Jason Pinter - The Darkness

I thought he was.”

“You did not dress like a journalist,” Amanda said.

“You bet your ass. Had a row of pens in my shirt pocket, a camera and notepad and everything. Everyone assumed I was Clark Kent.”

“I would have paid to see that,” Amanda said.

“There aren’t a whole lot of photo albums back in

Bend. My dad wasn’t exactly the sentimental type.”

“How do you feel about how things are going?” she asked. I took a seat next to her, thought for a moment.

“When I found out Stephen was dead, I felt numb. Like someone was prodding me with a stick I could see but couldn’t feel. I was supposed to feel remorse, but it didn’t come at first. Someone can tell you that you lost a family member, but if you didn’t even know the person it’s not the same. It should be, I guess. Blood is blood, but in a way it isn’t. Now, it feels different. Like maybe I did lose someone who could have- should have -been closer to me.” I looked at Amanda, saw she was listening to every word. “Without you, I’d have no one.”

“Don’t say that,” she said, looking away. “That’s not true.”

It was true, but I didn’t want to argue. I’d made mistakes during our time together. Knowing when to shut up was an important lesson.

She went back to reading the paper. Her fingers were still a little wet, and I could see the print rubbing off on them. She went to wipe her hands on the towel, then smiled and thought better of it.

“You see this?” she said, holding up a copy of that morning’s Dispatch.

I shook my head. I rarely read the Dispatch. Not because I held a grudge against them-though I did-it’s because they never had much I felt was worth reading. It was the kind of paper that rarely presented an even story.

It was all about eliciting a reaction, stoking a fire, presenting a story so biased in one direction or the other that readers would either be incensed or infatuated. I had all the major New York City papers delivered to my door in one bundle. I could care less about the Dispatch, but it didn’t cost anything more and every now and then I enjoyed reading the sports section.

“I must have missed it,” I said. “What’d you see?”

“Paulina Cole,” Amanda said. “Says here her column will be suspended until Thursday while she deals with a personal matter.”

“Really?” I asked. That surprised me. Paulina Cole was the kind of woman who didn’t take personal leaves.

If my mental image of her was accurate, she stayed in her office while darkness crept in, waiting for some scoop to brighten her desk. And if she didn’t get one, it would only fuel her fire to make the next scoop even juicier.

I wondered what could be so important that she’d suspend her reporting, even just for a few days. It would take either an act of nature or a revolt by the paper’s shareholders to get rid of Paulina. Which meant somewhere a storm was brewing. Not to mention I’d be lying if I didn’t hope, after everything she’d done to Jack and me, that it made her life a living hell.

No doubt Paulina would come back on Thursday with a story that would open some eyes.

Wednesday

Paulina Cole glanced over her shoulder. Still nobody there. The Mercedes was empty when she climbed in, empty when she started the engine, and empty when she pulled onto the FDR Drive toward I-95. She even checked the trunk-nothing-but wondered if there had been enough time for someone to climb in during the split second when she closed the trunk and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The anger welling up inside Paulina was a firestorm.

She was scared, and God, she couldn’t stand that feeling.

The idea that someone controlled an aspect of her life that she did not, it was like being trapped in cement while people poked you with a stick. That night, the night that man took her, Paulina had experienced emotions she didn’t think she’d ever felt. Not when her husband left her.

Not when he took half of her money because his deadbeat ass barely made a dime, not when she was fired from her first job as a secretary for “not being presentable.” Of course this translated as she wouldn’t wear a blouse lowcut enough that the partners could see her tits, but even then Paulina Cole didn’t feel this sensation. Even then, she knew her future was in her hands. Small people thought small. She was meant for something bigger, grander, and nobody, no idiotic men-whether spouse or employer-would ever slow her down.

Until that night.

There were burn marks on her right side, just below the curve of her breast. It ached every second of every day, and she had to wear a massive bandage, otherwise all the aloe she put on it would seep through her shirts.

She’d never been brutalized. Not like that. She could take criticism. She could take people hating her. Hate came when you got under somebody’s skin, and Paulina was nothing if not a provocateur.

But she did nothing to deserve this.

And neither did Abby.

Thinking about what that man threatened to do to her daughter made Paulina shriek inside. And when Paulina

Cole got scared, she took those emotions and turned them inside out. Fear turned to rage, and rage had to be directed somewhere. She just didn’t know where yet.

She arrived at Smith College at just past noon, the entire hundred-and-sixty-mile-plus drive taking just over two and a half hours. Luckily there wasn’t much traffic leaving Manhattan that early in the morning. Lots of people lived outside the city and commuted in. Not a whole lot did the opposite. No sense paying New York living prices and make a non-NYC wage.

Finally Paulina found herself on College Lane, which was bracketed on the north by Elm Street. Figured, she thought, that this pagan sanctuary of a university would have an Elm Street.

The office of admissions was a three-level white-92

Jason Pinter thatched cottage with a second-level deck that hung over the entryway. The front door had several sun chairs on the porch, though Paulina couldn’t for the life of her figure out who exactly would choose to spend a beautiful day sitting in front of the admissions office.

Paulina parked the rental on the lawn directly outside of the admissions office, purposefully ignoring the yellow sign that clearly stated VEHICLES WITHOUT PARKING PERMITS WILL BE TOWED. Paulina knew this game. In order for her car to be towed, the admissions office would have to call the college’s office of public safety. The public safety office would have to dispatch an officer to survey the vehicle. If the vehicle was, in fact, parked without a permit, the public safety officer would then have the go-ahead to call the local police department, who would then dispatch a tow truck to remove the offending vehicle. The entire process, beginning to end, would take about forty-five minutes.

Paulina didn’t plan to be there more than five.

She walked into the admissions office, trying to avoid eye contact with the students huddled in the foyer reading the campus paper and checking their cell phones for text messages. She went right up to the registrar and planted her hands on the counter in front of the ruddy-faced man who looked at her like she was some vicious bear come in from the wilderness.

“Hi,” Paulina said with the conviction of a woman who knew she’d get whatever information she wanted and might just tear out your spleen to get it. “I’m looking for my daughter. I was wondering if you could let me know what dorm room she’s in.”

“Your…daughter?” the man said, surprised. Paulina could tell from the man’s demeanor that he was probably not considered any sort of threat to the student body of this all-girl school.

“Yes. My daughter. Abigail Cole.” The man sat there unmoving. “Is there a problem?”