Page 23 of A Touch of Dark
Freedom.
The hope plays around my mind as I shuffle from meeting to meeting, working on assignment after assignment. I even stay late, stretching my shift into a twelve-hour day despite how my temples throb and my eyes burn after hours of computer strain. Gradually, the office empties until I’m the only one left behind.
Only now do I slip on my coat and head for the elevators. When I reach the lobby, my lips contort into my trademark smile, ready to wish Gus goodnight. But I round the corner near the main entrance only to find his podium empty, a lady’s magazine lying on top. My stomach churns; I’ve stopped without realizing it. Slowly, I force myself to take a step and shake off the unease racing down my spine. He most likely ran to the bathroom.
Regardless, uncertainty builds with every step I take toward the main doors. Roughly ten feet of space separate me from them. My car is waiting; out front, I spot the ruby glow of taillights. I won’t take another detour tonight, to a madman’s dwelling or otherwise. I’ll go home. I’ll be a good girl.
I’ll wait my turn. Simon’s game isn’t over yet.
But this time…I think he sent someone to play with me. Their footsteps are softer, echoing mine. Thwack. Thump. Thwack.
“H-hello?” I call out.
The figure casting the shadow flickering along the wall up ahead is too tall to be Gus. Too slender.
Too fast.
I run, pumping my arms, reaching for the door—but something slams into me before my fingertips graze the glass. I land on my knees, tasting blood, and a split second is all I have to react.Run!
There’s a side exit directly across from Gus’s desk. I lunge for it, but sudden tension on my hair locks me in place as a cry rips from my lips.
“Don’t move,” someone breathes into my ear, their voice harsh.
And I’m transported twenty years into the past.
We were playing, a code word for competing. Dolls, toys, clothes—the quality mattered more than the game. Mine was a neighbor’s hand-me-down, about ten years out of production. I’d done my best to brush out her gnarled, brown hair and arrange her faded, navy dress, but it was no use. Everyone else had the latest plastic creations. Once again, I had to play on the outskirts, designated the “trailer trash” character in this dolly neighborhood.
“Then I’m trailer trash too,” Leslie declared, shooting me a smile that displayed her two front teeth. She thought she was coming to my rescue, like always, but therein lay the rub.
No one would ever mistake her designer doll for anything less than one spit out by the finest boutique.
Her doll never dwelled in a house that doubled as a meth lab. Leslie never had to trade her for cigarettes stolen from her parents’ stash or spend hours scraping old grime off her with a toothbrush.
“It’s late,” one of the other girls declared. She began to pack up her toys, signaling to the other girls to do the same.
Once again, I had put my skills as a social leper to good use. As always, Leslie was the only one who stayed behind. She helped me stow my ratty selection of dolls and accessories into my backpack—but like any good friendless pariah, I spurred her attempts to make nice.
“I’m walking home,” I told her, preemptively rebuking our customary ride home in her dad’s car. “I’m not some stupid, spoiled brat like you!”
Rather than get upset, Leslie simply blinked in that slow, understanding way of hers. Then she gathered up her sparkly bookbag and nodded. “I’ll walk too.”
The only flaw in my boast was that I had no idea how to walk home. I’d always taken the bus before Leslie’s friendship. But even back then, I refused to lose face. So I picked a direction away from the school and started walking while Leslie followed.
We lived close to each other, ironically enough. She was in the brand-new development just outside of town, while I was in the trailer park behind it.
Both areas required a ten-minute trek on a lonely stretch of road that climbed into the hills. What Leslie didn’t know was that even my neglectful parents never let me walk home alone. I’d done my best to disguise my unease, marching with my chin jutting into the air.
But bravery couldn’t save us from a stranger’s predatory intent. We heard him first: heavy footsteps and intermittent whistling. I still remember the tune, the one from the opening of a popular Saturday morning cartoon. It teased us from beyond a border of trees. Louder. Softer.
Until it sounded as though it were being hummed directly into my ear.
And there was no escape.
* * *
Pain dragsme back to the present as something scrapes the flesh of my throat. Something sharp. Thin.
“Don’t move,” a man growls into my ear between pants. He doesn’t sound like Simon—the only shred of comfort I can find. He isn’t my monster, and I’m not the same little girl I was twenty years ago. “…want to die…stop—”
