Leslie Parrish - Pitch Black

Her ex, however, had liked to get up with the dawn. When she’d moved into his house, she’d been expected to conform to his routine. Alarm at six a.m. Then a work-out, which he’d harass her into doing with him, even though she’d rather go through an IRS audit than exercise. But she’d been eager to please, still shocked such a rich, handsome man had wanted her. Had pursued her. Had married her.

Then he would dress in a beautifully tailored suit and set off for another beautiful day of screwing people over in the beautiful land of get-rich-quick corporate America. Beautiful .

Since the divorce, she hadn’t set her alarm. Not once.

She could therefore muster no surprise when she opened one bleary eye and saw the numbers nine-five-zero shining in neon green from her bedside clock. Late for most people, especially on a weekday. Not for her.

The only question was, why had she awakened at all? She’d shut down her computer right after putting the final touches on her Sam’s Rant column at midnight. Not tired enough for bed, she had turned off all the lights and curled up on her couch in the living room, wishing she could turn her brain off, too.

Impossible. Instead, she spent a few hours mentally rewriting history, imagining she’d been home to receive Ryan Smith’s IMs that snowy night.

It had been after three before she’d finally moved into her bedroom and fallen into her bed. Yet sleep had still proved elusive after those wide-awake dreams, and she’d last looked at the clock at four thirty.

Then she heard the knocking and realized what had awakened her. “Wonderful,” she muttered. Visitors Tuesday. A tense early-morning call from Alec Wednesday, followed by a visit from her lawyer. Now this.

It couldn’t be her mother. She never came over without calling first, ever hopeful that one day Sam would find somebody and there might be an embarrassing situation to walk in on. Tricia would be at the realty office where she worked. Sam had a smile-and-nod relationship with most of her neighbors, which was how she liked it. Rick Young had to have gotten the message that she wouldn’t go out with him. And the rest of her more casual friends had given up trying to draw her out, figuring she’d leave her postdivorce hibernation when she was ready.

The knocking continued. Her teeth grinding together so hard her jaw hurt, she got up and stalked out of the bedroom, not even stopping for a robe, a hair check, or a swish of mouthwash.

All of which she regretted when she flung the door open and saw Special Agent Alec Lambert standing on the other side of it.

“Shit,” she snapped, unable to help it.

His lips quirked. Sam almost slammed the door again. As if realizing it, Lambert moved closer, blocking the jamb with his body like some determined kid peddling magazine subscriptions. “I need to talk to you.”

“Ever heard of making an appointment?” She squirmed, bunching the front of her nightshirt in her fists, knowing there was no chance he hadn’t read the man-bashing sentiment this time.

“Ever heard of answering your phone?” he countered. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped around her into the living room. “We’ve been calling all morning.”

Sam cast a quick, guilty look toward the telephone. Last night, after Tricia’s third or fourth call demanding info on who had been in her apartment Tuesday, she had turned the ringer off. “Sorry.”

She didn’t mention she’d just gotten up and might not have answered anyway. The bare feet and nightshirt, not to mention the rat’s nest disguised as her hair, made that eminently clear.

“What do you want? What’s so important to have you at my door at this ungodly hour?”

He managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “I know you’re a night owl and this is the crack of dawn for you. But it is important. Why don’t you get cleaned up and dressed? I can wait a few minutes.” His mouth tightened. “As long as you still haven’t gone online this morning.”

Her curiosity rising, she shook her head. “I haven’t.”

“Good. Now go; I’ll be right here.”

Sam sidestepped toward her bedroom, not turning her back on him. Letting the FBI agent fully appreciate the angry-divorcée message on her nightie seemed preferable to flashing her underwear as she departed. Hopefully he had been focused on the saucy words, not on the fact that she was nearly naked beneath the shirt. She’d opened the door to a bitterly cold morning and had almost certainly greeted him with high beams fully lit.

Once in the privacy of her bathroom, Sam multitasked, raking a comb through her hair with one hand while she brutally brushed her teeth with the other. Afterward, she quickly rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a pair of old, premarried khakis that still fit. Considering she’d gained back the fifteen pounds she’d lost on the good-wife-diet-and-exercise program, she didn’t have many other options, unless she wanted to again entertain an FBI agent in her sweats.

When she returned to her living room, she found he’d made himself at home on the couch, which no longer held the mountain of laundry. She hadn’t exactly gone on a cleaning binge, but she’d picked up at least a little.

“What’s this about?” Sitting down at her desk, she flipped the power button on the surge protector behind her CPU. “You mentioned my being online?”

“You haven’t been since last night?” he confirmed again.

She shook her head.

“I read your weekly rant.”

She stiffened, though she had done nothing wrong. She hadn’t hinted about knowing a murder victim, or about being contacted by the FBI. She’d merely called the criminals who preyed on people online the scum-bags they were. “And?”

“It was good.”

Though she hadn’t been looking for his approval, only his acknowledgment that she had kept her word to stay quiet about the FBI’s visit, she still liked the compliment.

“It was also pretty passionate,” he added.

“Who wouldn’t be passionate after hearing about the murders of two teenage boys?”

“You might be surprised.”

That said a lot about the human race that she didn’t want to contemplate. “So what’s the problem? I kept my word; there’s nothing in it about Ryan or the investigation. Or you.”

Especially you . She’d made a concerted effort to think of anything but Lambert. Especially after he’d called yesterday, all big, bad, protective FBI agent criticizing choices she’d made when writing her book. Screw him. He knew nothing about what drove her. Few did.

Actually, maybe he’d done her a favor with the disapproving reaction. It had made it easier to pretend she hadn’t felt a spark of interest in the man. To suppose she’d simply imagined how his hand had felt on her shoulder.

Instead of answering, he reached into his leather at taché and pulled out a few sheets of paper. When he handed them to her, she realized what they were and frowned in bewilderment. “I know what I wrote.”

“Look at the second page. The comments.”

She did, quickly scanning them from the top down.

“Regulars?” he asked.

“Most.”

“What about number six?”

She read it. “ Darwin? Doesn’t ring any bells, beyond the obvious reference.”

“So he’s not a frequent visitor?”

“Not under this name.” Frowning, she read the words again. “And I don’t usually have visitors who are quite so…”

“Condescending?”

“I was going to say hateful. I guess you were right about being surprised by people’s reactions.” She shook her head in disgust. “This guy doesn’t sound at all bothered by the idea of victims walking right into the hands of psychopaths who want to do them harm.”