Mike Omer - In the Darkness

That annoying reporter had told him last night that Zoe had gone to grab dinner with a tall man. At the time, Tatum had thought she might have gone with Detective Foster for some reason. But now he wondered.

Hearing the sound of the adjacent room’s door opening, he hurried outside, intending to intercept Zoe before she left. He squinted in the sunlight, turning to Zoe’s door.

A man was just leaving her room, the door shutting behind him.

Tall really was an apt description. The man towered even over Tatum. He scratched his beard and turned to leave, pausing when he saw Tatum. His eyes flickered for a moment to Tatum’s feet, still clad in only one sock. He then brushed past, nodding at Tatum politely.

Tatum checked the phone in his hand. Zoe still hadn’t seen the text. He suddenly felt a stab of concern. Who was this man who’d just stepped out of her room?

As he approached her door, he saw it hadn’t quite shut, the latch jamming slightly. He knocked on the door. “Zoe? Are you there?”

No answer, not even after he knocked again. He hesitated, then pushed the door open.

The room was empty, but Zoe’s suitcase was on the floor. The bedsheets were tangled in a way that made him think of a violent struggle. He could hear water running from the bathroom.

“Zoe?” he called out, and a second later, much louder, “Zoe? Are you all right?”

The running water stopped. “Tatum?” he heard her muffled voice through the door.

He relaxed instantly; then his mind interpreted everything again. The tangled sheets, the musky smell in the room, the man who’d left . . . he stood frozen, the simple jigsaw that he should have put together a few minutes before suddenly clicking in his mind.

“Tatum, is that you?” Zoe called from the bathroom again.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. I just wanted to know if you need a ride to the airport.” He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling awkward. “Sorry, you didn’t answer the phone, and I thought . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence. What had he thought? Why hadn’t he conceived of the simple explanation that Zoe was momentarily indisposed?

“I’d appreciate a ride,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Tatum was about to leave her room when Zoe’s handbag grabbed his attention. It was open, and a gray folder peeked from inside. He took it out of her handbag and opened it. It was a copy of Nicole Medina’s case file with some notations marked in Zoe’s handwriting inside. He flipped the pages, getting glimpses of the familiar crime scene photos.

The bathroom door opened behind him. “Okay, I’m ready,” Zoe said.

He turned around. Her hair was wet, her face paler than usual. A single drop of water ran down the side of her neck, and Tatum found his attention transfixed by it.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Can you take the case file back to the police station? I forgot to return it before leaving.”

“Sure. Did you talk to Andrea this morning?”

“She’s much better.” Zoe crouched and picked up her suitcase. “Your grandfather stayed the night, apparently.”

“What? At your apartment?”

“She said he made her feel safe.” She gave him a small smile. “He’s a sweet man.”

“That’s Marvin,” Tatum muttered. “The sweetest.”

She began walking, dragging the suitcase after her.

“Let me,” Tatum offered.

“I’m fine.” She shouldered her handbag, then glanced at his feet. “Maybe you should finish putting your shoes on.”

Tatum stared dumbly at his partially clad feet. “Sure. It’ll just take a moment.”

Zoe brushed past him as she left the room. She smelled of the hotel’s shampoo. He hurriedly went to his room, putting on the other sock and the shoes. Then he left the room to follow Zoe. He hadn’t gone to the bathroom or brushed his teeth since waking up. But he didn’t want to ask her to wait. He’d have to avoid breathing on people until he could drop back by his hotel room.

“I hate to leave in a hurry, but there isn’t much we can do here,” Zoe said as they climbed down the motel’s stairs. “You can help them with the press and kick off your hotline. Remember to make sure they have the Medina funeral closely watched. It should take place in a few days.”

“Right.” Serial killers sometimes showed up at their victims’ funerals. It was good practice to take some photos of the funeral guests.

“I’ll talk to you tonight, see how it’s going.”

“Just take care of your sister.” He took the suitcase from her and hefted it into the trunk. They both slid into the car and shut the doors.

He started the engine. “I met that reporter friend of yours yesterday.”

“Harry Barry?” She looked alarmed. “You didn’t tell him about Andrea?”

“I didn’t tell him anything ,” Tatum answered. They drove through the streets of San Angelo, which was slowly waking up. Tatum thought of pointing out that it was his turn to choose the music but couldn’t find the words. It was as if the connection between Zoe and him had snapped, leaving them a couple of strangers. And maybe they were strangers after all. How long had he known her? A month? Was that really enough to know anyone?

His phone rang. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he answered the call. “Gray here.”

“Agent Gray.” It was Detective Foster. “The killer is streaming a new video. Experiment number two. It’s Maribel Howe.”

“Damn.”

“I’m sending you the link. Get over here.”

He hung up and glanced at Zoe. “We’ll have to get you an Uber.”

“What happened?”

“Experiment number two.” His phone blipped. He pulled over by the sidewalk and glanced at the message. It was from Foster and contained a single link. Tatum tapped the link. The browser window opened slowly. The website was similar to the first—a video uploaded by Schrodinger titled “Experiment Number Two.” For a while they just stared at the black video screen while the slow cellular connection accessed the stream. Then, suddenly, the face of a girl lying in the darkness appeared, the video in the same black-and-white hues of an infrared camera. She was yelling, thumping on something above her. The phone’s speaker morphed the screams, making them sound grainy and inhuman.

“That’s Maribel Howe,” Zoe said. “I saw her photo.”

“I need to go to the station. Let me help you get your suitcase, and—”

“No.” Zoe stared at the screen. “I’m coming with you.”

Maribel’s voice on the phone had set Delia’s life back into motion. She hadn’t even noticed it had stopped until that call. Time had stood still for weeks on end while Delia waited for her daughter to return. She and Frank had stopped talking; she’d rarely left the house, hardly bothering with any semblance of a routine. Only the pain she’d inflicted on herself corresponded to the rules of time, its intensity ebbing as the minutes ticked by.

But upon hearing her daughter screaming for help, she’d realized Maribel needed her help now .

She and Frank had tried talking the night before for the first time in six weeks. It had been a stunted conversation, full of pauses and half-finished sentences. As if their ability to communicate had gone stale after they’d left it untouched for too long. It had been a formal conversation, full of technicalities. What were the possibilities? How could they try to help Maribel? Frank, a man of action, had suggested hiring a private detective, kicking up a social media campaign, and trying to schedule an interview on the local TV.

Delia had agreed to everything he’d said while resolving that she would go to the police station and demand that their daughter’s disappearance get the attention it deserved. There was a sort of bitter irony there—Maribel had said more than once that Delia’s nagging skills couldn’t be matched. And now her own plan to help her daughter was essentially nagging the police to make an effort.