He seemed adrift and vague. She squatted beside him. “Why are you here, Adrian?”
Something flickered in his eyes, and it looked dangerous. Anger. Intent. Something sharp and cruel, and then suddenly gone. “Where else would I go?”
He lifted his shoulders, and the vagueness returned. Elizabeth looked deeper, but whatever she’d glimpsed was gone. “A hotel. Some other place.”
“There is no other place.”
“Adrian, listen—”
“Did you see something out there?”
It was the same question in the same voice; but if he was worried about something in the night the worry didn’t show. The fire consumed his attention, even as Elizabeth stood. “Was it horrible?” she asked, and meant prison. He said nothing, but his hands twitched, and scars glinted like ivory in the light. Elizabeth thought of her youth, and of all the times she’d watched him move through the world: the way he stood at his desk and at the range, how he’d worked a witness, a crime scene, the bureaucracy. He’d worn confidence like a smile, and it was strange to see him so still and quiet, his eyes withdrawn beyond the smoke. “Would you like me to stay awhile?”
His eyes drifted shut, and she knew the answer was no. This was a communion, and she, in his mind, was just a kid he’d once known. “It was nice of you to come,” he said, but the words were false.
Go away, he meant.
Leave me to suffer in peace.
7
Ramona lost track of time in the blackness of the silo. Her world was damp earth and heat and concrete walls. The door was a metal square that gave a fraction of an inch before the lock outside clanked.
“Somebody…”
It was a whisper, her voice already broken.
“Help me.”
Something fluttered high in the silo, a bird maybe and trapped, too. Ramona lifted her face, then scratched at the door, her nails torn by rusted screws and cracks in the metal. Another hour passed, or maybe it was a day. She drifted and slept and woke to a spear of yellow light. It flicked the length of her body, and she saw grime on her hands and arms. Hope sparked in her chest, but died when he spoke.
“Time to go, Ramona.”
“Water…”
“Of course, you can have water.”
He pulled her through the door, her feet dragging. It was still night, but barely, the moon a hint of gray as headlights made shadows dance on the silo. She blinked, but his face was a blur.
“Here.” He gave her a bottle, and she drank too much, choking. “Let me help.” He guided the bottle to her lips, tilted it. She wanted to scream or run, but could barely move. He used a damp towel to wipe black soil from her face and arms. She watched in quiet terror as he lifted the hem of her dress and used the same towel to clean her legs, the touch intimate but chaste. “Better?”
“Why…”
“I’m sorry?” He leaned closer, one hand on the soft place behind her knee.
She licked cracked lips. “Why?”
He smoothed hair from her face and stared into her eyes. “Ours is not to wonder why.”
“Please…”
“It’s time to go.”
He pulled her up and guided her to the car with torn seats and cigarette burns in the vinyl. The cuffs clinked on her wrists, and he kept a grip on the chain as he belted her inside the car.
“Safe and sound,” he said, then walked through bright lights, his shadow rising and falling, then gone. She tugged at the seat belt, but was weak with hunger and heat. He slipped into the car and closed his door.
“I want to go home.”
The clock on the dash said 5:47. Beyond the glass, a pale light gathered in the trees.
“The more you cooperate, the easier this will be. Do you understand?”
She nodded, crying. “Where are you taking me?”
He said nothing as he turned on rough dirt and drove out of the woods. At the paved road, he cut the wheel right, color bleeding into the fields as they drove, the sun a dim eye rising.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
He said nothing, drove faster.
Four minutes later she saw the church.
8
Elizabeth dreamed, and the dream was memory. It was night and hot as she moved through the yard of the abandoned house on Penelope Street. A few lights simmered down the road, but they were far and dim. She crossed from the last tree to the side of the house, her feet slipping in wet grass as she pushed through overgrown bushes and pressed her back against ancient clapboards that were cracked and split and wet from the storm. Holding her breath, she listened for noises inside. The caller said he’d heard a scream. What Elizabeth heard was her breath, her heart, and water dripping from choked-out gutters. She pushed along the wall as wet leaves trailed across her face and hands, and streaks of lightning dropped far off in the fading storm. At the first window, she paused. It was below grade, painted black. Two steps past it a sound came and went so fast Elizabeth thought she could be imagining it.
A voice?