Page 7 of A Deeper Darkness

“I’m not an investigator, Eleanor. All I can do is look at the facts the body reveals.”

The body. Jesus, Sam, he was your lover, and you’re referring to him as the body.

“Call it a mother’s instinct, Sam. Please.”

A mother’s instinct. Possibly the strongest force of nature in the known world. Sam knew what that was like, once. She shoved her emotions back into their cage, locked the door and sighed.

“All right, Eleanor. I’ll be up there in the morning. Call the homicide detective assigned to the case and tell him to all stop, that you’re requesting a secondary protocol autopsy be performed by a private pathologist. We’ll see if your hunch is correct.”

“Thank you, Sam. So much. I can’t begin to tell you how much.”

She hated this. Hated it like hell.

“Just be prepared for the truth, Eleanor. Sometimes it disappoints us all.”

* * *

Sam hung up the phone and stared off into the distance. Memories rushed at her like starved wild animals, all competing for her attention, tearing away bits of her skin. Donovan on Key Bridge, the wind blowing his sandy-blond hair into her eyes as they kissed, the lights of D.C. spread before them. The look on his face when he came to tell her he was reenlisting. Slow dancing to Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet.” The horror she’d felt when she realized he was ending their relationship. The pride she felt when she saw him in his uniform the first time. Their first date, at Charing Cross, the wonderful Italian food, then running down the street to Nathan’s for a nightcap, a new band called Nirvana blasting from the speakers.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous….

All that emotion, tucked away for so long. She had a moment of nausea, swirling in her stomach, overwhelming and immediate. She bolted for the bathroom. Got sick. Slid to the floor by the toilet, put her arms on her knees and buried her face in them. Stayed curled on the floor of the bathroom for an hour, fighting with her mind.

She finally rose, exhausted. She’d wrestled the demons back into their rightful place. Her eyes were dry. Tears were unfamiliar to her. She hadn’t been able to cry for a very long time.

Numb.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

She went to pack.

Donovan. You bastard. You weren’t supposed to die, too.

Chapter Five

Washington, D.C.

Georgetown

Jennifer Jill Lyons

There was a light on in the house across the street. The top floor. A single window glowed behind the drawn blinds. Shadows—one, two—moved past the light.

Jennifer set her book in her lap and watched. She wasn’t supposed to be awake. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. But she couldn’t sleep. She was too excited. Tomorrow was her sixth birthday. Today, actually. She was already six, but it wouldn’t count until 6:25 a.m. That’s when she was actually born, took her first breath. At 6:25 on the dot there would be cake for breakfast, a family tradition, and tonight, a small party with her cousins and siblings. She’d asked for riding lessons and hoped that her mother would allow such a thing.

She wondered about the people across the street, why they were awake so late, as well. Perhaps they had a birthday tomorrow, too?

The light went out. Darkness crawled across the street, deafening and slick, and she was suddenly afraid. There was a brief spark in the window across the street, triangular, flashing out, then gone. Like a shooting star.

Moments later, she saw a shadow move around the corner of the house and walk away up the street. Something felt bad. “Mommy!”

Feet shuffled, and her mother’s warm, cinnamon scent preceded her into the room.

“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?”

She gathered Jennifer into her arms. The tattered paperback fell to the floor. Her mother picked it up and sighed deeply.

“Jennifer Jill, how many times have I told you not to read that gruesome stuff in the middle of the night?Ghost Story?That’s not a book for a girl your age, even if you can read it. Did your brother give it to you?”