Searching for Shadows, page 5
What was he doing here anyway? Did he think he could magically fix her? Did her father think that too?
She watched as Connelly opened his laptop and began typing.
What was he writing about this time? It was always something macabre with him.
Was he writing about her again? She couldn’t stand the thought of it. The last thing she needed was for her trauma to be dissected in another one of his horror stories.
But as she watched, she saw him lean back in the chair and run his hands through his hair. He looked up at the sky, exhaustion and frustration etched on his face. Suddenly, he looked vulnerable, like he needed someone to lean on.
He glanced up, and they made eye contact through the window. She quickly glanced away, feeling exposed and somehow also like a voyeur.
Was he going to sit there all day?
When she worked up the nerve to peek out the window again, she found him typing.
Shit.
She’d just have to ignore him... which was easier said than done. She tried to keep herself busy. She cleaned even though nothing needed cleaning. She tried to watch TV, but she’d already watched everything she was interested in. She tried to read, and that worked for a little while, but she was still too aware of Connelly’s presence on her porch, even when she couldn’t hear the old rocker creaking. She closed the book—a highly anticipated romantic comedy sequel—and set it back on the shelf. Her fingers traced over the book spines and stopped at the empty spot where his newest release should have been.
Had she not put it back?
She glanced around, scanning the tables in the room. Nothing. She looked under blankets and pillows but came up empty-handed.
What the hell had she done with it?
She shook her head. It didn’t matter. It’d turn up, and she had another copy that Dad had sent her. She found that copy tucked away in a drawer, still in the envelope it had arrived in with Dad’s straight-forward handwritten post-it note still stuck to the cover.
Read this, Vee.
She had not read it. She refused to read it, but curiosity pulled at her. She ran her hand over the creepy cover.
The Shadows Within by Connelly Davis.
She had all of Conn’s books.
Her favorite was still his first, Dreadwood Manor, written when they were just kids. She remembered all the late nights they’d spent on the phone as he talked through his plot problems. All the junk food-fueled critiquing sessions. She’d been so proud of him when he got it published before their freshman year of college was over. He’d dedicated that book to her, calling her his rock and his muse.
He’d also dedicated Shadows to her. She was still his muse but for a much different reason.
She opened the book and read the first page.
The moon, a pale and distant voyeur, watched as shadows birthed themselves from the dark tapestry of night in Ravenshade. In this quiet hamlet, where secrets clung to the air with the acrid scent of impending decay, and fears slumbered in every dim-lit corner, Vanessa Vale felt the subtle shift in the night as reality cracked open. She looked up from her typewriter and watched the long, wavering shadows cast by her desk lamp dance across the cluttered room. A half-empty glass of bourbon stood sentinel beside her, its amber contents a feeble attempt to drown out the haunting whispers that lingered in her mind.
She had always been a creature of the night. As a writer, she was most productive when the world was asleep, and the only sounds that filled the air were the creaks of her old house and the clack of her ancient typewriter.
Yet, tonight was different.
Tonight, the four walls that usually comforted her seemed to be closing in, suffocating her.
Tonight, the shadows were alive.
Veronica snapped the book shut and shoved it onto the shelf with the others.
The bastard.
She would never forgive him for writing her into his book like that. Never. No matter how long he sat on her porch.
But as the hours passed, she kept drifting over to the window to watch him. He got up occasionally to stretch and play with the dog, and once, she caught him unzipping near a tree. She glanced away fast and told herself she wouldn’t look out the window again.
When the sun began to set, she heard the rocker creak and jumped up from her chair, all but running over to the window. She watched as Conn packed up his laptop and dumped the dregs of his coffee out of his thermos.
He was leaving!
Finally.
But instead of leaving, he walked to the window and tapped on the glass.
She hesitated for a moment before unlocking the window and pushing it open a crack. “What?”
“Hey,” he said like she hadn’t just snapped at him. “I’m hungry.”
“I’m not feeding you.”
“Okay.” He seemed unperturbed by that fact. “Do you want to go get food in town?”
“No.” Veronica looked at the Doberman sitting patiently beside him. Rebel’s gaze was sharp and direct and intimidating as hell. “And I’m still not taking the dog, so don’t even ask.”
“That’s fine. I’ve decided you can’t have her. She’s my new writing partner.”
“Writing partner?”
Conn grinned, showing off those deep dimples under the layer of scruff covering his jaw. “Hell, yeah. She’s great at brainstorming.”
Veronica scowled. She didn’t want to be reminded of those appealing dimples. “Just go away and leave me alone.”
He chuckled as he swung his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow. And maybe then you’ll have dinner with me.”
She scoffed. “In your dreams, Conn.”
He flashed another quick grin at her before jogging down the steps and disappearing into the gathering darkness with Rebel galloping ahead on the path.
Veronica watched him go until she saw a light flick on through the trees. Ugh. Why did he have to rent the old Hendricks place? There were tons of other rental properties in the area that weren’t right next door to hers.
And why did she suddenly feel empty with him gone?
She wasn’t about to analyze that, but she couldn’t deny that there was something about Conn that drew her to him. Maybe it was his easy confidence or the way his eyes sparkled when he talked about writing. She always loved when she saw glimpses of that nerdy boy he used to be.
No.
Wait.
Not love.
Not for Connelly.
Not anymore.
The night stretched out before her like a vast, dark ocean. She took a deep breath and stood up, the familiar weight of the fear settling in her chest. She tried to ignore it, to push it away, but it was like a monster that refused to be silenced.
She would go to the kitchen and pour—
No, she wouldn’t think of the fresh bottle of wine that arrived with the groceries Dad had sent. She’d make coffee. She didn’t need alcohol to survive the night. She wasn’t her mother.
As she walked toward the kitchen, a framed picture on the bookshelf caught her attention. Dad had taken it right after she and Connelly graduated from college and ROTC as newly minted second lieutenants. Conn had been on his way to Special Tactics Officer Assessment and Selection, taking the next step to becoming a Combat Rescue Officer, and she had just received her first seat assignment on an aircraft.
They were both grinning.
Both so young.
So naive.
The picture was a reminder of everything she had lost, of everything that had been taken away from her.
She turned it facedown and continued on into the kitchen.
Forget coffee.
Wine it was.
That night, asleep in a hazy cloud of alcohol, Veronica dreamt of shadows. They swirled around her, taunting her. She couldn’t escape them, no matter how hard she tried. She was trapped in the darkness, and they were closing in, long, icy fingers wrapping around her...
She woke up, gasping for air, covered in sweat. Her heart raced as panic smothered her.
She couldn’t breathe.
She reached for her phone and dialed Conn’s number before she could think better of it.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice rough with sleep.
Oh, God. What was she doing?
“Vee?”
She hung up and tried to catch her breath. She didn’t need him. He wasn’t the person she called anymore. He could never be that person again.
She sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes wearily. It was still dark, and the only sound was the gentle rustling of the trees outside her window. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself down.
She was fine.
She was safe.
That was when she heard it. A faint scratching noise, coming from outside.
Just an animal.
Or a tree branch brushing against the house.
Deep down she knew better.
Someone was out there.
chapter seven
The shrill ring of a cell phone shattered the silence in the dimly lit cabin. Connelly blinked and came back to the real world. After tossing and turning in bed for an hour, he’d finally made himself a pot of coffee, shuffled out to the computer on the desk in the living room, and, for the first time in months, the words flowed. He’d been lost in the world of his own creation, and now he felt disjointed, dizzy with the euphoria of creation.
The phone rang again.
He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the clock in the corner of his computer screen: 2:47 a.m. A call at this hour could only mean trouble.
“Hello?” he answered hesitantly, his voice hoarse from disuse.
A choked sob echoed through the line, and his heart thumped hard against his ribcage. He straightened away from the desk, his back muscles protesting. He’d been hunched over the keyboard for too long.
He rubbed at the pain in his neck and said into the phone, “Vee?”
Dead air answered.
“Veronica?”
No response. He checked the screen. She’d hung up. He tried to call back but got dumped right into voicemail.
“Fuck.”
Rebel raised her head from the bed she’d made out of the couch cushions and stared at him with rust-colored eyes that missed nothing.
He exhaled hard and dragged his hands through his hair before shutting the laptop. “We need to go for a walk.”
Rebel jumped up and her tail started a slow wag.
“Yeah, figured you’d like that. Let’s go check on Vee.” He grabbed a flashlight and his coat on the way out the door. It may be early summer, but Northern California didn’t know that. Fog had rolled in off the ocean and twisted around the trees, dampening all sound and leaving a wet chill in the air.
He zipped up his coat and headed out into the night, Rebel bounding ahead of him in the bright white beam of the flashlight.
His phone rang again as they stepped into the woods, and he snapped it up, expecting it to be Veronica.
“Hello?”
“Hey, baby,” a familiar voice purred into his ear. “Miss me?”
He stopped walking, and his heart dropped into a freefall, bottoming out somewhere near his knees. It had been months since he’d heard that voice, but he’d know it anywhere.
“Sara?” he breathed.
“That’s right, sweetie. Long time no see.”
Rebel whined at his feet, sensing his distress. He patted her head reassuringly and tried to keep his voice steady.
“What do you want?”
“I just got into town, and I want to see you.”
Connelly drew the phone away from his ear and cursed long and hard. Then he exhaled to calm himself and raised the phone again. “I’m not in Seattle. And if you contact me again, I will call the police and enforce the restraining order.”
Sara chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound sending shivers down Connelly’s spine. “Oh, come on, baby. You know you want to see me, too.”
“I don’t want anything to do with you.”
Rebel growled low in her throat, her protective instincts kicking in.
Sara’s voice turned cold. “You’ll regret turning me away, Connelly.”
He hung up before she could say anything more, his hand shaking with anger and fear. He thought he’d left her behind when he moved to California, but apparently she had other plans. Plans that involved stalking him and trying to wiggle her way back into his life.
Goddammit.
Rebel leaned against his leg. He scratched her behind the ear, taking comfort in her warm, steady presence.
“We have to be careful, girl,” he murmured. “Sara’s not someone we want to mess with.”
They continued down the path, Connelly keeping a tight grip on the flashlight as they navigated the twisting trees and foggy darkness. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched, that Sara was lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting to pounce.
Sara fucking Parker. He hated that she had the ability to rattle his usually unflappable nerves.
He picked up his pace and breathed a sigh of relief when Veronica’s cabin appeared from the mist. The cabin was dark, except for a faint glow coming from one of the windows. He made his way to the front door and knocked softly.
“Vee?”
There was no response, so he tried again, this time knocking a bit louder. Still nothing. He tried the front door and found it unlocked.
This wasn’t right.
She wouldn’t leave the door unlocked.
He should call the sheriff.
But what if she was in immediate danger? It would take too much time for Ash or one of his deputies to get here.
He could call Zak. Redwood Coast Rescue was only a few miles away...
But Zak was probably in bed. It would take time for him to get here, too.
Time Veronica might not have.
Mind made up, Connelly peeked inside and shined the light around. The front door led into an open concept living room and kitchen. He could see straight to the back of the cabin, through the sliding glass doors to the porch and the cliff beyond. It was all empty.
He stepped inside, Rebel following him silently. The dog was suspicious but calm, and he took comfort in that. If there was someone hiding in here with ill intent, Rebel would know.
He opened the first door he came to. Bathroom. He shone the flashlight inside, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just a generic bathroom that could be found in any vacation rental in the country. Toilet, sink, shower stall. All of it in plain, bland colors.
He kept moving.
The second door was open a crack, and a sliver of light cut across the floor from inside. He knocked, but against received no response. He looked at the dog in question. She sat down and gave a gentle woof and he decided to take it as encouragement. He opened the door.
Veronica was huddled under the covers, her eyes wide and unseeing. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, like she couldn’t catch her breath after a hard run.
She was in the middle of a panic attack.
Connelly’s heart clenched at the sight of his friend in such distress. He approached the bed slowly, his footsteps creaking on the old wood floor, and knelt beside her.
“Vee? It’s me, Connelly. You’re having a panic attack. It’s terrifying, but you’re okay.”
Veronica didn’t seem to hear him. She was lost in her own private nightmare, her body tensed and trembling.
He reached out and brushed a dark lock of hair away from her forehead. Her skin was clammy to the touch, and he could feel her pulse racing beneath his fingertips. “You got this. You just need to breathe through it. Slowly, deeply. In through your nose and out through your mouth.”
He demonstrated, and after a few moments, her breathing slowed. Rebel nuzzled between them and pressed her long nose to Veronica’s tear-stained cheek.
Connelly stayed right there, crouched beside the bed for what felt like hours, though it was probably only a few minutes. He didn’t rush her, didn’t try to push her to talk or move. He knew from experience that panic attacks didn’t work that way. They had their own timeline, their own rhythm. All he could do was be there for her, a steady presence in the middle of a storm.
Eventually, Veronica’s breathing evened out, and she relaxed back into the pillows. She didn’t open her eyes, but her grip on the covers loosened. Connelly took that as a good sign.
“There you go. You did it,” he said softly. “You made it through.”
She didn’t respond, but her breathing remained steady.
Connelly stood up, stretching his cramped muscles. Rebel jumped up on the bed and cuddled next to Veronica.
“I’ll give you some space,” he said. “I’ll be right outside the door when you’re ready.”
He left the door open a crack and made his way to the kitchen to put a kettle on for tea. Veronica had always preferred tea to coffee, and he wasn’t surprised to see a wide selection of flavors in the pantry. He was a coffee guy himself. He loved the stuff, loved the bitterness and the buzz of an espresso shot. But the last thing Veronica needed right now was coffee, so he chose a honey lavender tea, mainly because it was labeled “Calm” in a fancy, flowing script.
As he waited for the water to boil, he paced around the kitchen, his thoughts bouncing between anger at Sara and worry for Veronica.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
It wasn’t just Veronica’s panic attack, although that was concerning enough. No, it was something deeper, something darker. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he knew it was there, lurking just beneath the surface.
He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe he was letting his imagination run wild.
The kettle whistled, interrupting his thoughts. He opened the paper wrapping on the tea bag and put it in a mug, then added the hot water and a spoonful of honey. He stirred it for longer than necessary, trying to calm himself down before he carried the mug back to the bedroom.
