“Were they crazy rants? No.” She pauses. “Have you ever gone out with a guy who complains about his ex? Who’s still bitter about the whole thing? That’s what it was like.”
“You said he burned pages of your books. That seems like a very deliberate punishment.”
“Oh, it was. Trust me. He wasn’t going into a frenzy, ripping out pages. He’d slowly burn one page in front of me, then warn that next time, he’d do ten. Honestly, Casey, while I can laugh about the question, in every possible way, he was as normal as you could expect. Creepily normal. Which is why, in the beginning, I thought I could reason with him. But I couldn’t, and it wasn’t because he was too crazy to be reasoned with. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he didn’t give a damn. That was the scariest part. That someone who seemed sane could do that to another person. That he could fully understand his actions … and just didn’t care.”
* * *
I’m woken that night by a pounding at the door. I lift my head and see Dalton propped on his elbows.
“Fuck,” he says. “You hear that, too?”
“I’m telling myself I’m dreaming.”
More pounding. Storm whines, nails clicking as she gets out of her bed.
“You’re dreaming, too,” I say.
She whines again. Dalton grumbles under his breath and swings his legs out of bed, saying, “If it’s Val again—”
“If it’s about Val, we’d better go down together, prove we’re both here.”
I follow Dalton down the stairs and pick up Storm as he opens the door. There, on the porch, is Shawn Sutherland, dressed only in his sweatpants.
“Shawn?” I say.
His mouth works, but he’s breathing too hard to form words.
“Come inside,” I say, and I take his arm and pull him in as Dalton flicks on the hall light. That’s when I see the bruises. A ring of them around Sutherland’s throat.
FORTY-EIGHT
Someone has tried to strangle Shawn Sutherland. We get him to the couch and try to ask what happened, but he’s in shock and just keeps saying, “I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe.”
I tend to Sutherland while Dalton pages Sam, the militia he’d left on guard. After last night with Val, we’ve pulled out the radios. There’s no answer, which could only mean the damn thing isn’t working. I tell Dalton to go. Then I call Anders. It’s 2:00 A.M., and it takes a lot of punches on the call button, but he finally wakes. I’ve just hung up from that when Dalton calls from Sam’s radio.
“He’s out cold,” he says. “Someone hit him from behind.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, I’m—” His voice cuts out. “—Kenny at Nicole’s—not answering—once I wake Sam up.”
“I’m on my way as soon as Will’s here.”
I lock Storm in the bedroom. Then I get out onto the porch, and I’m still zipping my jacket when I see Anders coming at a run. I jog to meet him. We pass without pausing, me calling, “I’m going to check on Nicole. Kenny’s not picking up.”
“Shit. You want me—”
“Shawn needs you. I’ll be fine.”
He calls back that he’ll catch up.
I’m racing to Nicole’s when Dalton shouts, “I’m here,” from behind me. Not wait for me, which I appreciate.
I race between two buildings, and there’s Nicole’s house … with Kenny sitting on the front porch. He sees me and stands.
“Radio?” I say.
“Huh?” He lifts it and hits buttons. There’s only static.
“Shawn was attacked,” I say as I climb the steps. “When’s the last time you heard from Nicole?”
“Before she went to bed. But Diana’s on duty.” He opens the door. “Di?”
Silence answers. I push through. Dalton catches up, and he’s shouldering past Kenny, gun in hand.
We move quickly into the living room. Diana is lying on the futon, curled on her side, blanket pulled up. I let out a sigh of relief. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign of trauma. She’s just asleep.
Dalton heads for the stairs as I walk over saying, “Di?” I reach out and shake her shoulder. “Di? It’s me.”
She doesn’t stir. I try harder. One good hard shake, and she topples to the floor, head lolling.
“Eric!” I shout as I drop beside her, my hands flying to her neck, searching for a pulse.
“Nicole’s gone,” he says as he thunders down the stairs. His wet boots squeak as he draws up short behind me. “Her bed’s empty.”
I take one running step toward the stairs. Then I glance back at Diana.
“Nicole isn’t there,” Dalton says. “Stay with Diana. Is she knocked out?”
I drop beside her again. “I don’t know. Damn it. I can’t tell.”
He’s on the floor, hands going to her neck as I check her wrist.
“I think I feel something,” I say as I pick up a faint pulse. “Do you?”
He shakes his head and yanks a picture frame from the coffee table and holds it in front of her mouth. A light fog of condensation forms on the glass.
“Kenny!” he shouts.
Kenny’s right there. He’s been here the whole time, in the doorway, watching and waiting for instructions.
“Get Will, right?” Kenny says.