Chasing Darkness (18 page)

“In
a minute,” he answered.

Sam
kissed his cheek and stood up, facing Nick and Rob. “Thanks for taking care of
your brother, Rob.”

Rob
shrugged and mumbled something about it being no big deal.

“We’re
lucky you stopped by,” Sam added to Nick.

Nick
shrugged too, and Sam had no idea what else to say. “I got some results from
that thing you gave me,” he added.

Rob
frowned. “What thing?”

“Just
work stuff,” Sam said quickly. She felt her own pulse rise a notch with the
idea of a fingerprint to go along with the torment of that photo. She waved
Nick toward the back of the ranch-style house. “We can sit in the den for a few
minutes.” She turned to Rob. “Let me know if he needs anything.”

“I
can take care of him,” Rob said, twisting the thermometer between his fingers.
She found herself starting to warn him to be careful but stopped. She needed to
stop treating them like children. They weren’t. They were practically men. She
put her hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Okay, thanks.”

She
wished she was wearing something other than the stiff skirt suit from her
workday, but she didn’t want to wait to talk to Nick. Instead, she entered her
den and flipped on the light, sat in her desk chair and kicked off her shoes.
She glanced down at a run starting at her toe and quickly tucked her feet back
in her shoes. “So, what did the lab say?”

Nick
sat on the worn leather ottoman that matched her reading chair. “No prints on
the photo. The surface was entirely clean.”

Sam
exhaled and dropped her head.

He
shook his head. “Worse than that, there were no residuals,” he added. “It looks
like the photo was handled with gloves from the get-go.”

“What
about the note?”

“Only
one set—I’m pretty sure they’re yours.”

She
rubbed her temple. “Shit.”

“It’s
not that bad,” Nick said, moving his chair closer. “I still think there’s a
good possibility that it was a joke. You’ve got a lot of people who deal with
prints all the time. They’d know to be careful. It was probably someone who was
trying to get your goat and knows you well enough to know you’d have prints
run.”

She
looked up and narrowed her gaze, inspecting his expression for signs that he
wasn’t telling her all of it. She found none, although his expression was
guarded. She thought about the heater exploding and found herself wanting to
tell him, even though it terrified her to have it out there in the open. She’d
told Brent things she never should have told him.

Nick
wasn’t Brent. Nick was Nick. She had to start somewhere. She took a breath and
forced the words out. “There were other incidents.”

Nick’s
expression tightened. “What happened?”

“My
heater exploded. It looked like a short, but it burst into flames. Then the
lights went off in the whole place.”

He
stepped forward and she felt him reach out for her hand, but he caught himself.
He scanned her face. “You’re all right?”

She
looked at his hand, wishing he’d touched her, then pushed the thought aside.
She nodded. “I’m fine.”

“What
did Corona say?”

She
shook her head.

“You
didn’t tell him?”

“I
need him to trust me, Nick. I can’t keep running to him for every little
thing.”

“Okay.”
He paused. “But that’s some serious stuff, Sam. It sounds scary. Was anyone
around when the lights went out?”

She
frowned. “Only Williams.”

His
hand was only inches from hers. “Keep an eye on him.”

“I
will.” She reached out and grazed his fingers, felt the warmth surging across
the surface. “I appreciate you checking the other stuff out.”

He
nodded. “No problem.” His gaze didn’t waver.

She
glanced at her hands and then back at him. “I want to apologize for not showing
you the picture sooner. I brought it to give to you. I just didn’t want to
spoil the evening. And I didn’t really want to discuss it, either. I’m not good
at this, Nick. I’m trying, I swear I am.” As soon as the words were out, she
focused on her skirt, picking at the lint that had accumulated on the navy
wool.

When
she looked up, Nick was grinning. “What?”

“I
bet that’s the first apology you’ve given in years.”

She
smiled back, feeling the tension loosen. “Don’t push it.”

He
raised his hands in jest. “I’ll take it.”

“Okay,
maybe it has been a while. So, I said it.”

He
put his hand out and Sam took it in hers. “Forgiven,” he whispered. “I had a
good time. I’d like to do it again.”

She
started to speak but he interrupted.

“—sometime.
I’d like to go out to dinner sometime. Can we leave it at that? I’d rather keep
my hopes up than have you crush them right here after that great apology.”

She
nodded, watching the way his eyes lit up when he was being playful.

He
squeezed her hand. “Will you let me do that?”

“Absolutely.”

He
glanced down, and she caught him nodding to himself before he lifted his eyes
to hers. He had something else on his mind. She could tell by the way his smile
had disappeared so quickly.

“Anything
new with the case?” he asked.

She
thought about the two calls she’d gotten and the lights that had gone out.
“Nothing. You?”

Nick
looked down at his hands. “I did get one piece of news.”

She
frowned. “What?”

“It’s
not good.”

She
leaned forward and braced herself. “What is it?”

Nick’s
expression was solemn, his eyes darker than they’d been a few minutes before.
“You’ve got to keep this between the two of us for now.”

She
rubbed her shoulders, suddenly cold. “Nick, of course. Tell me.”

He
stared at his hands again.

The
silence seemed to go on forever. Her mind returned to Derek and Rob in the
other room, and she suddenly had the urge to jump up and check on them. “Nick,
what’s going on? What is it?”

He
leaned forward until his hands were almost touching hers. “It’s not about the
boys. I got a call from Cintrello. Someone has it in their head that you should
be considered a suspect.”

Sam
jumped back. “Me?”

He
raised his hands. “I don’t know much more than that yet. Cintrello called and
said he had a source who thought you might be involved with the case. They’re
all a little jumpy after the John Yaskevich mess. He indicated there was some
evidence, but not enough to go on. And he wouldn’t tell me what. You know it’s
just someone smoking dope. They’re pointing fingers because it’s an easy out—it
was your murder case and your abuse case. That’s all. There’s no substance to
it. They’re just talking out their ass.”

Sam
sank back in the chair, feeling the hard wooden back against each vertebra. The
air seeped out of her. “Someone thinks I’m a killer?”

Whitney
Allen stomped through the front door in her pink tights and long sweatshirt and
plopped down to take her shoes off. Dance class was so boring today. She never
wanted to go back. The teacher was like Ursula, the big, mean octopus in
The
Little Mermaid.
And she hated getting a ride with Katie Sherman. Katie’s
father always smoked in the car and Whitney hated the smell. It felt like she
was choking.

But
Whitney knew better than to run inside with her sneakers on. Her mom hated
shoes in the house. “The new carpet,” she always said when the kids walked
around inside with their shoes on. Whitney couldn’t understand why her mother
had replaced the carpet to look exactly the same as it always had.

Even
the ring of dirt on the carpet in the corner where her stepdad had put too much
water in the plant was still there. But it had to be new. Otherwise, why would
her mom say so? Her mother never said a word to adults about shoes. Whitney
remembered when the guy from the cable company had come. She didn’t tell him to
take off his shoes.

Whitney
started to yell that she was home when she heard low voices coming from the
living room. Sneaking around the corner, she saw two policemen sitting on the
couch. Barely sitting, actually. They were right at the edge of it like they
were ready to leave. That’s how Aunt Emily was. She sat right on the edge of
the couch when she dropped off Whitney’s cousin Teddy, to play with Randy, and
then right away she’d say how many errands she had to do and she’d leave.

Whitney
crept to the door and stared at them. The police officer on the far side of the
couch was talking. Both of them were wearing their shoes, and they didn’t even
look clean. The one closer to the door looked straight at Whitney and winked.
She burst into a fit of giggles.

“Whitney
Allen, what are you doing?” her mother said. “Get in here where I can see you.”

Whitney
stepped into the room and looked at her feet.

“Hello,
Whitney,” one of the policemen said. “I’m Officer Bernadini and this is Officer
Hansen.”

She
looked up to see both of the police officers facing her. “We’d like to ask you
a couple of questions,” one of them said, but she couldn’t remember which one
he was. She thought the one with the big nose was the one named Houdini or
whatever, but she wasn’t sure, so she didn’t use their names.

Whitney
looked at her mother, her heart racing. “Are they going to ’rrest me?”

Both
officers smiled, but the one furthest from her still looked mean. He was big,
with dark hair and eyes that barely seemed to open.

“Sit
down,” her mother said.

Without
taking her eyes off the scary policeman, Whitney made her way to the chair
beside her mother and sat.

The
nicer one was bouncing one leg up and down, up and down. “Do you play outside
often, Whitney?” he asked.

She
shook her head. “Randy does.” He was probably the one they wanted, not her. He
was always getting in trouble, but because he couldn’t hear no one blamed him.

“We
want to know if you were playing outside on a Wednesday a few weeks
ago . . .”

“The
day Molly’s mom died?” Whitney interrupted.

The
mean policeman raised an eyebrow and Whitney snapped her mouth shut.

Her
mother shook her head. “You can’t expect a child to remember a particular
Wednesday over two weeks ago.”

“I
remember it,” Whitney argued.

“Don’t
you fib, Whitney Anne.”

Whitney
scrunched her nose. She hated her middle name. “I’m not fibbing. I swear.”

“She
can’t possibly remember one day,” her mother continued.

“I
do. I ’member cause it was Daddy’s birthday and you let me call him. But he
wasn’t there, remember?”

Her
mother wrinkled her face up, and Whitney knew she was trying to remember. “I’ll
be darned.”

“Were
you outside that day?” the nice policeman asked. She watched his leg bounce and
wondered if he had to pee. Her mother always knew when she had to pee because
of how she wiggled around. She wondered if her mother had told him where the
bathroom was. Maybe he thought it was rude to ask.

She
looked over at the mean one. He was staring straight at her.

“Were
you outside that day?” he said again.

She
looked between the two of them and shook her head. “But Randy was.”

The
mean policeman moved in his seat and stared at her.

“Where’s
Randy now?” the other one asked.

“In
Ohio, with his mother. He’ll be back next week.” Her mother stood. “I don’t
think Randy will be able to help you, though. He’s deaf and he lives in his own
world most of the time.”

“That’s
for sure,” Whitney agreed. “One time we were getting ready to go to my aunt
Emily’s house—”

“Whitney,”
her mother said, “the officers don’t have time for your babbling. Go upstairs
and change out of your dance clothes.”

Whitney
frowned. “But—”

“Now.”
Her mother pushed her out the door, and Whitney took a last look at the police
officers, wishing they would ask her some more questions. She didn’t want to
leave.

“Go.
And get that room cleaned up.”

Dragging
her feet, Whitney went to her room. She wondered if this was how Cinderella
felt. She took off her leotard and tights and put on her gray shorts and a
yellow tank top and looked in the mirror. Rags, just like Cinderella.

And
she had to clean her room. She flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling,
wondering what Cinderella would do in her place. She’d be figuring out a way to
get to the ball, probably. But Whitney didn’t even think they held balls out
here. She thought about Randy and wondered what he was doing now. It was later
in Ohio. Maybe he was in bed already.

Instead
of cleaning her room, Whitney got her hairbrush and sat in front of her closet
door. She watched her reflection in the tall mirror as she pretended to get
ready for a ball.

She
was still staring at herself in the mirror when her mother called her to dinner
a while later.

Whitney
dropped the brush and ran downstairs.

Her
stepdad was already sitting at the table. “Like a herd of elephants. How can
such little feet make so much noise?”

Whitney
beamed, and her stepdad mussed her freshly brushed hair.

Dinner
was all white and brown and Whitney imagined what Cinderella ate. Probably
porridge, like Goldilocks, she figured. She pushed the potatoes around her
plate and picked at the rest of it.

“Eat,”
her mother warned.

The
phone rang before she could protest. Whitney sprang up, but her mother answered
it and waved her back to her chair.

“It’s
Randy.”

Her
stepdad stood, turned on the little computer on the desk next to the phone, and
started typing with two fingers.

“Can
I try?” she said, getting up behind him.

“Shh,”
he scolded.