Fragile Darkness (29 page)

Now the wind whipped at him, at us both, slinging long hair against my face but pushing his back and exposing his eyes. And in them the truth glittered.

“That's why you're always there.” And how the fantasy, the illusion, started. It was what little girls dreamed of, the fairy tale, the hero, the protector, the mysterious figure emerging from the darkness in the nick of time, and making everything better.

But that's where most fairy tales stopped, with that great big swelling moment, like a pretty package with a ribbon and a bow, where everything is tied up and happy.

“And why you walk away,” I whispered. “When the danger's passed.”

Except real life didn't stop like that. Real life went on, into the after.

“Sometimes I feel like we're actors on a stage, and we've stepped into roles that were already there, with me playing my mom and you playing your dad, and each of us trying to play the part better. To get a different ending.”

Where no one died, and good always won.

“But we can't, Dylan,”
I said, hurting all over again. “I'm not her and you're not him, and no matter how many dreams I have or new fires we walk through, we can't change the one that took them away from us.”

Stone. That's what he looked like. Absolutely, unmovable, unyielding stone.

“I need you to quit rushing in every time you think I'm in trouble.” Because
I
couldn't keep stepping in and out of illusions,
fantasies.
“I
want
you to stop.”

Because there was so much more to life than the big dramatic moments. The spaces between, the quiet, were even more important, because that's where
real
life happened.

Those didn't exist for Dylan and me.

His shoulders rose with a deep breath, slowly dropped. “It's almost over,” he said, as if that was a good thing.

My throat was so dry I could barely swallow. “I know.”

I didn't even realize he still had his hands at my waist until he pulled them away and stepped back. “And you can say good-bye again.”

Once, when I'd mistaken fantasy for reality, the thought of never seeing him again had ripped me up inside. Now it was all I wanted, to be in that moment, in the after when he was gone again, and I could breathe.

“And you can walk away,” I said over the soundtrack of wind and birds and memory.

Until I dreamed again,
a little place inside of me tried to say, but I wouldn't let the words out. Because they were wrong. Maybe I would dream again. Maybe my visions would come back. But I'd make sure Dylan Fourcade never knew. It was time for fantasy to end, and reality to begin. I couldn't let him keep slipping into and out of my life.

I turned away, scanning the concourse for Grace or Detective Jackson and Kiki, the other cops,
anything.

“I don't see anyone,” I said. The park was quiet and still. Needing to do something, I reached for my phone to check in with Grace, and saw the text.

Get down. You shouldn't be up there.

My heart kicked hard. “Will,” I said, running my fingers along the keys as Dylan stepped closer.

You're here? Where?

His response came seconds later.

Somewhere safe.

Taking my hand, Dylan did what he always did, leading me down the steep incline back to the platform.

“He doesn't know they're cops,” I realized, skidding to a stop at the gate. I texted Will back, telling him everything was okay.

His response came as we passed the Jester ride.

The ice cream shop.

I stared at the dark letters of his name,
WILL
, but with a hard rush inside me, I realized the words were not from him.

I ran, ran as Dylan caught up with me and took my hand as we rounded the corner toward the remains of the kiddie play area.

She stood in front of the tubular slide, staring at the violently flapping flags of red and blue. “Grace!” I called, running toward her—but for a ghost of a moment it was Aaron Lasalle I saw, LaSalle with his face twisted up in rage, holding the gun on me.

Everything slowed. I felt myself moving, felt myself
running,
but the wind pushed and pulled all in one motion, whirring into a vacuum around me.

I blinked, and it was Grace again.

I sagged.

Dylan caught me. “Trinity!”

I shook him off as another text beeped in.

That's where it happened, isn't it?

I stared at the blur of black words.

“Come on,” Dylan said, still holding onto me. “This is the last place you need to be.”

I shook him off, shook the past off, and focused on why we were here. “Will's here,” I told Grace. “Do you know where Jackson is?”

She shook her head.

Another text came in.

Don't be sad.

Beyond the twisted slide, the kiddie swings dangled from rusted chains, exactly like before.

“Time's up.”

Around me the breeze swirled. Vaguely I was aware of looking down at my phone, at the new smear of letters against the white.

She was here, too. She still is.

Everything blurred, the rides and the shops, light and shadow, the scream of the quiet and the cry of the birds, the past, the present, swirling so fast that it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended.

I started moving toward the swings, not realizing Dylan was holding my hand until the contact broke.

“Talk to me, Trinity,” he said, but each word was quieter than the last. Further away. “Tell me what's happening.”

But then it wasn't his voice anymore.

“Game's over, sweetheart, and I win.”

Pain splintered against the back of my head. I winced, lifting my hands to press, but the voices wouldn't stop. They stabbed through me, fast, frenetic, drowning out the slam of my heart and rush of my breath until—

“Trinity!”

I heard that, my name. But I had no idea where or when it came from, or who. Dylan or LaSalle? Because for the first time since I'd woken up in the hospital, with my head throbbing and my memory blurred, I could see him, see him so clearly, standing in front of me smiling, with a gun in his hands.

I staggered.

“Trinity!” That was Dylan. This time I knew. I tried to twist toward him, but the moment exploded into a thousand pinpricks of light, whitewashing
everything.

 

TWENTY-NINE

“Trinity no!”

Dylan, I know. He's close. “By the swings!” I shout as LaSalle's eyes go dead dark and blood blooms against his shirt. He staggers forward, taking me with him. I slam down hard, crying out at the pain. I try to crawl away, but his hands circle my throat, crushing and squeezing as everything starts to fade.

“Trinity!” someone shouts, and that place inside of me responds, giving me the strength to fumble for the switchblade and jab it into LaSalle's side.

He jerks back. His hands go slack. But the fading accelerates, the edges blurring, color washing white until nothing remains.

“Sweet, baby girl…”

The voice is whisper soft, gentle.

“Trinity!” The shout is farther away, somewhere else. Desperate, terrified. “Is she breathing?”

Hands feather gently through my hair. “It's going to be okay,” someone promises. “I've got you.”

Open my eyes. I know I have to. It's all I can think.

She's beautiful. That's my first thought, singing through me with the force of summer thunder. She's beautiful and she's here, with her long dark hair flowing around her, leaning over me, running her fingers along my face.

My heart stutters. “M-mom.”

Her eyes flood. Tears spill over. “Sweet, baby girl,” she whispers. “I'm so sorry.”

I blink, trying to understand how I'm floating but can still feel arms around me, holding me. “W-what's happening?”

“She's so pale!” rips in another shout from that faraway place.

“She's in shock!”

But none of that matters, not with the warm glow in my mother's eyes, eyes so like my own, filled with the same longing swimming through me.

“You're so strong,” she says through the tears. “You're going to be okay.”

I try to lift a hand, can't.

“I love you so much,” she murmurs.

My own eyes fill.

“But I can't stay,” she says as new sensations rush through me, little streaks of warmth firing through my body like electrical waves.

Fading, she pulls back.

“No!” I try to lunge for her. “Don't go…”

Something stronger holds me in place. “Come back, damn it! Come back!”

“I love you,” my mother whispers again, and then she's gone, leaving only the endless wash of white. Crying, I keep searching—frantic, desperate—and bring the sweep of dark hair into focus.

“Easy,” he murmurs, as he always does, as he always did, and then his hand's there, the rough pads of his fingers easing against the side of my face, down my neck.

Everywhere he touches, warmth streaks, and pain ebbs.

But still I'm floating, and when I try to speak, my voice won't come.

He cradles me closer, his face a whisper from mine. “Just hold still and breathe for me…”

And I do. I did. Always. I breathe for him.

“I love you.”

The words, quiet, ripped apart, echo through every cell of my body, and the spinning stops.

I hung there trying to breathe, looking from the hypnotic sway of the swings and the trees with the first green of spring, to the dark glow of silver burning from Dylan's eyes.

I was on the ground. So was he. He sat along a dark copper stain, with his back against the hub of the ride and me sprawled in his lap. I could feel him, all of him, the warmth of his body and the rip of his breath, his hand against my arm, the other tangled in my hair. But I felt something else, too, a tightness, like a cord pulled taut and straining against every line of his body.

It was like he was holding himself back, holding himself with every ounce of strength he had.

“W-what happened?” I asked, confused.

He spoke, his voice as restrained as his body. “You blacked out.”

Each breath scraped like sandpaper. I swallowed and tried to pull up, but he wouldn't let me go.

Grace dropped down beside me. “Are you okay?”

“I—” Everything inside of me felt raw, like I'd been pummeled by rocks and some critical piece had broken away, revealing new places inside of me, soft and tender, not yet ready.

“Did you remember something?” she asked.

Dylan's hold on me tightened, as if he was scared to let go. And that confused me even more.

Dylan Fourcade wasn't afraid of anything.

Except of me.

“It's this place,” I whispered, looking around,
remembering.
“It's like I walked through this invisible door and suddenly I was there again, back in time and reliving what happened with LaSalle.”

Dylan's eyes went a little wild.

“And you.” The warmth from his fingertips still streaked through me, as if by touch alone he could infuse me with the will to live.

His will to live.

He pulled back, twisting toward the front of the play area.

I heard it, too. Footsteps. Running.

Dylan turned back, holding a finger up to his mouth as he gathered me into his arms. And then he was carrying me, running toward a collapsed stage as Grace slipped in behind us.

Seconds passed. Ten. Fifteen.

“Police! Stop!” Jackson shouted, and my heart kicked hard.

“Oh, my God,
Will,
” I breathed. I struggled to pull free, but Dylan wouldn't let me go. “He's scared. That's why he's running,” I cried. “We have to tell Jackson not to hurt him!”

“I've got a visual!” Kiki called, running close.

Dylan's eyes met mine. Something silent passed between us. “Stay here!” he said, pressing a warm object into my hand.

Then he was gone.

Grace inched closer as I stared down at the switchblade against my palm. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit there in the shadows and wait, not with my heart slamming a million miles an hour. I staggered to my feet and took off around the stage.

The park sprawled in all directions, one path veering into another, each winding in different directions and, ultimately, forming one great big circle.

Against the rush of the wind, I listened, but no longer heard voices or footsteps. I took off anyway, darting back toward the concourse with Grace behind me.

Three quick pops stopped us cold.

Gunshots.

We spun around, searching. Nothing moved.

“Where'd they come from?” The open park made it impossible to tell.
“Oh, my God, Will,”
I whispered against the tight squeeze in my throat. Dylan.

Someone was down.

I tried to breathe. My whole body shook. In the distance, sirens wailed.

Closer, more footsteps sounded.

Grace grabbed my hand and dragged me back to the rusted water fountain between the bathrooms, flashing me a quick look that said wait.

We did. Four seconds. Six. Seven. And then we heard the shouting, and saw two uniformed officers sprinting past a second roller coaster, toward the back of the park.

I broke after them. “Come on!” I called to Grace.

Beyond the rides and gift shops, dirty concrete stretched into a parking lot, and an old metal building sat alone. At an open docking bay, the cops vaulted onto a platform and vanished among the heap of shipping boxes. They lay all over the place, torn open in a sea of ruined stuffed dolphins and cartoon figures, beads, and even T-shirts.