Death of Night Read online

  "Dahlia?" Will questioned, ducking his head to look at my face.

  Mentally, I shook myself. I blinked and gave him a close-lipped smile as I handed the paper back. He took it, hardly glancing at it.

  "What the hell happened?" he asked, his tone aggressive.

  My small smile fading, I replied, "I don't know."

  I wasn't lying. All I remembered was hurrying to meet my client at "La Jolie Fleur", but I never made it. The traffic had been horrible that evening, the town overrun with people trying to get in to the Sting concert, and the cab had inched along the roads, taking twenty minutes longer than usual. I could tell the cab driver didn't mind. I had tossed him a wad of fives as I threw open the door, and ran out along the boardwalk, taking a shortcut to the restaurant. The next thing I knew, I was pressed up against the metal barrier between the pavement and the ocean, a knife glinting menacingly in the dim light.

  Will tilted his head, looking skeptical at my response.

  "Really," I added, turning on my heel to enter the living room. I picked up my cup, and headed toward the kitchen, which was in the adjacent room. Will's boots thudded quietly after me. As I went into the kitchen, I narrowed my eyes belligerently, wishing he'd get the hint.

  He obviously didn't.

  Stepping into the kitchen, Will's eyes scanned the cluttered area. The walls shined a pale yellow, wooden framed pictures nailed to them. A large island counter spread out in front of us. Parallel to it was another counter, smaller in size, containing the sink, dishwasher, and stove. It would have looked like an ordinary kitchen if it weren't for the fact that every surface was chrome. The counters, the appliances, and even the faucets were fabricated out of the stuff. The tenant before me had redone the kitchen to fit more to his tastes. Needless to say, his tastes were a little odd.

  Subconsciously, I knew someone was watching me. Pulling myself from my thoughts, I turned to look at Will, his gaze meeting mine. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking; his expression showed no emotion.

  He dropped his gaze, looked around again, and said lightly, "It's shiny."

  Despite my annoyance at him, I laughed weakly. It was true; almost every surface twinkled up at me in the bright lights. Smiling, I went over to the stove where an old-fashioned kettle sat. After filling it with more water, I set it back on the stove, and leaned against the counter. Will opened his mouth to speak. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. I didn't feel like talking. I felt like curling up in my bed and waiting for the sun to rise again.

  "So tell me," he said. He moved over to the wooden dinner table I had put in the corner of the kitchen and pulled out a chair. He sat down, extending his long legs under the table, crossing them at the ankles.

  "Tell you what?" I replied.

  "What happened."

  "I already told you."

  Will rolled his eyes and folded his arms. "No, you didn't."

  Exasperated, I said, "I don't remember much, okay? Just drop it."

  He shifted in his seat, and peered intently at my face. "Most people who are victims of attempted murders are mentally, as well as physically, damaged. Some go to therapy for the rest of their lives. Sixty-nine percent are sup-"

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. I held up a hand to stop him, and said, "Don't go pulling your statistics on me, Will. I'm fine. I don't need therapy."

  He pursed his lips, and leaned back in the chair. The piercing whistle of the kettle went off, and I spun around to pour the water into my cup. I took a tea bag out of a colourfully decorated clay pot on the windowsill, and dropped it into the mug. It floated at the top for a moment before I pushed it to the bottom with a spoon. A brown swirl escaped the tea bag, staining the water. I watched, mesmerized for a moment. When Will cleared his throat, I flinched. Geez, those painkillers must be strong. I kept finding myself somewhere else.

  Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I picked my cup up carefully and brought it over to the table where Will was sitting. I settled myself in the chair across from him, propping my face up in my hand.

  His gaze dropped to my steaming cup of tea, and said, "Aren't you gonna offer me some?"

  "Nope."

  Shaking his head, he smiled. He laid his elbows down on the table, and began to trace an unfamiliar pattern with his forefinger.

  Expression fading into a wistful look, Will said, "What'd I do to you, Dahlia, to make you hate me so much?"

  "I don't hate you, Will," I responded softly, "I just-"

  "Don't like me," he finished for me.

  I looked away, but shook my head. He didn't know it, but he had hurt me, more than once. He'd fallen through on a number of promises. I guess it was also my fault. Trust doesn't come easily for me, which has definitely taken a toll on the number of relationships I'd had. I even sat through hours of old Dr. Phil episodes I'd borrowed from Veronica, one of my work partners. Plopping down on my couch with a bowl of microwave popcorn, munching and laughing at the various comments really hadn't helped much. Here I was, back at square one.

  "Talk to your boss yet?" Will asked, switching to a different subject.

  I snorted. "No."

  "He was here pounding on your door yesterday, you know," he said, a smile beginning to spread across his face once again.

  My eyes widened. "Oh, no! Will! Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

  Will leaned back casually, balancing on two legs of the chair. He grinned, and replied, "Because you shut the door in my face before I could even mention it."

  I flushed. Sipping the tea, I felt it burn my tongue. I swallowed quickly, and felt the heat slide down my throat. A bitter taste remained in my mouth, but was overcome by the burning sensation of the scalding tea. I forced myself to drink another mouthful, trying to divert my attention away from thoughts of my boss. He didn't like it when his employees took time off, whether they told him about it or not. He designated one free day per week for each person in the firm. There were only four of us, so it was hard to give time off in bulk. That and he was an obdurate, grumpy man.

  "Maybe you should go talk to him," Will offered, with a hint of his grin still attached on his face.

  "Yeah, I guess," I mumbled, reluctantly adding, "I'll go tomorrow."

  "Not looking forward to the wrath of Ayden Montgomery, huh?"

  I smiled tensely, and wrapped my fingers around my tea mug. It was cooler now, and I brought it up to face height. The steam rose, curling in a misty swirl, shifting its course when even the smallest gust of air touched it. The familiar smell of Earl Grey came from it, soothing my senses.

  "I'll talk to him, even though I'd rather bite his head off," I said rather grimly.

  The sound of Will's rumbling laugh filled the kitchen. A warm feeling spread through me as it bounced gently off the walls. It was such a pleasant and infectious sound, and it caught me off guard. I looked up at him. His eyes, focused on my face, twinkled when the light hit them. They were the intense colour of the ocean, like the water behind the palm trees in those tropical beach advertisements.

  Feeling kind of light-headed, I stood up. I left my tea on the table, and made my way back into the living room. The change from hard, cold tile to carpet's squashy, plush texture was noticeable on my bare feet. My ears picked up the sound of Will scraping the chair against the floor. He followed me, brushing his hair away from his eyes. His lanky build leaned on the doorframe that separated this room from the next. I continued toward the front door, moving at a steady pace. I glanced over my shoulder to see if Will was following. He wasn't. He just gave me a sly grin and shook his head. I stopped walking, and swung around to give him an exasperated look from halfway across the room.

  Will innocently asked, "What?"

  "I've got bills to pay. I have to finish up some paperwork," I replied, sighing, "And I'm tired."

  "Oh, come on, Dahlia. Let me stay awhile and help you," he said, coming towards me.

  "No. I've got it."

  Slowly, as if time had vanished, Will raised his
hand to my face. He hesitated before touching my cheek lightly. My heart beat faster as his fingers trailed down my jaw, stopping to hold my chin between them. When I cast my eyes downward, he lifted my chin to force me to look at him.

  "You don't have to carry the world on your shoulders, 'Lia," he murmured, his voice soft, but meaningful.

  For a second, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, Will's expression hadn't changed a bit.

  "I hardly call paying this month's rent the world," I whispered, trying to seem nonchalant, but only succeeded in sounding shaky.

  Ire sparked in Will's eyes. He dropped his hand and turned away, looking everywhere but at me.

  "I didn't mean that, and you know it," he grumbled, deciding to walk himself to the door.

  I couldn't keep up with his long stride, so by the time I reach the door, Will was halfway through it. He paused, one hand on the edge of the door. He pursed his lips together, and shifted to look at me.

  Breathing in a deep breath, he said, "You pull up this shield whenever someone gets too close. All these defenses are drawn up around you, and you don't let anyone in. You need to let someone in, Dahlia. Anyone. A person can't live life like that. I just," Will let his breath out," I just care about you too much to let you sink in your miseries."

  At that moment, I couldn't imagine the look on my face. A wave of warmth washed through me because of his caring, as well as a rush of annoyance at him not minding his own business. I liked my shield, damn it. Who was he to tell me otherwise?

  Not knowing what to say, I bit my bottom lip. My arms felt awkward by my sides, so I crossed them over my chest. Will took in my torn pose, nodded goodbye, and shut the door behind him. I stood there, staring at the door in thought, for awhile. I lost track of time. When I went back into the kitchen, my tea was cold again. I exhaled noisily while dumping the remains into the sink. The tea looked like a brown river flowing quickly into the ocean. Mentally shaking myself, I turned to lean against the counter again. An unexpected smile spread across my lips as I swept my gaze around the kitchen and living room. I was home. Finally, for once in the past eighteen years, I felt as if I belonged. I haven't ever really found a place that I called home. I suppose I never stuck around quite long enough to make it.

  I went to sleep that night with my emotion twisted into a jumble of different ones, each one fighting the other. When I was drifting off, though, it was the smile that won over the rest.

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the blue sky outside my window. The bright sunlight was streaming through the curtains, illuminating the entire room. I yawned and sat up in my bed, looking over at the clock on my bedside table.

  "7:15? Damn," I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed, cringing when my wound send a sharp burst of pain through my entire side.

  I slipped on the green robe that was hanging on a nearby chair, and strode out into the kitchen. The sole thought in my head was painkillers and tea. I tied the robe loosely around my waist, and then reached up in the cabinet for my small prescription bottle of painkillers. I shook two out and set them on the counter. The tea kettle was beginning to make a shrill sound as it started to warm up. I put two Earl Grey teabags in the enormous "I Love New York" mug my landlady had gotten for me last spring break, just to make it extra strong. I was still feeling slightly out of it, with my thoughts not exactly where they should be.

  I methodically poured the steaming water into my mug when the piercing whistle sounded. I grabbed the pills on the counter and held the nearly overflowing mug gingerly in my hand, and made my way slowly to the living room. Setting the tea and the painkillers down on the coffee table, I flipped on the television and went to stand by the French window. The sun lit up the sky, and no clouds were visible. Wanting to experience the wonderful weather myself, I wrenched open the door. It made a noise of protest, but I jerked it firmly, and it opened. A warm breeze blew in. My hair lifted and swirled around my shoulders. I could smell the sea again, and, smiling, I went out onto the small balcony.

  Leaning on the railing with my elbows, I took in the view. The skyline was dotted with skyscrapers. Just past the enormous buildings, though, was the magnificent glimmer of blue ocean. The wind blew over the roaring waves, through the city, and into my apartment. My eyes fluttered closed as I breathed in deeply. I cherished the heat of the sun on my face and exposed hands.

  As much as I wanted to stand here all day, I knew I had to get ready. I walked back into the living room, but left the French doors wide open. The television was singing its morning news, but the words weren't audible against the sounds of San Francisco in the morning. I sat on the edge of the couch and popped the pills in my mouth. I took a gulp of tea to help wash them down. The pills settled at the base of my throat, stuck there for a moment. I took another mouthful to push them all the way down.

  I waited a few seconds for the painkillers to work their way into my system. I watched the man on the screen move his lips at the fastest pace I'd ever seen, even for a news anchor.

  Taking my Earl Grey with me, I walked back to my bedroom. It was the only one in the apartment, but it was large and airy. The headboard and base board were a deep mahogany colour, contrasting nicely with my navy blue bedspread. A patchwork quilt was laid out at the foot of the bed. My great-aunt Martha had made it for me when I was born and I'd held it close by ever since.

  I headed for the closet that was positioned across the bed, and yanked it open. A long row of clothes stared back at me. I bit my lip in thought, sweeping my gaze over each piece of clothing. What was I supposed to wear when I was about to meet my boss? My boss who was probably going to fire me.

  Setting my cup down on the nearest flat surface, I reached in the closet and pulled out a knee-length business skirt. I held it up in consideration. If I was going to get fired, I would want to be wearing something comfortable. I shoved the skirt back in with the rest of the clothes hanging up. Taking another look, a pair of black slacks caught my eye.

  I stored the more formal, business-like clothes in the small closet, putting my other clothes in various drawers and dressers. Remembering this, I went over to the dresser in the corner of the bedroom and tugged the third drawer open. A deep blue cable knit sweater sat on the top, squished down at the sides to make it lopsided. I nodded to myself, yanked it out, and threw it on the bed with the slacks I had picked out of the closet.

  After a quick shower, I dressed, being careful of my stab wound as I pulled the sweater over my head. The prescription painkillers seemed to be doing their job extremely well. I felt very little, even as I accidentally elbowed my side trying to loop a leather belt around my waist. Gulping down the rest of my tea, I headed for the bathroom. It lay in the next room, not connected to my bedroom. I had furnished it with a pine chest and matching cabinet. Navy blue towels hung from the racks next to the sink and shower.

  Breathing in, I stepped in front of the mirror, steeling myself. I suppose I looked better than I had in the hospital, but I still looked like I had been through hell. Bags settled heavily under my eyes, and my hair hung limply around my face. My complexion was white, much paler than usual. Sighing, I reached for my makeup bag.

  * * *

  The hallway smelt of burnt toast, and the air was stuffy. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I locked my door. The lock clicked twice, and I dropped the keys back in my purse. I turned, and looked at Will's door, wondering where he was. I felt a pang of guilt, knowing I had left things cold between us. Pushing those thoughts aside, I wound down the three flights of stairs with stunning ease. My side was a dull, numb pain that I barely noticed. I was grateful the pills had kicked in and were working so well. This day would be bad enough without gripping my side in pain.

  I felt a little more human now that I had tied my hair up in a high ponytail, and was wearing light makeup. The end of the ponytail swished against my shoulder blades. A flash of brown hair came into my vision as I leaned forwar
d to open the front door. I became aware of how long my hair was getting. I had cut it spontaneously two summers ago to a chin-length bob when I had craved change. I hadn't cut it since.

  The glare of the sun made me squint. I closed the door behind me, and headed down the street to the nearest subway station on Freemont Avenue. The temperature was cold, even though the sun beat unrelentingly on the city of San Francisco. I wrapped my short, black, leather jacket around me tighter, seeking more warmth. In the morning, the street held less people, but I still managed to bump into a few. I smiled apologetically at the middle-aged man I smacked into at the crosswalk, but he just gave me a cold glare, and took off the other way. Someone wasn't a morning person.

  I made it Freemont Avenue in less than ten minutes, jabbing my monthly underground pass into the machine at exactly 8:45. I looked around when I came through the other side of the automatic device. San Francisco wasn't known for their nice underground, that was for sure. The walls were crumbling, and the seats in the departure area were all broken, except for one. An elderly person always occupied it, anyways. I folded my arms across my chest, leaned against the wall, trying to warm up, while waiting for the next subway to arrive. The digital clock said I had two minutes.

  It arrived three minutes later. A crowd pushed their way off it as another group of people pushed their way on. It made for a hectic scene. For some reason, it reminded me of those Tokyo undergrounds I had seen on a BBC episode about overpopulation. I shrugged my way off the wall, and walked on just before the doors squealed shut. I grabbed a pole as the subway lurched. The station sped away in a blur of motion and colour.

  The compartment rocked back and forth as the subway flew down the shady tunnel. Still latched on to the pole, I hiked my purse up further on my shoulder as a man in a worn blue cap eyed it slyly. He noticed my gesture and gave me a roguish grin that made me grimace. I looked away, and I saw, out of the corner of my vision, his gaze slide to another woman's purse. It shone a metallic colour in the florescent lights, expensive-looking. He's have more luck with her bag than mine. All I had were my keys, painkillers, thirteen bucks, and sunglasses.