Race the Darkness (8 page)

“It's pretty damned incredible, isn't it? Alex designed the place himself. He always said he wanted Gale to have a home that reflected the enormity of his love.” Row's words contained the wistfulness of the past and the ache of love long lost.

“He built this for Gran?”

Row's brows pinched together, carving a new network of wrinkles across her forehead. “Yes, he did. I'm surprised Gale never told you.”

“Gran's rule has always been to focus forward. I learned never to ask about the past. I never knew any of this existed.”

“Sweet baby Christ,” Row gasped as if Isleen's words stung her. “I can't flippin' believe… Yes, I can. Knowing Gale, I can believe it.” She started shaking her head in that disappointed way only a grandmother could pull off.

Sparklers of anger sizzled inside Isleen's stomach and rocketed out her mouth. “Why do you and Matt act like Gran's a bad person? If you all hate her so much, why did you bring us here?” The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to suck them back in. She shouldn't be acting this way when Row had been nothing but kind and accepting of her.

The question snapped Row out of her head-shaking. “Sweetie, I don't hate her. There's just a lot of history here between all of us that you don't understand. I'll tell you everything—I don't believe in that focus-forward bullshit Gale always spouted—but let's get you settled in first. About Matt… I suspect he really does hate Gale. He has his reasons. And honestly, he's probably not too fond of you either simply because you're related to her.”

Row's blunt assessment hit her hard, but Isleen much preferred the pain of bitter honesty over the caress of sweet lies.

“Come on now.” Row wrapped her arm around Isleen's shoulders and guided her through the house to a door underneath the loft. She stopped a few feet away. “I need to warn you about Alex before you go in.”

“Warn me? Why?” Isleen managed to close her lips before asking if Alex was going to try to hurt her. In her mind, underneath the soil in the middle of the labyrinth, she felt something writhing and roiling—a memory that wanted out, whose entire purpose would be to make her afraid. Nope. Not going to happen. She'd been a victim long enough and refused to be one ever again. If Alex wanted to hurt her, intimidate her away from seeing Gran, what Isleen lacked in physical strength she'd make up for with attitude.

She sucked the inside of her cheek into her mouth and bit down on it, not hard enough to draw blood, just hard enough to razor her focus to the doorway in front of her.

“Alex is…” Row trailed off as if looking for the exact right thing to say. “Hell, he's checked out of life—doesn't bother with living. Only his work matters. He and Xander haven't spoken in over twenty-five years. At least not until four days ago, when Xan called his father to tell him that he found you and Gale.

“I just wanted to let you know that Alex doesn't speak to anyone about anything except the Institute. He's brilliant and social and energetic when it comes to the Institute and its associates. Probably because he and Gale founded the place together and it's the only way he knows how to feel close to her. But he probably will ignore you and won't speak to you at all.”

“So you're telling me he won't talk to me. And it's not just me. He doesn't talk to anyone unless it's business related.”

Row let out a huff of relieved breath. “Precisely.”

“Why? Why doesn't he talk?”

“The short answer: He lost his heart along with his voice when Gale left him.”

…when Gale left him.
Why would Gran leave him? Row opened the door, and the question vanished out of existence.

A pink, frilly gown swallowed Gran's tiny, gnarled body. The dips and valleys of her skull were painfully apparent through the sparse white hair corkscrewing out of her skull. Her skin was gray-tinged and sagged from her face like the jowls of a mastiff. She lay in the hospital bed, a quaint quilt of pastel colors folded at her waist. Bags of various fluids hung from poles, their tubes tethered to Gran at locations along her arms and hands. She looked so much better. And yet, she still looked horrible.

Isleen's heart tightened like it was trying to shrink down a size.

She had wanted—oh, gosh, had she wanted—the old Gran back. The one she'd grown up with who was healthy in mind and body. The one who always seemed so wise and promised her better days. But this woman lying in the bed didn't look like she was in her early sixties; she looked as if she were a hundred and twenty.

Gran stared, completely transfixed by Alex, an aged version of Xander. He sat next to the bed, cradling Gran's hand between both of his and looked upon her with such a look of naked devotion that Isleen's throat clogged and her nose burned. It didn't take a love doctor to see he adored Gran, and Gran adored him. Their love filled the room so completely Isleen wasn't certain she'd fit into the space.

She forced herself to walk to the bed. “Gran.” She bent over the only person who'd ever loved her and gave her a gentle hug. Hugging Gran was like hugging a mannequin—no response. When she pulled back, Gran's attention remained locked on Alex. It was as if Isleen didn't matter to her anymore.

Row stepped up next to Isleen and whispered in her ear, “They've been like this since we got Gale set up. It's kinda sweet how devoted they are. Like you and Xander in the hospital.”

Isleen was going to have to follow up on that one later, because she sure didn't have any memory of staring into Xander's eyes with that kind of bald affection.

“Gran? I'm here. It's me, Isleen.” She carefully clasped Gran's free hand. It was like holding bones. She willed Gran to look at her, to acknowledge her in some way, but Gran didn't and neither did Alex. Minutes passed and all Isleen could do was hope that Gran would turn her head and
see
her, even if only for a second.

“Sweetie, let's leave them alone. It's been a long day for everyone. You're probably tired. Come on.” Row's voice was soft, as if she were speaking to an injured child.

Isleen settled Gran's hand back on the mattress and trailed Row from the room.

“Let's get you settled upstairs. While you take a shower and get dressed in your night things, I'll make us a late supper. Tomorrow, I'll show you the Institute and…”

Row chattered away, but Isleen wasn't listening. Maybe she was being selfish, but she couldn't help yearning for Gran to at least acknowledge her. Her cheeks stung, and she knew the reason—disappointment and rejection.

* * *

The color of angels, of heaven, of eternity surrounded Isleen in its infinite embrace. But she could find no solace in the space. With hyper-vivid clarity, she remembered what had happened the last time she was here. Something had entered her body and forced her to watch a woman being murdered.

Bristles of fear pricked her skin. She spun around, expecting to see something or someone standing behind her, but there was nothing beyond the eternal whiteness. For some reason, that scared her worse than if a chainsaw-wielding madman had stood there. Adrenaline primed her muscles and she couldn't stay still, waiting for whatever horrible thing was about to happen. She ran. She charged through the white nothingness, trying to outrun a phantom.

The atmosphere shifted. A subtle change in energy and function. Color invaded and shimmered, abstract and borderless, but then morphed, solidifying into shapes and images. A landscape formed and focused. She stopped running, mesmerized by the transformation.

She stood in a… Gosh, it had to be a waiting room. A waiting room? Even with its cheerful blue paint and overflowing bins of toys, the place felt devoid of goodness, on the cusp of evil. Which made no logical sense. But then the prairie had seemed beautiful at first too.

A lone man sat hunched over in the farthest corner of the room. His elbows rested on his knees, his close-shaved head hung as if it were too heavy a burden for him to carry. The man's shoulders shook, and for a brief moment Isleen thought he might be laughing, but it wasn't quiet laughter that reached her ears. It was hushed sobs. He swiped a hand over his eyes and sniffled in that way little boys do when they are trying to be brave.

The collective of her pain recognized his pain, and her heart dictated that she do something to soothe him. She understood how it felt to be alone with anguish. It wasn't a fate she'd wish on anyone.

She tried to go to him, told her legs to move, to walk, to go to the man and offer him whatever meager comfort she possessed. Not one muscle responded to the message her brain sent.

“Mr. Goodspeed?”

Inside her skin, Isleen jerked at the unexpected voice. Her head turned and her eyes drifted in their sockets—only she wasn't the one controlling her head, her eyes, or her body's movements.

A woman who looked barely out of her teen years and still possessed the crisp beauty of youth stood in the entry to the waiting room. She took in the man with his hunched posture and the quiet sobs, but her face remained devoid of expression. “Mr. Goodspeed.” His name came out in the firm authority of someone who knew what they were doing.

Isleen's head moved back to see Mr. Goodspeed.

He shoved the heels of his hands against his eyes and ground the wetness away. He sucked in a shuddering breath. “Yes. I'm sorry. I just… I just… I can't believe…”

“I'm Marissa Main”—impatience permeated her tone—“lead investigator for Sunny County Children's Services. I'll be supervising your visit today.”

“I'm being investigated?” Confusion dominated Mr. Goodspeed's tone.

“Allegations of abuse have been made. Right now, that's all we have—allegations. It is my job to investigate those claims. Today's supervised visit is one way of working toward that goal. By seeing how you interact with your son, by seeing how your son reacts to you—”

“My ex is stuffing his head full of shit.” Mr. Goodspeed stood and moved toward Marissa with the loose-limbed walk of a farm boy used to strolling through his fields. He towered over the investigator, but the way his shoulders hunched forward and his head hung on his neck lent him the defeated, saddened look of someone used to being a victim.

No way. No way would Isleen ever let herself look like that. Pitiful.

“Ever since the divorce, my ex has made my life miserable. It's been one thing after another.” The look he gave Marissa overflowed with intensity. “I bet she told you that I drugged her for sex. That I hit her. That I locked her and Rory out of the house during a snowstorm. That I punish Rory by busting his ass with a belt. Oh, and her favorite claim is that I get off on touching him.”

Marissa nodded her head at each of the ugly statements, but wore the best poker face. “Those are serious claims.”

“Rory is four years old. He'll say whatever his mother tells him to say. This isn't the first time she's said I hurt Rory. Every few months she concocts a new story. Always right after I've had him for the weekend. I'm sure you have a record. If you look closely, none of this started until she left me. Doesn't that tell you something? She's trying to take him away from me. And why aren't you concerned with her filling his head with lies about me? I want you to open an investigation on her. Fathers have rights too.”

Marissa quieted. Isleen could practically see the wheels in her mind turning, processing Mr. Goodspeed's words. Score one for him.

Finally, she spoke. “This isn't about anyone's rights other than Rory's. We will still need to investigate, but I assure you our policy is reunification. We want you to be with your child. We're not against you in any way. We just have to see that being with you is a safe environment for him. That's all.”

Mr. Goodspeed nodded his head. “I get that. So when he gets here, I want a moment alone with him to explain everything that's happening. He's a kid. He's got to be confused. I can help him understand.”

Marissa cocked her head slightly to the side, her eyes squinting. The look either conveyed confusion or suspicion. Maybe both. “No. You are not allowed to be alone with him or to speak with him alone.”

“He's
my
son.”

“You are not allowed to be alone with him or to speak to him alone.”

Mr. Goodspeed straightened from his hunched, victim-like posture. His face changed from concerned, conciliatory father to hard-edged, barely restrained rage. This guy had the Jekyll and Hyde thing down.

“You
will not
prevent me from being with
my
son.” His voice, so mild mannered before, boomed in the enclosed space.

Marissa's impassive expression faltered, and she stepped back from the palpable menace emanating from the man. “Mr. Goodspeed…” Her voice trailed off when the door opened.

Isleen's head turned again. A petite woman entered, carrying a small, carrot-haired boy. The boy clung to his mother's body, arms locked around her neck, legs pinioned around her waist. Something about how he held on was sweet and sad at the same time.

Isleen's head swung back to Mr. Goodspeed so fast her eyeballs almost couldn't keep up.

The expression on Mr. Goodspeed's face was purely human—no animal could ever show so much hate and anger. “I told you what would happen, Molly. I told you. So this…this is all your fault.”

“William, you're scaring Rory.” The woman tightened her arms around her child and began backing away.