But then why no robbery? It was an obvious question…a break-in and assault, for what? No robbery, no sex assault…
Okay, she had to stop. The guy was likely scared off by someone coming up the steps or one of the dentists slamming a door on the way out.
She slid onto the elevator and headed up. Glancing down, she saw that she’d been out close to two hours. It was ten forty-five.
A tingle went down her body.
Ten forty-five. He couldn’t possibly have gone into D’Ag’s, they locked the doors at ten sharp. He didn’t want her to see his face.
She moved as quickly as she could down the hall, twisting the deadbolt, letting herself in and quickly sliding it, along with the chain lock, into place behind her before leaning back against the door, her heart beating wildly.
47
New York City
A STRONG, BRACING WIND MADE IT DIFFICULT FOR HAY DEN TO breathe as she walked home from her cubicle in the graphics department. The thin slice of her face exposed to the freezing air was numb.
Why, tonight of all nights, with the lowest temperatures on record for this time of year, had her Metro card run dry? She could have sworn there were at least three rides left on it, but when she tried to run it through the turnstile, it was empty.
A cab would be perfect, tucked away in the backseat with the heat on high. She also could have sworn she had a few dollars and a credit card in her wallet, but somehow, that was empty, too. That meant no bus and no subway for her, and certainly no cab.
Tiny snowflakes danced around her, and she momentarily took in their beauty before going back to worrying about her job, a job that made no allowance for beauty in art. How creative could she be when she worked for a corporation with no heart?
Reminding herself that “art” and “corporation” don’t mix, she decided she had to go freelance, but first she’d have to line up enough work to tide her over until she was established.
The light changed. Hayden resumed walking Her backpack was heavy with art materials and her poetry notebooks.
Maybe she should try to get some of them published. Was there even a chance?
Hailey said there was.
But having her work published seemed too wonderful for someone like her, like winning the lottery or falling in love. Those kind of miracles were for other people.
Would you listen to yourself? That’s just the kind of talk Hailey hates.
Hayden kept walking.
According to Hailey, Hayden could make something wonderful happen, if she just believed in it hard enough.
But did Hailey really mean it when she said the poetry was beautiful? Or was she just trying to boost her confidence?
Hayden hadn’t had the guts to show her work to anybody else, but during her last therapy session Hailey reminded Hayden again that she knew somebody in publishing who could look them over.
But what if they were rejected? Hayden didn’t know if it would be worth risking that kind of blow…the work was a look straight into Hayden’s psyche.
She’d love to put down her backpack, it was so heavy, but her poetry and sketches were her treasures. Her shoulders were actually hurting, the ache reaching down her back. Waiting at the next cross-street, she shifted the backpack from one shoulder to the other.
Fifteen more blocks to go.
Somehow, the snow was getting inside her boots. She couldn’t feel her toes anymore.
Was there anything in her fridge or would she have to order in? Definitely Thai, if that were the case.
Then she could finish one of the pieces she had started last week. This time she was changing themes and she knew Hailey was going to love it. Her new piece was all about hope, and-
In one shattering moment, her backpack was wrenched so hard Hayden didn’t know what had happened. She reeled backward and sideways at the same time, then was jerked upward by her own backpack with incredible strength, and whirled sideways into an alley Hayden had walked past a hundred times and never looked down.
Desperately trying to gain traction, her feet skidded in the slush. She struck out wildly into the cold air with balled fists, but never made contact with her attacker.
Opening her mouth to scream, she felt something nylon, like pantyhose, crammed down her mouth, deep into her throat. She could hardly breathe.
In one last bizarre, frozen moment, she hung suspended in the air from the straps of her backpack, arms and legs flailing like a drunken ballerina in a frenzied dance. Then a brutal kick to her back sent her sprawling face-first into the alley, her head hitting the concrete with a thud. She tasted her own blood.
Her backpack ripped open and her precious notes, months of labor contained on page after page of penciled scrawl, went flying to the four corners, the wind lifting them up sharply, threatening to hurl them down the alley.
She wanted to tell him to take her wallet…just don’t touch her notes…get the notes back…she had to get the notes back…
The nylon hose jammed deep down her throat made it impossible to speak, hard to breathe…
She could still gather them and save them if…she was sure of it…if she could just get loose. Her eyes followed them as they gusted up into the air, seeming to pause there, captured on an icy upward surge. But before she could offer her wallet in exchange for her papers, now wet and dirty and scattered down the alley, she felt her jeans yanked from behind, hands on the flesh of her hips and back, and then on her neck.
The blood from her head was in her eyes, her knit hat was pulled down over one side of her face so she could hardly see ahead of her. Deep-seated survival instincts kicked in and she waged war the only way she could…scratching, clawing, until her nails broke backward at the quick and bled…clawing at the set of hands now digging into her flesh…trying to pry them from around her neck…trying to scream, to inhale. The hose in her throat wouldn’t allow her to inhale and scream out…just some air…God please, some air…
Suddenly, she saw her mother and little brother standing together at the end of the alleyway. Mom had her arm draped loosely around her little brother’s shoulders…they were looking at her.
But why were they here? And how?
They had both been in the family sedan when it plunged off a slick roadway, skidded through a metal guardrail and dove headlights first into the cold, dark waters off Long Island.
That was two years ago, but tonight the two of them looked warm and toasty, even though they were wearing the same summer clothes they had on when they drowned, her mom’s favorite sleeveless summer dress with green and gold flowers on it, Chad in jeans. The freezing cold gusts up and down the back alley didn’t seem to bother her mom and brother at all.
Why did they just stand there, watching what was happening to her? Why wouldn’t they help her?
All at once, a sharp, burning pain pierced upwards through her back.
The hands around her neck didn’t budge, remaining hard, like a vise crushing the fragile front hollow of her neck so that it touched all the way back to her spine.
Her eyes hurt, a bulging, throbbing pain that gained momentum every time her heart pumped more blood into their delicate vessels as they hemorrhaged one by one…hurt worse than anything she had ever felt in her life. They felt like they were exploding out of her eye sockets…out of her head.
It wasn’t cold anymore.
The snowflakes floating through the air seemed like fuzzy angels dancing around her head. Her mom was smiling at her.
48
Atlanta, Georgia
IT WAS SILENT IN THE PRIVATE SIDE ROOM TO THE ROBERT E. LEE Ballroom at Atlanta’s Marriot Marquis.
C.C. sat back limply on an overstuffed leather sofa. The world seemed warm and amber-colored through the haze of whiskey. Eyes closed, tie askew around his neck, his jacket was carelessly tossed beside him, legs stretched out in front of him, feet up on a matching leather ottoman.