by Sarina Bowen
Rickie slips his hand into mine as we approach the doors to the new wing. Normally you’d need key card access here. But there’s a young woman at the door with a clipboard. I hand her my invitation and she waves us right through.
We proceed into the atrium, where the party is held. The ceiling is three stories up and made of glass. Offices ring the space above us, the hallways open to the atrium below.
“Do you see him?” Rickie murmurs.
“Not yet,” I say, feeling shaky at the idea of coming face to face with Reardon. “But there’s his father.”
Rickie turns his head casually to take in the senator. He’s surrounded by well-wishers. The Halseys have money and influence. And when his son decided to get a degree in public health, he began shining both attention and cash on the place.
This is why I have to be careful. If you accuse the son of a powerful man, you can’t do a half-assed job of it.
“Let’s head right for the dean,” I whisper. “She’s over by that sculpture. And I need to say hello.”
His hand gives mine a squeeze, and I feel calmer. Rickie is a charmer. This part will go fine. He’s my rock.
“Daphne!” the dean says, turning to greet me as I approach. “How lovely to see you!”
“I’m so glad I could make it,” I say in an almost normal voice. “Dean Reynolds, this is my friend Rickie Ralls.” I introduce Rickie, who gives her a winning smile. And we make small talk about Vermont for a couple of minutes, until someone more important than I am wants her attention.
With that over, I make our excuses and I steer Rickie toward the wine and cheese, where I allow myself to be waylaid by a couple of research assistants who used to share an office space with me in our old building.
Rickie stands at my side, holding a glass of wine, and playing the part of the perfect date.
Until I feel him tense up and turn his body by ninety degrees, as if shielding me from something. When I glance past him, I find Reardon Halsey a few yards away, staring at me.
And if looks could kill, I’d be dead already.
Forty
Rickie
The fight-or-flight response is well described in the literature. It’s recognized as the first stage of Hans Selye's general adaptation syndrome. As a response to acute stress, the body suddenly releases hormones which activate the sympathetic nervous system and stimulate the adrenal glands. Respiration, the heart rate, and blood pressure also accelerate. Pupils may dilate. Muscles may shake or tremble.
I experience all of this in the span of about five seconds, until I take a deep breath, expanding my lungs, collecting oxygen, and ordering my body to calm the fuck down.
It’s about two percent effective. Because when I glimpsed Reardon Halsey a moment ago, I knew. He’s the one. He’s the reason I lock the doors. He’s the one who stole months of my life. He almost killed me.
And I can’t let him anywhere near Daphne.
Inside, I’m all turmoil. But adrenaline is a powerful drug. I slip a hand onto Daphne’s wrist. “You were going to give me that tour,” I say silkily.
“Right,” she says tightly. She’s spotted him, too.
Her friends smile and say something gracious that I miss, because I’m calculating all the ways to get out of this room. There’s the door we came in, but Halsey is blocking it. There are glass elevators at either side, probably leading up to the offices that surround this atrium.
I don’t like any of those choices, so I lead Daphne to the side of the room, under the overhang, where we’ll be less noticeable. “Talk to me,” I whisper. “We can leave now, right?”
“No, I need to go upstairs,” she says.
“That’s a bad idea,” I insist, guiding her to stand beside a large, potted topiary.
Daphne blinks up at me, trouble in her brown eyes. “Why are you freaking out right now?” she whispers. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing,” I lie.
Her eyes narrow. “Do not lie to me. That’s what he did.”
Shit. There’s a knot of pressure in the center of my chest. “I recognize him.”
“You mean…” She blinks. “From the Academy?”
I lean my body outward for a quick glance toward Halsey. And it’s a huge mistake. He’s not looking at us right now because he’s talking to a woman. His girlfriend, from the looks of it. But it doesn’t matter that he’s smiling. I know that face when it’s angry. I know he’s responsible for other people’s pain.
“Rickie,” Daphne orders, squeezing my hand. “Tell me what you know.”
“There’s no time. It’s a long story. Let’s go.”
“No,” she insists. “And screw you and your long story. We just spent four hours in a car, with you acting all jumpy and weird. Seems like you had plenty of time to say whatever you had to say then.”
“I’m sorry,” I grunt. “Let’s go somewhere else and discuss this.”
“Don’t even try it,” she hisses. “This ends now.”
Then? She jerks her hand out of mine and walks away from me. She marches half the length of the atrium and smacks the button on the elevator. It opens immediately, and she steps inside.
Shit! I take a few steps in her direction, but the doors close immediately.
And now I am on fire with panic. I turn in the opposite direction, heading for that set of open stairs I’d spotted. I leap up them two at a time, my eyes following the glass elevator, which stops on the third level.
I stop on the third floor, too. And then I position myself against the wall, where I can see most of the O-shaped third level, but I’m largely hidden from the atrium floor.
My heart is trying to climb out of my mouth as Daphne walks slowly around the third-floor loop. She’s trying to look casual, stopping to look at the construction work that’s still in progress. There are paint chips taped to the walls, and the odd ladder here and there. But then she stops in front of an office and tries the door.
I don’t breathe again until it fails to open. Thank fuck. Maybe now I can get her to leave.
With my head down and my hands jammed casually in my pockets, I start toward her. But as I watch, she pulls something from her pocket. A card. She slips this between the doorjamb and the door, which is never going to work.
The door opens, and a light flickers on inside the office.
Fuck fuck fuck. As a reflex, I look down toward the atrium. My gaze finds Reardon Halsey immediately. He’s staring upward at the third-floor office with the light on.
Then he turns, his girlfriend’s hand in his, and leads her over to the other glass elevator on the opposite side of the atrium.
My heart nearly detonates.
Hugging the wall, I hoof it toward Daphne. I’m able to move quickly for a few seconds. But then the glass elevator opposite me glides into view. So I slow my pace and turn my face away. I also grab a ladder that’s leaning against the wall and carry it the last ten paces to the office door where Daphne disappeared.
“He saw you,” I grunt toward the door that’s ajar. “He’s coming.”
“Shit!” she squeaks. I don’t see her. She’s hidden from view, possibly kneeling behind the desk.
I open up the ladder while my brain whirls.
“Can I walk out right now?” she asks in a trembling voice.
The elevator doors are already open across the atrium, and Halsey and his girl have begun to walk the loop. “No. Stay put.” If she exits now, he’ll easily see her.
And if he’s going to tangle with one of us, it’s going to be me.
I drag the open ladder right in front of the office door. Then I grab a toolbox that’s sitting on the floor, and I climb the damn ladder toward the dropped ceiling. I put the tools on the fold-out shelf. Then I lift my hands, displacing a fiberglass ceiling tile, setting it aside, creating a hole in the ceiling.
Climbing one more step, my head disappears into the blackness above. Looking down, I open the toolbox with hands that somehow aren’t shaking. I
choose a heavy pair of wire snips, with sharp, fierce-looking tips.
And I wait.
I don’t know how long it takes for Halsey and his girlfriend to approach. It’s probably only about sixty seconds, but it feels like a year.
It’s long enough for me to conjure up his face from my nightmares. That smirk he made in the dark when I realized I was roped to my own bunk. The shout that caught in my throat because I’d been gagged, too.
He and his pals had pulled off an act of cunning and violence. They’d upended lives. And—with a little help from Paul—I’d picked a hell of a day to remember it.
I’m sweating through my shirt when two pairs of shiny shoes appear at the foot of the ladder. “That’s my office you’re blocking.”
That voice. I feel it like a splash of ice water. Dread curls into my gut. That voice whispered sick things to me in the dark. I’d turned my head away from it. But I couldn’t move. I’d been immobilized.
Oh, God. I grab a joist near my face and hold onto it with a white-knuckled grip. There’s not enough air up here.
“I need you to move,” he says, the sneer only partially concealed behind a thin layer of good breeding.
More memories are drowning me. His sneer. His casual violence toward the plebes.
And now he’s waiting for me to say something. “Give me five to ten,” I grunt. My hands feel ice cold. It’s another stress response—the body reserving blood for the brain and the essential organs.
Breathe, Rickie. Just breathe.
“Could you just step aside now?” he barks. “And did you open my office door?”
“Needed the light,” I growl. “You need the internet to work, right? Your kind always does. But it’s after hours, buddy. I need five to ten.”
By which I mean—I need him to go to prison for five to ten years.
His silence seems to last a week. God knows I’m doing a shit job of looking like an actual maintenance worker. Thank Christ his girlfriend is at his side. He’s less likely to make a scene.
“Two minutes,” he grunts. “And close my damn door.” His footsteps retreat.
I count to thirty, then lower the snips to the toolbox with a shaky hand. “Thirty seconds,” I hiss.
“Right here,” comes a meek reply from behind the door.
Dipping out of my hiding place, I see Halsey and his girlfriend disappear into the elevator on our side of the ring. I force myself to take one more breath to let the doors slide closed.
“Okay, count to ten and then open that door.”
Quickly, I replace the ceiling panel, jump down the ladder, and grab the tool box. Then I fold the ladder and park it against the wall as Daphne slips out, her purse over her shoulder, her face bright red. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh.” I take her hand and walk her quickly, heading for the stairwell again. “I can’t tell if he went up or down. But there has to be another door out of this place.”
“There is. At the bottom of the stairs.”
“Let’s move.” Tightening my grip on her hand, we gun it across to the stairs, and then trot down them as quickly as I dare.
I can’t see Halsey anywhere. But I won’t let go of Daphne. Not until we’re far away from here. The stairs continue down another half flight past the atrium. And then I see a blessed sight—a set of double doors with a red EXIT sign glowing above them.
We’re pushing through them a minute later. “The car should be that way.” I point to the right.
“Yes.” Daphne is flushed, her eyes pinched. “I really fucked that up. I can’t believe you got rid of him.”
“Shh,” I say, forcing us to walk at a mostly normal pace around the building. It’s going to take some time, seeing as the place is huge. The grass is perfectly mown, and chrysanthemums bloom in a carefully landscaped row.
Meanwhile, my heart is still ready to explode. I’m remembering the ropes cutting into my skin as I tried to escape. Halsey trussed me to my bed, and somehow broke several of my bones. I still don’t remember how I got injured. But I remember Paul’s gagging sobs on the bunk above me.
They raped him. I’m ninety-nine percent sure. It took me twelve hours of digging, but I’d found the court martial summary early this afternoon. I’d printed it out and folded it up in my wallet. Then I’d gotten into the car to drive here. I’d put two hands on the wheel, at two o’clock and ten o’clock.
And that summary is still burning a hole in my pocket, and my brain:
* * *
Decision: Sergeant A.P. Horst was relieved of his command at the United States Tactical Services Academy, and demoted to O-4. Crime: dereliction of duty, and endangerment of students in his care. Incident: two students assaulted on campus by upperclassmen. Both victims admitted to the infirmary and later hospitalized, one with multiple fractures, one with contusions, internal injuries and anal bleeding. Further action: three students expelled, one infirmary tech reassigned.
* * *
That’s it. That’s the whole writeup. But the moment I’d read it, I’d known. And I’d begun to remember.
Our hands still in a sweaty hold, Daphne and I finally reach the corner of this monolith, and we turn. At last the Volvo comes into view. I let go of Daphne’s hand, and pat my pocket for the keys. “I don’t want to stay here overnight.”
“Okay,” she says immediately. “But I need my stuff from the inn.”
“Right. I walk toward the car, stopping on the passenger side so I can open the door for Daphne. The Volvo was made before remote key entry was a thing. I slide the key into the lock and turn it.
Someone steps out from behind an SUV and appears in my field of vision.
Daphne gasps behind me.
It’s Halsey. He’s alone.
I let go of the keys and square off toward him, my instincts jumping. I will not be caught off guard by this man again.
“You,” he says. “I thought I was losing it. But it is you, Ralls.” He takes a step closer. “Miss me?”
“Get the fuck away from us,” I snarl. “I promise it’ll be harder to take me out when I’m awake. You won’t enjoy it.”
His mouth goes hard. “I don’t care about you, dumbass. Whatever Daphne took from my office, she’s going to give it back now.”
“She didn’t take anything,” I growl. “Get out of my face. You’re lucky I don’t drive right to the nearest police station and turn you in for assault and rape.”
Daphne makes a shocked noise.
“That’ll work well,” Halsey says. “Seeing as you can’t remember a thing. Your therapist calling around looking for answers isn’t going to win hearts and minds. Thanks for that, by the way. My cousin got a kick out of it when he answered the phone. He took careful notes. You’re a stupid fuck, Ralls. And so is your whore of a girlfriend.”
They call it fight-or-flight for a reason.
I lunge at him.
Forty-One
Daphne
The next sixty seconds are the longest of my life. I've seen fights on TV. Men circling each other, building the drama before a punch is thrown.
This is not that. This is Rickie hurtling at Reardon, crashing him to the asphalt, fists flying. This is Reardon letting out a warlike shout and then going silent again when Rickie smashes a fist into his mouth.
His rage steals my breath. Thick, choking rage. Rickie is a blur. His fists land several times before Reardon can mount a defense, punching Rickie so hard that his head snaps back.
The fight only burns hotter. Rickie pushes Reardon to the pavement and punches once. Twice. The sound of his fist colliding with Reardon's face is terrifying. He hits him again and my fear is so sharp that I can feel bile climbing my throat. "Rickie!” I shriek.
Miraculously, he freezes.
I don’t breathe at all for the next few seconds, as Rickie staggers to his feet.
Then I see Reardon move. And for one awful moment I think I've made a horrible mistake, placing Rickie at a disadvantage.
But Reardon on
ly rolls to his hands and knees, his head dropped. “You will fucking pay," he spits. And there’s blood dripping down his formerly perfect cheek.
On autopilot, I grab the keys to the Volvo out of the passenger door. "Get in," I snap at Rickie.
And Rickie does. There's blood on his lip, and a wild look in his eye. But I block out the image of that blood. And I don’t even look at Reardon. Stiffly, I walk around and open the driver's door, sliding in behind the wheel.
With shaking hands I start the car. My breath is coming fast. I feel as though I'm watching a movie of someone else's life as I look carefully over my shoulder to check for obstacles before I back out.
When I look back at Reardon before pulling away, he's covering his face with two hands. But I can still see his eyes. And the rage in them is on a plane I’ve never seen before in my life.
I’ve never been so scared. But I’m angry, too. And that anger fuels me as I press down on the accelerator and get the hell out of that parking lot.
An hour later we're cruising up 91. I’m still too angry to breathe. But I’m no longer driving.
First, I’d made a stop at the inn.
"I can't go inside with you," Rickie had said when I pulled in. His delivery had been flat and cold, which terrified me almost as much as watching him try to kill Reardon. "Get your things. Don't speak to anyone if you can avoid it. Leave the key in the room but don't check out at the desk."
I’d cut the engine and turned to look at him. His lip was bloody and already swelling, along with one eyebrow.
But the worst evidence of the fight was the look he held in those beautiful gray eyes. It was nothingness. Like someone had drained all the Rickie right out of him.
I'd been in shock myself. I'd gone upstairs and retrieved my things exactly as he'd suggested, leaving the key on the unused bed.
When I'd returned to the Volvo he was sitting in the driver's seat dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin. His mouth was no longer bleeding.