Meet Me In The Dark: (A Dark Suspense) (20 page)

He pulls out and comes with me, once again shooting hot semen across my back in long squirts.

He rolls over, breathing heavier than I am. I turn to watch his reaction. His revelation, if you will. And I get something I never expected. A smile. “It’s not a hard fuck if it’s easy, Syd.”

“I’m a good little actress, Case. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” My eyes dart down to his cock, still erect, even after coming twice in the span of twenty minutes.

I look up, quick enough to catch his gaze dropping to where mine went. There’s a hint of confusion on his face as he sees the proof of what I told him.

“What the fuck?” He looks up from the blood covering his dick and finds my face. “What the fuck?”

“I told you,” I say in a hushed voice. The voice of trickery and lies. The voice of abuse and pain. The voice of the
hush
. “Garrett saved me for you, Case. He said to tell you to consider me a gift. For making you kill that girl.” I don’t want to add the rest. But I do anyway. I’ve practiced it enough times for it to roll off my tongue like water. “For making you kill her before you got a chance to fuck the virgin out of her.”

He’s quick to respond, I’ll give him that. Because he’s got that syringe out of the bedside table faster than I can turn away. He shoots it into my arm as I gaze up into his eyes. “Don’t feel bad,” I say as the sting of the drugs shoots through my muscle. “It was always you, Case.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“My dream guy. The one who taught me how to save myself. The one who came back after you left me there to die. He was always you.”

“It’s easy to hide in the dark. But the reckoning always comes in the light.”

– Sydney

I
t’s dark. It’s cold. And I’m alone. Not alone like he’s in the other room. But alone alone. Like he’s gone.

And can I blame him?

My stomach cramps so bad, I force myself to sit up and throw my feet over the side. I need to get to the bathroom. But as soon as I stand up and step forward, the blackness threatens to take over.

Fuck that. I refuse to soil myself one more time. I’ve been drugged for so long, I have no idea how many disgusting acts my body has committed over the course of this ordeal. But it’s over now. So I force myself to shuffle out the door, which is open, and into the bathroom. I don’t bother flicking on the lights, just sit on the toilet and relieve myself.

When I’m done, I run a bath in the dark and then go start a fire in the fireplace. There’s a package on the couch. I rip the brown paper open and take out a pair of white snow pants and a white ski jacket. White gloves, hat, scarf, and boots. There’s also a pair of jeans that is close enough to my size, a long-sleeved shirt, and a set of keys.

Under that is a wad of money and a cell phone.

There is no note.

“Best-case scenario,” Garrett says, “is that we fuck up his reality so bad, he leaves you there.”

I guess this is the best-case scenario. And as best-case scenarios go, it could be a lot worse.

I go back to the bathroom, flick on the lights, and lower myself into the water. There’s bloodstains on my inner thighs still. A reminder of what I did. I rub my hand over them a few times and they disappear. Washed clean.

All the stuff is still here. Shampoo, conditioner—which I didn’t use the last time I took a bath—even a razor. So I take my time before getting out, drying off, and walking naked out into the living room to put on my clothes.

When I’m ready I put the fire out, turn off all the lights, and lock the cabin door as I step out into the blowing snow.

In front of me is a Snowcat. Fitting, really. Since cats seem to be the trigger of change for me.

In front of that is a trail.

I get in the Snowcat and start it up, put one hand on the gas and the other on the two levers that control the treads, and ease forward out into the dark. The moon is out, and when you combine that with the fresh snow, it’s not as dark as it could be. The trail is easy to follow.

I think about Case the whole time.

Does he understand what happened? Does he feel like a fool? Does he feel victorious? Does he feel vindicated? Did my v-card make up for the one he never took all those years ago, back when he and Garrett were in the army together?

Does he have regrets?

That makes me laugh. And that laugh allows me to smile as I make my way on the trail. It’s almost inconceivable that I will make it out of here alive, so when I get to a fork in the path—the trail leading to the right, but the tracks of a snow machine veer off to the left—I feel a rush of relief that he’s not done with me yet.

Why give me a choice to leave if he is done?

I don’t want to leave. In fact, if this fork had not appeared, I’d have been very disappointed.

It’s all about the devil you know. And Garrett’s demons are unknowable. But Case is a mystery with a solution.

I take the path to the left and come up on that snow machine that ran out of gas about a half a mile on.

I stop the Cat and peer through the trees just to make sure I saw it right the first time.

The house. It’s really there. And the third-floor window—just a crow’s nest architectural detail that juts out from the roof—is lit up like a beacon in the coming night.

I take a deep breath and press the levers, slowly easing forward towards my final mission.

When I get to the house I shut off the engine and step out of the cab and walk up to the door to find a note.

Turn back, Syd. Go back where you came from. The bar is still there. Brett shut it down after I took you, but it’s still there and so is he. He’s waiting for you back in that life. I can handle things from here.

What a funny guy. I even laugh as I look up at the third-story lights. “Merric Case, you have no idea what’s coming.”

I open the door, step in, and close it behind me.

Inside it’s warm. Uncomfortably so, when I’m wearing all this winter gear. I listen in the silence that takes over after the closing door. Nothing. Not even the hum of a refrigerator. I don’t see a kitchen from the foyer, and it is quite a foyer, with ceilings stretching up twenty feet at least. The inside has the same cabin feel that the outside does. Well, in a more lifestyles-of-the-rich-and-famous kind of way. It’s got to be five or six times as big as the cabin I just came out of. One thing I can see from the foyer is the view. Breathtaking floor-to-ceiling windows showcase tall shadows that must be a coniferous forest that covers the valley, and the outline of snow-covered mountains.

I take a deep breath as I search for lights off in the distance, some sign of civilization, but the only light is the moon and the shine of the snow.

In the time it takes me to come to the conclusion that there is no way in hell anyone would ever find me here, let alone rescue me if things get worse, I start sweating profusely. Too many drugs. Too much frigid air outside. And too much artificial heat in here.

I unwrap my scarf and pull it off. The relief is immediate, but not enough. I take off the gloves next, stuffing both of these things into my coat pocket.

The strum of a guitar makes me turn, searching for the source. It sounds far away.

I look up and see a second-story loft behind me. It’s open to the downstairs, so that can’t be where he is. There must be more rooms beyond. I head towards the staircase, trying to keep my eyes both above and in front of me as I navigate the unfamiliar home. There are small lights on in various places, but not enough to take this house out of the shadows of a midwinter evening.

The strumming stops just as I place my boot on the first step. I stop with it. Listening. Nothing.

Then more strumming. That song again. The one I listen to all the time. Why does he play it?

Why does he do anything, Syd
?

Revenge, I think. I mean, that’s the only solid answer I can come up with for why. Why take me? Why leave me, for that matter? Why tell me he’d be back? I don’t understand any of this. Not the shit that happened in the past and not the shit that’s happening now.

Like—why am I here? Not that I could’ve gotten far in that Snowcat if there are no towns around here. But that’s not why I came inside. I have camped in worse conditions than this. With the right gear—and the clothes he gave me count as that—it’s not so bad. And the Cat was enclosed, so no danger of mountain lions or wolves. The bears are sleeping. So even though I don’t have a gun, I don’t need one. Surely there is something at the end of that path he cleared for me. A truck, maybe?

Probably. I didn’t see any cars outside. There was a building that might be a garage. And he had to get up here somehow. But I’m pretty sure this place is not where one spends a winter. Roads close for the winter in Montana.

This cabin has the feel of a place that closes over winter. It’s probably not even his.

I take another step on the stairs and the wood creaks a little. But the strumming upstairs never stops.

He has to know I’m here. Had to see the light from the Cat as I came up to the house. Had to feel the disturbance in the inside air as I opened and closed the front door. I’d have noticed all these things with my limited skills. Merric Case’s skills might be a lot of things, but limited is not one of them. I’ve heard stories.

I take the next twenty steps without stopping and find myself in the loft. But it’s deceiving from the first floor, because there’s a whole other house up here. Another staircase, in fact, not connected to this one.

It’s a great open space with a few rooms scattered around. Bedrooms, I think. A bathroom. I walk past those and head towards the second staircase. The music is louder here, so that’s where he is. Up in the very top. In the crow’s nest thing I saw from outside.

I climb up two steps, stop, listen, then climb all the way up until I get to the top.

The room is circular, nothing but glass on all sides. The ceiling is taller than it looked outside, also glass. Merric Case is stretched out on a half-moon—bed, couch—covered in fluffy white blankets and pillows that line the windows. His feet and chest are bare, his jeans faded and ripped. His fingers never stop playing and he never looks away as I leave the stairwell and enter the room.

I’m burning up from heat in this coat.

I stop and wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. Just keeps playing that song.

I look down at my feet, a self-conscious move—a show of doubt, if I’m being honest—and see that my boots have tracked up snow. It melts into a little puddle beneath my feet. When I look back up he’s staring at my boots too, frowning.

It’s absurd to think he cares about the water damaging his hardwood floors, but that’s the impression I get. “Should I take them off?”

He looks back up at me and the strumming stops. “Why are you here?”

I don’t have anything to say to that. So I just stare at him.

“Did you at least enjoy it?”

“What?”

He resumes his playing and looks down at the fingers on his right hand as they pluck the strings. A new tune. Something simple. Just a melody.

“The sex,” he says, still paying attention to his instrument.

“Oh.”

“It was planned then, huh?”