Annslee Urban - Broken Silence

Time crawled, ticking unhurriedly in the darkness. The storm outside abated, leaving the shadows, the room, the air around her draped in a cold and eerie silence. Peace and quiet used to be a commodity she yearned for. But tonight it seemed more of a paradox than a possibility as thoughts of car bombs and explosions, of the upcoming charity fund-raiser and even Patrick Wiley wrestled in her mind.

Amber sat up, pumped her pillow, curled it into a ball and stuffed it back under her head. Okay, especially Patrick Wiley.

Emitting a groan, she wrenched up the blankets and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside, allowing pleasant ones to fill her mind.

Moments trickled by and finally her body and mind started to unwind. Her eyelids grew heavy and at last sleep pulled her in.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. She jerked her head. Eyes flickered back at her from the shadows.

“Amber.” His voice was low, distorted.

Goose bumps pebbled her skin. “Who’s there?”

“The man of your dreams.” His low, chilling laughter echoed in the small space.

Dark. Claustrophobic. Panic stole her next breath. She needed to run. Needed to get out of there.

“Where’s Boy Wonder now?” The man gave another laugh, his booted footsteps moving closer. “Who’s going to save you now, Amber?”

Dread building, a scream rose in her throat. She tried to run, to get away...

Amber shot up with a gasp, her breathing short and rapid as her heart pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest.

Where am I?

Trembling, she sat there, chilled and clammy with sweat, her mind spinning. For long seconds she worked to steady her breathing, control the adrenaline pumping through her.

Her pulse slowed as reality trickled in.

It was just a dream. She sagged against the headboard and shakily daubed the moisture from her brow. Of course it was. Just a dream.

For over a year, she’d been free of the nightmares. The haunting dreams, reeling like slow-motion pictures in her head. Terrifying and so real—pulling her back into that small, dingy frat room.

She crunched her eyelids against the memories and yanked up the comforter to her chin. It was only a bad dream. No one can hurt me . I’m safe. Amber mentally chanted those thoughts over and over again.

A streak of lightning flashed outside the window, and distant thunder boomed, rattling the glass.

She sat straight up as all of her senses shot to full alert. She held her breath, listened. A creak. A pop. Another rattle.

What if she was wrong? What if she wasn’t safe?

Throwing back the bedspread and sheets, she clambered out of the bed and fumbled for the light switch on the wall. She flipped up the switch and the lamp flickered on, chasing away the darkness and sending twisting shadows dancing on the pale walls and textured ceiling.

Icy chills rippled across her skin. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. What if someone was trying to get in? Even as she reminded herself that every door and window was bolted shut, she had to check again. It was a ritual she remembered well. Her voice of reason was lost in the memories. She groped the flashlight from the nightstand, ignoring the sting of cuts on her palm, and passed quickly from one room to another turning on lights and making sure everything was locked tight.

After a thorough search, she breathed relief when nothing looked out of the ordinary. As she turned out the lights, her gaze snagged on the laundry room window. The old wooden frame hung askew. Night air eerily whistled through the small gap.

She took a step closer. One of the two latches on the window was unlocked.

Someone had tampered with that window. Heart galloping, Amber tugged on the wood frame and engaged the lock, then spun on her heel, her mind reeling, grappling for a plan. Instinct told her to call the police, but what if they took too long to arrive? Maybe call a neighbor first, seek refuge—

Amber came to a screeching halt as she suddenly remembered her handyman, Charlie, had been by and cleaned her windows. He mentioned there were a couple warped window casings. He must have forgotten to latch that one.

That had to be it. She took a deep breath, rubbing her hand against the tension in her neck and scolding herself for overreacting. She’d call Charlie next week and set up a time for him to replace them.

Stalking back into her bedroom, she collapsed in the overstuffed chair by the bed, willing away the irrational fear that ripped through her like barbed wire. It was pure insanity, she knew, to be so unnerved by a dream.

Still her heart pounded to a rib-cracking beat. Over the years, she had worked hard to push past the memories. She’d done well. The nightmares had faded.

Until tonight.

Lord, if You are still near, please help me.

Amber took a steadying breath. God could protect her, she reminded herself, but at the same time she struggled to believe. Blind faith didn’t seem possible anymore.

Hadn’t for eleven years.

The exhaustion she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced with a restless energy, fueled by unwanted images and thoughts bouncing around in her head. She tried to tamp them down, but they wouldn’t let go.

Great. Now she’d never get back to sleep. Scrubbing her hands through the thickness of her curls, she tugged her hair. She wanted to fault the chaos of the day for bringing back the nightmares and stirring the past to life, but the answer was far more complicated than that.

Patrick.

TWO

Early the next morning, Patrick arrived at his office at the police station. Plunking down in his desk chair, he slipped the elastic band from around an overstuffed file he’d picked up from the audio and video forensic unit on his way into work. With so few clues in the car-bombing case, he hoped something lurking in one of the photos might aid in his investigation.

He extracted a fistful of black-and-white crime prints. After separating them into sequence, he studied each one, starting with the blazing fire taken by first responders to the final shots of the vehicle’s gray smoldering frame.

Dread settled in his gut.

As awful as bearing witness to the destruction had been, seeing the explosion and charred debris captured on film chilled him to the bone. Amateur or not, this bomb had been meant to kill. Even if forensics ruled out a terrorist link, this perpetrator definitely wanted to make a statement.

Tossing the photos on the desk, Patrick sat back and rubbed his eyes.

What kind of trouble could Amber have gotten involved in that someone would be out to kill her?

“Good morning, Wiley.”

The booming voice of his supervisor ended his thoughts.

Patrick glanced up as his old friend, Department Captain Vance Peterson, walked into the room with his mouth half-full of a chicken biscuit. He was also holding a white Gus’s Diner bag in his hand. “Good morning.” Patrick rocked forward in his chair.

Swallowing, Vance tossed him the bag. “Here, I brought you some breakfast.”

“Thanks. My growling stomach appreciates it.” Patrick caught the bag, tore it open and grabbed a biscuit.

“I figured you’d be in early. I thought you might be hungry.”

“You figured right.” Patrick chomped right into it. All he’d consumed since he’d dropped off Amber last night was a cup of coffee, half of which was still on his desk, cold.

“So fill me in on this car-bombing case.” Vance wiped his hands on a napkin.

Patrick swallowed then shrugged. “I don’t have much at the moment.”

“Not much?” Vance crossed his arms, his dark brows pulling tight over his eyes. “What’d the bomb squad come up with?”