Carved in Darkness (15 page)

She needed to stop lying to herself.

He takes one a year—guess when?

No matter what she said to Michael, no matter what she told herself, she knew he was telling the truth.

You thought he stopped with you? Guys like that don’t do what he did to you and then just
stop.

Somewhere, a girl had been taken. She was in the dark, trapped and terrified. Somewhere, she was bleeding and screaming …

She pulled the lapels of her sweater closer against the stiff October chill. It was only three blocks. She was safe. She was going to be fine—she’d walked it alone plenty of times.

She crossed in front of a dark alley, a black mouth—wide open—just waiting for something to swallow.

Picking up the pace, she looked around. The street was deserted. Her legs moved faster, carrying her across the mouth of the alley when she felt a prickle. An uneasy slide, like steel wool against her skin. Her throat went dry. Footsteps, crunching across gravel, falling into time with hers, echoed behind her. She looked over her shoulder, felt herself tumble headlong down the rabbit hole.

He was here.

The hood of his sweatshirt was up and pulled low, concealing his face, hands jammed into the front pocket. His stride was long and full of purpose. Even though his face was hidden, she knew he was smiling.

He’d found her.

A strangled sob escaped her, and she bobbled the cake box. It dumped out of her hands, her leftover birthday cake instantly forgotten. She ran down the sidewalk, her legs clumsy, her breath ragged in her chest. Slow … she was too slow. He was close, so close, but she didn’t look back.

She tried to run faster but knew it wouldn’t be enough.
Please, please, please …

She couldn’t hear him behind her anymore. Hope dug deep and spurred her on. She was almost there. She could see the row of apartment mailboxes in front of her building, illuminated by the street light. She was fine, she was safe. She was going to make it—

A hand fell, hard and heavy, on her face. An arm hooked her from behind, lifted her off her feet, and dragged her into the dark.

The memory hit her hard, sending her reeling inside her own skin, scrambling for a place to hide from what waited for her in the dark. She slid off the side of the tub, landing on the cold tile with an audible smack that barely registered. The edge of the tub bit into her shoulder blades and she curled them, pulling herself inward. Her knees pressed together tighter and tighter at the memory of being pried apart again and again. Her hands clenched into fists, and the sobs that built inside her gut were shaped by the pain and rage that was always with her, barely kept at bay. It crashed into her, wave after wave, knocking her down, dragging her under. She let go, let it pull her apart, too tired and ashamed to keep fighting.

TWENTY
-
TWO

I
T WAS DARK.

Her eyes were still tightly closed, but she didn’t need to see the dark to know it was there. It pressed in close—molded itself to every curve and plane of her body. The sensation sent a jolt of panic down her spine. It pinged off her arms and legs, radiated through her fingers and toes until it settled, low and tight, in her belly. She knew the bathroom light had been on when she came in because she never shut it off. Light was important, light kept her safe. She’d spent eighty-three days in the dark. She knew what waited for her there. Now she was never in the dark if she could help it.

Sabrina forced her eyes open. The black she stared into softened, and the watery light of the moon pulled faint shapes into focus. She could make out the dim outline of the sink. The light porcelain bowl glowed in the gloom. A slice of light reached for her from beneath the door, brushed against her toes. She had no idea how long ago the light went out, minutes or hours, as she curled there on the floor. She pulled herself to the side of the tub again and leaned over to flip the switch. Off and on, off and on—
nothing
.

How long ago did she lock herself in the bathroom? It felt like days. The liquid hiss of the shower told her it was still running. The water had gone cold. She turned it off.

Someone was on the exterior stairs—third step from the landing. The sensor attached to it registered movement and the outdoor floodlight snapped on. Light fell through the window set high in the wall. The tub and sink were bathed in light. The rest of the small room was cast in even deeper shadow.
Someone was coming.

Her breath came in sharp gasps, shredding and ripping out of her mouth with every push and pull of her lungs, while her heart stumbled around in her chest, tripping over itself in its effort to push its way into her throat.
Too loud … she was too loud.

He was going to find her.
She slapped a hand over her mouth and pushed herself back and over, across the bathroom floor, until she was wedged between the sink and tub.

She made herself as small as possible, squeezed her eyes shut, and waited for the hand to reach out of the dark and drag her back into the nightmare.

She saw herself—pathetic, curled in a ball, pressed into the corner. White-hot rage erupted inside her chest, decimating the fear that crippled her only seconds before. She wasn’t weak … not anymore. Not ever again.

The quiet click of her door being opened pushed her onto the balls of her feet. Matt had left the door unlocked.

She crouched in the corner, listened for the sound of the door being shut. It came a few seconds later, and she didn’t hesitate. Under the sink, shoved toward the back, was an empty tampon box. Inside was a 9mm. She had it in her hand within seconds.

She stood, pulling herself upright. The gun was loaded, she’d checked it hundreds of times, but she checked it again anyway. Her hands shook so badly that she couldn’t get a firm grip on the slide. She yanked it back, barely registering when the slide bit into the skin of her hand and chewed into in, drawing blood.

She waited. Quiet footsteps made the short journey from the door to her bathroom. She reached out and unlocked the door. The footsteps stopped, a shadow stepped into the slice of light. She raised the gun, leveled it at the door.

The waiting had always been the worse part. More horrible, more torturous than the pain and shame of what he did to her.

She’d spent hours listening for his footsteps, waiting for him to come back for her. She’d listen to every scrape and creak, every groan and sigh until the sound of her own breathing, the knock of her own heart, was cause for panic. It stacked, higher and higher, emotional bricks pressed around and above her. They’d shake and wobble, teeter on the edge of her sanity until the sound of his footstep sent them tumbling down, burying her alive.

Now, fifteen years later, Sabrina could feel it build. Stack high and higher, until a tower of fear surrounded her. Held her prisoner inside her own skin. It began to wobble and shake. Each footstep beyond the dark was an earthquake.

TWENTY
-
THREE

I
F ASKED AT GUNPOINT
what the hell he thought he was doing, he’d have had to take the bullet, because he didn’t have a clue.

When the bathroom light went off, Michael had to dig his toes into the floorboards to keep himself in place.
Maybe she just turned the light off
… bullshit. She never turned the light off.

He waited a few seconds to see if it came back on. When it didn’t, he was torn between not wanting to leave his post and tearing across the backyard to get to her. No one was there. The floodlight she had pointing at the door was dark. She was safe. She was fine.

Seconds turned into minutes, and the bathroom light stayed dark. He thought it out, let his brain run through the facts. Carson was missing and so was Lucy. Lucy was the only person in Jessup who knew Melissa had survived … or so he’d thought.

Michael, who did you tell?

No one. He’d told no one, but someone knew she was alive. What if that someone told Carson? What if he’d taken Lucy some place quiet and …

Jessup was fifteen hundred miles away, but it was less than a hundred miles from Dallas and one of the largest airports in the country. He hadn’t talked to Lucy since yesterday. Plenty of time for Carson to pull information out of her and catch a flight. He could know Melissa was alive. He could know where she was. He could be here, right now.

Michael dropped the binocs into the case on his bed and picked up his .40 Smith & Wesson. Tucking it into the small of his back, he headed out the door.

The B&B was quiet. He made it to the back door and across the yard without incident. Vaulting the block wall between yards, he landed in a crouch. His eyes instantly found the spot where the window would be—still dark.

The floodlight pointing at the landing clicked on, bathing the side yard and rear deck with light. He drew his weapon and crossed the yard fast, rounding the house, gun raised.

Noodles sat at the top of the landing, looking down at him.

He almost turned around and went back. The dog whined and managed to look worried. Most nights, he’d scratch to be let in while Sabrina was doing her laps around the house. She’d let him in for a few hours, and they’d wander the house together. The fact that he was still out on the landing was all the proof he needed that something was wrong.

He started up the stairs.

Three steps from the top, the tread groaned beneath his feet. The light sensor had already tripped, so his approach went unannounced. He took the rest of the stairs in silence and stood outside the door. Pressing himself flat along the jamb rather than standing in front of it, he listened. Nothing but his own shallow, even breathing and roaring silence met his ears. The door was cracked open. He looked down at the dog. “You’re not going in,” he said quietly.

He pushed the door farther and waited. No sound, no movement beyond the threshold. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, leading with his gun. The lamp next to her bed emitted a soft glow, but it was enough to see that the room was empty. He nudged Noodles back and shut the door in his face, resisting the urge to call out to her. Hearing his voice wouldn’t exactly ease the situation.

He rounded the corner and stepped in front of the bathroom door. It was closed but beyond it he heard the unmistakable sound of a bullet being racked into the chamber of a gun. She was armed. He shifted to the side, making himself as small a target as possible.

If he even thought of opening the door, she’d shoot him without hesitation. Obviously, she was okay. He should leave before things got messy. He imagined she’d stand in the dark until sunrise, gun aimed at the door, waiting for her nightmare to come for her. The thought of her like that made leaving impossible.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This was not a good idea.

“Sabrina … it’s Michael. Are you okay?”

He said it like the fact that it was him on the other side of the door was supposed to be a relief.

“Leave.” Sabrina tightened her grip on the 9mm, and something dripped off her wrist, splattering the top of her bare foot. Blood. She was bleeding. Bleeding in the dark … a fresh wave of panic assaulted her. Memories came in waves, one after the other. Crouching in the dark, bleeding and crying, listening for the footsteps, waiting to be used and hurt. Seconds ago it had been manageable, but the blood brought memories that sent her into a tailspin.

She wanted to reach out and open the door, let the light inside. But she was stuck. She couldn’t move. The fact that she was frozen with fear caused heat to creep up her neck, burn her cheeks.

“Sorry—can’t do it. Not until I know you’re okay.” He sounded angry. She wanted to tell him to get the fuck out, she could take care of herself, but the words wouldn’t come. All she could do was bleed. Helplessness added a new level to her rage. She could feel the white-knuckle grip she kept on her emotions begin to slip. Suddenly, shooting him through the door made perfect sense.

TWENTY
-
FOUR

J
UST LEAVE, SHE DOESN’T
want you here, idiot …

Michael glanced around the corner at the door he just came through. Six steps and he’d be gone.

Goddamn it.
He swiped a hand over his face. “I’m opening the door.” He tucked the .40 into the small of his back. “Just … don’t shoot me.”

She said nothing for a moment, as if she was actually weighing the pros and cons of giving him a lead enema.

“Okay,” she said from the other side. He reached for the knob—twisted but didn’t pull—giving her time to adjust to the situation. He eased the door open, dim light fell across her face and she squinted against it.

She looked like hell. Her knees were jumping all over the place, her bare legs shaking. Her gun hand was hanging on by sheer force of will. Blood ran over it and dripped off her wrist. Long, dark hair hung in loosely tangled sheets, licking at her hips, framing a face that was drawn and pale.