Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“This is . . . a grave?”

“It’s Nicole Medina’s grave,” Tatum told her. “He switched you with her body just before the funeral.”

She looked down at the pit. The coffin lay inside, and something metallic flashed in it—the infrared camera. Her breath shuddered. Just before the funeral. Who was it? The priest? The funeral director? She hugged herself, her body rocking, already knowing the answer. “It was the medical examiner. He fits the profile. The stressor?”

“The Whitfield case,” Tatum said. “Zoe—”

“The wrong time of death. Of course. We should have seen it straightaway. We should have known. Did you get my message? I tried to communicate by blinking, but I couldn’t get the letters right—kept losing my count, but I tried to tell you.”

“We got the message. That’s how we found him. He was with Debra in high school. Listen, let’s step away . . .”

“When did he switch between me and the body? How long have I been in there?”

“You should rest.” Tatum motioned the paramedic over.

“ Tell me. How long?”

Tatum cleared his throat. “From what we could tell, the only time he had to switch the body was last night. He arranged it with the funeral home, told them he had some final urgent tests to do on the body. They brought the coffin to the morgue in the evening, picked it up at five in the morning.”

Zoe looked back at the coffin, realizing that its walls were bare, the lining missing. He must have removed it so that anyone watching the video wouldn’t see the lining and figure out where she was. “He would have waited for the last moment to make sure I was anesthetized for long enough so I wouldn’t wake up during the funeral. And to make sure I’d last longer. So probably four thirty. What time is it?”

A paramedic approached her with a small medical bag. She took a step back. “What time is it?”

The paramedic glanced at Tatum, who raised a hand to stop him. “It’s just after six thirty.”

Zoe blinked. “Fourteen hours.” A constant clicking noise that distracted her. “Fourteen hours.” It was her teeth, she realized. They were chattering. “I’ve been in there for fourteen hours. He put me there. I was . . . it was . . .” Strange, how cold she was. It was always so hot in San Angelo. But she was trembling, cold.

“Miss, I’m going to give you something to calm you down, okay?” The paramedic asked warily.

She took another step back, shaking like a leaf. Her palms were clammy, and she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. She glanced at Tatum, not knowing what she needed, only knowing she needed him to do something . To help her.

“I’m right here,” he said.

She glanced at the paramedic. He held a small needle. “Miss?”

Her head jerked, giving him a quick reluctant nod, and he took her hand. She had to force herself to freeze so she wouldn’t hit him. The needle pierced her flesh, and she had a flicker of a memory, standing in the parking lot, her body rigid with pain, and a sudden sting in her neck. That was how he’d taken her.

“Don’t go,” she told Tatum.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Zoe knew only the basics when it came to PTSD, but she was pretty sure that people who suffered from it shouldn’t be taking care of each other. Despite that, it was what she and Andrea were doing, and it worked reasonably well, considering the circumstances.

There were some problems. It felt like their traumas were dueling each other. Zoe wanted every window in the apartment open at all times. She needed light and air, and the busy street noise was music to her ears. Andrea wanted the windows closed, the door locked. She’d turned the apartment into her own cocoon and wanted to make sure there was no way for any intruder to creep in. But they tried to compromise—the living room window would be open, but the window next to the emergency stairs would remain latched. The door would be kept locked at all times, of course. Zoe would go out for very long walks, feeling the wind on her face.

They both had nightmares.

They slept in the same room and in the same bed, though that arrangement had to change soon. Zoe had a long scratch on her face from last night, when Andrea had nearly clawed her eye out, trying to struggle against someone who wasn’t there.

Still, that morning almost felt normal, in a weekend vacation sort of way. Zoe woke up to the sound of frying, Andrea banging pans and pots in the kitchen. She got out of bed and padded to the kitchen, blinking.

Andrea hummed to herself, sounding more cheerful than she had since Zoe had returned home. A tall pile of pancakes sat on a plate by her side, and she was making another one, flipping it, smiling with pleasure at how it turned out.

Zoe reached out for the pancakes, and Andrea swatted her hand with the spatula.

“Ow!”

“Not yet,” Andrea said. “I had this all planned out. With butter and maple syrup on top. I bought some orange juice to go with it.”

“But I’m hungry,” Zoe complained. “Just one.” She reached for the pancakes again.

The spatula landed, missing her fingers by an inch.

“Watch it.” Andrea waggled her eyebrows and waved the spatula menacingly.

“Can I have a cup of coffee at least?” Zoe grumbled, eyeing the pancakes yearningly.

“One cup.”

Zoe prepared herself a cup, waiting patiently for the dark liquid of life to fill the mug. She sipped from it, breathing in the smell of coffee. Sublime.

Then, with one sharp movement she stole the topmost pancake and stuffed it into her mouth hurriedly, nearly choking herself.

“You should see yourself.” Andrea snorted. “Your cheeks stuffed with pancake—you look like a hamster.”

Zoe grinned at her, mouth full, and walked over to the living room, swallowing.

“Can I put on some music?” she called. That was another thing she needed almost constantly. Music.

“Fine, but no Beyoncé or Taylor—I can’t take it anymore.”

“Katy Perry?”

“Okay.” Andrea groaned.

Zoe put on T eenage Dream and stepped over to the living room window, which Andrea had closed, opening it again, staring at the cars driving back and forth.

She didn’t need to be an expert in trauma to know that one thing was emphatically different between Andrea and her. Zoe’s attacker was in a federal prison, awaiting his trial. Andrea’s monster was on the loose. Despite the cops watching every exit of the building, despite the roadblocks, despite the citywide search, Rod Glover had disappeared, like a malicious gho s t.

“I wish I partied like that last Friday night,” Andrea said behind her.

“What?” Zoe asked, startled.

“The song.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t even been listening to the music; it was just one more relaxing sound to accompany her.

“Breakfast is served, madam. Can we turn off the noise?”

“Uh . . . just a few more songs? ‘Firework’ is just about to play.”

Andrea sighed, shaking her head, stomping back into the kitchen. Zoe followed her, embarrassed, not willing to admit how much she needed the music.

It would get better. She hoped.

Each of them had a plate with a monstrous pile of pancakes, a block of butter on top, floating in a lake of maple. A third plate contained sliced fruit—bananas, strawberries, apples, and some blueberries and pecans. It was an Instagram-worthy type of breakfast, if either of them was the type to post meal images, which they weren’t. Both Bentley sisters believed food was meant to be eaten, not posted online to tease.