When Shadows Fall

I hate oranges.

I hate the dark.

And spiders and rats and snakes and mice and everything that reminds me of those days.

Everything but him.

I’ve often wondered how many children came before me. I don’t want to know how many came after. He told me, when we left, I couldn’t ever look back. Not to the time before, nor to my time there. Looking back would make me unhappy, and it was best to never, ever think about those dark days again. We would make a new life. A life looking forward. A life free from shadows, from pain and humiliation and sharp things in the night.

I did my best.

I always did my best.

Even before, on the special days, when they came for me, blindfolded me, walked me one hundred and fifteen steps to the cold place. They told me I was special. That I was beautiful. Perfect. And when they were inside me, tearing me open, squeezing the breath out of me with their weight hard on my flat chest, they said unspeakable words, words I shudder to remember. Words children shouldn’t know. Instructions children shouldn’t get.

Don’t look back. Don’t look back.

Every step I take, deeper into the forest, the bad words come to me. I stop, stand against a tree, take a deep breath. Conjure his face, his kind, loving face. But now the vision is marred, his skin pale and waxy, his tongue sticking out of his mouth, the emptiness of his bulging eyes, the blood on his body. I will never see him smile again, never hear him read to me, or do flash cards at dinner, or watch fireflies as they gather in the twilight.

Or chase away the nightmares.

The truth can’t help me now. I crumple to the ground, sobbing so hard my body shakes. The forest screams at me, cicadas and birds and crickets and bats in an alarming cacophony; the trees shriek and stamp their feet, waving their arms, trying to catch the wind. Leaves rain down on me, dead and yellow, and I hear them coming.

Oh, God, they’re coming. And there’s nowhere left for me to hide.

SATURDAY

“To think of shadows is a serious thing.”

—Victor Hugo

“Let not your heart be concerned with death, for the three corners of our life are at hand. Birth, life, death: this is the only cycle that matters. Death is the great equalizer. Whether your life is one year or one hundred years, you will be resurrected in me, and we shall all live forever when the shadows at last fall.”

—Curtis Lott

Chapter

9

Georgetown

SAM WOKE EARLY to the sun streaming in the bedroom windows. Xander was gone, a note on the bed saying he was out for a quick run. She remembered last night in a sudden rush and stared down at her right hand. The delicate diamonds flashed in the morning sunlight, and she smiled. Clever and romantic, Xander’s ring, as she was already thinking of it, anchored her to this life more than any emotion she’d had since Simon and the twins died.

The thought of them hurt, but she let it in, breathed through it, touched her new ring. She whispered, “Forgive me, my loves.”

Sam jumped in the shower, then dressed in flax-colored linen Bermuda shorts, leather loafers and a cream cotton tank top with a matching cashmere sweater, packed a large black-and-tan Longchamps bag, pulled her damp hair off her face with a headband. She brought the bag downstairs and called Fletcher.

He didn’t even say hello. “Morning, sunshine. You ready? We can be down there before lunch if we take off soon.”

Sam said, “You didn’t even know I was going to call.”

“Well, a little bird might have mentioned you were planning a trip south.”

“Xander? He called you?”

“Texted. He knew you’d want to get on the road early. I’m on my way to your place now. Think you could scrounge me up some breakfast?”

“Don’t you ever grocery shop, Fletch?”

“Sure I do. Sometimes. Well, maybe not, really. Just coffee is fine, if food is too much trouble.”

“Yes, Fletcher, cooking for you is always a bother. I’ll see you shortly.”

He was laughing when he hung up.

She went into the kitchen and hurriedly put together omelets and bacon, enough for three. She was assembling the last plate when she heard the men in the hallway, Xander’s deep voice answering a question from Fletcher’s tenor. She shook her head. Sometimes she wondered who was running her life. It certainly didn’t feel as if she was.

She shot Xander a look when he came in, and he smiled merrily at her. Fletcher tossed her a salute and without a word, the two men tucked in to the food. Sam brought a pot of coffee to the table and joined them. Thor drank water noisily from his bowl in the corner, not wanting to be left out of the moment. He came and sat next to Xander’s left leg, hoping for a bit of omelet. Xander was strict with Thor’s diet, but Sam saw him hand a piece of bacon to the dog under the table.

Sam toyed with a mushroom and watched the two men. So different, these two. Xander was dark-haired and dark-eyed, bigger, more heavily muscled. Fletcher was lighter in every way, square-jawed, brown eyes bordering on hazel, with brown hair. Both smart. Both honest and kind, and caring. Maybe a little too caring. Something about the morning suddenly felt wrong. What were they up to?

They both stopped eating and turned to her expectantly.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re staring,” Xander said.

“The way you do when you’re about to make a pronouncement,” Fletcher added.

She shook her head. “No pronouncements. Just wondering what this is all about. It’s like you both want me involved in this case.”

Fletcher shot Xander a glance, then cleared his throat. “It’s an intriguing case, and you’re damn good at what you do. And the man did ask for you personally.”

“But?”

“No but. That’s all.”

Xander set down his fork and said, “That’s not fair. But, when you’re occupied, you’re happier.”

Ah. There it was. The truth, at last. She didn’t know whether to laugh or smack him on the hand with her fork.

“And I’ve been malingering too long? A few days left before school starts, and I’ll drive the two of you crazy in the meantime if I don’t have my hands into something?”

Neither responded. For the first time, she noticed Xander wasn’t drenched in sweat, though he was dressed in his running clothes.

Sam lost her appetite, pushed her plate away. “You didn’t go for a run, did you?”

He watched her, eyes suddenly serious. He looked over at Fletcher, who shrugged slightly. The air in the kitchen grew tense. Xander sighed a little. “No. I didn’t go for a run.”