Into the Black

CHAPTER 1 THE HORIZON GLOWED orange as dawn broke in Virginia. Or perhaps someone’s house was on fire. Or I was hallucinating. Having been awake for the past day and a half, I was too tired to differentiate or even care. Bradley, my assistant, nudged me. “The helipad’s over there.” I glanced sideways, and a flash of colour caught my eye. “Pink? You painted my helipad pink?” “It’s fuchsia.” Oh, that made all the difference. “It’s f*****g pink.” He made that huffy little noise he always did when he thought I was being unreasonable, and right now, I was too exhausted to argue. I just wanted to go to bed, so I swung the helicopter towards the house, only for Bradley to shriek. “Where are you going?” “As near to the back door as possible.” The rotors were still turning as I stumbled out, leaving Bradley to deal with my luggage and the potted tree thing the downdraft had just blown over. Home, sweet home. I managed to keep my eyes open long enough to get past the retina scanner and fell inside. Was anybody else here? No, judging by the red light blinking at me from the camera beside the door. “Zombie giraffes rule.” The biometric security system registered my voice print, and the light switch beside the door slid down the wall to reveal a touchscreen asking for my code. Six digits I’d never forget. The date I met my husband. Bradley wandered in behind me, carrying my bag. “Do you want a drink? I’ve got bubble tea?” I re-armed the system to monitor the perimeter only. “Nope. I’m going to bed.” “I bought you new pyjamas. Organic silk with matching cashmere-lined slippers.” Slippers? Who cared about slippers? I hauled my sorry arse upstairs and collapsed on my bed fully clothed. Forget the sleepwear. Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours passed before I rejoined the land of the living. Darkness cloaked the room, broken only by the dim light of a crescent moon glittering on the rail of my balcony. On the bright side, I’d woken in my own bed and my bad dreams had been blessedly mild. Too many times, I’d taken myself on sleepwalking adventures and ended up everywhere from the woods out back to the driver’s seat of my Dodge Viper. Thank goodness I hadn’t had the key. As the fog in my head cleared, the events of the past week came back to me. The way I’d fled from England late last night, having spent the last five days hunting down a wack job who’d kidnapped my ex-boyfriend’s sister and threatened to kill her. That arsehole’s plan had involved Luke coughing up a chunk of change and some business secrets then conveniently dying, but I’d soon stopped that and managed to piss off Luke’s mother while I was at it. An achievement, huh? Families. Having witnessed the chaos that could be unleashed by blood relatives, I was almost grateful I didn’t have any. No, my husband had been my only family, and after his murder, grief sent me running for England. I’d hoped time would help my soul to heal, but having spent a quarter of a year immersed in a new life, I found the grieving process had only been put on hold. The instant I’d stepped back across the threshold of the house we once shared, old wounds opened, raw and bloody. I missed my husband more than I’d miss the sun if it stopped rising in the morning. Without him, my life was in perpetual darkness and that feeling hadn’t abated in the three months, three weeks, one day, and ten hours since he’d been killed. And it never would, of that I was certain. All I could do was learn to tiptoe around the gaping hole his absence left in my heart. And the life I’d left in England? Thinking of that hurt too. Stifling a yawn, I rolled out of bed, desperate for a shower. Lank, greasy locks gave way to pimply skin, and my armpits smelled worse than a week-old corpse. Yuck. I cringed again as I caught sight of myself in the mirror on my way to the bathroom. Bradley had told me I looked terrible, and for once, he was right. Shh—don’t tell him I said that. It was eight p.m. according to the clock on my nightstand, which was kind of fuzzy seeing as I’d slept in the ugly brown contact lenses I’d hidden behind in England. At least I could ditch the sodding things now. I’d live with the dodgy tresses. A bad hair day hardly qualified as enough of an emergency to interrupt Bradley’s evening, and I couldn’t take any more of his optimism right now anyway. I blinked a few times, trying my best to get rid of the blurriness. What the…? When I’d left Virginia, my bedroom was done out tastefully in muted shades of blue and cream. Now it looked like the love child of a ripe plum and a pitcher of grape Kool-Aid had thrown up all over it. Shitting hell. How much time had Bradley spent decorating while I wasn’t around to fasten him into a straitjacket? Did I dare venture into the rest of the house to find out? Please, say he hasn’t installed disco lights in the ballroom. Procrastinating, I reached for the remote to catch up on the news headlines. Uh, where was the remote? Come to think of it, where was the TV? My forty-inch flat screen had been replaced with a print of an elephant painted by either a three-year-old or the elephant itself. “Bradleeeeeey!” I screeched to empty air. “What have you done?” To avoid murdering my assistant, I took a long hot shower then threw on a pair of jeans and an old T-shirt. No make-up, and I left my hair wet. Life was too short to waste on tarting myself up if I wasn’t going out somewhere formal. Hunger pangs hit me as I walked downstairs. I hadn’t eaten since I picked at a salad on the trip back from England yesterday, and my stomach sounded like an angry bear. What culinary delights awaited? On the plane, Bradley had mentioned that Toby, my nutritionist, had prepared a diet plan. On past form, a prisoner of war would eat better. Had Toby’s instructions filtered down to Mrs. Fairfax, my housekeeper, or was there a possibility she’d left something edible in the fridge? A steak? The makings of a cheeseburger? A lasagne? Something I could cook without burning the kitchen down or giving myself food poisoning. Knowing my luck, I’d find tofu and a crunchy salad. But hold on, what was that? As I tiptoed through the silent house, the delicious aroma of frying meat drifted past. Who the hell was there? Few people knew I’d come back, and I certainly hadn’t invited any of them over. Just the thought of being sociable filled me with a cold dread. Perhaps I could turn around and go back to bed? Or better still, leave the country? No, Emmy, you’ve got to deal with this. Just in case, I popped open the hidden compartment in the oversized floral sculpture that dominated my atrium and grabbed a spare Walther P88, pausing to kiss the barrel. Baby, I missed you. Probably a burglar wouldn’t be cooking me dinner, but it always paid to be prepared. Dammit, why were my knuckles white as I squeezed the grip? I mean, the only way a burglar could get into my house without going through three layers of security was with a bloody rocket launcher. I peered around the doorjamb. “Carmen? What are you doing?” She glanced at the pan in front of her and raised one eyebrow as if to say, “Seriously?” “Okay, so you’re cooking. But why?” She didn’t answer right away, just left the food and strode over to hug me. “I missed you, puta loca.” Only Carmen could make calling me a crazy b***h sound like a term of endearment. “Missed you too, hotshot.” Behind her at the kitchen table, Nate, her husband, sat tapping away on his iPad. He’d been my husband’s best friend and one of his business partners. The other, Nick, had stayed behind in England to tie up loose ends in the kidnapping case. “I thought you might be hungry, so I’m making fajitas. Although according to Toby’s chart, today you’re supposed to be having…” She turned to the fridge door and squinted at the list. “Grilled chicken breasts with steamed carrots and broccoli. But I won’t tell if you don’t.” “No chance of me spilling the beans.” The organic haricot beans with no sauce and no seasoning. “What you’re cooking smells great. Can I do anything to help?” “We need plates.” Sure, if I could find them. Usually, they magically appeared on my counter complete with food. I wandered around, opening and closing cupboards. “What’s this?” Carmen turned to take a look. “I think it’s a panini grill.” “And this?” “A waffle maker. Why? Does it matter?” “Not really. Do I have a plate-warming drawer?” “By the oven. Are you planning to take up cooking?” Nate muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Heaven help us all.” “Hey, I cooked in England.” “Did you hospitalise anyone?” “No, I did not. Some of it was even edible.” Plates and placemats, cutlery and condiments. Water and glasses. A fancy candle. I set them all out on the table then escaped to the wine cellar to select a bottle of red. Hmm… French, Chilean, Australian… A nice vintage from a Californian vineyard I part-owned. Fifteen wasted minutes later, I sagged against a stack of crates. I couldn’t put off speaking to Nate any longer. Things had been strained between us since I came out of hiding, and his perpetually grumpy expression showed no hint of change as I slid into the seat opposite. “Hey,” I said, not quite sure how to start. “Hey, yourself.” “Shit.” I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “I don’t know what to say. Other than I’m so, so sorry for running off like that.” He reached over and took my hand. Strange. Nate never normally got touchy-feely. Touchy, yes, but not touchy-feely. “You gave everyone a hell of a scare. I lost my best friend, and when you disappeared, it made things harder. None of us knew if you were safe or ever coming back.” I noticed wrinkles around his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and his words made me even more disappointed in myself. How could I have been so selfish? For the past three months, I’d spent too much time worrying about me and not enough thinking of the people I’d left behind. “I’ll never do it again; I promise. I’ll always let you know where I am from now on.” “Then we need to put this episode behind us.” I reached for the olive branch he’d extended and grabbed it with both hands. “Okay.” “Just understand that if you disappear off the radar again, I’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth, and when I catch you, you’ll be getting one of those electronic tags like prisoners wear.” “Fair enough,” I choked out a laugh then turned serious. “It’s just Mack I need to win over now. She seemed off every time I spoke to her this week.” Along with Carmen and Daniela, who was still in England with Nick, Mack was one of my partners in crime. We worked together and we played together. Hard. I’d trust those girls with my life. “Mack’ll be fine,” Nate said. “Yeah, she was pissed about what you did, but she’s mostly been upset this week because she split up with that guy she’d been seeing.” “Jerry?” She’d started dating that douche a month or so before I left. One of those pretentious idiots who charmed their way into a girl’s knickers then acted like a spoiled toddler when things didn’t go his way. “He was a grade A prick.” “The one and only. And Mack realises he’s an asshole now—he’s been reminding her at every possible opportunity. Yesterday, he turned up at her apartment again, banging on the door until I sent someone over there to remove him.” “s**t. I’d better talk to her.” Mack may have been a badass behind a keyboard, but she was also too damn sweet for her own good. I’d lost count of the number of shitbags she’d dated over the years. She had a habit of falling in insta-love, hard and fast, only for the objects of her affection to take advantage of her feelings. Dan and I hated to upset her by questioning her judgement at the beginning of relationships when things were rosy, but we always ended up picking up the pieces several months later when life turned sour. Even so, we never tried to discourage her. I hoped she’d find her Prince Charming one day. But Jerry wasn’t him, and not-so-secretly, I was glad he’d left the scene. “Dinner’s ready,” Carmen announced, interrupting my thoughts. I savoured every mouthful, knowing that Toby’s regime of twigs and berries would start in the morning. No doubt he’d padlock the wine cellar too, so I made my second glass of Burgundy last as Nate and Carmen caught me up on everything I’d missed. “I’ll get all the case details when I go to the office tomorrow,” I said. The pair of them looked at each other. “Take a few days,” Nate said. “You’re not shooting anyone on your first day back.” “I’ll try to last out the week,” I joked, but even as the words left my mouth, apprehension built in the pit of my stomach. Because my husband and I had worked as a team. He’d been my rock, the one who convinced me I could do the impossible. With him at my back, I’d felt a certain sense of invincibility as I put myself in one dangerous situation after another. His death had rocked me to my foundations. I didn’t fear death itself—that was inevitable. Rather, I was scared of letting people down if I was no longer good enough to do what I once did. Was the old Emmy still lurking within me? Or had she gone for good?