So the night passes like a slow moving troll, heavy and gray and full of danger. And I get no joy from the sunrise that I’ve watched so often from my balcony as muted colors slowly fill the world. Today, it only means that more time has passed. More danger. More fear.
And a little bit less hope.
“Baby, you need sleep,” Damien says when I stumble into the kitchen.
“And you don’t?”
Dark shadows ring his eyes, and that gorgeous, sculpted face is haggard with worry.
He nods in acknowledgment, then hands me a cup of coffee. I meet his eyes, but have to look away quickly, afraid I might burst into tears. An arm curls around my shoulder and I look up to find Evelyn. “Come on, Texas. You can’t sleep, but maybe you can rest.”
She takes me back into the living room, and I lean against her on the couch while Damien paces the length of the conference table, his eyes on the monitors that flash as Ryan’s security team—a fresh shift—do their thing.
Charles is gone, though he promised to be back soon. Sofia is asleep in a chaise on the patio. Ollie is hunched over his laptop with Dallas behind him, pointing at something on the screen.
And though they’re all so, so busy, there’s still no sign of my daughter even though the kidnapper has his money.
I turn my head to speak, but Evelyn strokes my hair. “Shhh,” she says. “Close your eyes. Just for a little bit, Texas. Just close your eyes.”
I do, then open them again when I hear Ryan’s voice. “Nothing,” he says, entering the living area from the kitchen. He looks from Quincy to Damien to Dallas. “Fucking rain,” he says. I don’t know what he means, but I’m too tired to ask.
I’m not sure when morning surrendered to the afternoon, but I do know that when three o’clock rolls around, we’ve still heard nothing about Anne. And when the clock on the mantle chimes four, I rush to the bathroom and vomit coffee and bile.
Damien hurries in after me, brushing the hair out of my eyes, rocking me. He takes a washcloth and gently cleans my face as I cling to him, helpless and lost, my body wracked with sobs.
“He-he should have c-c-called by now.” My words come out mixed with gasps and hiccups. “He won’t w-want to hang onto her. It’s d-d-dangerous.” I close my eyes, trying to block out these horrible thoughts. But they won’t stop. They race through my mind, a horror movie on speed. “He’s h-h-hurt her. I know it. My baby. Damien, he’s hurt our baby girl.”
“No,” Damien says, forcing my chin up so that I’m looking him in the eye. “No, sweetheart, no.” But though his words are firm, I see the fear in his eyes, and it makes my blood run cold.
“Come on,” he says, helping me to my feet. Then he lifts me up and I cling to him as he carries me to our bed, then tucks me under the covers. I’d brought one of Anne’s toys in here yesterday, a floppy purple bunny, and I curl up with it now, imagining that I can smell her baby scent as I press my face against the soft, plush fur.
The bed shifts as Damien sits beside me, saying nothing as he strokes my hair, his silent ministrations urging me to finally let go and let exhaustion pull me into the welcoming dark.
I’m almost under when I hear the light tap on the door. I want to roll over and see who it is, but nothing feels right. It’s as if I’m coming out of anesthesia and I’m hyper aware of my surroundings, but can’t move or open my eyes.
“News?” Damien whispers.
“Still no word from him on Anne.” I recognize Ryan’s voice, barely audible.
“Any luck at the laundry?”
“No. Like we thought, the rain fucked us up. The tech works in liquid, so we thought it would be okay, but after a mile it was too diluted. We couldn’t track it.”
Couldn’t track it.
The words go around and around in my head, getting louder and louder.
Couldn’t track it.
Track it.
Track….
The words finally click, and I sit bolt upright. Ryan’s gone, but Damien’s still in the room, standing by the window, looking out at the ocean beyond.
“What the hell did you do?” My voice is hoarse, and he turns, his brow furrowed, as if he doesn’t comprehend my words. “You put in a tracking device? He said not to. He said he’d hurt her.”
My fear rises, anger boiling to fury. Fear morphing into terror.
“Not a tracker. A different kind of tech.”
“Tech,” I say dully. He’s speaking calmly, but the words make no sense. I heard what I heard, and Ryan talked about tracking. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That we had a way—a risk free way—to find him. A way to locate the son-of-a-bitch if he didn’t release her.”
I leap out of bed, pushed into action by the force of the horror that’s coursing through me. “That’s crazy. Damien, what the hell have you done? Risk free?” The words sound ridiculous. “Risk free? If it were risk free she’d be with us. We’d have her.”
My legs give out as the real meaning behind my words hits me. “Oh, God. Damien. Our baby. My Anne. What have you done?” I tilt my head back and look at the man I love. The man I trusted. “What the hell have you done?”
He closes his eyes, and that’s when I’m certain that he fears it, too.
“Go,” I say.
“Nikki, please.”
“Dammit, Damien. I just want to be alone. Please.” I hurl the purple bunny at him. “Please, just let me be alone.”
He studies me, as if debating the wisdom of going. But then he nods and pulls open the door. “I’m right outside if you need me.”
“I won’t.” My voice is thin. Hollow.
He leaves, and I hurry to the door, then lock it behind him. Then I sink to the floor, my back to the door as I squeeze my eyes shut. I expect tears. A flood of tears. But none come. I’m wrung dry. Empty. My insides scorched from fear and anger and betrayal.
But I need release. Need it like I need to breathe. I’m choking on the pain. Lost in a nightmare. And I don’t know the way out. I can’t see the path out.
Except I can.
I close my eyes, trying to shut out the truth that is pressing down on me, but I can’t. It’s so simple. So clean. So easy.
A simple path. A way to bring me back to myself. To take back some of the control in a world that’s spinning away. Because if I don’t reach out and grab it right now, I may spin so far out that I’ll never find my way back.
Frantic now, I scramble to the closet and yank open the door. I pull out my underwear drawer with such force it comes off the track, spilling panties all over the carpeting. And there, in a puddle of cotton and satin, is the leather case. I’d eschewed it before. Now, it’s a lifeline.
Desperately, I open the case, even as a small voice in my head tells me to stop. Tells me that I’ll regret it. But I shove the voice down, fighting my way forward, knowing what I need. What I crave.
Knowing what will bring me back.
Breathing hard, I pull the first scalpel free. I changed into yoga pants after my stint on the street, and now I shove them down, then kick them to a corner. I wasn’t wearing panties, and now I’m on the floor in only my tank top. I bend my knee, tightening the flesh at my thigh, the ridges of scar tissue now raised and white, with just some lingering pink.
Soon, there will be red.
I take the blade and press the tip to my skin. I hesitate only briefly. I need this. Goddammit, I need this if I’m going to survive what’s coming. If I’m going to survive the horrible news about Anne.
Now.
The pressure is familiar, more required to cut flesh than most people think, and there’s a satisfaction in making that first incision, a sensual pleasure that comes with the pain, that spirals through me as I draw the blade down giving me that sweet release. The control that comes with having something to cling to.
A quarter inch. A half inch.
I stop, my hand trembling. I tell myself I want more, but I can’t stop staring at the thin line of blood. It’
s white-hot and throbbing now. And I tell myself I want more. I need more.
I tell myself that the pain is an anchor. A line back to reality. A secret key that will let me cope.
That’s what I tell myself, but it’s not working.
It doesn’t help.
I gasp in air, because this isn’t what I really want. It’s not what I really need.
I need Damien, dammit.
But he’s not here.
Worse, he’s the reason I’m in a closet with a blade in my hand and a wound on my thigh.
I draw a breath and shift my position so that I’m kneeling, then I bend over, my hands resting on the carpet as I sob, my tears falling on my leg, mingling with the blood that’s trickling down my thigh.
“Nikki.” Damien’s voice is so soft I think I’m imagining it. “Nikki.” It’s louder, and I turn my head to see him standing in the closet doorway. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry. You know I’d never do anything to hurt her. To risk her.”