Darkness & Shadows (25 page)

“But you did.”

“I know I did.” He sat beside her and leaned forward, hands clasped, voice weak. “And I feel horrible about it.”

Tristan’s posture softened. A little.

“It’s just…” He paused. “It’s just that you and I are from two different worlds. I get that, but I don’t hate it.”

“You don’t exactly love it.”

“I don’t
understand
it. There’s a difference, but that doesn’t mean I can’t figure it out… or that I don’t want to.”

She looked away. “Sure have a strange way of showing it.”

“I didn’t, and that’s the problem.” He looked down, struggled with some thoughts, and then, “The truth is, I’ve never met
anyone like you before, and to be perfectly honest, sometimes you scare the hell out of me.”

She locked a stern gaze on him. “Something tells me there’s a lot that scares you.”

The statement stung because it was direct and it was honest.

And it was true.

And it left Patrick momentarily silent, but in a strange way, his vulnerability felt like a sudden and strong connection to her. He looked down at his hands, rubbing one against the other. Softly, he said, “Tristan, I know what it’s like.”

“What what’s like?”

“To be on the outside. To be different.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Get to know me a little better. You’ll see. We’re a lot more alike than you think.”

“I tried. You wouldn’t let me.”

“I know… It’s a problem. I can be a bit closed off at times.”

She widened her eyes. “A bit?”

“Okay, more than a bit.”

“Dude, you’re not even swinging by the neighborhood.”

He raised a brow with a challenging grin.

“What?” she said.

“You haven’t exactly been an open book yourself.”

A hint of recognition flashed across her face.

“See what I mean? A lot more alike than you know.”

She relaxed a little more. Just enough to shrug.

“What I’m trying to say here is…” He stopped, looked away, swallowed hard. “Man, I suck at this…” He turned to her again. “It’s just that I really do give a damn about you.” He felt ridiculous again, waiting for her to make a joke, throw an insult, slam the door on his friendship.

But it didn’t happen.

Instead something changed on her face, like a wall coming down, a connection; and there she was, exposed, defenseless, and
authentic. And in that instant, he knew, without knowing how, that no one had ever told her that she actually mattered.

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Then she took a breath.

“Well, shit,” she said finally. “You could have at least brought the doughnuts.”

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“It’s good to see you again, Patrick,” Dr. Ready said. “Please. Come in.”

He entered and took his place on the couch. He glanced around the room, his attention eventually settling on her bookshelf. “You replaced the figurine that Tristan broke.”

She followed his gaze. “Oh, no. I was actually able to glue it back together.”

Patrick narrowed his focus and realized the doctor was right: the broken mother had tiny hairline cracks running through her. The glue had made her stronger, but the damage remained. She was forever flawed, but nevertheless, whole again. Easily broken. Not so easily repaired.

“It’s been a while, Patrick,” she said, pulling him from his thoughts. “How is Tristan doing?”

“She’s much better.”

“I’m glad. It’s wonderful what you did for her.”

Patrick offered a polite smile instead of an answer, uneasy about inviting more questions. He didn’t want to explain that he’d posed as Tristan’s brother, and he felt reluctant to share the
news of their budding friendship. The doctor seemed to get the message, moved on. “And how are you doing?”

His shrug felt requisite. So did his words. “Okay, I guess.”

The doctor didn’t say anything, but her gaze was incisive.

He said, “And you don’t believe me…”

She shook her head.

The room went silent and awkward, and Patrick wasn’t sure what else to say. She wasn’t making much effort to spur the discussion, either. Finally he let out a deflating sigh and said, “I don’t know what I’m feeling right now.”

She nodded.

He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, tried again. “It’s just… everything. The attack.”

“What about it?”

“I’m upset. I mean, well… that’s actually kind of an obvious thing to say, but…”

“The feelings, Patrick. Think feelings.”

“I’m scared.”

“Understandable. So let’s go a little deeper into that.”

“Deeper where?”

“Well, I’m just wondering if you can be a little more specific.”

“Specific.” He repeated the word, as if by saying it he might understand it better.

“What frightened you most about the attack?”

“He was going to cut me,” Patrick said, feeling his breath hitch.

“So, your Von Willebrand disease,” she confirmed.

“Yeah. I could have bled to death.”

“Does it scare you to be more vulnerable to cuts than most people?”

He nodded.

She leaned back and watched, letting him absorb the idea, and then, “Are you able to connect with those feelings?”

“Right now?”

She smiled her encouragement.

He turned his attention toward the wall, focusing on the picture hanging there: abstract paint splashes, formless, meaningless Technicolor blobs. When he looked back, she was still watching him. He crossed one leg over the other, studying them as he spoke. “When he was holding the blade to my neck, all I could think was,
is this it?
If it all ends right now, my whole life would be so… so definitively incomplete. And in a way, I think that cut deeper than any knife ever could.”

“So there was something worse than the danger itself.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at the statue again. “It’s like not moving past it is kind of like staying forever broken.”

She smiled a knowing smile.

He thought about it some more and felt his expression tense with worry.

“What, Patrick?”

“But it’s so hard.”

“What is?”

“Life. You try to put it back together, but then the world can just come along and break you again.”

“How does it make you feel to know that?”

“Like the ground beneath my feet is so unstable.”

“Can you remember any time in your life when it wasn’t that way? When you felt safe?”

“I guess sometimes with Marybeth—or at least I thought so then.” He paused. “Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

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Patrick turned his phone on as he headed toward the elevator. He’d missed three calls and a text from Erika. He read the text:

pike confirms charges will b filed in Charlene Clark murder. Will follow up and get back 2 u.

Before he could call her, the phone rang in his hand.

“They found Clark?” he answered.

“No, not that good,” Erika said, out of breath, “but almost.”

“What?”

“Jocelyn Fairchild has been arrested and charged with Charlene’s murder.”

“How’d they get her?”

“Pike won’t say, but according to my source, apparently they’ve been questioning her for days. They took a DNA swab, and guess what.”

“The third bloodstain at Las Brisas.”

“Yep. It’s hers.”

“Can’t say it surprises me.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s what we’ve been thinking all along, but this confirms it.”

“And with Wesley’s blood there as well…”

“They may have killed Charlene together. Or maybe she killed them both.”

“Might have,” he cautioned, “but we still don’t know how much of his blood was there, and Pike won’t say.”

“
Pike won’t say
—that’s starting to sound like a broken record.”

“Starting?”

“Point taken,” she said. “In any event, it looks like the Mighty Kingdom is starting to crumble.”

“So what’s our next move?”

“That was my other reason for calling. I have to go up to LA for a few days.”

“LA?
Now?
”

“I know. Unfortunately, this was scheduled months ago.”

“What was?”

“A follow-up on Brad Simpson.”

“The movie guy with the drug problem?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s out of rehab and agreed to do an exclusive one-on-one. Since I showed him some love when he got arrested, he only wants to talk to me.”

“Giving you some love back…”

“Something like that. But obviously, I can’t miss it.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll be home soon. I just need you to keep an eye on things until then. See if Fairchild makes bail, and of course, if they find Clark.”

“You got it.”

Bullet gave the sad look as soon as Patrick walked through the door.

“What?” Patrick said. “I’m home now. Doesn’t that count?”

The dog wasn’t buying it.

“Tell you what,” Patrick said. “Movie night. Just you and me. I’ll make some popcorn. Auntie Tristan said it’s okay.”

Bullet barked and forgave.

They both fell asleep about halfway through the movie. Patrick was exhausted and Bullet… well, he was a dog. Several hours later, Patrick woke with a jolt but wasn’t sure why. No bad dreams, no sweat, no anxiety. He glanced at the clock. It was two a.m.

Then he heard the noise.

He smoothed his hand over the spot beside him. Bullet was gone.

“Tristan?” he said cautiously.

Silence.

Then a
crash.
The sound jackknifed Patrick into full-blown panic, practically throwing him out of bed. He grabbed the baseball bat he’d been keeping there ever since all this madness had started, snatched his cell, and padded softly down the hall.

Closer now, he could tell the noise was coming from his office—sounded like papers shuffling, and it was getting louder. Patrick stiffened his grip on the bat and crept cautiously to the half-open office door. Peered through the crack above the hinges.

And let out a sigh, then pushed the door open.

Bullet peered innocently at him, surrounded by a storm of papers, the globe from Patrick’s desk on the floor and still rolling to a stop.

The dog was in trouble, and clearly, the dog had been having the time of his life. Not so much for Patrick. It was late, and he was tired.

“What exactly are we doing here?” he said, as if the dog might answer.

Bullet flopped his tail up and down a few times, making thuds against the floor.

Patrick tossed the bat, leaned over, and began picking up papers, shaking his head. “I buy you every toy a dog could want…”

Bullet barked.

“I know. I know. Not your fault. Children act out when their parents don’t pay enough attention to them.”

Bullet barked again. Twice.

After gathering up the rest of the mess and returning things to their place, Patrick corralled Bullet toward the bedroom. “Party’s over, bud,” he said, patting the bed. “Let’s both try to get some rest.”

He slid between the sheets. Bullet stretched on top of the covers with his head against Patrick’s leg. The dog passed out almost instantly. Patrick followed him down into sleep shortly after.

But not for long. He woke to the sound of Bullet barking again, now near the front of the house.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he said, pulling himself from bed. “In one damned night, I’ve lost a dog and gained a problem child.”

He slumped wearily toward the living room, his patience wearing thin as Bullet’s barks came louder and faster. Then, as he walked down the hallway, he could see Bullet scratching at the front door. Patrick’s mood shifted to caution, a feeling in his gut telling him something wasn’t right. The living room looked odd; the lighting was off, the walls illuminated with a peculiar sepia tone.

Then he heard a
whoosh
, and the sepia flashed into feverish orange.

Patrick scrambled into the room, and the first thing he saw was the window glowing like a fiery hot spot.