently, and Clay called me every night.

“Just who is this guy you’re always on the phone with?” Sydney finally asked one evening when she and I were having dinner at her place.
 

She lived in a professionally decorated townhouse on a small lake in an affluent but quiet area of town. I left my shoes on a bamboo mat by the door and always hesitated to sit on the pristine white chesterfield.
 

“I told you about him. Julia did, too. She met him at the hospital.”

She refilled my wine glass as I tossed the salad. “You haven’t told me why you still talk to one another every day,” she said. “William, do you need another drink?”

Her brother sat at the dining room table, putting together a model plane. I’d asked if I could help him with it, but he’d pulled the pieces closer to him and shook his head without meeting my gaze. He ignored Sydney’s question and continued working.

I shrugged. “We’re friends.”

“You don’t even know the man. You spent a few days in his company.”

Impatient, I set aside the wooden tongs before I turned the spinach and arugula to pulp. “It wasn’t like I met him lounging on a beach and spent the weekend sipping mojitos with him.”

“I realize that, honey, but I can’t help wondering if your connection to this man is like Stockholm syndrome.”

I laughed, and the tension I felt building between my shoulder blades eased. “He didn’t kidnap me, Sydney.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know it’s not the correct term, but I bet there’s a syndrome for when two people form an attachment when they survive something horrific together. An unhealthy attachment.”

“What makes you think our
friendship
”—I stressed the word and she arched an eyebrow—“is an unhealthy one?”

“You haven’t moved on.”

I set down my wineglass a little too forcefully and wine sloshed over the rim and onto my hand. “I am moving on, adjusting as best I know how.”

“I saw the sleeping pills on your bathroom counter the other day.”

That explained her dogged approach. I turned away and washed my hands in the sink. “I took one the night before last, that’s all.” I snagged the towel from the hook and dried the excess water. “You know I avoid them unless I really need it.”
 

It was the truth. The bottle had been left over from when I’d worked so many international flights out of New York and had trouble sleeping on layovers because of jet lag. Too many flight attendants were addicted to sleeping pills, and it wasn’t something I wanted to become dependent on.
 

“They’re not a habit, and I’m not going to OD. You know that.”

She flinched, and I regretted my words because I knew she was remembering her mother. “I know. I just saw them and . . . panicked.”
 

I nodded, glancing at William. He seemed oblivious to our conversation.

She drained the pasta and tossed it with olive oil and herbs. “I’m just worried about you, Finch.”

“I promise you, I’m fine. If I weren’t, I’d get help.”

We took the salad, pasta, and wine to the table.
 

“William, do you want to eat?” she asked.

“Not . . . hungry.”

“I’ll save you a plate in case you’re hungry later.” As we sat down, she said, “My father told me Edgar’s tox results and blood tests came back clean. Bryan’s, too. Doesn’t rule out pilot error, but it helps.”
 

I halted with my fork halfway to my mouth.
 

William glanced up at us and then focused again on the small wooden pieces of the Cessna he was building.

“You know it’s standard procedure whenever there’s an accident or incident,” she said.

I nodded. “They’re still investigating the crash?”

“From what I’ve heard. It’ll be interesting to hear what they conclude.”

“Yes, it will.” I had a hard time swallowing the bite of pasta I’d taken.

When I returned home Monday morning after having spent the weekend with my parents, I was too preoccupied sorting through my mail to notice the mess until glass crunched beneath my feet. The bills, magazine, and letter from Tula fluttered to the floor as I looked up. The door had been locked before I’d opened it, I was certain of it. I’d heard the locks tumble as I turned the key. With an unsteady hand, I turned the light on, sucking in a breath as I took in the devastation.
 

The sofa cushions had been ripped in half. The coffee table had been overturned, and one of the legs was broken off. Books had been tossed off the shelves, and my collection of skyline snow globes shattered. The dishes I’d left in the drying rack on the kitchen counter had been swept onto the floor.
 

It took me several attempts to dial the number on my phone as I crept down the hallway. The call went through and was picked up as I stepped into my bedroom.
 

“9-1-1. Please state your emergency.”

I swallowed as I flipped the light switch, but my room remained shadowed. The lamp I’d found at an antique store in Brussels lay broken on the floor. “I’d like to report a break-in.” I rattled off my address as I stepped further into the room.
 

The duvet was shredded, and my dresses had been flung from my closet in all directions. The dresser drawers were upended, and my underwear and bras strewn all over.
 

I turned in a slow circle in the center of the room and started to shake. I jumped when the dispatcher spoke again.

“Officers are on their way to your place now, miss. Are you . . .”

I couldn’t hear the rest of her question as a hulking shadow separated from the yawning darkness of my bathroom doorway.

Fear paralyzed me, and my heart lurched so violently it felt as if it bruised my chest. My breath seized in my lungs, and then escaped on a scream. The scream loosened the frightened rigor of my muscles, and I threw my phone at the head covered in a black ski mask and bolted for the bedroom door.
 

A hand caught at the back of my coat, but I yanked away, taking the corner of the bedroom so quickly I slipped and slammed against the opposite wall. I shoved away from the wall, stumbled, and heard the heavy footfall behind me.

I raced toward the front door, breath escaping from my lungs in raw wheezes. I leapt over a ruined couch cushion and collided with the door in a bone-jarring thud that made my teeth pierce my tongue. A sob escaped as I fumbled with the deadbolt, but my fingers slipped on the cold metal.
 

I screamed again as the intruder crushed me against the door with the full length of his body, squeezing the air from my lungs and grappling to wrench my hand away from the locks. I struggled to get enough leverage and space to strike at him with hands and feet, but I was pinned against the door. I could barely get any breath, and each inhale filled my nose with the reek of his sweat. His bulk pressed flush against my back, and I was afraid I was going to vomit.

I reared back and connected with something solid.
His jaw
, I thought, as pain radiated through the back of my head.
 

The only sounds he emitted were harsh pants. A hand gripped the back of my head and slammed my face into the door. There was a sickening crunch of bone, and the pain blinded me as blood rushed over my lips.
 

The weight against my back was suddenly gone, and then a hand gripped my coat and slung me away from the door. I reeled, tripped, and fell, cracking my head against the edge of the coffee table.

As two large boots came into view, the room wavered and went black.