Page 6 of Edge of Darkness (Night Prowler 4)
At least that’s what she was telling herself, anyway.
Quickly and quietly, trying to make as little noise as possible, Ember cracked the door ajar and peeked out into the hallway.
“Need a quick getaway?” Asher whispered.
Her neighbor from across the hall peered in, brown eyes sparkling merrily behind a pair of trendy glasses, a crooked, mischievous smile on his face. An expat like herself—originally from Boston—he worked as a sportswriter for the local paper. He was tall, athletic, and deeply fabulous, and also one of the smartest, funniest and most interesting people she’d ever met. He knew about books, art, politics, music, how to make you laugh just when you needed it, and how to stay quiet when words could only make things worse. Asher was the kind of person who made you feel smarter and more interesting just by association.
An added bonus: his apartment had a staircase leading down to the back alley. She’d made good use of it to escape from Dante on more than one occasion.
“You heard, huh?”
He snickered. “Honey, everyone within a five-block radius heard. Dante’s got a voice that could wake the dead. C’mon, hurry before he gets tired of yelling in the street and comes up for a little one-on-one.”
He dashed back across the hallway and held open the door to his apartment, gesturing for her to follow.
Ember grabbed her house keys and her handbag from the console table, scanned the hallway left and right, pulled the door shut, locked it behind her, and darted across the corridor into Asher’s apartment. His door slid shut behind her with a near-silent snick.
“You’re a lifesaver, Ash,” she breathed, leaning against the closed door.
He made a wry face and drawled, “Well, if you’re going to compare me to candy, I’d rather be a lollipop if you know what I mean.”
On the television hung above the fireplace, a newscaster was saying something about a reward of one million euros for information leading to the capture of a terrorist. Asher clicked the power off with the remote control on the coffee table, then crossed to the kitchen. He poured a shot of vodka into a highball glass and added tomato juice, Worcestershire sauce, and lemon juice. After swallowing a long draught of the concoction and sighing in pleasure, he lifted the glass in her direction. “Bloody Mary?”
“Ash, it’s eight o’clock in the morning. On a Thursday.”
He rolled his eyes. “Which is why I’m not having wine, darling. Don’t be a pill. I know you don’t like to drink but a little sip here and there won’t kill you.”
An old wound, scabbed but never scarred, still raw and bloody just beneath the surface, peeled open. The first wave of panic left her breathless as it tightened around her chest like a vise. She felt alternately hot then cold, and struggled to keep her face straight, her knees from buckling and sending her sliding down to the floor.
“Sweetie, you look pale. Are you feeling all right?”
Asher had lowered his drink to the counter and was staring at her with wide eyes, his expression concerned. She wanted to say, All right is something I will never be again, but instead she forced a shaky smile and nodded.
“I’m fine. I just forgot to eat breakfast. Low blood sugar.” She pushed away from the door and walked across his living room, toward the little back patio with its narrow metal staircase, twisting down to the yard below.
“Let me get you something to eat before you go—”
“No, it’s okay.” Ember yanked open the glass sliding door. “Thanks for saving me. I’ll see you later.”
She slammed the door shut behind her and turned to the stairs, but not before she saw the look of surprise on Asher’s face.
And hurt.
He wouldn’t understand, though. He couldn’t. It wasn’t as if she would ever tell him what happened, because she didn’t speak about it with anyone anymore. After a dozen different therapists over the years, she’d learned long ago that airing your sad stories didn’t help you heal. Nothing helped. There were things that just couldn’t be fixed.
Some bridges, once burned, were burned down forever.
Ember took the stairs three at a time and set off down the alley at a run.
The call came at precisely ten o’clock, just as Christian was reaching for the phone. He pulled the cell from his coat pocket and stared at it a moment, looking at the number on the screen.
It was September. Having not five minutes ago looked up the phone number to the book store, he’d just been about to call her.
It was nothing, it was less than nothing, but Christian very firmly believed coincidences were anything but, so he stared at the phone for a few moments longer before finally answering. He held the phone to his ear, listening.
“Um…hello?”
Her voice on the other end of the line was tentative. She was, no doubt, wondering why he hadn’t said the same thin
