Darkness & Shadows (24 page)

“It was him?”

She closed her eyes, nodded. “My heart dropped into my stomach. Seeing him was bad enough. Seeing him with my daughter, well… I don’t have to tell you what it did to me.”

“I can only imagine.”

“I’d never been so damned frightened before in my life. After the accident, I knew what he was capable of.” Helene stopped walking and tears welled in her eyes. “I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt my baby.”

Patrick turned and placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping silent, then very softly he said, “What happened next…?”

Speaking through heavy breaths now, she said, “I ran up to them. I ran so fast, and I pulled Chelsea away. Clark just stood there with that awful, creepy grin. I could have sworn the temperature dropped about ten degrees outside… It was so awful.” She stopped, began sobbing.

Patrick waited while Helene tried to compose herself.

She continued, “Just as I turned to go, that bastard leaned over and with all the calm in the world, whispered in my ear, ‘Be
careful what you say, Helene, or next time you won’t find her waiting.’ ”

Patrick shook his head, said nothing.

“You wanted to know why I didn’t want to talk to you?” She nodded with conviction. “That, Mr. Bannister, is the reason.”

“I get it.”

“God as my witness, if he finds out I talked to you… If anything happens to my daughter, I swear I will hunt you down. Now don’t ever contact me again.”

And with that, Helene Lockhart left him standing on the trail.

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The skies were turning dark, the air cold and damp, but they were no match for Patrick’s mental unrest. He got what he wanted from Helene but didn’t like it one bit. Wesley Clark was a dangerous sociopath. Patrick thought about his stalker. Clark could be the one behind it all, and if he and Fairchild were in fact working together, it left little doubt.

Patrick ran a hand over his face, took in a steadying breath. It was late and he was drained. He needed to give this a rest before it consumed him. All he wanted to do now was go home, try to get some sleep.

But as he pulled into the driveway, he found reinvigoration through fear. The light was on in his living room, and he didn’t remember leaving it that way. In his scattered state, it was possible he’d simply forgotten, but after all the disturbing stories about Wesley, the sight sent a sharp chill spiking up his back.

That uneasiness jumped higher as he eased through the rear door and heard the TV on. Even more troubling, Bullet was nowhere in sight.

Patrick padded softly into the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at an odd burning smell. He slid his biggest knife out of the storage
block and cautiously slunk along one wall toward the archway into the living room. Gradually, he peered around the wall.

And saw Tristan relaxing in his easy chair, reclining all the way back, watching TV. She reached into a bowl of popcorn and tossed a piece to Bullet, who caught the morsel in his mouth.

“I was wondering when you’d get home,” Tristan said, eyes still fixed on the screen. She reached for some more popcorn, threw another piece to Bullet. The dog wasn’t looking at Patrick either: he was all about the popcorn. Tristan regarded Patrick for a split second, turned toward the TV again. Speaking and chewing, she said, “Nice knife.”

Patrick could feel the annoyance spreading fast and wide across his face. Arms drawn tightly against his sides, voice unyielding, he said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Huh?”

“I said, what the
hell
are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she said, speaking around a mouthful of popcorn. “I came to visit. You weren’t here, so I waited.”

“You broke in.”

“Technically, no. I came in through the doggie door.” She threw Bullet another kernel. “You need to get rid of that thing, by the way. We call those Burglars’ Delights.”

“Right there.”

“What?”

“Right there is where I have the problem.”

She pinched her brows, shook her head.

Patrick stepped forward, his annoyance flashing to anger. He took a seat across from her, pressed his palms together, and gave her a long, searching stare. “What makes you think you can just let yourself into my house without permission?”

“I didn’t think it would be—”

“Tristan,” he interrupted, “you cannot just
barge
into my home.”

“I wasn’t barging, I was just—”

“Yes. You are in my house. Illegally.”

Her body stiffened, so did her expression. She grabbed the remote and put the TV on mute. “I don’t see what the big freakin’ deal is. Why get all bent up over it?”

“I’m just telling you how it is. There are boundaries, and you’ve just crossed one.”

“Boundaries?”

“Yes. I don’t know where you come from, but around here we knock before we enter, and if the person doesn’t answer we walk away. We do not break and enter.”

“
Where I come from?
” she said, firming her posture. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

When Patrick didn’t answer, she stared at him for a long moment. Then, placing one hand on each arm of the chair, she hoisted the recliner forward. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she set her jaw, carefully enunciating each word. “Let me ask you this, Mr. Where I Come From, when people break and enter, do they load the pile of dishes from your kitchen sink into your dishwasher? Do they take out the trash that’s overflowing onto the floor?”

“That’s not the point.”

She stood up, pointed at Bullet. “And do they feed your dog, refill his water, and take him for a nice walk? Do they do that?”

Patrick looked away and brushed a hand across his face.

She smiled, but there was no humor—it was fury. “You know what? Fuck you, Patrick. Fuck you and your
stupid
house, and your
stupid
boundaries—”

“Tristan, stop—”

“No. YOU stop,” she shouted, jabbing her finger at him.

“You just don’t get it. I—”

“Oh, I totally get it. I get that in my ridiculous,
stupid
, naïve way, I actually thought we could be friends.”

“Tristan, it’s not like—”

“It’s exactly like that!” she said, then glared at him a moment longer, eyes wide, mouth trembling. She turned around, stomped to the door, and said, “And you want to know the worst part? The worst part is that I actually thought you gave a damn about me.
God!
I’m
such
an idiot.”

“I do give a—”

“Shut the fuck up!” she shouted, tears streaming down her scarred face. “You don’t. You have no idea what it feels like to live your whole damned life on the outside, looking in. You don’t know because you’ve never been there!”

“That’s not true…”

She was smiling anger through her tears, and in a broken, quivering voice said, “Don’t. Make. Me. Laugh.”

“Tristan, please.”

“I’m sorry for invading your home, Patrick, but I’m even more sorry for thinking you were any better than the others.” She spun around. “Turns out, you’re not.”

She slammed the door behind her when she left.

The cold, damp air had worked its way into an evening downpour. Patrick sat out back in a tattered lawn chair, staring into darkness, rain pouring through his hair, down his face, dripping off his nose.

He barely noticed.

He wanted it to rinse away the pain, to cleanse him, to make him new again. All he wanted was something other than hurt. He wondered why everything good in his life went away—or why he chased it away. Why the only things that ever lasted were the bad.

He buried his face in his hands, and the rain fell harder, pelting the back of his neck.

Something cold bumped his arm. He turned to find Bullet sitting and staring stoically at him, his fur sodden.

“Go inside, boy,” Patrick said, “Get out of the storm.”

Bullet stayed firm and unwavering; so did his solemn expression as the showers drenched him.

“Go on!” Patrick yelled, his tears mixing with rain, his voice breaking. “Just go!”

The storm grew heavier. Bullet stayed put.

“I said, go!”

Bullet finally moved, but not into the house; instead, he came around, diligently taking Patrick’s side.

And there he sat. Silently, next to Patrick, gaze trained ahead, a driving rain falling over him.

Over them both.

Patrick placed a firm hand on Bullet’s head.

Not alone. Not in this storm. Not in any. Not anymore.

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The storm passed overnight, but Patrick’s sadness and guilt had not.

He’d screwed up.

Tristan was wrong for breaking into his house, but his reaction had been impulsive and harsh. It wasn’t her fault she saw things differently. She just came from a different place. He knew that, but again, he’d jumped to conclusions about her, and again, he acted like an insensitive ass. He was getting good at that.

You didn’t learn the first time?

He needed to make this right, needed her to realize she had him all wrong. He knew exactly what it was like to be an outsider looking in. To be rejected. To be misunderstood. To be treated like he didn’t matter. He and Tristan might not have looked alike on the outside, but inside was what counted, and at that level there wasn’t much difference at all.

He pulled up to the Alfred Johnson Halfway House.

A woman answered the door. Somewhere on the brink of twenty-frumpy, she wore loose-fitting sweatpants, a maternity blouse that was barely doing its job, and heavy bags under her eyes. Nary a word, but her expression said she was underwhelmed by his arrival.

“Is Tristan here?” he said.

The woman offered him nothing—not unless he counted the unwelcome stare.

“Hello?” he said.

This time he got an eye roll. She turned around and slumped off, leaving the door wide open. It was as close to an invitation as he was going to get, so he took it.

When he reached the living room, he found the woman sprawled on the couch and watching TV.

“Can you please tell me where Tristan is?” Patrick asked with polite urgency.

The woman kept her eyes on Dr. Phil, but was gracious enough to lift a finger and aim it at a door.

Patrick went there and knocked. There was no answer, so he knocked harder.

The door opened.

Tristan looked like she’d just woken up. She blinked at him.

Then she slammed the door.

Patrick knocked again—and again, got no response. He knocked harder, spoke louder. “I’ve had doors slammed in my face by people a lot better at it. I’m a reporter, for Christ’s sake. I’m not going away until you let me in.”

The lock inside the handle clicked.

The pregnant woman on the couch giggled.

Patrick shot her a look. He pounded harder. “For God’s sake! Would you at least let me explain?”

A stereo went on inside the bedroom. Loudly.

“I don’t think she wants to hear your explanation,” Pregnant Couch Woman informed him. She shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

“Brilliant,” he said, glaring at her. Patrick held his patience and kept pounding. Tristan kept not answering.

And the music got louder.

And Patrick slammed harder. “I’m not going away! You hear me? I’m not! I’m not leaving until you listen to what I need to tell you!”

The stereo went silent, and a moment later, the door opened a crack, revealing a hard eye.

“Please,” he said to the eye. “Let me in.”

The door opened a little wider. Now Patrick saw two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. None of them looked particularly welcoming.

“Please,” he said again.

Tristan turned and marched toward her bed. She left the door open—a hopeful sign. Patrick was learning that around here, this was as close to a down-home welcome as it got.

She dropped onto the bed, legs crossed Indian style, staring at Patrick. He moved closer. Trying to collect his thoughts, he took a deep breath, held it for a moment, blew it out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”