Into the Dark (8 page)

“Easy. The staff. A therapist and I talked about my divorce. That’s it.”

“I’ll need the therapist’s name. You didn’t fraternize with any other patients?” Avery tapped his index finger on the desk, his raised eyebrows matching the smug slant of his mouth.

“No.” Emilie fumed. “Why are you treating me like I'm suspected of some wrongdoing?”

“Just doing my job. I don’t think you’re telling me everything. You sure none of your cohabitants in the psych ward could have come looking for you? Maybe you got close to someone, they misunderstood. Nothing to be embarrassed about, but you need to come clean so I can find this man.”

“I have been honest. And Agent Ronson had better be good, because I don’t think you’ll find him at all.” Emilie imagined choking Avery with his designer tie. He glared back at her, nostrils wide enough to jam a large black olive in.

“Everything okay?” Ronson stood in the doorway.

“Perfect,” Avery said. “Emilie was just answering a few more questions.”

Emilie’s skin was hot with anger. “Detective Avery is a pompous ass.” She brushed by Ronson and stomped out of the office. “Where’s the sketch artist?”

Agent Ronson led her past a row of closed doors. “What did Avery say to you?”

“He accused me of deliberately holding back information. I’ve got no reason to do that.”

“I’ll talk to him about it.”

“Don’t bother. Just find the bastard who tried to kidnap me.”

The young sketch artist waited in a conference room. Emilie sat down across from her. Ronson took the seat to Emilie’s left.

“I can’t tell you much,” Emilie said. “All I saw were Creepy’s eyes.”

“That’s fine.” The artist brushed her wavy, brown hair out of her face and slipped on a pair of glasses. “What did his eyes look like?”

“His brows were kind of thick, but feminine. They had a nice arch. Dark eyes, but they had another color in the light. Green, maybe. I couldn’t see his nose. His skin had some color to it, but I couldn’t tell his ethnicity.”

She looked at the half-finished sketch. “No, his eyes were more oval-shaped, and his eyelids were a bit darker than the rest of his skin. No, no, that makes him look lazy-eyed. He was the opposite. His eyes were wide and alert at all times. He saw
everything.”

The artist erased and began again, leaning over her work with intense concentration. “Like this?”

Gooseflesh erupted on Emilie’s arms. Creepy’s strange eyes stared back at her from the white sketch paper. “Yes, that’s good.”

“Get copies out immediately,” Ronson said.

The sketch artist nodded and hurried out of the room.

“We’re bringing in all current and former bank employees today,” Ronson said. “Anyone who worked in the new building and could have possible knowledge of the door.”

“I doubt any of them knew. Jeremy and I didn’t even know about it.”

“Last night you immediately thought of Lisa Craig.” Avery snapped as he entered the conference room. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Emilie. “You listed all the issues you’ve had with her and explained why she’s a viable suspect. Have you changed your mind? You realize that wastes our time, right?”

“I said you should start with her.” Emilie wanted to punch Avery in the neck. “I also told you I didn’t know if she was capable of such a thing.”

“And you sound even less sure this morning.”

“Well you see, Detective Avery, there’s this thing called shock. It happens when people have had a traumatic experience. I have to admit that while Lisa is a grade-A, first-class bitch, I’m not sure she would do such a thing. Make sense?”

“That’s great. Now we start from scratch—again.”

“Lisa is still a viable suspect.” Ronson stared fiercely at Avery. “I can finish with Ms. Davis. Would you make sure the sketch artist gets the composite distributed? We need it out there now.” Her tone left no room for argument.

Avery hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Ronson watched him leave. Her jaw was clenched, her mouth pressed into a straight line.

Emilie was grateful to see the agent’s anger. At least she had someone on her side. “Thanks for getting rid of him. Now what?”

“We’re also looking at people who worked at the Wildwood Hotel and would have knowledge of the bank foundation,” Ronson said. “But those interviews are going to take time. You’re sure you won’t stay with a friend?”

“I’m sure.”

Ronson walked to the door and shut it. “Have you seen this morning’s edition of
The Sun
?”

“No.”

The agent pulled a copy of the newspaper from her leather bag. “You should probably read it now.”

“Why?”

“The reporter interviewed your parents and ex-husband.”

Her stomach dropped faster than a roller coaster and then jammed her throat. No. Not Evan, and definitely not Claire. Claire, who would revel in Emilie’s failures. She coughed and nearly threw up the bagel she’d forced down an hour ago. “Excuse me?”

Passageway to Hell Discovered Beneath WestOne Bank

Emilie skimmed through the details of the hostage situation and the man’s attempt to take her. She didn’t need to relive the night in print.

Her eyes stopped on two words. “The Taker? The reporter named him the Taker?”

“It’s ridiculous. Nothing but sensationalizing a terrible crime to sell papers.”

But the name fit. Better than Creepy Guy. Emilie read further. The female reporter was in awe of the Taker’s scheme. Paragraphs of the article were devoted to his brilliance.

The paper rustled in Emilie’s shaky grip. The reporter had spoken to her mother.

The victim is the daughter of Claire and Sam Davis, an upper-middle-class family from Portland, Oregon. She and her husband haven’t had a relationship with their daughter since Emilie Davis ran away sixteen years ago with her now ex-husband, Evan Randall.

“He was her high school guidance counselor,” Claire Davis said.

“
For six months during her senior year, she snuck around behind our backs with him. Of course we eventually found out, and the news was mortifying. I immediately put my foot down, but Emilie couldn’t handle that. She always was a difficult child. One morning, she just ran off with him.”

Red spots clouded Emilie’s vision. Just ran off with him? Was that how Claire remembered it? Had she forgotten the reason Emilie had decided to leave? Or pushed the incident to the back of her mind just as she had her daughter?

Speaking by phone in California, Evan Randall stated that he hasn’t communicated with his ex-wife since the divorce. “I can’t think of anyone who’d want to hurt Emilie,” Randall said. “She’s a kind person. A little needy but very caring. I hope they find the person that did this soon. Emilie doesn’t deserve this.”

Hypocritical, lying bastard. Leave it to Evan to play the charming ex-husband card before Emilie could taint his reputation.

When asked about his relationship with a high-school-aged Davis, Randall said that while Davis had been at the age of legal consent, in retrospect his marriage with her was a “foolish decision.”

Emilie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. She stood and stuck the paper in her bag. “Thank you for showing this to me. I’ve got to go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please. Just find this man.”

“Remember the safety precautions,” Agent Ronson urged as Emilie moved toward the door. “Your building has a good security system, and you have designated parking behind the bank. There will also be a patrol in your neighborhood, but you need to stay in touch with us and make sure you carry mace or pepper spray. Be aware of your surroundings at all times.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Call me if you remember more details.”

“I will.” She rushed out of the office. Her face flamed with embarrassment and rage. Evan had been her guidance counselor, but the relationship wasn’t scandalous—not the way Claire made it out to be.

High school had been miserable for Emilie. Claire’s constant put-downs crushed her daughter’s self-esteem, and Emilie had withdrawn into her mind.

Evan started working at the high school her sophomore year. He sought her out. He’d noticed her solitude and was concerned. It wasn’t until January of her senior year that he’d confessed his attraction. At first, Emilie was unsure of her own feelings, but as Evan insisted, he was the only one she could talk to. That must be love.

When Claire found out, she refused to believe her daughter was still a virgin, calling Emilie a slut and an embarrassment. A whore. But Emilie had denied Evan’s physical advances.

She stumbled into the ladies room and leaned against the counter.
It wasn’t my fault
. Emilie repeated the words the therapist had drilled into her head.
Claire drove me to Evan, and he manipulated me. She never gave me the foundation to love myself
. Tears dripped onto the countertop.
It wasn’t my fault
.

She stared in the mirror and watched the tears fall. So many shed over Claire and Evan. But Emilie had locked that old pain away a long time ago. She would not allow it to resurface.

She snatched a tissue out of the dispenser and hastily cleaned her face.
Claire is a vindictive shrew. This was her chance to lash out at you for disrupting her perfect life. Don’t let her win
.

Emilie examined the ugly bruise on her cheek. Her pale skin was more flushed than usual. What was it the Taker had said about her skin? And something about children and how precious they were? About how important it was children were protected?

Her lungs constricted. Her breath came in quick, painful gasps. The Taker had said she should know what he meant about the sin of mistreating children, as though he knew her secret—the truth she hadn’t spoken of since leaving Portland.

How did he know? How deep into her life had he dug?

Her vision began to blur. Disoriented, she felt along the textured wall until she reached the metal door handle.

Dark shapes loomed in the hallway. Emilie cowered against the door. One of the shapes approached. It reached for her and called her name. The words were muffled by the roaring sound in her ears. Her chest ached with fear, her lungs tight.

“Leave me alone,” she cried.

“I can’t do that.” The blob was directly in front of her now. “Let me help you.”

A hand reached out, its fingers coming to rest on the arm that was now pressed in front of her face.

Emilie squeezed her eyes shut. A bloodcurdling scream tore through the hallway—her own.

Fight or flight.

She wrenched the hand off her arm, her fingernails digging into flesh.

“Ouch! Emilie, stop. You know me.” The voice was masculine, husky, and tinged with emotion.

“It’s Nathan. Remember me?”

She searched her cloudy mind. “The hostage negotiator?”

“Yes. You’re safe. You’re at the police station. Open your eyes.”

Emilie cracked one eye open. Nathan’s features came into view: broad shoulders, a scruff-covered, angular jaw, striking blue eyes.

He stood in front of her, worry etched on his handsome face. Behind him, several officers gawked. She’d drawn a crowd.

Emilie took a step forward. Dizziness threatened to overtake her, and she stumbled. Nathan caught her by the arms. His hands were warm and rough with calluses.

She spoke into his broad chest. “I need to get out of here.”

“You need to sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not going anywhere. Not until you’ve calmed down.”

“I just want to go home.” She pressed her hands against her ringing ears.

Nathan touched her shoulder. “Please sit down and rest.”

She didn’t have the energy to refuse him. Nathan steadied her as she wobbled to a nearby wooden bench.

“I’m not crazy.”

“Of course not. You’re traumatized.”

Emilie hated that word. It made her feel like a victim. “I don’t know what happened back there.”

“You looked like you were having a flashback.” Nathan sat down next to her.

The significance of the Taker’s words sent her reeling again. She clutched the edge of the bench to keep from falling face first onto the floor. “He knows about my past, about my parents. He knows me.”

Chapter Nine

Nathan struggled to think of the right response as Emilie rocked back and forth on the bench. He was afraid she’d tumble off if he let go of her arm.

“Did you hear what I said?” Emilie demanded.

She looked worse than she had last night. The bluish-purple bruise on her cheek had a distinct shape—the butt of a gun. Dark circles under her eyes suggested she had gotten little rest. A tear clung briefly to the edge of one of her long eyelashes before losing its grip and slipping down her cheek. The moisture landed on her full upper lip, but Emilie didn’t seem to notice.

“What do you mean?” Nathan asked.

Another tear, this one trickling through the smattering of freckles across her nose. “My mom, the way she treated me. That I left home when I was eighteen and haven’t spoken to her since. He knows.”

A copy of
The Sun
stuck out of the top of her bag. Emilie’s history had been a sad surprise. Her mother’s cold indifference toward her daughter was easy to see in her malicious quotes.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because of what I just remembered,” Emilie said. “The Taker talked about my wearing white and how only kids were innocent enough to wear white. Then he talked about protecting them and how there’s no worse sin than mistreating a child.”

“And you think he was referring to you?”

Color rose in her cheeks. “Listen, you have no idea the kind of person my mother is and what she did. She resented me and spent most of her life pretending I didn’t exist.” Emilie’s tone changed. The vibrating sound of fear was replaced by a raw timbre of pain.

“Is that why you left?”