Out of the Shadow

Out of the Shadow

By J. K. Winn

Copyright 2012 by J. K. Winn

All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the permission of the author.

Cover Image Copyright 2012 by
Melody Simmons

Tab
le of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Author

Chapter One

She had been dreaming … perhaps was dreaming still. But the moment David crawled into bed beside her, the dream slipped away. Becca stretched, glanced at the clock, which read 3:02, and snuggled up to the warm body next to hers. Then she caught a whiff of scent that was strangely disorienting. His hand came down over her mouth.

Surprised, she made a muted appeal, tried to squirm out from under him. Was he being playful in the middle of the night? She couldn’t imagine it.

The hand pressed down harder. "Don’t move or scream, or I’ll kill you," said a muffled voice through what appeared to be a ski mask.

Becca reacted with the horror of a dreamer unable to run from her assailant. Wild with fear, she made an effort to cry out, but it was useless with the hand covering her mouth. She jerked her head to the side to loosen his grip, but he held on firmly. She was at his mercy.

Was this actually happening to her, or was it all part of a horrific nightmare? She pounded palms into the intruder’s chest, but with his superior strength, he managed to roll on top of her, pinning her beneath him. Barely able to breathe under him, she pressed her legs together in a desperate attempt to keep him out. But he jerked up her nightgown, tore off her panties as if they were paper, pried open her legs. And violently forced himself into her.

Becca screamed, fought back, tried to dislodge him, but he clamped down on her arms with his. Another scream escaped her lips.

"Shut up," he said, "or you’re dead."

She swallowed the cry that rose to her throat, stifling the desire to kick and flail.  Her brain raced, her muscles tensed. "Please God, please God, please God," raced through her mind with the insistence of a demanding child. A loud buzzing sound filled her head. 

He groaned and moved harder against her. Her insides felt as if they were being torched. Pain followed every thrust. The more she struggled, the more it hurt, but she couldn’t lie still for long. He continued to hump steadily, ignoring her efforts to dislodge him, until she managed to free a hand long enough to smash her palm against his jaw and, with all of her might, shove him away. He reached up and slapped her across the face with such force, tears sprang into her eyes. It was over for her, there was no winning this war. She shut down her mind, felt her awareness leave her body; became numb to his ongoing assault. After what seemed like an eternity, he grunted and collapsed onto her, his body slick with sweat and sickening to the touch.

The clock showed 3:15 a.m. when he finally lifted off her.

"Be quiet," he snapped. "Don’t move or call out, if you know what’s good for you."

Becca watched, stunned, while he hurriedly pulled up his pants. Even in the dark with his back to her and a ski mask obliterating his face, something seemed eerily familiar about him. But what was it? Did she know her attacker?

Before she could consider, he turned back to her and said, "You haven’t seen the last of me." Then he was gone.

Becca lay paralyzed for a few agonizing minutes. She rolled onto her side in a fetal position, wrapping her arms around her knees, clutching herself. Every cell in her body quivered, every muscle quaked. Bile rose, sickening and sour, at the thought of the rape. Horror gripped her; nausea followed. She felt defiled. Disgusted. With slow, deep breaths, she tried to calm the churning inside.

Minutes passed before she could lever herself up and lower her legs over the edge of the bed. A burning sensation flamed in her crotch, causing tears of fear and fury to run down her face, dampening her nightgown.

She listened closely, reassured by the silence around her, then stumbled from bed on legs that shook like jelly, tripping over bedclothes tossed carelessly to the floor. She had to steady herself with a hand on the footboard before she could tiptoe toward the living room.

All at once, she remembered David. What had happened to him? Why hadn’t he been there to protect her? Another wave of terror gripped her and she wrapped her arms around herself. Something was terribly wrong. David might not be the most attentive husband on the planet, but he would have reacted to the break-in. He would have done something.

Becca hesitated at the entrance to the living room before working up the nerve to switch on the overhead light. She immediately spotted David sprawled across the sofa in a pool of blood.

In a panic, she rushed to his side and tried to take a pulse. Although faint, his heart still beat. Relieved, she tore open his blood-soaked shirt and pants. The extent of the wounds on his chest and stomach could not be determined because of the blood, which covered his body and dribbled onto the carpet.

She rushed into the kitchen and wet down a towel, returning to soak up a profusion of blood. With the towel pressed against a deep gash on his belly, she hoped to arrest further blood loss.

Still maintaining her pressure on the towel, she scooped David’s cell off the coffee table with her free hand and dialed 911.

"Please help me," she wailed into the receiver. "I’ve been raped and my husband’s been stabbed."

When the police and two paramedics thundered into the apartment through the door she had left unlocked, Becca was busy performing CPR on David. A policewoman had to tear her away from his side to prevent her from interfering with the paramedics' efforts. Huddled in the corner with the cop by her side, she again glanced at the clock on the mantle: 3:42 a.m. So much had happened in such a short time, it seemed surreal. It stuck her as strange  that she could measure such a monumental life change in mere minutes.

The paramedics immediately went to work, attempting to revive David. After vain attempts at cardiac resuscitation with shots of adrenaline and epinephrine, and shocks from a defibrillator, one of the paramedics turned to her.

His flat eyes told her everything.

Chapter Two

A hand rose above the heads of my attentive audience. I stopped my lecture mid-sentence and glanced out over the rows of well-groomed professionals. I’m tickled that more than fifty of my peers saw fit to attend my seminar on Repressed Memory Syndrome at this swanky Hilton Hotel on City Avenue in suburban Philadelphia. Using Rachel Robbin, a.k.a. Rebecca Rosen, as an example of the disorder might have been the attraction. All eyes are on me, their curiosity obvious.

            "Do you have a question? Please stand. I’m having trouble seeing you."

A powerfully built man stood up. He wore a charcoal gray pinstriped suit with a white shirt and a yellow tie.

"Dr. Abrams, I find Rebecca Rosen’s case quite interesting. I think it’s a clever way to present Repressed Memory Syndrome without a dry factual lecture, but it would be helpful to know your definition of this condition and how it applies to Becca."

This stranger exuded a certain quiet confidence.

"Your name please?" I asked him.

"Farley. Dr. Adrian Farley."

"Dr. Farley, may I call you Adrian?"

"Certainly."

"Feel free to call me Sarah." I took a sip of water to soothe my parched throat. "As I’m sure you must be aware, in Repressed Memory Syndrome, a child unconsciously suppresses traumatic memories of a crisis or an event, because it was too brutal or frightening to integrate into their developing sense of self. Often these memories don’t surface again until much later, when another equally dramatic set of circumstances triggers a reaction that can bring them gradually back into consciousness. Becca’s case was straight out of the textbook on Repressed Memory Syndrome. If you give me a chance, I’m sure by the conclusion of the seminar you’ll appreciate the power of it."

He nodded. "Your lecture is so detailed. How were you able to glean this much information?"

I smiled inwardly, thinking about Rachel-how open she had been under the circumstances, and how trusting. Of course, she didn’t reveal everything to me immediately. But in due course she was more than willing to share what she was going through. The risks she had taken taught me so much about accessing my own inner strength and resourcefulness.

"Rebecca was an excellent and thorough reporter. She remembered much of what happened to her in detail."

Adrian offered me a cock-eyed smile. "Aren’t you embellishing her story at all?"

"Perhaps a little. But I have little need for hyperbole in describing Becca’s situation, and I never alter facts. I took copious notes and recorded our therapy sessions with her permission. I had a great deal of material to work with. Any other questions?"

Adrian Farley shook his head and retook his seat behind the heavy-set social workers I had spoken with before my two-day seminar began. One of the Bobbsey twins, I couldn't remember whether it was Arlene or Darlene,
 raised a hand. Not only are these two women nearly identical, but they dressed in the same dowdy fashion, with floral print dresses and cordovan loafers. "Sarah, you seem quite comfortable using the patient’s name. Is that ethical?"

Exposing Rachel to danger was the last thing I'd do. The frightened child in her touched a deep nerve within me. I would never openly share one of my clients’ identities, especially not Rachel’s. She was still at risk, as far as I knew. "Naturally it would break my code of confidentiality to use my patient’s real name. Rebecca Rosen is a pseudonym. I have disguised all but the guilty in my cast of characters."

An anorexic-looking younger woman stood up. "You failed to mention anything about Becca’s appearance."

"You’re right. She’s a petite and an exceptionally attractive woman with shoulder-length, red hair, and expressive green eyes."

"And when exactly did this rape and murder occur?"

"Four years ago this coming July."

I glanced about the room. "Any further questions?" No one addressed me, so I resumed my lecture.

The ambulance skidded to the curb at the Thomas Jefferson Hospital Emergency Room. Inside, a doctor pronounced David dead, sending him off in the direction of the morgue. The gurney had barely disappeared from view when Becca was escorted to an examination room for a painful gynecological exam. Her head still spinning, she had only enough time to zip up her jeans before a couple of police officers showed up to question her about the rape and murder. Then she waited. And waited. And waited. What a relief when her friend and co-worker, Angela Petrocelli, rushed in to give her a hug and take her home.

Fortunately for Becca, Angela’s strong arms supported her as she hobbled to the car and did most of the heavy lifting when they stopped by her apartment, now a taped-off crime scene, to pick up personal items. Angela took charge of rounding up the suitcases and filling them with needed belongings, but it was up to Becca to coax her cat, Cecil, out from under the bed. She had to tempt him with a treat before she could place him in a carrier.

After one last stop, at Walgreen’s to pick up a tranquilizer prescribed by the ER doctor, they drove past run-down row houses next to stately columned post-Colonial buildings to arrive at the redevelopment area of large brick townhouses where Angela lived. Once inside Angela’s upstairs apartment, Becca released Cecil in the guest room, where he bolted from the cage and dove behind the burnt orange futon. Lacking the strength to lure him from his lair, she meandered into the living room and took a seat on an overstuffed, beige corduroy couch, with her feet up on the slightly scratched but serviceable mahogany coffee table.

"I’d like a drink," Becca said, settling in.

Angela stared at her through wary brown eyes with dark circles beneath. Although the same age as Becca, Angela bore the appearance of someone more mature. Perhaps it was the lines etching parentheses around her mouth, or the sprinkling of gray in her ebony hair. Whatever it was, it always made Becca feel she was with a much wiser woman.

"Do you think that’s a good idea with the Lorazepam the doctor prescribed?"

No fooling Angela. As a nurse, she would know. "Probably not, but I could sure use a glass of wine."

"Okay, you’re the boss." Angela poured her a glass of rich red merlot.

Becca downed the alcoholic elixir with the urgency of someone lost in the desert. Then she washed down the medication with a second glass. The mixture proved potent. Angela helped her into bed minutes before she fell into a deep sleep.

She awoke shortly after noon with a viral-like ache throughout her system. Before she could remember what had happened the night before, she found herself in a state of full-blown despair and sobbed her anguish into a pillow to stifle the sound. Angela appeared next to her nonetheless, enclosing her in strong, protective arms. Against the soft warmth of Angela’s chest she released a torrent of tears; until finally, depleted and exhausted, she collapsed back on the bed for the remainder of the day.

For the next three days, Becca rarely left the room, but on the fourth morning, Angela poked her head through the door to notify Becca the police had arrived.

Becca rubbed her eyes. "I thought I'd told the cops everything already. I don’t know what more I can add."

Angela made a face. "Sorry, kiddo. I hate to see you forced to go over and over this thing, but you know what it’s like when the cops are insistent."

Good to have Angela on her side.
"Don’t worry. Talking to the police may be the full extent of my social life for the time being."

"Tell them I’ll be right out." Becca rose, slipped into black leggings, a long, black tee-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops. She went to the bureau to brush her hair for the first time in three days, struggling through matted knots. A stale odor rose from her skin and informed her the time had come to rouse herself enough to take a shower. She dabbed a dash of Angela’s
L’air du Temps
behind her ears.

By the time she made her way into the living room, two impatient officers waited for her. The man stood to the side, watching her through narrow eyes. He was big, burly, and looked like a stereotypical cop. His partner, a slender woman with long, blond hair and manicured fingernails, introduced herself as Detective Sally Mills. She dressed in a brown suit with a yellow blouse, instead of the blues worn by her partner.

What attracted Mills to that line of work?
Becca wondered.

Becca took a seat on the beige sofa adjacent to the detective. "We have a few more questions we’d like answered," Mills said. The detective glanced down at her notes. "According to Officer Wright, you told him you thought the intruder awoke you at around three a.m."

"Uh huh."

"And he wore a mask over his face?"

She nodded.

"But you thought there was something familiar about him."

"That’s right."

"Can you tell us what it was?"

Something about the detective’s demeanor made Becca uneasy. Her dewy complexion and pale blue eyes didn’t diminish her tough and unyielding manner. "I wish I could."

The heavy-set cop stepped closer. "You’re not giving us much to go on."

"I just don’t know... Is there a reason for all these questions?"

"Just routine." Mills raised a hand and the other cop backed off. "You said you were raped. Is that correct?"

Becca’s skin crawled. She had established this fact earlier. Why was the cop asking her again? "They checked me out at the hospital. There should be evidence on file."

"The evidence has been tested for DNA," the detective responded. "It seems the only match is your husband's."

Becca sat back, stunned. How could that be? Maybe the rape had been a bad dream. A nightmare. "Are you sure? That doesn’t make sense."

The detective shrugged. "That’s all they found. Is there anything else you can tell us that would help your case?"

Her case? What was the detective talking about? "I was raped. I found my husband stabbed to death. There's nothing else to tell."

"What do you know about a missing knife? We found one missing from the knife set on your kitchen counter. Was it gone before the murder?" the cop inquired.

"No. I had a full set…" Becca stared at him, mouth agape. "It was there when I went to bed."

"It’s not there now. We think it might be the murder weapon. What I don’t understand is how you slept through the stabbing."

A tremor ran through her, but she tried her best to control it. She didn’t want her interrogators to spot any weakness they might pounce on quicker than Cecil could corner a mouse. "David used to say a truck could drive through the room if I was asleep."

"Yeah...sure," he said, sounding unsure.

"Look, I’m not the murderer and I’m certainly not the rapist. There’s a lunatic out there. Do you have any idea at all who did this?"

Detective Mills shrugged. "Nothing more than we’ve already told you. We’ve questioned your husband’s partner, the other people in his office, your neighbors, your friends, his parents, but we still have no clear-cut lead. Anything more you can tell us? Friends? Enemies? Anything?" Mills jotted a note on her pad.

"Not anyone I haven’t mentioned before." She could swear the walls were closing in on her. The room seemed smaller, stiller, stifling. She sensed the twitch under her eye and hoped it didn’t make her look guilty. "Did you figure out how the killer broke into the apartment?"

"Good question," the blue-clad cop replied. "No broken windows or obvious entry point. You have any idea?"

"All I know is David planned to fix the security latch on the dining room window this weekend. Did you notice if the window had been tampered with?"

Detective Mills looked up from her scribbling. "It was unlocked, but it wasn’t open. Someone could have crawled through it, but there’s no evidence they did."

"Oh…" Becca swallowed the curse that came to mind.

The woman stared at her. "Anything else you want to tell us?"

Becca didn’t like the detective’s accusatory tone. "No. Nothing." She wished away the quiver in her voice, took a deep breath of courage before asking, "Am I a suspect in David’s murder?"

"Not yet," the woman said, but her cocked brow and piercing eyes told Becca a different story. "Just one more thing. In the initial report, it mentions you didn’t act like a woman who had lost her husband only moments before."

"I was in shock. How was I supposed to act?" The detective didn’t answer. Becca’s mind whirled. "Listen, I’m tired. Is that all for now?"

"We’re done removing evidence. You can do what you want with the apartment. Since I’m the detective assigned to the case, contact me if you think of anyone or anything else. Here’s my card." Mills handed the small, white card with blue lettering to Becca, stood, and started toward the door. She glanced over her shoulder with a hand on the knob. "And stay where we can find you if we need you."

"Don’t worry. I’ll be here."

The moment the cops left, Becca rushed into Angela’s guest room, lunged into bed, and tugged the covers over her head. Moments later she heard Angela enter the room, smelled the faint hint of stale tobacco, and felt her take a seat on the end of the bed.