CHAPTER TWELVE
Caitlin
“Who so loves believes the impossible.”
-Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I’ve never been afraid of the dark, not even when I was a little girl. The dark has always been a comforting place, a shadowy friend that keeps me safe from the scary things that live in lamp lit rooms.
When Aoife and I were little, before Danny was born, my parents went through one of the roughest times in their marriage. They were both young and angry—drinking too much, working too hard, sleeping too little, and blaming each other for the fact that none of their high school dreams were coming true. By the time Aoife and I went up to bed, they were usually picking at each other, slurring petty insults in sneering tones. Not long after, the shouting started.
On a good night, they stayed downstairs and threw barbed words and beer bottles at each other. On a bad night, my mom would come stumbling upstairs and drag Aoife and me out of bed, threatening to take us and leave Dad, screaming that she was going to sue him for divorce, and take the house and his family, and everyone was going to see what a loser he was. Just like his dad.
I remember cringing awake in the sudden glare as Mom snapped on the lights, and curling into a ball. I would squeeze my eyes shut and clench my jaw, praying for the lights to go off, and the darkness to come back. I was safe in the dark, with my pink stuffed pig cuddled to my chest and my big sister’s back warm and solid against my own.
Aoife and I had our own beds, but we always slept together. She brought me into her bed for the first time when I was barely six months old. She’d heard me crying and had come into Mom and Dad’s room to find me red-faced and screaming in the drawer Mom had rigged for me to sleep in, and Mom passed out across the bed. Aoife shook Mom, but she couldn’t wake her up, no matter how hard she tried, and Dad was nowhere to be found.
Aoife wasn’t quite four, but she remembered that night perfectly. Years later, she’d tell me the story of how she had made me a bottle of cold milk and then carried me into her bed. She said I stopped crying as soon as she fed me—even though the milk was cold—and that I’d snuggled against her ribs and slept the entire night through without a peep.
Growing up, I’d loved that story. It made me feel safe to know that my sister had always been there for me. Well, safer, anyway. As safe as I could feel considering the monsters under Aoife’s and my shared bed were real. They were real and they lived at the end of the hall, and we never knew when they would tell us we were their beautiful little girls and cuddle us in their laps, and when they would take a switch to our bare legs for leaving our toys on the floor, or talking above a whisper.
My parents were changeable and terrifying, but the darkness was always the same. It was quiet and peaceful and hid me away in its gentle arms, rocking me to sleep.
I feel those arms around me now as I move through the tall grass behind Gabe’s house. The darkness helps me hold myself together, keeping me safe, giving me strength. The Alexanders have cattle in the rear part of their back forty, but the pastures near Darby Hill are empty, and only harvested at the end of the summer for hay. Gabe told me once that Deborah couldn’t stand to eat the beef that came from the cattle raised on the property if she had to look the cows in their big brown eyes every day.
Knowing what I do about Deborah, I find it hard to believe she would care that much about a person, let alone a cow, but people are strange. I once had a foster mother who brushed both of her Shih Tzu dogs for hours every day, attending to their grooming with a joy and tenderness that bordered on worship, while she let the children in her care go a week without a shower. Even her own two girls. Betty was crazy, but she couldn’t be accused of treating her foster kids any worse than she treated her own children. She was fair and consistent in her neglect.
Fair and consistent.
I will be fair and consistent with my retribution. If Deborah and Aaron have lied to keep me from Gabe, I will treat them the same way Gabe and I treated the criminals Aaron worked so hard to keep out of prison. I will make them suffer, but only after I have Gabe safe in my arms.
I reach the edge of the field and climb lightly over the barbed wire fence, landing in a crouch on the other side, taking a moment to survey the plantation house. In the pale light of a sliver moon, Darby Hill is a hulking shadow, its silhouette barely visible against the black sky. Darkened windows reflect the faint moonlight, making them look like the eyes of a beast peering out from the trees surrounding the home. There isn’t a light on anywhere that I can see, but it’s after midnight and Gabe’s parents go to bed early. One, or both, of them could be inside. I’ll have to be careful until I make sure there is no one home to hear me rummaging around downstairs.
I pull my black sock mask down over my face, concealing everything but my eyes and mouth. Immediately, the familiar, job-in-progress energy casts its calming net over my thoughts. When I’m in my blacks, I’m reduced to the simplest version of myself. I become pure intention, driven by nothing but the determination to get in, get what I came for, and get out without getting caught.
It’s strange to be in a situation like this without Gabe, but I have the soft leather gloves he gave me cradling my fingers, and the lock pit kit that was once his tucked into my back pocket. He is with me in spirit, and soon he will be with me in the flesh. I’m not leaving Darby Hill without the proof I came for, even if I have to go over every inch of the six thousand square foot home with a magnifying glass.
I move soundlessly down the stone pathway, through Deborah’s lushly planted gardens, toward the servants’ entrance. The door leads into the industrial-sized kitchen the late Grover Alexander added onto the home in the 1960’s and is the easiest place to access the servants’ staircase, the same staircase Gabe and I used to sneak upstairs before our second dinner with his parents.
We had crept up to his room and made love in his bed, hidden under his sinfully soft sheets, stealing one last blissful moment alone before sneaking back downstairs and running, laughing, around the side of the house to come in through the front door, greeting his parents as if we’d only just arrived.
The memory makes my chest ache as I squat in front of the door and pull out my tools, but I ignore the bittersweet longing pressing against my heart. This isn’t the time to grieve, not when there’s still a chance Gabe and I will have a chance to make new memories.
I slip the tension wrench into the keyhole and start to work, teasing the first pin into place. Thankfully, the lock is a fairly simple one, and after a few minutes of prodding at the remaining pins, the door handle gives under my hand with a soft click.
I step inside and close the door behind me, turning to the alarm system’s control panel on the wall to my right, and punching in the code. I shut the system down and turn to survey the darkened kitchen, noting the absence of cooking smells. On a normal night, the kitchen would still hold the lingering aromas of whatever gourmet meal Chef Jean-Luc had made the Alexanders for dinner. Rich, herb-and-wine-infused smells would fill the air, the scents of expensive foods prepared by a professional chef using only the finest ingredients. But tonight, there is only lemon-scented cleaner with the faint bitterness of coffee grounds lingering beneath.
It doesn’t smell like a meal has been cooked here in days, and the house is so quiet it’s hard to believe anyone but me is drawing breath inside it, but still, I start up the stairs instead of heading directly to the offices where I suspect I’ll find what I’ve come for. I need to make sure Gabe’s parents are gone—or at least sleeping—before I start poking around.
I pad up the wooden boards, staying close to the railing, remembering that the stairs squeak if you walk straight up the center. My heart beats faster, but I draw in slow, silent breaths. I have practice controlling my body’s natural stress responses, but even that first night at the pawnshop, I seemed to instinctively know how to keep my thoughts clear and my steps soft, how to ignore the anxiety pricking at my skin and focus on the job at hand. Gabe said it was like I was born to be a cat burglar.
I move past his room, peeking in only long enough to make sure the bed is empty before moving on. I can’t go in there, no matter how much I want to climb into Gabe’s bed and inhale the scent of him that might still be lingering on his sheets. There isn’t time to waste indulging that soft, aching part of me. Tonight is about staying cold, calm, and focused on what I’ve come for.
By the time I reach the end of the long, wide, upstairs hallway, I’ve ducked into three guestrooms and the upstairs parlor, and found them all empty. The Alexanders’ master bedroom is the last place I need to check, and the last room before the grand, central staircase that leads down to the front entryway.
I slow as I reach the half-open door, the hairs on my arms prickling beneath my long-sleeved black tee shirt. Until this moment, I’ve felt completely alone, but now the animal part of my brain warns that there is someone else nearby. I press my back against the wall, holding my breath as I lean in, peeking over my shoulder into the massive suite. I’ve only looked into this room once before, when Gabe’s mother took me on a tour of the home, but I remember that the bed is on the far right of the room, flanked by two large, cherry armoires.
My eyes have already adjusted to the dim light of the hallway, so it only takes me a moment to make out the long shape under the covers on the far side of the bed. Judging by the size of the person, I’m pretty sure it’s Gabe’s father, and from the sound of his even breathing, it seems he’s been asleep for a while. The other side of the bed is empty, the covers still spread up over the pillows.
It looks like he went to bed alone, which means Deborah might be somewhere downstairs…
Stomach churning with memories of that afternoon on the porch, when Deborah made it clear she held me responsible for her son’s death, I ease past the doorway and start down the curved staircase leading to the ground floor. I cling to the side of the stairs nearest the wall, keeping as much of myself in the shadows as I can, straining to hear the sound of someone else moving around in the darkness.
I step off the last step onto the cold marble of the entryway with only the softest squeak of my boot against the smooth floor, but still I freeze. I hold completely still, ignoring the sweat prickling on my lip, and the slam-dancing of my heart against my ribs as I imagine Deborah rushing in from her office, phone in hand, ready to call the police.
I count silently to sixty, and only then do I start across the foyer. I check the large dining room, the study, and the library finding them all empty before ducking into Aaron’s home office to find it equally deserted. I’m about to start back down the hall toward the front parlor and Deborah’s office, when Aaron’s computer emits a pinging sound. I can’t imagine who would be emailing Mr. Alexander at one in the morning, and, after a moment, my curiosity gets the better of me.
I close the office door, sealing myself into the soft darkness. There are only two small windows in the office—both overlooking the garden behind the house—and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. When they do, I move around behind the desk, patting the area near the computer screen until I find the mouse and roll it back and forth.
The monitor crackles as it stirs to life. My eyelids twitch and my pupils contract as the blue glare becomes a bright white screen filled with several open word documents and a multi-tabbed Internet browser. Aaron’s email inbox is in the open tab, showing one new message from Deborah Alexander.
My chest loosens at the site of Deborah’s name. It’s doubtful that she’d be emailing her husband while they’re both in the same house. Even before I click the message, I’m pretty certain Deborah is out of town, but the first line of her email confirms it.
I can’t believe you left me. I don’t care how long you’ve been waiting for this hearing. You should be here. I can’t do this alone. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and I can’t stop thinking…
The weight of this is…too much. I need to talk.
If you’re awake, call. I won’t be sleeping anytime soon.
I scan the email three times, my heart beating faster with each repeated reading. Deborah must be with Gabe. She must be! And things must not be going the way she hoped they would. Why else would she sound so upset? If Gabe were dead, there would be no need for her to be stressed out and sleepless. If Gabe were dead, there would be nothing left to talk about.
I’m getting ready to search the rest of Mr. Alexander’s emails—certain I’m on my way to figuring out where his parents have taken Gabe—when the message updates, indicating a response from Gabe’s dad.
My hand turns to stone on the mouse, and my stomach drops.
Gabe’s dad is awake. He’s awake upstairs, and apparently checking his email. Now, I just have to pray he doesn’t decide to come down to his office. If he does, I’ll be trapped. There’s only one way out, and the chances that I’ll make it past Mr. Alexander, through the library, into the dining room, and out the bay doors leading to the garden without getting caught are slim. I’m fast, but Gabe’s dad is in incredible shape for an older man, and has ten inches and at least a hundred pounds on me.
I hold my breath, hand shaking as I click the email, needing to know how Gabe’s father replied to his wife more than I need to ensure my own safety.
I’m sorry. I know this is an incredibly hard time. Try to get some rest. I put the ashes in your office, and I’ve contacted Charlene. She’s taking care of the rest of it.
I’ll call you first thing in the morning before I go into court.
Love you.
Ashes.
The word is a bomb ripping through what’s left of my heart.