15
The rest of the trip was normal, pretty much. Cecilia ran out of gas—she’d forgotten about trifles like refills—scared a girl at a drive-in who asked, “Are you a zombie?” paid for hotels with Kellen’s credit card and got so lost she saw signs that welcomed her to Virginia. Virginia! From Maine! On the way to New York!
That was when she rediscovered the wonders of GPS. As she drove into New York City, the soothing GPS voice guided her over the NJ Turnpike, through the labyrinth of SoHo roads and to street parking two blocks from Kellen’s apartment. By now she had read through every scrap of paper in the car, and she knew what to do. She parked, gathered Kellen’s belongings, locked the car, took the key to a drop box and inserted it into the slot. Then she pretended she knew where she was going, pretended until she found the right street, then the right address, then used the fob to get into the narrow, empty lobby.
She took a deep, relieved breath of musty air. This building had been an industrial site in the nineteenth century, remodeled with a cast-iron facade at the turn of that century, remodeled again in the 1970s to be lofts and apartments. The manager’s office was to the right; the name under the number was del Sarto. Cecilia did not want to meet Mr. del Sarto. Or Mrs. del Sarto. Or anybody who might know Kellen.
So Cecilia eased past and climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. She met no one. She began to experience the euphoria of release, of safety in a cruel world. Unit 62—she unlocked the door, opened it, dragged in her luggage and dropped everything. She slid chains, bars, locks. She secured herself in against the world.
Leaning against the door, she looked at the one room that contained a living area, a tiny kitchen, a bed and dresser—and tall, high windows that let in the light. A door led to a dark hole of a bathroom. Perfect. This place was perfect. Lucky, lucky Kellen.
Cecilia crumpled, dropped to her knees, stuffed her fists over her mouth…and unwillingly revisited the explosion.
Kellen waiting for Gregory in the living room.
Gregory messing with the gas connection.
Cecilia watching from the edge of the hill, fearing, hesitating.
Gregory lifting the pickax over Kellen’s head…
Cecilia covered her head with her arms, trying to hide from her memories. The explosion of blood. The explosion of fire. The explosion of life and hope. And that moment when Gregory looked up and saw her.
Cecilia was a coward. She was running from a terrible murder, performed by the husband she had allowed to abuse her—because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Gregory had undermined her confidence and her abilities. But seeing Kellen standing tall and strong, Cecilia was all too aware of her frailty and knew she should have fled. At the very least she could have stood at the top of the cliff and flung herself onto the rocks.
Not on my watch. Kellen had been afraid Cecilia would do just that.
* * *
A key rattled in the lock.
Cecilia’s eyes popped open. She rested on the couch, curled up on the cushions with the throw over her. Sunshine rolled through the windows.
The door opened, hit the end of the chains and bars.
A woman’s voice said, “Kellen, you’re back. It’s Brenda. Thank God. Let me in.”
Terrified, Cecilia stared at the door, open at two inches.
“Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Why haven’t you called me? Darling, I know what happened.”
Darling? This was Kellen’s lover.
“I know you. You loved your little cousin. You always protected her. I’m sorry she died.”
Cecilia pushed the throw aside.
The person at the door must have heard, for her voice grew more urgent. “Kellen, please! I know we fought, but I love you. You said you loved me. Darling? Talk to me.”
Moving as quietly as she could, Cecilia sat up. She didn’t know what to do. She hated for this woman to think Kellen was ending the relationship. But what would happen if she knew the truth? Brenda would be grief-stricken. She would tell someone and give away Cecilia’s hiding place. Cecilia would be drawn into the investigation. She would have to confess her own weakness.
Brenda shoved at the door. The chains rattled. The bars held. “Kellen, are you hurt? Do you need help? Please! I’m afraid for you. I’m going to call the cops!”
“No!”
“Kellen?”
Cecilia had to speak. “No. I’m fine. Go away. Go…away.”
The awful silence from outside the door stretched out for long seconds.
Cecilia held her breath. Had Brenda recognized the differences in their voices? Was Brenda going to call the police?
“All right, then!” Brenda’s voice was both tearful and furious. “I’m leaving. I supported you through your coming out. You used me—now you don’t want me. I won’t be back. Damn you, you bitch. You’ll never find anyone else who will love you as much as I do. I hope you die alone.” She slammed the door as hard as she could, a muffled thud accompanied by clanking chains.
Cecilia ran over to the window and looked out, watching the sidewalk, hoping to catch a glimpse of Kellen’s lover.
A beautiful black woman came out of the building and walked away, wiping her eyes on her shirttail.
My God. Kellen had gone home, admitted she was gay and in love with an African American. She was not just gay; she loved across racial bounds. Cecilia’s aunt and uncle were prejudiced against any person of color, and Cecilia’s admiration for her cousin’s courage rose—and her own cowardice broke her. Cecilia sank back onto the couch, pulled the throw over her head and wallowed in guilt and darkness.
The darkness was growing…
* * *
Kellen woke.
She was still in her clothes in the chair beside the bed, tense, sweaty, cold and cramped beneath the patterned throw.
The darkness was not growing. In fact, the room’s automatic night-light provided enough illumination to see the outlines of the furniture and walls. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, checked for internet, and when she saw it pop up, she sighed in relief. She stretched her stiff muscles. In the daytime, the window looked away from the resort and the cottages and toward the dock and the Pacific Ocean. Now, on this rainy, moonless night, she saw nothing. Nothing.
Then one single bright light shone in the dark. A flashlight? A lantern?
It blinked off.
She blinked, too. Was that the remnant of a nightmare?
No, someone was out there. Lost? Alone? Looking for the body they had lost? She flipped off the night-light and moved through utter darkness toward the window.
The light outside came on again and swung in a circle on the ground, then up in the air.
Kellen stepped back to avoid being spotted.
Ridiculous, but automatic.
She glanced at the time. Two forty-five a.m. Whoever it was either wasn’t afraid of being seen or wanted to be seen. Or their meeting hadn’t occurred as they expected and they were desperate. Or…or she didn’t know.
She did know the night was pitch-dark, rain rattled against the window like sleet and today they’d found a decomposing body out on the flats. Had someone found another one?
The light flashed around again.
Damn it. Annie left and less than twenty-four hours later, Kellen was up to her ass in alligators and it was hard to remember that her directive was to drain the swamp. She watched that light, willing it to go out permanently, and when that didn’t happen, she cursed as only an Army officer could curse, got her Glock and strapped it into her shoulder holster, pulled her rain gear on over her clothes and headed out.
As soon as she stepped foot on the porch, the wind caught her breath and whipped it away. Sleet blew beneath the overhang and stung her face. This was going to be one fast trip out to check on…whatever. Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t seen anything… But no. She owed it to Annie to find out if they’d been dealt another tragedy. Holding the handrail, she groped her way down the stairs. She took small steps toward her ATV.
A man’s voice behind her said, “Don’t do this.”
Not a moment of hesitation. She whipped around in the turning kick Mara had been teaching her. She should have struck his throat. But she slipped and landed a strike on his hip. She kicked again, aiming high.
He blocked.
She landed a solid strike against his arm.
She attacked.
He parried.
She landed good hits, but somehow she never did enough damage to hurt him. She felt as if she was being toyed with by an expert. Or led through a training session.
No. No one was going to lead her anywhere she didn’t want to go. She leaped back, out of his reach. She hoped. She pulled her Glock, released the safety, pointed and asked, “Who are you?”
“Nils Brooks.” His calm voice continued, “Your drill instructor said your hand-to-hand attacks were organized, focused and deadly in a way he had seldom seen in a woman.”
That knocked the breath out of her like nothing else had in this battle. This guy, whoever he was, had tapped into her military records as far back as Army basic training. He had investigated her. Not a cheap, simple, superficial investigation; one thorough and seemingly impossible. “It’s late. It’s been a long day. I don’t have time for games. Who are you?”