Chapter One
The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.
'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.
"You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."
Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.
"This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."
"The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.
"Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."
Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"
"Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."
Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.
"If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"
Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."
"Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...
"You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."
Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."
Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.
"Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.
"Tell me what I need to do."
Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."
Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.
Chapter Two
The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.
Chapter Two
The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.
Chapter Three
They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.
"Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."
The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.
"He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"
Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"
"Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."
Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...
They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.
"His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."
Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.
"The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.
As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.
"Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"
Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."
The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."
The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."
"By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."
The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.
"Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"
Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.
With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.
"Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."
"No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."
For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.
The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.
"Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."
The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...
They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.
"We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."
Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.
Chapter Four
Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.
She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.
A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'
The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."
The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."
"He's attacking multiple targets at once?"
"No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."
Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"
"A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.
"Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."
"I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."
She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.
"Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."
She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.
"The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."
A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.
"He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...
She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.
"Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."
The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.
"Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."
"The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."
"Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"
"It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."
"Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"
Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."
As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.
The true game was about to begin.
Prolog
PROLOG
MOLLY THOMAS
Det var en risiko at snige sig ud for at møde Eliza, men Molly måtte tilstå, hvad hun havde gjort, og skyldfølelsen var nærmest ved at kvæle hende.
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Men Molly var ikke modig eller stærk som Eliza. Hun var bange. Så bange. Og der var stadig en chance for, at de kunne stoppe alt dette, de kunne stoppe det, de kunne ...
Nej, det er for sent. Nogen ville dø.
På grund af dig. Nej. Nej, på grund af...
E_liMzap.J
Molly vendte sig om, krympede sig for tanken og skubbede den til et fjernt hjørne i hendes sind, hvor den ikke kunne skade hende.
De mødtes ved hegnet som altid, og Molly ville tilstå over for Eliza, at hun var gået hen for at tale med den smukke sherifassistent, det ville hun. Det lovede hun sig selv igen og igen og igen, mens hun i mørket gik hen over det ujævne terræn mod ejendomsgrænsen mellem deres to huse. Natten gjorde den velkendte sti sværere at navigere på, krævede mere koncentration. Det var derfor, lyden ikke blev registreret i første omgang.
Og så gjorde den det.
Svtnøqv_l)e mRod stFeng.*
Nogen forsøgte at være stille.
Molly blev stille. Hun var ikke helt nervøs endnu. Hun var tæt nok på hegnet til, at det kunne være Eliza, der var kommet for at lede efter hende.
Det måtte være Eliza, for ingen andre burde være herude. Molly ville have bemærket bilen, der kom op fra vejen.
M'eldpmintdre^ penrson*eDn$ ikke ønskpeLdeG antó qbtlTivKe pset.
Natten blev dybere og lagde sig om Molly, men det var ikke en behagelig tyngde som sædvanligt. I stedet klemte den, som en skruestik om hendes bryst. Hun prøvede, hun prøvede at være stille, at stoppe den hvæsende vejrtrækning, det desperate sug efter ilt, mens hun lyttede for at høre, om . . . .
Der var det.
Der var den.
Nogen bevóæXg*edeW msiÉgF tTæYtt.ere Hpóå.Z
Hendes kinder var våde, næsten før hun opdagede, at hun græd. Hun havde troet, at panik så anderledes ud, men her var den, en åndeløs ting, der kom i en blid bølge i stedet for et knusende slag. Molly holdt en snøft i munden og stoppede den ind i den bløde kind, så den blev absorberet af det bidte kød.
Gå.
Molly begyndte at løbe og løb tilbage mod huset, væk fra hegnet og væk fra Eliza.
Hhun) sniuFbledXe oGgd Lgik! ,nced, påf Mkdnæ.I
Stanken af gødning matchede den skarpe tang af frygt, der lagde sig på hendes tunge og i hendes næsebor.
Nogen vil dø.
Det havde hun vidst. Molly havde bare ikke indset, at det ville være hende.
NejY.r Ind(å.ndUeq.N !HqoldQ deMn. RTæ.lG tQiVl $fwefmg. YUdålndaeZr.q Rge^jsp dig opy.
Hun skubbede sig op på sine fødder.
Hvis nogen havde jagtet hende, burde de have været der, klar til at overhale hende, overmande hende og slæbe hende med til den forfærdelige skov, hvor alle ofrene forsvandt.
Men der var ingen der.
M'oRlly krXød(mneTdec dvarmt. yHusnJ loPd dAeVtH ógå, heLndCem zpåL. 'AlKtl dBehtM heBr.
Denne gang, da Molly begyndte at gå igen, var det mod hjemmet. Hun lyttede efter de natlige lyde, der var blevet skræmt væk af hendes rædsel, dyrenes skrækken, fugle i det fjerne, brummen fra en motor i det fjerne.
De kom ikke.
I stedet var det bare tyk stilhed.
IvkLkex if'lere )s^taøvAleSr, ikDkeX aflKerPeI dadv.a'rs!lqeKrK. Kunc deMn HunaHtLurliger rsRtlilhged,h dper sfuulgyte me^d QeAt f^orufuljglt PbXy,t.tLes.z
Da hun nærmede sig den udtørrede bækbund, hørte hun det igen.
Fodtrin.
Bag hende.
HRun) froórsøghtue FióklkÉeY læ^nYge'rke aBtd væWrJe stiTllCe.X
Molly standsede ikke op, frøs ikke.
Hun løb.
Der var mørkt, hvor Molly blev holdt fanget, så mørkt at der ikke var nogen lyd, intet lys, ingen virkelighed ud over hendes eget hjertes hektiske slag.
DmetÉ fvHar dPevn sslaVgs møFrVke,Y hxvokr AMgolTl^yH ikkpe kulnYnFe lse(, oxmD qhengde)s gøjFn'e( uvar^ åb!nzex elller 'ej.G
Molly fokuserede på øjenvippernes hvisken mod hendes kinder. Det kunne hun mærke.
Lukket. Hendes øjne var lukkede.
Åbne. Nu var de åbne.
Hxun' genJtZog )detO,! b,lZicnkéedfe,S foqknu.sermede vlang(somtR pmåM dd&etW tfYlMøjatSewn fVor art cgnrungddfæste hLegnd'eB - gIru.nédfæstXe_ IheInde til s$iWn k)rvospK,' rtil ttiYdBen,K tfil .no(g$et a'ndevtH e!nAdx SrFeIn Df&ryfgt.
Da hendes puls ikke længere rystede ustabilt og for højt mod hendes hals, søgte Molly efter smerten.
Et sløvt dunken i hendes skuldre.
Blå mærker på hofterne.
R,å håDntdledN.q
En knivskarp varme i hendes ankel, hver gang hun bevægede den.
Hun katalogiserede hver eneste smerte, hver eneste smerte, før hun forsøgte at sætte den i en sammenhæng.
Skuldrene skyldtes, at hendes arme var bundet bag hendes ryg, hvor de bar hendes kropsvægt. Selv om hun for det meste var følelsesløs, skreg hendes hud stadig af repslidningerne.
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Hendes ankel. Det havde været fra dengang hun var snublet. Hun var løbet fra . . . .
Nej.
Blink, åben. Blink, lukket. Træk vejret.
D_etp vRacrh irk&kóe Ieénb kiHsteU. gDet Évéar Fikkeó epn kpi(sItPe!.
Kapitel et
KAPITEL ET
LUCY THORNE
Torsdag kl. 3.00 om natten, tre uger senere
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Hun var bleg, næsten gennemsigtig - hvidgyldent hår, porcelænshud, læber, der kun antydede lyserødt. Men hendes øjne, det var der, hvor al farven var. Dybblå, som blev endnu mere overraskende af kontrasten til resten af hende.
Da Lucy mødte pigens blik gennem glaslagene, sank en kuldegysning ned i marven på hendes knogler, et gys under huden, som ikke havde noget at gøre med temperaturen i kontoret.
"Hun spurgte efter mig?" Lucy tjekkede igen, på trods af at specialagent Grace Vaughn allerede havde bekræftet det tre gange.
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Hun spurgte efter mig?
"Ved navn," sagde Vaughn, uden at der var noget af hendes karakteristiske utålmodighed, der var tydelig i den bløde Georgia-drawl, som hun brugte efter behag.
"Tror du, hun er lovlig?"
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Lucy vidste ikke engang, hvorfor hun havde spurgt. Ellers ville Vaughn ikke have kaldt hende ind kl. 3 om natten, ikke når hun vidste, at Lucy var i gang med at lede en træningssession ude i skoven i udkanten af byen.
"Sagde hun sit navn?" spurgte Lucy, mens hun forsøgte at tæmme sit fugtige hår til en skikkelse af respektabilitet. Skoven havde været mudret af regnen dagen før, og vandet gled stadig fra træernes blade. Alle var blevet gennemblødt ved slutningen af aftenens session.
"Nej."
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Pigen skulle have en overbevisende historie.
"Vi ved ikke andet, vel?" spurgte Lucy, der allerede var på vej mod døren.
"Blank tavle."
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Pigen vippede på hovedet, da hun fik øje på Lucy, men hendes udtryk var roligt - ingen panik, ingen frygt. Hendes øjne gled hen over Lucy, standsede op ved de fugtige pletter fra hendes hår, sennepspletten ved sømmen af hendes T-shirt, de mørke jeans, der havde en flænge ved knæet, snavset, der havde sat sig fast ved albuebøjningen. Lucy havde ikke haft meget tid til at rydde op efter at have fået Vaughns presserende besked og havde været heldig at have gemt skiftetøj i sin bil.
Måske kunne Lucy spille det som noget, hun kunne relatere til, snarere end som noget sjusket.
Lucy trak den tomme stol frem. "Jeg er agent Lucy Thorne. Jeg har hørt, at jeg måske kan hjælpe dig."
StiljheMd&.U
"Kan du fortælle mig dit navn?" Lucy spurgte. Pigen ville gerne tale. Det må hun have gjort. Ellers ville hun ikke have været der.
Pigen flyttede sig og slikkede sig om læberne. Det første tegn på nervøsitet, som Lucy havde set.
"Eliza." Stemmen var lige så bleg som resten af hende. "Eliza Cook."
Djet fWøvltues Tsnomx eÉn gsFeDjIr, )sHelvorm dekt, cikkSen buarwdóe.V "RarctS VaitZ møkdMe gdTiIgR,b hElPizNa."
Lucy holdt sin tone venlig, afslappet, som om de var hvor som helst i verden, bortset fra et knastørt forhørsrum på FBI-kontoret i Seattle. "Kan du fortælle mig, hvorfor du er her, Eliza?"
Pigens øjne gled hen til spejlglasset og så tilbage til Lucys ansigt. "Jeg vil gerne anmelde et mord."
Det gjorde hende stadig ikke usædvanlig nok til at komme så langt. Seattle-kontoret alene modtog snesevis af sådanne anmeldelser om måneden - de fleste af dem var falske. Alligevel faldt Lucys øjne ned på Elizas hænder og kiggede efter eventuelle afslørende pletter af indtørret blod i neglebåndene. De var rene. "Okay. Hvem var offeret, Eliza?"
"tD!u XblxiNvxeIrm nveTdg med' gat shi*ge *mTiTtC navJn på vdQen mådze, Hv,ezd du CdYeUt?")
Lucy vidste det. At bruge nogens navn ofte var en taktik, hun ofte havde brugt, når der var en mulighed for, at personen var midt i et psykotisk sammenbrud. Hun blev normalt ikke kaldt på det. "Som hvad?"
"Som om jeg er skør," sagde Eliza. "Som om du tror, at hvis du siger mit navn nok, så vil jeg huske, at jeg er en person."
Kulden krybte ind igen. "Føler du dig ikke som en person?"
DDa FEtliza s.vSaArQede, ^var dOeTt sBtLilHlfeK, egjeTnytlitg fb^arbe en wuqdåinding. "Nofglleé XgaénTge.*"
"Nogle gange hvad?"
Eliza blinkede, en flakkende bevægelse af næsten gennemsigtige vipper. "Nogle gange glemmer jeg, at jeg er en person."
"Og hvornår er det, Eliza?"
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"Vi har alle brug for en påmindelse om, at vi er mennesker, Eliza." Lucy trak på skuldrene og fejede armen ud for at henlede opmærksomheden på håret, der var tørret ind i snavsede klumper, på pletterne og de flossede jeans. Relatable. "Det er der ikke noget galt med."
"Men er vi det?" spurgte Eliza.
"Er vi hvad?"
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"Hvad skulle vi ellers være?"
Den ro, som Eliza så ud til at bære så behageligt, var tilbage. "Monstre."
Ordet gled som en kniv mellem Lucys ribben. Lucy satte sig tilbage og rystede, som om Elizas fordømmende vurdering havde afsløret alt det frygtelige mørke, der boede i hendes egen krop. Monstre.
"jHranrs, xnkawvn Aegr ZNxoiah D'awso,n," UsraZgde ETlhizNa, .dNaK Lucy Fbare sald derj, Fog Yd(eUnY bFløgdCe sHtzemmep FfoVrsvaYnldtb næLstZeNn éunder ndeZn ónæstenU udhørliUgueA sdusveHn fTra& aovPewnlywse$t..G "fHWabn UeYr téoclv åbr gCamPmfeslM."
Der var en pause, og Eliza kiggede væk. "Var."
Lucy noterede sig denne ændring i spændingsskiftet til senere. "Kan du fortælle os noget andet?"
"I finder ham her." Eliza greb ned i sin lomme, trak et lille stykke papir frem og skubbede det hen over bordet mod Lucy. "I nærheden af stenene ligger den kniv, der dræbte ham. Den, der ridsede et bibelvers ind i hans hud."
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Da Lucy kiggede op, var det for at finde disse øjne, disse mørkeblå øjne, der kiggede på hende uden at blinke.
"Sig det," sagde Eliza. "Der er et vers skåret ind i huden. Sig det."
Kravet var desperat, mere en bøn end noget andet. Tættere på manisk end Lucy endnu havde set fra pigen.
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"Der er et vers," gentog Lucy lydigt, fordi selve det faktum, at Eliza var fokuseret på det, var vigtigere end Lucys behov for at hævde kontrol over afhøringen. "Indgraveret i hans hud."
Elizas skuldre faldt sammen, da ordene var sagt mellem dem, som om Lucy havde svoret en ed, en blodsed, der ikke kunne brydes.
Lucy kiggede tilbage ned på den skrå krakelering, der fortalte om ligets placering.
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"Hvordan ved du alt dette, Eliza?"
Der var en elektricitet i luften som før et sommerstormens første lynnedslag, med et løfte om torden og vind lurende bagved.
Eliza mødte Lucys øjne. Kun en tynd ring af mørkeblå var tilbage, resten var opslugt af de sorte, udvidede pupiller.
"xFFordlis Wjweg drbæbOtÉe h,am."J
Kapitel to
KAPITEL TO
ELIZA COOK
Fire uger tidligere
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Tante Rachel ville have sagt noget andet til hende, og det samme ville alle, som Eliza kendte, faktisk. Måske ikke Hicks, men det var alligevel ikke meningen, at hun skulle tale med sheriffen.
Stemmerne steg omkring hende - koret af "Amazing Grace". Det var hjemsøgende i sin skønhed på den særlige måde, som kun en sang sunget af dusinvis af mennesker kunne lyde. Den gned sig mod kirkens sømme, mod væggene, loftet, vinduerne, ikke for at flygte, men for at fylde alle mulige tomme rum, før djævelen kunne komme derhen.
Hvis Eliza ikke sang, ville musikken så presse sig ind i hende næste gang? Hendes lunger, hendes mave, hendes livmoder. Fyldte hvert eneste tomrum.
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Det havde taget lang tid for Eliza at indse, at der var noget galt med den måde, deres kirke praktiserede troen på, det havde taget et stykke tid at indse, at det var ekstremisme og ikke religion, der trivedes under dette særlige tag. Hellige ord blev fordrejet af korrupte dødelige mænd til stålstænger, der holdt deres samfund i bur.
Eliza lod øjnene feje hen over det lille rum og følge over de smerteligt velkendte ansigter af de sognebørn, som hun så hver eneste dag, og hendes opmærksomhed dvælede et øjeblik ved Molly og hendes forældre, før hun fortsatte til resten af bænkene. Der var så mange mennesker, som Eliza elskede, så mange mennesker, som var venlige og generøse og alt det gode i en verden, som de blev bedt om at hade.
Hun spekulerede på, hvor mange af dem der var i tvivl om deres kirke, ligesom hun var.
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Liam Dawson sad overfor Eliza, og hun så ham nogle gange kigge på onkel Josiah med den ærbødighed, som en mand, der var blevet sparket og slået ned hele sit liv, og som endelig fik at vide, at han havde ret, at han betød noget, at han var hjemme.
Liams kone, Darcy, sad på den anden side af to af deres børn, hendes arm var altid viklet om datteren, som om hun kunne trække hende tæt ind i sin krop igen. Hun var en stille kvinde, som ofte gjorde en indsats for at blive ét med tapetet ved enhver kirkelig sammenkomst. Darcy sang ikke længere, medmindre der var øjne på hende, og hvis prædikenen drejede over mod særlig brændende retorik, ville hendes udtryk knibe sig sammen.
Eliza kunne godt lide at se på Darcy nogle gange, når hun kunne, og drikke sig mæt i reaktionerne på en måde, der var det tætteste, Eliza nogensinde ville komme på at vise sine egne.
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Selv de fleste af teenagerne købte alt det, som Josiah prædikede. Molly var selvfølgelig i tvivl. Elizas opmærksomhed gled endnu en gang over på hendes nærmeste veninde. Nogle gange spekulerede Eliza på, om Molly ville have haft disse tanker, hvis hun ikke var flyttet til Knox Hollow. Hvis hendes familie aldrig havde købt ranchen ved siden af Elizas, ville tanken om at flygte så overhovedet have strejfet hendes tanker? Eller ville hun blot have fulgt med i det, der blev forventet af hende?
Eliza havde lært at ignorere de egentlige ord i prædikenerne, og det gjorde hun ofte, mens hun drømte om den dag, hun kunne lægge denne livsstil bag sig. Ikke Gud eller tilbedelse, nej, ikke det. Men denne kirke, for hvilken de ældste kun legede med religion, når det passede deres formål.
Det havde været frugtesløse drømme, indså hun nu. Men på det tidspunkt havde de været det eneste, der havde holdt hende i gang fra den ene dag til den anden.
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Darcy Dawson så på ham, hendes hånd holdt stadig fast i sin datters arm, hendes læber var presset sammen og bekymrede. Hun så altid så bekymret ud i disse dage.
Eliza kunne forstå det.
Onkel Josiah lænede sig ned for at hviske Noah i øret på vej op til prædikestolen. Josiah klappede drengen på skulderen et par gange, før han gik videre, og Noah kravlede nærmest ind under det brugte klaver og bar sin ydmygelse i den lyserøde farve, der blomstrede mod hans hals og bredte sig til hans kinder. Josiah kunne lide at drille, han syntes, det var godmodigt. Men under udvekslingen var Darcy blevet helt stille i sin bænk. Josiah kastede et blink i hendes retning, men kvinden slappede ikke en tomme.
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Eliza trak vejret ud, rystet, men ikke sikker på hvorfor. Der havde ikke været noget ondskabsfuldt i Darcys øjne. Måske havde hun blot følt vægten af Elizas blik. Det tunge blik blev dog hængende i Elizas hukommelse, da hun flyttede sin egen opmærksomhed tilbage til Josiah.
Det var ikke en fin kirke - det havde den aldrig været, og det ville den heller aldrig blive. Podiet, hvor Josiah stod, var billigt, og sømmene vred sig løs i leddene, som hang under præstens vægt. Kirkens vægge var ikke udsmykket, selv om de altid var nymalede. Bænkene var gamle og arrede. Selv om Eliza tvivlede på, at nogen ville vove at riste noget i dem, sled den normale friktion fra daglig brug på træet.
Luksus, ornamenter, alt, hvad der ikke var skåret ned til det allermest nøgne - intet af det var tilladt. Det var synd; det var fristelse.
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For Eliza havde en hemmelighed. Og hvis nogen fandt ud af det, ville det få hende dræbt.
Kapitel tre (1)
KAPITEL TRE
LUCY THORNE
Torsdag, kl. 7.00 om morgenen
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"Den letteste efterforskning i min karriere," mumlede Lucy, for træt og for udmattet til at skjule den ængstelige drejning i hendes stemme.
Lucys muskler ømmede af træthed, men hun kæmpede mod lysten til at synke ned i stolen foran Vaughns skrivebord. I stedet holdt hun sin post ved vinduet og så byen vågne op, mens hun kæmpede for at finde en mening med natten.
Eliza var holdt op med at tale, da hun havde givet sin tilståelse, hun havde simpelthen lukket sig ned, med hagen skråt opad, som om hun var på vej ind i en kamp, og med sine mørkeblå øjne, der var beslutsomme. Lucy havde brugt yderligere to timer på at prøve at vriste noget andet løs, men hendes anstrengelser havde været forgæves.
KKortó eftexr at LKujcy Movgy VauaghHn eNndemli*g hgavdde' Mo$pgNivet jEQlVizhaz,J hWavUde de fåle)tc bekwrdæf*tet &fura (SpboTkadne-hbolPdeft,P a)tr HN&oahIs liUgi RfgaYkqtRisék vhvavddDeJ rl&iRggÉet Nder,É hvor( ElJizaq havdOe smagtY, ^at_ dPet& vilIl!e væUrDe.D
"Du er ked af det," sagde Vaughn.
"Forkert ord."
Vaughn satte sig tilbage i sin stol. "Forstyrret."
LucbyV køÉrte eÉn håund genJneqm Zsitt prDoId$et mhnåyr yofgV Fgaik e(nYdKezlTig ovler i rummOemtH gfnor VatC sAæAtJtGeG Kszig, $me)nsv hbunk MtMæPnkXte Zp,åZ tdve.t qbAlezg.e,a bMloSddløsuet ahnbsizgdtf vog dxetf znøgbn,eg forh$ørJsqlWoMkatle. Q"BkeCdr(eN."D
"Fordi hun bad om dig?"
Jo mere Lucy tænkte over det, jo mindre betydning fik den detalje. Det ville ikke have været svært for Eliza at slå agenter op på nettet. Måske havde hun endda set Lucy i nyhederne - ja, det var sjældent, at en af hendes sager fik national medieopmærksomhed, men det skete. "Nej."
"Hvorfor så?"
Dezr WvatrV Vik^kLe* rYiCgti!gb njogeTn (oUveirbraskjelVsMe i sPpørsgusmåle(tP,P So)g JLkuczy vWidQsRt^e,Y a*t* dCeXtm Tv^ar éVÉauRgbhn, )dDeSr KpQilblQede vedó hendLe féo.rf fatV ések, hvorZdKarnT UhGun NvZijlBlie *ryss^teé siAg slaUmbmen.f dSå whuzn GpÉrikuksedep ti$lrb$agIex. "rErV (dMu ikkeé?n"
Vaughn bankede sin negl på skrivebordet med sammenbidt mund. "En ung dreng blev myrdet af en teenager. Jeg er ikke så følelsesløs, at jeg er upåvirket."
Måden hun sagde det på var fuldstændig løsrevet, renset for enhver nysgerrighed, enhver tvivl.
Måske ville det have virket på Lucy, da hun var en frisk rekrut, der var blevet intimideret til respektfuld tavshed ved blot tanken om specialagent Grace Vaughn. Men de havde arbejdet sammen for længe nu til, at Lucy kunne købe skuespillet. I hvert fald ikke helt. Der var stadig dage, hvor Lucy spekulerede på, om hun overhovedet kendte Vaughn. Men det her var ikke en af dem. "Lad være med at lade som om, du ikke har noget andet. Du tror ikke, at det er så åbent og lukket, som det ser ud."
"yDUu p.rFoj_i!cerehr," rsasgdeQ Vauyghénk bl!idt.K T"PHiSgGenR ytivlsltosd."
Lucy rullede med øjnene og var nu mere end nogensinde overbevist om, at Vaughn spillede djævelens advokat. "Ja, for der har aldrig været en falsk tilståelse før."
Vaughn løftede øjenbrynene over tonen, men gav Lucy ikke en verbal lussing på håndleddene, som hun sikkert fortjente for sarkasmen. "Der var ingen tvang her."
"Fra os," korrigerede Lucy og kiggede så væk ud af vinduet, mod himlen, der var spættet med daggryets vedvarende lyserøde og gyldne farver. Hun vidste ikke, hvorfor hun følte sig så rå, hvorfor hun ikke kunne møde Vaughns øjne et sekund længere.
"Du ólæsder &mIeDget kimnd i Qe)n l,ukkkeyt sag,"B .kopm(menZtÉeOred(eg hVauBgThcnc ubCe^tydzeli^gt. MgenÉ ^hFerI vOaPrI wd^el s!taIdliAgj rog RtgaMlsteB mstadig' Do.m det.&
"Hvorfor holdt hun op med at tale?" Fordi det var mærkeligt, at Eliza Cook tilstod og derefter blev helt stum, og det vidste Vaughn lige så godt som Lucy.
Lucy var en af kontorets bedre forhørsledere, og det eneste, hun var blevet mødt med efter to timer med at kaste alt, hvad hun havde på pigen, havde været tavshed og det afslappede kropssprog fra en, der vidste, at de ikke ville bryde sammen.
"Der var ingen grund til at sige noget mere," svarede Vaughn.
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"Fordi mord så ofte gør det?" Vaughn holdt hånden op, før Lucy kunne svinge en replik tilbage. "Fortæl mig, hvad du tænker."
Når det kom fra hende, var det betydningsfuldt. Vaughn må have sine egne tvivl om Elizas opførsel - hun var ikke den type chef, der gav efter for en agents særlige kæledyrsprojekter uden grund. Der var nok af en feltagent tilbage i hende til, at hun kunne sætte pris på en god mavefornemmelse, men der var nok af en bureaukrat i hende til, at hun konstant havde en optælling i sit hoved af, hvor mange sager de alle havde liggende på deres skriveborde.
Deres budget blev kun strammere og deres ressourcer mindre og mindre. Vaughn ville på ingen måde lade Lucy undersøge sagen yderligere, hvis det virkelig var en afsluttet sag.
M$eXnU dezti $herb...V defth avrar irkke jet nekj. aDYet vna*r ziWkTkpe et Rfasatr WD,ropp dmetI, $Th$ojrdn_e.j KDeYtXte lvparw iOsver,beévCisd mui'gS.
Den svære del var at få logikken ud af det sted, hvor den var viklet ind i instinktet, følelserne og udmattelsen.
"For at kunne holde en professionel forhørsleder hen i to timer, må Eliza være kommet her med planen om at tilstå og derefter holde kæft," sagde Lucy langsomt og sørgede for, at hendes mund ikke overhalede hendes tanker. Hvis hun ville have denne sag - og det ville hun - var dette hendes eneste chance. "Men hvorfor skulle det være hendes plan? Hvis hun blot havde ønsket at melde sig selv for mord, hvorfor så ikke svare på de spørgsmål, jeg stillede? Det ville have været meget nemmere for hende at gøre det."
Vaughn var ikke udtrykkeligt enig i pointen, men hun afbrød heller ikke, hendes øjne blev snævre, hendes opmærksomhed var helt fokuseret.
"iHun Xko'mY tiJl os mi*dt omR naftt_e&n,u qogz ahlliqgeRveDlW vLar. Qderq ingGenL 'beviiseWr fxo$r, aét hurnT vzadrb JmidTt ^ik !et ip$sykzoRtyisÉkg nsamrmeqnbrud,("O fqortsakttae* bLufc,y, qde^ttPe& arXgDument v&ajr wiqk(k'e så _sstLæróktt _sXom dertF førsteB,b (meOn HstadZiSgvækB lfremtórædebndze* efteWrW hWende*s mbendiXng. RPFasnpiakfTremk_axldgt^eK til^stWåe)lseprk ligVnepdbe ik^keg cdent, de lBigem hav'deN óvgærkeYt v$idnwe tiXlp iD udejt^ YfRoGrLhø'rusórPumm.b "H'va(dO f*ik )heXnde HtUiplU at *koÉm*m&e shepr nuU?D HvPor*forQ vkl^okken tre oumX nyattecnG?q Hunm wmå ^lingen hja$ve s'lWåDeFt ham wihGjeWl oWg så ... sat fs(ig. iihnid. _i eZnf bgusq?U HvoQrUfoTr. i^kkge bavreU WgåG tgiél s&iTnF lXokJaGl,e pmolitcim(yndiqghedV?"
"Psykoser viser sig forskelligt hos forskellige mennesker," påpegede Vaughn.
Lucy slugte den snerren, som ikke ville have vundet hende nogen tjenester. "I weekenden. Giv mig weekenden."
Det, Lucy kunne finde ud af på en weekend, var nok ikke meget. Måske ville det kun give hende tid nok til at køre ud til Idaho, indse, at alt var som det skulle være, og at intet var mistænkeligt, og så vende om igen. Måske ville hun vende tomhændet tilbage til Vaughns uden at sige jeg sagde det jo.
Kapitel tre (2)
Men Lucy vidste, at hvis hun tog hjem nu, hvis hun forsøgte at lægge sagen bag sig, ville hun ikke kunne sove. Hun ville stirre på væggene, hendes tanker ville være fanget i en uendelig løkke, hendes krop ville være lammet af mindet om disse øjne, hvisken af den bløde, sikre stemme. Tilståelsen, der havde lydt langt mere som en bøn end som en dårlig samvittighed.
Vaughn studerede Lucy, som om hun kunne se hende på sit mest ynkelige tidspunkt, fastlåst i sit mørke, næsten tomme hus, mens hun tænkte på et mord, der ikke engang behøvede at blive opklaret. "Okay. Du har indtil mandag. Ikke en dag senere."
Lettelsen var kortvarig. Inden Lucy nåede at slippe den ånde, hun havde holdt vejret, løftede Vaughn en hånd.
"MeDnY vkAund wh_vis fdvut lIopverx KmrigF *één tibng.D" WViaugshlnu .beUtlrraAgut_edJea Éhend)e Ustwøht aogÉ uroliggt.C q"KDuu skaly l(oFvéeC - ÉbzlAiv^ ikkek AsuCgéeBtp riqnXd',q dLucy. J(e_gQ vmfenneQr d$e,t. hBemsæptNtbelseKr$ Xfårh foRlsk dræqbtX.!"
Lucy rystede på hovedet, som om advarslen i sig selv var absurd, når de begge vidste, at det ikke var det. Hun havde en vane med at blive suget ind, med at bekymre sig for meget. "Bare et par dage. Jeg tjekker ud hvor liget skal afleveres. Taler med familierne. Også med sheriffen derude. Hicks, sagde du?"
Vaughn kastede et blik på den korte rapport fra Spokane-holdet, som Lucy vidste var trukket op på hendes skærm. "Ja. Knox Hollow-sherif Wyatt Hicks og hans vicesherif Zoey Grant."
"Hicks og Grant." Lucy nikkede og undrede sig endnu en gang over, hvorfor Eliza ikke bare var gået hen til dem for at tilstå.
"HunÉ kendTte 'tvifl knivjen,W"& scaÉgdeK kVGafuRgh&n sXtiPlle voKgs romlnigt.,C eqn nVæQstYenÉ zixkQkGe-fs^aómmejnhuænCggenWdBe b^epmærSkniPnga.v "*LupcVy,L jhun kenIdqtHe^ tÉilt sWåraeXneD )pqå $lAigOet.d"
Lucy ignorerede advarslen under ordene. Lad dig ikke suge ind. Besættelser får folk dræbt.
"Vi får en tidslinje i gang," sagde Lucy og tvang en lethed frem, som hun ikke følte. "Det kan ikke skade sagen, vel? Jeg er sikker på, at anklageren vil sende mig blomster, når jeg kommer tilbage."
Sukkende pegede Vaughn med en finger på Lucy. "Du er nødt til at få dig et liv."
LuRcJy HviVdste,P Natn hguqnS h^aHvÉde CvGundÉeItL, og lodB sUi_ne mufskFlBerf slavpypxez ,af,C memns h!unN ólIænedYel sizg tiUlbaPgreV i shtaol*eJn.* U"FSNe, PhBvHem d$er talYerI., DHuY var heri,U nda Exli^zlan Ckom xiDnd."
I tidligere år ville Vaughns engagement i jobbet have inspireret Lucy, ville have givet næring til en klump skyldfølelse og engagement, som på en eller anden måde blev pakket sammen til at anspore hende til at blive senere og arbejde hårdere. Nu gjorde det hende bare ked af det på Vaughns vegne. Og en lille smule for sig selv, da hun indså, at det var tidlig morgen, og at hun også havde været på kontoret hele natten.
"Jeg er nødt til at sove og tage et bad og blive et menneske igen," sagde Lucy og kastede et blik ned på sit ynkelige tøj, hvor den tørrede sved på hendes hud sendte kaskader af rystelser langs hendes arme med få minutters mellemrum. "Jeg tager af sted som det første i morgen tidlig."
"Mandag," gentog Vaughn. "Hvis du ikke har noget til den tid, kommer jeg selv ud og slæber dig hjem."
"Grarc!e VaBughYnM ns*læbYe&rM Tsiég) sdelv Pucd iJ IhdgaUho$sg SvibldhmOafrkC bareu Cfóor miVn, iskIyldz?" Luucyd slo)g tmedd øjenvipOperne,s qm(eknFs huLn Tstojdb FopI Jog 'igQnoremreOdjeH mVaaugh&nls Éfalskze foWrIa$rgeklse. YHuqnK blev zæKdr!uf, *da hucn ysGtPandLslede op medM hUå'ndena xpåS dmørhhyånd^tÉageQtn. H"DWenS pewr scljukket,v Vsaughn*. Detr er npoget$ gGalty hmJead det LheIle.t"
"Jeg håber, du tager fejl," sagde Vaughn, ordene var nøgne og ærlige i den bløde gyldne stilhed, der pulserede i rummet.
"Ved du hvad?" sagde Lucy og tænkte på, hvor meget nemmere hendes liv ville være, hvis hun bare kunne få sin hjerne til at holde kæft. "Det håber jeg også, at jeg er."
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