Kiss in the Dark (27 page)

Boston was still trembling, residual fear causing her to literally quake. Yet Vance’s state of mind worried her. She wasn’t surprised by his anger, but there was something else. The situation had hit a nerve, and she wondered why.

“Of course. For starters, that dude is blitzed,” Vance repeated, pointing at the man. He released Boston, quickly unbuttoned his shirt, and removed it, handing it to her. “Put that on,” he said. “You’re cold.”

Boston nodded. She wasn’t cold, but Vance must’ve interpreted her quaking as such. Either way, she put on the shirt, knowing that, if nothing else, it would comfort her simply because it would further calm her nerves to have his shirt on. It wasn’t the same as having the protection of his arms around her, but it was emotionally somehow similar. The warmth of Vance’s body still clung to his shirt, and Boston’s entire body rippled with goose bumps for a moment at the realization. His shirt smelled of Speed Stick and smoke—she figured the construction crew had barbequed their dinner again. She realized she did feel oddly comforted, even for her lingering fear and the seriousness of the present situation.

“I arrived here, and Boston told me this guy had been trying to beat down her door,” Vance explained. He was enraged—the quaking in his voice revealed that, and the fact his hands were clinched in tight fists. Yet Vance continued to explain. “She was still telling me about it when this drunk shows up and starts pounding on the door again. I had her call 911 and sent her to the bedroom because I was afraid he’d beat the door down and get in, which he did.”

“And you were here why?” the officer asked.

“Man! He’s the drunk! He’s the criminal! What are you coming after me for?” Vance raged suddenly. “The guy could have killed somebody driving home! Who knows what would’ve happened if he’d busted in here and I wasn’t here!”

“Calm down, sir,” the officer said. “I realize you’re upset. I’m just trying to gather all the details.”

“The details are that this guy is driving drunk, threatening women when he’s drunk, beating down doors when he’s drunk, breaking and entering when he’s drunk! That’s what’s happening here!” Vance shouted.

“Sir, if you don’t calm down, you’ll find yourself in trouble too.”

“What?” Vance raged with fiery indignation. “Why should I be catching any heat? I’m not the one trying to kill people!”

“Vance!” Boston said, taking hold of his arm. “It’s okay. They know he’s drunk. They’re just trying to get the information they need.”

Vance looked at her, still raging, tears still gathering in his eyes. He inhaled and exhaled several deep breaths as he looked at her. Then he nodded and turned to the officer.

“I’m sorry, officer,” he said. “I’ve just had too much experience with this kind of thing to keep a level head about it, I guess.”

“I understand, sir,” the officer said. “Let’s continue.”

Boston listened as Vance explained what had happened. He repeated to the officer that he’d arrived to find Boston upset because of the stranger’s threatening behavior. When the guy showed up again, Vance had been certain the stranger would break the door down and had instructed Boston to call 911, sending her to the bedroom. The stranger had continued to beat against the door, and when the locks burst through the door frame, allowing the stranger entrance, a struggle had ensued between Vance and the stranger. Several times Vance reiterated that the stranger was intoxicated, and the officer nodded his agreement.

Boston then relayed her version of the story to the officers as another set of policemen arrived. They talked with the officer who had now handcuffed the stranger. The strange man swore and shouted at them as they told the story, and the officers continued to reprimand him.

Boston explained she’d been home alone, that the man had come to the door, pounding on it and threatening her, shouting about how she was “in his spot.”

“You are in my spot!” the man shouted.

“Don’t speak to the lady,” one of the officers said. “Don’t even look at her.”

“Why not?” the jerk asked. He smiled at Boston—studied her lewdly from head to toe. “If I’d known she was this hot…I would have gotten in here sooner.”

Boston gasped and stepped out of the way as two of the officers restrained an enraged Vance Nathaniel.

“Quit looking at her, you drunk piece of—” Vance shouted, moving to lay the stranger out again.

“Settle down, sir,” one officer said, taking hold of Vance’s arm. “Ruiz,” the officer said to one of the other policemen, “get that guy out of here. Question him in the car.”



Thirty minutes later, when the police had gone and the apartment manager had promised to have the door fixed first thing in the morning, Boston stood tired and still trembling.

What would she have done if Vance hadn’t dropped by? she wondered. What would she have done? She felt insecure and fearful, as if she’d never sleep well or find beauty and joy in the world again.

“I guess…I guess Danielle must really be having a good time with Dempsey,” Boston said as she stood watching Vance rubbing his temples.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I’d like to get out of the apartment for a few minutes. Here.” She removed his shirt and held it out to him. “I wouldn’t want you to catch cold.”

They didn’t speak at first. Boston glanced at Vance. It was obvious he was more upset than she was about the incident. She thought it odd—she thought it telling. Excess moisture still rose to his eyes now and then, and he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets and his broad shoulders drooping.

Boston’s heart began to beat madly inside her chest—the mad beating she always felt when she was being compelled to do something, when she knew that if she didn’t do what she was being driven to do, the consequences would be bad. Vance was in pain—in deep emotional pain—and Boston knew it had been triggered by the intoxicated man that had succeeded in breaking into the apartment. She offered a silent prayer of thanks for Vance’s timely arrival. She glanced to him again, the pounding of her heart only increasing—it was almost painful! She somehow sensed—knew—that this was a defining moment in her life, maybe in Vance’s as well. She didn’t know why—she just knew it.

Inhaling a deep breath of courage, she looked up to him and asked, “What are you always running from, Vance?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, though she suspected he knew very well what she meant. “You mean because I run in the evenings?”

“I do think that is a physical response to something emotional you’re feeling,” she said. It was a brave thing to say—brave or stupid. “I just feel…sometimes I feel like you run to run from something…not just for the exercise.”

Vance held his breath. He felt sick—wanted to vomit as the memories began to wash over him. What if he did tell her now? Would she be the one running from something then—running from him?

He glanced down to Boston. He wanted her—in every way a person could want another person. He’d even come to the apartment, convinced he might be able to win her. He’d always known he’d have to tell her sometime—either that or she’d find out on her own. He and Danielle had made a pact long ago—a secret promise to never talk about what had happened—not ever, not to anyone—not until they were each certain the time was right. Danielle had obviously kept her promise. Boston knew nothing of what had happened.

Still, as Boston looked up at him, her eyes conveying a promise of understanding, Vance wondered if the time had come to tell her. He wondered if she cared for him enough to work past it. He wondered if she could love him in spite of it.

They were coming to a bench sitting under a streetlight on one side of the park path.

“Do you wanna sit down for a minute?” he asked.

Boston could see the pain and fear in his eyes. He doubted her. Whatever it was—whatever secret he’d been hiding, whatever haunted him and caused him to run—he was afraid of it, and it caused him great pain.

“Sure,” she said, smiling.

They sat down on the bench. Boston rather brazenly, but also instinctively, snuggled up against him. Vance smiled and put an arm around her shoulders.

“I…I had promised myself that if you were thorough enough to find what’s really in there…that I’d tell you then,” he said. “I’d promised myself I’d tell you the truth…if you found what I was afraid you would. So…give it another try. It’ll be easier for me if you can find a clue first.”

“Okay,” Boston said. He was afraid to tell her—but why? Danielle had said Vance had baggage. Again Boston wondered what kind of baggage would keep him running—keep him swimming in such obvious fear and pain.

Slowly she opened his wallet. Nothing had changed that she could see—other than the fact he now had seventy dollars in the cash section. She looked at his credit cards, his driver’s license—found a little compartment in the middle of the wallet, but it was empty. All that was left were the photos. Quickly she flipped through them. They hadn’t changed—no additional photos, none missing. There was the one of Samantha, Vance and Danielle’s little niece. Boston flipped to the next photo, Danielle and Vance at a football game, the football player and his sister the cheerleader. As before, the next photo was of Danielle at perhaps fourteen or fifteen, a school photo Boston remembered having seen in Danielle’s boxes of unorganized photos many times. She flipped to the next photo—the second photo of Danielle—again in her mid-teens. Boston frowned, thinking again that she’d never seen this school photo of Danielle. She turned to the last photo, a wallet-sized portrait of Vance’s mother and father. It was in that moment that something struck her as strange. Why would Vance carry two photos of Danielle at approximately the same age? Why not a more current photo?

She felt Vance’s muscles tighten as she turned back to the two school portraits of Danielle. She studied them, side by side. It was then she noticed the difference, as if one of the portraits had been printed backward. Danielle had a small mole on her right cheek—and in one photograph the mole was there—on her right cheek. But in the other photograph, the mole was on Danielle’s left cheek. A horrifying understanding began to wash over Boston then. She thought of the summer she’d first met Danielle—the glorious summer at the North Pole, the summer that hadn’t started out as glorious for Danielle Nathaniel. She thought about the hidden pain Danielle had endured that summer—of Danielle’s recent confession of having contemplated suicide.

With trembling hands, Boston removed the second photo of Danielle from the little plastic wallet photo holder. She held her breath and turned the photograph over.

“
Annabelle Nathaniel
,” she read in a whisper. “
My junior year and I still love you more than anybody, Vance. Thanks for being my big brother. Love, Annabelle
.”

Boston couldn’t breathe as she replaced the photo. Something else struck her then, and she turned back to the photo of Vance and Danielle in their high school uniforms for cheerleading and football. The photo of Samantha covered the back of the photo of Danielle and Vance, of course, so she would have to remove it to see if there was any writing on the back of it—to find out if it was of Vance and Danielle as she had thought or of Vance and Annabelle, Danielle’s mirror twin sister.

She removed the photo of Vance as a high school football player to find part of the photo had been folded back. There, as she unfolded the small photograph, stood Vance—hugged tightly between two identical twin girls.

“Identical twins,” she breathed. “Mirror twins. What happened to her?” Boston asked, though as her mind quickly fit pieces of the puzzle together, she could almost guess. What she didn’t guess at was what Vance would answer.

“I killed her,” he stated.

Inwardly, Boston was astonished at his response. Yet for his sake, she would not let him know how troubled she was. For one thing, she was certain there was more to the story of Annabelle than that—and second, she wouldn’t give Vance any reason to feel she might think badly of him.

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that, Vance,” she said. “Tell me…tell me about Annabelle.”

She saw a tear trickle down his face. She reached up and tenderly brushed it from his face.