No One Left to Tell (32 page)

"Talk to me, Christian. I helped you lug that thing across the grounds and into your living room. What did you see? We're a team. Remember?"

Brooding silence.

Sitting on the area rug, his back against the sofa, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared intently at the old trunk. With jaw clenched, he glared at it as if it were a living, breathing thing, ready to lash out at him. His dark green eyes swirled with anger and . . . confusion. She'd never seen him so lost. Clearly, he felt disturbed by the contents he'd discovered hidden away in Fiona's attic. But he hadn't spoken a word since he pried open the lid.

"Please, Christian." She lowered her voice and knelt beside him, a hand on his shoulder. "Say something."

After a long silence, his expression softened. "Raven, you have to trust me. I know I haven't given you much reason to do that, but I need some time to myself."

He reached for her hand, holding it in his. Then he took a deep breath, fixing his eyes on her.

"In that locker are . . ." He paused and shut his eyes, letting the emotion wash over him. She watched him struggle to find his way. "My past is there. But I gotta do this alone. Do you understand?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat, moved by compassion for his personal journey. Whatever he'd found had stirred up a past already embroiled in mystery. She couldn't imagine the demons lying in wait for him now. Raven understood his need for privacy, but it broke her heart that he wanted to do it alone.

"I can be a good listener if you want to talk." She squeezed his hand. "I wish you'd let me help."

"I just can't. Not with this." Letting go of her hand, he kissed her cheek, then whispered, "Good night."

"If you need me, for anything . . ." She returned his affection, then slowly stood.

"I will," he assured her. But as she neared the bedroom doors, he called out to her. "And Raven? Thanks."

It pained her to leave him sitting on the floor under the pale light of a lamp—all his attention focused on the locker across from him. She left the bedroom doors open a crack. If he called out to her in the middle of the night, she wanted to hear it.

Even when the morning came, would he share what he'd found? Share his pain? It would be a very long night.

A muffled groan woke her. The room was pitch-black. It took a moment to orient herself. Then a cry jarred her and raised the hair at the nape of her neck. Sitting upright, she listened for the sound, unsure what had happened.

"God help us,
PLEASE!"
he shrieked, fear bellowing deep. "Let me go. Shadow man . . .
PLEASE!
You're hurting me."

She thrust the covers off her legs and ran to the living room, throwing the bedroom door open.

"I'm here, Christian. You're okay."

The lamp was still on. Tossing his boots and folded jeans to one side, she knelt on the floor near him, running her fingers over his fevered brow. But he solidly resisted the gesture, still snarled in his ordeal.

"Now I lay me . . . down to sleep," he muttered, eyes closed tight. He thrashed at his sheets as he lay on the couch. The bare skin of his chest glistened with sweat. "If I should die before—"

She touched his arm, not knowing how to awaken him without causing more damage.

"Make them go away. Don't touch me!" The panic in his voice ranged from childlike to threatening within seconds, as if he were possessed.

"Christian, you're safe. It's me, Raven."

With a swing of his arm, he knocked her over, his frenzy escalating. She had to take charge—
now!
She stood quickly, then waited for the right moment to gain control of his arms. She pressed hard, practically sitting on his chest to make him stop.

"Christian, wake up! Now!" she shouted. His eyes popped open at the sound of his name, but the fog hadn't cleared. She had to get his attention. "Talk to me. Can you hear me?"

He finally released the tension in his muscles and gasped. With a low moan, he shifted his gaze as if seeing her for the first time.

"Raven?" he whispered. His eyes darted around the room. He looked so lost. "What are you doing here?"

"You were having a nightmare." She lowered her body to the floor. Kneeling by the sofa, she stroked his brow. "Are you okay?"

"Damn! That was so—" Christian stared at the ceiling, looking exhausted by his effort to recall. "It was happening all over again."

"I'm gonna get you some water." She raced to the kitchen and filled a glass, keeping her attention on him as she dampened a washcloth. "All these old memories must have stirred it up. Can you remember any of it?"

Raven hurried back to his side. After raising up on one elbow, he gulped at the water, letting it dribble down his chin. She ran the wet cloth down his arms and over his forehead, cooling his skin.

"I've had this one before. When I was younger"—he coughed, then took another gulp of water—"it used to happen all the time."

"Who is shadow man?"

"What?" By his expression, he was shocked by her words. "How did you know about—?"

"You cried out the name, like he hurt you. Don't you remember?"

"Oh, God." He rubbed fingers hard across his forehead, then sat upright, pulling the sheet over his boxers. "Shadow man. That's what I called him . . . when I didn't understand."

Raven sat beside him on the couch, waiting for him to remember. With his breathing more stable, he stared ahead, rapt in his memory.

"The shadow man. He was my ... father." The word "father" stuck in his throat. In a daze, he continued, "It took years of therapy for me to understand that. In the dark, all I saw was ... his shadow. And with the confusion that night, I thought he was there to kill me."

"With such trauma, it's understandable. You were just a child." She dabbed the cool rag to his temple. But she had the feeling he wasn't aware of her touch. Not anymore.

"After they shot my sister . . . and mother"—a tear rolled down his cheek, his eyes suspended in a blank stare—"he came to my room. He'd been shot, but he fought them off to get to me. The smell of blood was everywhere."

His face blurred through the tears welling in her eyes. She saw the child he'd been as he struggled to relive his past.

"It wasn't until he hugged me that I recognized his voice. He calmed me down. Then helped me out the window." He began to rock, back and forth, on the sofa where he sat. His eyes were still clouded by his nightmare. "I fell to the ground, my ankle on fire. I crawled away, but the darkness seemed to squeeze my chest. It smothered me. I couldn't breathe. I felt so . . . helpless."

She suddenly understood his obsession to train and fight in the dark. He had to overcome his phobia, regain control of his life. A frightened young boy had found his own road to recovery.

"Then they shot him again . . . and again. I couldn't take my eyes away. His body convulsed until he fell against the window. I knew he was dead. Even in the dark, I pictured his face." He stopped his rocking, furrowing his brow as if he were confused. "Then the night sky filled with spiraling lights, red and blue, shrieking and high-pitched sounds."

She'd read about his past in the newspaper clippings from Father Antonio. His family tragedy was blamed on a bungled police raid. Yet something in his story bothered her; the timing was off.

"But Christian, if the night sky filled with lights of red and blue
after
your family was already dead, how could the police be responsible?"

For a moment, he fell silent, using the time to replay his own words back. She saw him fight to remember everv last detail.

"But Fiona told me—" His breathing became more rapid and shallow. Closing his eyes tightly, he grappled with his memory. It pained her to watch him go through it. She felt powerless to help.

"If the police weren't responsible, then who killed them?" He raised his voice, pleading for an answer. "Who killed my family?"

His expression changed, his eyes widening with a realization. As if he'd been struck in the face, he dropped to the floor on his knees. He yanked open the old trunk, throwing its contents on the rug. A child's schoolwork and crayon drawings were strewn at her feet. She joined him, picking up the pieces and taking a closer look. A small curl of dark hair was wrapped in plastic, tied in a pale blue ribbon. She had a similar one from when she was a baby. None of this made sense.

"These are your things, Christian—when you were a child? How did Fiona get a hold of these? I thought she took you in after your family was killed. Did she get these things from the Delacortes?"

He didn't answer. He found an old photograph and stared at it, totally consumed. After a moment, he muttered, "Look at this. Something bothered me about this old photo."

He thrust the faded picture into her hand. Christian, as a young boy, stood beside his father in front of a car. Their faces were beaming. He was dressed in a Little League uniform, his hand still in a baseball glove. His father stood behind him, hands on Christian's narrow shoulders. A nice picture, but she couldn't see the significance of it.

"What? I don't see—"

Christian never let her finish. He pointed to the image, his finger directing her to the car behind them.

"See? In the reflection on the windshield? Check out who's taking the picture."

It took her only a moment to recognize the face behind the camera.

"Fiona," she whispered. The pieces to his puzzle were falling into place, but things were still cloudy for her.

"When I first went through this, I kept coming back to this photo. I just now realized why." He reached again into the locker and retrieved a bundle of old letters. "And earlier I found these."

All the letters were addressed to Fiona—sent to a post office box. But the return address caught her attention.

"These letters are from the Delacortes. And they go back for years before they were killed. How can that be?" she questioned. "What connection did they have to Fiona?"

"All the letters are progress reports—
on me."
He handed her a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. Christian stared at it as if it were vile. "And this is the reason why."

Raven carefully unfolded the stiff paper. The elaborate blue border registered in her brain. "Your birth certificate? Christian Evan Fitzgerald, born to Fiona Fitzgerald. No father listed."

He clenched his jaw. "All these years, she lied to me. Fiona is my mother. The Delacortes weren't—" He couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. "How could she watch me go through all that pain and not tell me? Why did she give me away in the first place?"

"And she kept up with you all those years. Only a mother would— It doesn't make any sense, Christian." Setting the certificate aside, she pulled him to her, closing her eyes as she hugged him.

"And the worst part—" He burrowed his face into her neck. She barely heard the words. "I remembered something from the dream, the last time I had it. Whoever killed my ... the Delacortes . . . was after me. I was the reason they broke into the house. I remembered them saying they were after the boy—
find the boy."

Eyes wide with her shock, Raven pushed back. Her mind searched for the words to console him. "How do you know? You can't know that for su re. You were too young."

"I blocked out so much. I thought it was the trauma I'd gone through, but now, it's all beginning to make a twisted kind of sense."

"But why? Why would someone want to kill a little boy?"

Slowly, he shook his head. His exhaustion showed. She felt certain he hadn't even heard the question she posed.

"All I know is that it was my fault." He avoided her eyes and stared into the locker. "They died because of me."

She understood survivor's guilt, had seen it before. Nothing she could say would raise him from the depths of his unfounded blame. Raven felt the magnitude of his loss. The death of the Delacortes had forever robbed him of his childhood, his sense of well-being. Just as the death of her father had done to her—magnified tenfold.

Raven pulled him to her, kissing him until he responded. He collapsed in her arms, worn out by his emotional roller coaster. Her comfort didn't last long. He let her go and looked over his shoulder.

"Raven, I need to understand . . ." His voice trailed off as he bowed his head, his eyes drawn once again to the memories strewn along the floor. "Why is my life so surrounded by death?"

The old trunk embodied Fiona's betrayal and the violent death of the only family he had ever known. Raven just wanted it gone—out of his sight.

"Don't do this to yourself. Someone else is responsible. You were only a ... a scared little boy." She swallowed the lump in her throat. A tear slid down her cheek.

He avoided her eyes. It pained her to see him like this. She stroked his cheek with her fingertips, then caressed his face in her hands, lowering her lips to his. An impulse. The kiss started as a gentle and nurturing connection. The warmth and smell of his skin made her lose herself to the sensation.

But as a shudder ran through his body, she felt his need take over. Christian pulled her into his arms, his body hard against her. A low moan exposed his urgency.

She couldn't stop it, even if she wanted to.

Her velvet softness jolted every fiber of his being. The scent of her warm skin drilled his senses. Christian picked her up and carried her to his bedroom. His mind grappled with his desire for romance with this woman, to take his time making love to her. But he knew this was all about one thing—
NEED.
No turning back now. His body stiffened with the curves of her flesh pressed hard against him. With all the reminders of death around him, he desperately wanted to feel alive, to replace the pain.

"I want you. I need—"

She smothered his words with a passionate kiss. And as he set her down by the bed, he replenished his spirit with the longing in her eyes. Backlit by the pale light from a lamp on the nightstand, she looked like an angel—with devilish intentions. Her eyes probed his body, devouring him like he was food.

"No more talking—" With a wicked smile, she raised her arms above her head, inviting him to explore with a whisper. "I surrender."