Chris Mooney - The Secret Friend

'Stay where you are,' Darby said.

The intruder kept walking. Darby backed up into the doorway of the bathroom.

'Emma is fortunate to have someone so dedicated working on her behalf,' the intruder said. 'You could be sitting at your new home in Beacon Hill, and yet here you are searching through the dark for answers. I wonder why that is.'

He stepped into the spare bedroom and gently shut the door as if he was retiring for the night. She heard him click the lock.

Next she heard a rattling sound – the window, he was opening the window. Why? There must be a fire escape.

Darby made her way down the spiral staircase. When she reached the living room, she saw a thin sliver of light near the bottom of the front door. The hallway lights were on. He must have tripped the circuit breaker.

She took the stairs. Marsh was sitting behind the desk, reading a magazine, when he looked up and saw Darby racing down the stairs.

'Where does Emma's fire escape lead?'

'To the alley around the corner,' Marsh said, standing. 'What's going on?'

Darby didn't answer. She was already out the front door, running down the steps and through the heavy snow. Patrol cars were trying to edge their way through the traffic. She ran around the corner, past the ramp for the building's garage. The alley was empty. Snow whipping across her face, she shielded her eyes as she moved down the alley, the SIG out, ready to fire.

When she reached the end of the alley she saw the fire-escape ladder rattling in the wind near a dumpster. Fresh footprints were in the snow under the ladder. Darby followed them as they curved to the right onto Arlington Street.

Cars were stuck in traffic, drivers and passengers gawking at her as she moved into the street, looking through the blowing curtains of snow for the intruder. Darby couldn't see him. The man with the strange eyes was gone. Jimmy Marsh said the electrical box for Emma's penthouse was inside the walk-in closet. Armed with a flashlight borrowed from a patrolman, Darby pulled back the row of dresses and found the main circuit breaker. She flipped the switch. The lights were back.

The closet was long and narrow, packed with seemingly endless rows of clothes and shoes meticulously arranged in professionally crafted organizers made of polished oak. The jewellery boxes were actually four small cabinet drawers lined with red velvet.

In the second drawer Darby discovered an empty space between two stunning diamond necklaces. She flipped to the page in the murder book, found the listing for the contents of the jewellery box. The antique locket and chain was listed between a gold diamond necklace and another necklace with a platinum chain. The necklaces were here; the locket and chain were missing.

Still, she wanted to see the pictures CSU had taken of the jewellery boxes.

Darby called Coop. He was still at the lab. She explained what had happened and what she needed. Coop offered to wait at the lab until someone from ID came to unlock the office and retrieve the pictures. He promised to deliver them to the Hale building.

Tim Bryson didn't answer his phone. Darby left a message about the missing necklace, hung up and then went to work on the spare bedroom where the intruder escaped. The door was locked, so she had to crawl up the fire escape to enter the bedroom. There was no sign of forced entry on the window. She searched around the floor and through the snow for any evidence the intruder might have dropped.

Walter Smith carried Hannah down the cellar steps. When he reached the door to her room, he switched Hannah to his shoulder.

The key card was tucked in his front jean pocket. Walter stepped up next to the card reader. It beeped. He punched in the four numbers. The electronic locks clicked back. He opened the door and gently set Hannah down on her new bed.

Walter turned on the small lamp on the nightstand. Hannah's nose had stopped bleeding but blood had stained the front of her wool jacket. He took off her hat, jacket and gloves and folded them on top of the washing machine down the hall. Then he went upstairs.

His first stop was the garage. He opened up the trunk and removed the extra blankets Mary had told him to pack. His Blessed Mother said that if he ever got stopped by the police, they would search the trunk. If the police find blood, Walter, they'll take you away and you'll never see me again. Walter threw the blankets into a garbage bag.

The bathroom was on the second floor. Walter opened the medicine cabinet. He heard a car engine racing down the street.

Was it the police? Had they found him? Panicked, he turned off the bathroom light and looked out the tiny window.

A big truck was ploughing its way through the snow. It came to a stop at the end of his street, and in the street light he saw the words 'AJ Movers' printed on the side of the truck. The big engine coughed as it turned right and headed up the steep hill, stopping in front of a grey clapboard ranch that had been vacant for well over two years. Someone was moving into the Peterson home.

Walter relaxed. He grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a roll of toilet paper and headed back to the basement.

For the next half hour he cleaned the blood from Hannah's face. Her nose was swollen but it wasn't broken. Good. He didn't want her disfigured in any way.

Walter made one more trip upstairs, to the kitchen. He filled a large Ziploc bag with crushed ice and placed it on Hannah's nose. Her clothes were wet and smelled of fried food. Her sweatshirt was rolled up; he could see her stomach. She had a small, strawberry-coloured birthmark on her waist. He touched it. Her skin was warm and smooth.

Walter rubbed his hand across her stomach. He realized what he was doing and yanked his hand away, disgusted with himself.

'I'm sorry, Hannah. That was wrong.'

Hannah didn't stir, didn't move.

'I'm sorry I hurt you. It was an accident.' Walter hoped she could hear him.

The ice had melted. He took off Hannah's boots and socks. She had pretty feet.

Walter shut off the light, about to head upstairs, when he thought of Hannah's wet clothes. He wanted her to be comfortable.

In the dark, with his eyes shut, Walter slipped off her jeans then worked the sweatshirt and T-shirt over her head. Walter opened his eyes when he reached the hallway. Mary would be proud of his self-control.

He put the wet clothes in the washing machine. When he came back into the bedroom, he saw the outline of Hannah's body in the soft light from the hallway. She wore nice cotton underwear – the simple kind good girls wore, not the sinful stuff he saw in magazines and on TV. Emma had worn that kind of underwear – expensive, promiscuous. Hannah wasn't like that. Mary said Hannah was a good girl, with a good heart.

Hannah's breasts swelled beneath her bra. Walter stared at her chest, wanting to touch her again. The time would come for that later, after they got to know each other, after he showed Hannah how much he loved her and how happy she would be here with him.

His Blessed Mother was trying to speak to him. Mary's voice sounded far away. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

It's okay, Mary said.

Walter didn't move. His skin felt hot, the scars covering his face and body throbbing with heat.

Here, let me help you.

Walter felt his Blessed Mother working through him. Mary unbuttoned his shirt. Mary pulled off his T-shirt and unbuckled his belt. Then she gently guided him to the opposite side of the bed and moved back the sheets. Mary didn't have to tell him what to do next.

Walter climbed on top of Hannah and laid his head against her chest. He could hear the soft beating of her heart. He closed his eyes, knowing he could stay here forever, just like this, pressed up against her skin. He buried his face in her soft hair.