Heather Graham - Out Of The Darkness

But now...

Yes, he’d seen the news. Hannah Levine had been murdered. The reporters had not dealt gently with the victim because of her lifestyle. They hadn’t known her. Hadn’t known how poor she’d grown up, and that she had lost both parents tragically to an accident on the FDR. They did mention, briefly, that she’d survived the night of horror long ago.

As if reading his mind, Renee said, “They’re almost acting as if she deserved it, Tyler! Deserved it, because of the way she lived. I’m wishing I had tried harder. Oh, look! If she hadn’t been an ‘escort,’ this wouldn’t have happened to her. I feel terrible. I mean, who ever really understands what makes us tick? Not even shrinks! Because...well, poor child, poor child! She never had much—that father of hers was a blowhard, but he was her dad. Both dead, no help...and she was a beautiful little thing. She was probably a very good stripper.”

That almost made Tyler smile. “Probably,” he agreed. “And yes, she was beautiful. Have the police let anything else out yet?”

“We know what you know. Her body was found...and then a few hours later, her head was found. First, we heard about the body in the river. Then we heard that it was Hannah.”

The front door opened and closed. Tyler felt that same streak of electricity tear through him; he knew Sarah was there.

Renee frowned. “Sarah must be here.”

“I’m sorry. I should have said right off the bat that she was meeting me here,” Tyler said. “That’s why...why I came. She didn’t tell you?”

“No, but...that’s great. You’ve been talking to Sarah!” Renee clapped her hands together, appearing ecstatic.

“We’ve exchanged two sentences, Renee,” he said quietly. “Sorry, four sentences, really. ‘Did you hear the news?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Will you come and meet me at Aunt Renee’s?’ And then, ‘Yes, I’ll come right away.’”

Renee just nodded. Davey was coming back in the room, bearing glasses of iced tea. “Sarah is here,” Renee said.

Davey nodded gravely. “Of course she is.”

Tyler watched as she walked into the parlor. Sarah. Whom he hadn’t seen in a decade. She hadn’t changed at all. She had changed incredibly. There was nothing of the child left in her. Her facial lines had sharpened into exquisite detail. She had matured naturally and beautifully, all the soft edges of extreme youth falling away to leave an elegantly cast blue-eyed beauty there, as if a picture had come into sharp focus. She was wearing her hair at shoulder length; it had darkened a little, into a deep sun-touched honey color.

He stood. She was staring at him in turn.

Seeing what kind of a difference a decade made.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey!” she replied.

They were both awkward, to say the least. She started to move forward quickly—the natural inclination to hug someone you held dear and hadn’t seen in a long time.

He did the same.

She stopped.

He stopped.

Then they both smiled, and laughed, and she stepped forward into his arms.

It was impossible, of course. Impossible that they had really known what the depths of love could be when they hadn’t even been eighteen. Then he’d felt as if he’d known, right from the first time he’d seen her at school, that he loved her. Would always love her.

That no one could compare.

And now, holding her again, he knew why nothing had ever worked for him. He’d met so many women—lots of them bright, beautiful and wonderful—and yet nothing had ever become more than brief moments of enjoyment, of gentle caring, and never this...connection.

Sarah had called on him because a friend had been murdered, and he was the only one who could really understand just what it was like. This didn’t change anything; whether he loved her or not, she would still be determined to push him away when it came to relying on him, sharing with him...

Back then, she hadn’t even wanted him near.

They drew apart. It felt as if the clean scent of her shampoo and the delicate, haunting allure of her fragrance lingered, a sweet and poignant memory all around him.

“You are here,” she said. “Thanks. I know this is crazy, but...Hannah. To have survived what happened that October, and then...have this happen. I understand you’re in some kind of law enforcement.”

“No. Private investigator. That’s why I’m not so sure how I can really be of help here.”

“Private investigators get to—investigate, right?” Sarah asked.

“Why don’t you two sit down?” Renee suggested.

“Sit, sit. Have tea!” Davey said happily.

Once again, Tyler sat. For a moment, the room was still, and everyone in it seemed to feel very awkward.

“I’m glad you came,” Sarah said. “Not that I really know anything. I belong to a great writers’ group that brings us down to the FBI offices once a year for research, but...I really don’t know anything. I don’t think the FBI is involved. New York police, high-crimes or whatever they call it division... I just—The killing...sounds way too familiar!”

Tyler nodded. “Yeah. Though psychopaths have beheaded and sliced up victims many times, I’m sorry to say. And, of course,” he said, pausing then to take a breath, “well, we were there. We saw the killer die back then.” He looked over at Davey and smiled tightly, still curious about how Davey had sensed so much of what had gone on. “We were all there. We saw him die. Davey was a hero.”

“My dad. My dad was with me,” Davey said.

“In all he taught you, and all you learned so well!” Renee said, looking at her son, her soft tone filled with pain for the husband she’d lost.

“The police may already have something,” Tyler said. “When a murder like this occurs, they hold back details from the press. You wouldn’t believe the number of crazy people who will call in and confess to something they didn’t do, wanting what they see as the credit for such a heinous crime. I have friends in Boston who have friends in New York. Maybe I can help—all depends on whether they want to let me in or not.”

“Sarah has friends, too!” Davey said.

Sarah looked at him. “I do?”

“Kieran!”

“I haven’t talked to her in a while,” Sarah murmured.

“Who is Kieran?” Tyler asked.

“A friend, yes,” Sarah said, looking at him. “She and her brothers inherited a very old Irish pub on Broadway—downtown, near Trinity and St. Paul’s. The oldest brother manages, Kieran works there sometimes.”

“You worked there!” Davey said.

“I did—I worked there through college,” Sarah said. “Anyway, Kieran is a psychologist who works with two psychiatrists, Drs. Fuller and Miro. They often work with the police—they’re geniuses when it comes to the criminal psyche. And her boyfriend is a special agent with the FBI. So, yes, if I asked for help...”

“That’s excellent,” Tyler told her. “And it could really help, as far as finding out whatever information there is forthcoming. Other than that... I’m not law enforcement.”

“But people hire PIs all the time,” Renee said.

“When someone is missing, the family might hire someone. In murder investigations that go cold...”

“We can hire you!” Davey said happily.

“We’re not her family,” Sarah said.

“That doesn’t matter. We were her friends,” Davey said. He was quiet a minute and made one of his little frowns. “She was mean to me sometimes, but she was my friend, too. Mostly she was nice to me.”

They all fell silent.

“I’ll figure something out, and I’ll keep you posted. I do have a legal standing as a private investigator, but it’s a lot nicer if the police want me involved.”