Hold My Heart
Authors: Esther M. Soto
Copyright © 2014 Esther M. Soto
All Rights Reserved
Published by
Dueling Squirrels, LLC
St. Paul, MN
Characters and events in this book are a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, are coincidental and not intended by the author
Cover by: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design and Photography
For Debbie,
Thanks for being crazy enough to believe I could do this.
The wild grass is waist high and thick, making it difficult to see the ground. A sea of light yellow engulfs me as I walk deeper into the field, forging ahead as if pulled by some invisible tether. I force myself to look back. I’m no longer able to see the road, or cars, or any police activity. There’s nothing out here: no bent grass, no obvious signs of disturbance, and no footprints. Just eerie silence.
A deep humming suddenly vibrates through me, making my hairs stand up on end. My body tenses and a pricking sensation assaults the back of my neck.
Whatever it is, it isn’t good. Last time this happened was out in the desert, and each time I felt this way, things didn’t end well. I think about my options. I should turn back and get reinforcements. Wait for the canine unit. I should wait for my partner.
But for some unexplained reason, I don’t.
An unseen force urges me forward, as if I
need
to be out there…wherever that is. The further into the field I walk, the stronger the humming; the magnetic energy is tangible. I can sense it as well as hear it, deep inside my eardrums. As the pull becomes stronger, goose bumps cover my skin, my body burning up from the inside out. I stop as the humming increases into an eerie, high-pitched noise, so powerful I can’t help but cover my ears.
“What the hell—”
Blinding light explodes around me, like lightning erupting under my feet, and everything goes black.
Two days earlier
I beg and plead in my mind, for my mother to come in and save me, for anyone to come in and stop him, for him to change his mind and just leave. My heart is beating so hard, I fear it will burst right out of my chest. He whispers “Ileana” as he approaches, a snake slithering my way. Ready to strike, he hisses my name again, reaching out to touch me—
I jolt up in bed, panicking, a strangled scream stuck in my throat.
It takes me a minute to realize I'm not that scared sixteen-year-old, sleeping in her childhood bed. I’m a twenty-eight-year-old federal agent, living alone in my own apartment.
Funny how the past doesn't stay in the past, even when you want it to.
I lie back, trying to get my bearings. Gradually, I control my breathing, inhaling slowly and deeply, as I will myself to calm down and come back to the present.
I stare up at the ceiling, clutching my thick, down comforter and my soft sheets between my fingers, until my heart resumes a steady rhythm. The combination of flowery fabric softener and vanilla candles assures me that I’m safe. I’m home.
The nightmare is back. I can still see his menacing silhouette in the doorway, accentuated by the dim light from the hall. A monster straight out of some horror movie—but he was real. Very real, and living under my own roof.
My subconscious is at it again, which has been happening a lot lately. I dealt with this shit a long time ago. Why is it rearing its ugly head?
All work and no play must be taking a toll on my sanity.
My job has become my life. There is no doubt about that. For the last month, I've been breathing, eating, and sleeping our current case. It started with one murder right here in Chicago. Chicago PD ran a nationwide DNA search as well as an MO profile; one DNA hit in NYC, seven hits on the MO—that’s when they handed the case over to us at the FBI. Since we caught the case, there’s been another murder, bringing the total to eight female victims over a twenty-year span.
I'm so tired of staring at the crime scene photos, reviewing old interviews, re-interviewing witnesses, constantly going back to square one. I keep waiting for that light bulb to go off, to notice something new, some detail we've missed during the first hundred times we've looked at these files. It hasn't happened.
All we have is a very weak lead. Post office boxes. It is the only thing the two Chicago victims had in common. That is all we have so far. Slim, but we’ll take it. After running background checks and clearing all employees, Tommy and I have come up with a plan, if you can call it that. Tomorrow we will head over to stakeout the post office location. Maybe we'll get lucky.
God, who am I kidding?
Tomorrow morning we have to brief management along with the FBI special agent in charge. They'll want to know what we’ve been doing and what our plan is to catch this guy. There lies the reason that I can’t fall back to sleep. It might also be the reason the nightmares are back.
Why couldn't I have done something else for a living? Something that didn't cause my insides to be eaten up by acid reflux, that didn’t reward me with this amazing, non-existent sex life I’ve got going on?
Rick, my “boyfriend” for all of three dates, gave me walking papers last night over dinner. I should be upset he dumped me, but I'm not. Even while sitting there, my mind kept wandering back to this case. All I think about is work.
That's it. I get up, my feet finding warmth and comfort across my plush carpet. Heading to the bathroom, I stop to pick a book up off the floor and return it to my nightstand. I fell asleep while reading again, trying to get the case off my mind. Reaching my trusty medicine cabinet, I choose to stay with a natural remedy tonight and pop two melatonin; if the herbal supplement doesn't work, there's always scotch.
I pause when my cell phone rings. I know that ringtone. “Sexy and I know it” by LMFAO. Tommy programmed it on my phone about two months ago while I was in the restroom. I’ve been too lazy to change it. Only Tommy Colton can be
that
arrogant. It suits him.
Has it been almost eight years? We’re going on four years as FBI partners, and served three and a half together in the Army. Two of those in Afghanistan. Colton enlisted right after high school; it was either that or jail. He suffered countless beatings at the hands of his father, but when Dad is a cop and you swing back, like Colton did, you’re the one paying the piper. He got his degree while on active duty, and after Quantico, we both ended up assigned to the Chicago field office. Almost eight years. Time flies.
This can’t be good if he's calling at two in the morning. He probably needs me to pick his drunken ass up, and I don’t feel like it. Walking back into my bedroom, I reach for my cell phone.
“What’s up, Colton?” I answer flatly.
“Is Romeo finally spending the night?” he yells, just slightly louder than the pounding music blaring in the background.
Dammit, he knows better than that, which means...Jesus, am I that predictable?
I sigh. “No, he's not.”
“So, he dumped ya, huh?”
The S.O.B. chuckles like it’s funny. “Eat shit and die, Tommy,” I reply in a clipped tone. What an asshole. Yet, I’d trust him with my life any day of the week. No one knows me better and vice versa.
Tommy is many things that I’m not. Beautiful. I mean, movie star beautiful: dirty blond hair, smoldering green eyes, straight nose, chiseled jaw, and a killer smile. Even in the Army, he was breathtaking in uniform. Women would stop and stare. Hell, they still do. He’s smart—too smart for his own good. He’s smug, confident, and charming, especially with the opposite sex. He flashes one of his panty-dropping smiles, and women fight over who’s going to be the lucky lady to take him home.
That’s when it hits me. He’s in some club, picking up some woman who’s had too much to drink has low self-esteem and is probably looking for a little nocturnal reassurance that she’s still got it.
All of a sudden, my heart aches, like rubbing salt in an open wound. Not a good feeling.
“Go home, Tommy, we’ve got a long day tomorrow,” I nag, even though I know it’s no use.
“I’m done, just heading out, Mom!”
“Take a—”
“Taxi, I know. Jesus, Lil, lighten up. You need to get laid.”
I don't respond. I know he's busting my balls, but I'm in no mood. I'm too worried about work, worried about him. Ever since his father died last year, he's been going down a dark path. Sometimes I can't read him, like now. If he didn't call for a ride, why did he call me in the middle of the night?
Tommy sighs and I can picture him running his hand through his short, disheveled hair.
“Sorry, Lil. I just worry about you.”
Wait. He’s worried about me? And here I am, worrying about him. We make quite the pair.
“I'm fine,” I lie. “See you tomorrow, first thing.”
“Good night, Lil,” Tommy whispers before the line goes dead.
Now I feel like shit. I know I need some rest, if not for me then for him. I climb back into bed and drift off, watching the shadows coming through my bedroom window dance across the walls.
قلب
After a few hours of restless sleep, I finally get up. I go for a quick run, then shower, throw on some black slacks, a white blouse, and a black blazer. I slide on my black pumps to make sure I look presentable enough in case I need to deal with Upstairs.
I pull my hair up in a twist and hold it with a claw clip to get my brown curls off my shoulders. I need a cut and highlight touch up; my hair now reaches my shoulder blades, and my caramel highlights are growing out. I’m tired, and there’s puffiness under my eyes. My skin is pale enough that my freckles stand out. I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.
I put on some lip gloss and mascara, and call it a day. Ready or not, I need to head to the office. I'm out the door after grabbing my weapon, gear, phone, and keys. I pull my briefcase strap across my body and lock the door behind me, noticing my little neighbor down the hall bringing out a full bag of trash.
Mrs. Nuncio is in her eighties and her relatives barely visit. She’s the sweetest old lady I’ve ever met. Always fussing over me, begging me to ‘get some sun, sweetheart’ or ‘let me make you dinner.’ Since I won’t let her cook for me, she knits. I’ve got hats, mittens, and scarfs. She’s working on a lap throw, perfect for this coming winter.
We've been neighbors since I’ve moved to the city. Once Tommy and I were assigned to Chicago, he wanted to be up North by Addison to catch the ball games. Me? I wanted a quaint neighborhood, still close to work but away from the hustle and bustle. This old apartment building is closely monitored by a co-op of residents. It’s clean, quiet, and well maintained; the perfect place for me. Luckily, this unit was available and once I saw the exposed brick walls and a small private balcony off the master bedroom, I had to have it. Mrs. Nuncio is on the board that approved my rental application. Nothing—I mean nothing—goes on in this building without Mrs. Nuncio knowing about it. Hell, she’d make a heck of a detective.
I don't like her going up and down, dragging stuff around. So after a lot of nagging on my part and a near fall, Mrs. Nuncio finally agreed to let me take her trash down to the dumpster. I swear the woman has bat ears because she probably heard my door open.
“Morning, Mrs. N.” I greet her with a smile as I reach for the trash bag.
“Good morning, Ileana. Would you mind?” She smiles.
Just short of five feet tall, she seems so small and fragile. I never knew my grandmother, and the thought of Mrs. Nuncio living alone bothers me.
“Not at all. Are you sure you don't want me to stop at the grocery store for you on my way home?” I keep trying to convince her to let me run to the market for her, but she won't budge on that one.
“Tell you what. You find yourself a good man and settle down, start having some gorgeous babies, and I'll even move in with you,” she teases, knowing full well that's never going to happen. Smarty-pants.
“Funny. So that's a ‘no,’ then?” I quip.
“I need to get out of this apartment once in a while, sweetheart, otherwise I'll rot.” Her glasses rise up on her nose as she scrunches it and squints her eyes. Her white hair is up in a small bun, and she’s wearing her usual tracksuit and slip on shoes.
“What are you talking about? Tommy keeps asking you for a date but you always say no,” I say, smiling.
Mrs. Nuncio’s grin becomes mischievous. Her small frame straightens and there’s a spark in her eye.
“I tell you, if I were fifty years younger!”
I laugh. Even grandmas can't resist Tommy's charms.
I take the trash and head to the elevator, as she calls out from behind me, “You know, you should grab on to Tommy. That boy needs a woman with a good head on her shoulders, and you're not getting any younger, young lady!”
She's trying to play matchmaker again. The woman is relentless.
Shaking my head and chuckling, I say my goodbyes, tease her about getting busy on that blanket for my reading chair, and board the elevator. Once I am sure Mrs. Nuncio is securely inside her apartment, I push the lobby button, finally letting the doors close.
I’m meeting Tommy in front of headquarters this morning. I try to enjoy my trip to work. My apartment is just a twenty-minute walk from the FBI building, so I have no need for a car. I love Chicago in the fall. I love the leaves adorning the small trees, brightening the city in contrast to the metal and glass of the downtown cityscape. Shades of orange, red, and yellow against the city architecture serve as a base for the beautiful blue sky. The landscape complements the cold, crisp, fall air, smelling of mums and pumpkin spice. I love how businesses go all out decorating, giving the Windy City hope. Such an inspiring view makes me momentarily forget the horrors taking place in the dark corners of this town.
I round the corner and spot Tommy, looking as sharp and crisp as the October morning in a tailored charcoal suit, bright white shirt, and burgundy necktie. His face is clean-shaven. His short hair is styled perfectly, smooth and messy at the same time, giving him a hint of sex appeal—even though I’d bet he just ran his fingers through it.
“Morning, sunshine.” Tommy grins widely as we meet each other halfway, right by the front doors of the FBI building. He grabs his Grande Latte from my outstretched hand, while I sip on my Venti Mocha. I made my daily stop at Starbucks a block back and picked up our usual. I’m going to need as much caffeine as I can pour down my throat if today is going to go anything like I expect.
“Wow, you look like shit, Lil. Did you get any sleep?” Tommy asks, frowning down at me and holding the door open as we head inside. He’s hiding a smirk as his emerald eyes take me in. He smells of fresh aftershave and body-wash.
“No, some jackass woke me up at two in the morning,” I say, peering up at him from under my lashes and shooting him my best smart-ass expression.
Despite the grin he’s holding back, I can tell he’s still worried so I divert his attention. It’s what I do. I don’t like letting anyone in, and Tommy has gotten further than anyone else has. The last thing I want to do right now is talk about my nightmares or my miserable love life. As we reach the elevators, I push the ‘UP’ arrow.