In Her Shadow
Copyright © 2019 by Papyrus Publishing.
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In Her Shadow
A Gripping Psychological Thriller with a Twist
Adam Nicholls
Jay Nadal
Contents
In Her Shadow
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Epilogue
You Saw Too Much
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Afterword by Adam Nicholls
About Adam Nicholls
About Jay Nadal
For Charlotte.
Always.
— Adam
For my children,
Roma and Hana.
— Jay
In Her Shadow
Chapter One
A crowd of locals gather in small huddles along the sidewalk, curiosity gnawing away at them like a hungry sewer rat. Some stare in silence, watching the charade playing out in front of them. Intrigued gossip fills the night air. It’s your average suburban street, a good neighborhood—a great neighborhood some might say—a safe place, or so they all think. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers in the air. It permeates every little thing, like it’s terrified to be blown away in the breeze. Every hair, every cotton fiber, even skin, carries its odor long after the cigarettes are extinguished.
The blinding red-and-blue flashes of police lights puncture the darkness and light up the night sky. They’re little more than smudgy illuminations as Erin Meyer is led from the house by two burly officers, neither willing to cut her some slack. They grip her arms a little too tightly, her fingers tingling as numbness sets in. Other officers mingle close by and call in status reports on their radios, showing not the slightest interest that she’s even there.
“I didn’t do it, you have to believe me,” she mumbles, for all the good it’ll do. Her voice rises with each word that escapes her lips. Adrenaline floods her system. It pumps and beats like it’s trying to escape. She thinks her heart will explode; her eyes are wide with fear. Her body wants to run fast for the safety of the hills.
Erin knows her words are worthless, but she tries them anyway. There’s nothing more she can do—the man she loves had been attacked right in front of her, and the woman who’s done it is… where? In another police car? So why is she being arrested too? The fearful thoughts loop around in her mind until there’s no room for anything else. The “loop” plays like this: “If I tell the cop about what happened, then I’ll get in trouble. If I don’t tell the truth, it might come out anyway. Then I will be caught in a ‘cover-up’.” The thought loop includes plenty of anger at herself.
Erin scans the growing audience that fills the street, her eyes flicking from one woman to the next, until she finally spots her.
“It was her,” she tries, but is silenced by the rush of reporters who swarm around her, screaming at her with microphones extended, hungry for information on tonight’s major attraction that will guarantee them airtime: the assault on Jack Brooker.
More officers make way for her, yelling at the top of their lungs, while the crowd parts like the Red Sea. Erin ducks her head in shame as she’s half walked, half carried to the police cruiser parked on the opposite side of the street. She can feel the cage closing in, the sealing off of any viable exit. If every door is closed, every window concealed, then she cannot complete her purpose. The fear is a weight on her bony ribs, a dull ache in the pits of her eyes, and an unwillingness for her mouth to lift past neutral and scream.
How many of these people thought she was guilty? How many of them knew the other woman and the lengths she’d gone to in order to make this happen? Erin’s body tenses up as she pictures her future. It’s a bleak vision of loneliness, where Jack doesn’t survive the attack and everybody blames her. It’s a future she doesn’t want to accept. This loneliness is a vice on her heart, squeezing with just enough pressure to be a constant pain. Every day, just a little bit more of her dies, taking what was once her inner light and replacing it with a chilling darkness that overshadows and chills each moment. It’s the fuel of her nightmares, the reason she struggles to breathe when a new shock lands at her door. Where is the limit? When comes the point at which the dogs are called off and the help begins? Because she needs to know; she really needs to know.
“It wasn’t me,” she tries again, but her voice is lost in the roar of interested civilians who clog up the street like a horde of scavengers, each one scrambling over the other in a desperate fight for details. But they won’t get them. Not tonight.
Because Erin still needs to tell her story.
How will that go? she wonders. Will they believe me? It doesn’t seem like they will.
Ever since they’d arrived at the scene—rushing straight to the backyard as though they already knew what was going down—they’d treated her like the assailant. Erin had that woman pinned down, true, but she didn’t have a choice. Kris DeCarles was an aggressive woman at the best of times, but after she struck Erin’s boyfriend with a vicious blow, she needed to be restrained. So what if the police blame her—they don’t know the story.
Yet.
She needs to protect Jack; she needs to protect them both from her. Jack can’t speak—he’s hurt really bad, blood everywhere. Yes, they found her with blood on her hands, Jack’s blood, but she was saving Jack. She wants him to live; she wants their life back.
They cross the street and approach the car. An officer releases his grip to reach for the door, and Erin uses the chance to turn slightly, catching a brief glimpse of the ambulance. The back doors are being shut, but she catches a fleeting glance of Jack’s face illuminated by the police lights. He’s unconscious—peaceful, like he is when he sleeps—and a paramedic dabs a cloud of cotton against the red river streaming down his temple.
A knot twists inside Erin’s stomach. Every time she opens her mouth, she gets angrier. She has never felt so much rage as when pushed into passivity against her will. That’s what they expect, though. Show her anger, and they’ll drug her into compliance. But it’s not anger. They don’t need to grip her so tightly. She can’t breathe. Everything is spinning and it feels as if the ground is melting under her feet. She collapses onto her hands and knees, and the sidewalk sends shards of pain through her knees as if she’s fallen on broken glass. Her breathing is shallow and quick. There’s no compassion or concern—the officers drag her to her feet, muttering something about her playing games.
Black fills the edges of her vision, and the only thing she can hear is her own heartbeat. Her breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps. Seconds pass as she stands, trying to regain her balance; then, she hears voices. People swarming all over her, smothering her in a tidal wave of bright lights, microphones, and cameras.
And all the while, all she can think of is Jack. She needs to be with him, by his side, making sure he’s all right. It pains her to think of him all alone, in pain, confused and scared. It shouldn’t be like this. It’s wrong. They’re wrong.
She did this to him, not me, and if he doesn’t come through okay, I hope she rots in Hell. Fuck it, I hope she rots anyway.
Kris had been nothing but trouble since day one. Erin had seen her on her radar the very first time they’d met, and it had only gone downhill since, each questionable event snowballing, picking up momentum until it became an enormous wrecking ball ready to destroy everything in its path. And where did it crash? Right through their front door, that’s where.
But Erin will get a chance to explain herself. The police are fair people who just want the truth. She repeats that fact in her mind on a loop as a hand is placed on top of her head and she’s encouraged into the back seat of the cruiser. The door shuts, and for a moment, the noise of the people is drowned out and a hushed silence surrounds her like an invisible cloak. The crowd surges forward, their bodies pressing against the sides of the car, eager for their last glimpse of her. From every window, faces peer in as if looking at the latest circus act at the local freak show. It’s kind of nice
in here, though—she gets an opportunity to think. She can tell herself that everything will be okay, because she’s going to be face-to-face with a detective, and he will ask her questions about what happened tonight.
And Erin has answers.
Chapter Two
The room is dark and gloomy, not unlike those in the TV shows. There’s one small table in the middle, a wide mirror to her left, and a narrow door in the corner. Erin screws up her nose at a sour scent, but she can’t place it except to say that it smells old. Not that she minds—she’s more focused on steadying her heartbeat and gathering her thoughts.
She knows she’s scared when those old fears run through her head, when she hears the taunting laughter of years past, when she was a skinny kid and the punch line of teenage jokes. She knows she’s scared when those bad memories cut loose their chains and invade her confidence, eroding the person she had built since those dark days.
Her heart twists and sinks with nerves as she hunkers down in the chair. Her eyes skirt around the barren space, desperate for any signs of reassurance. The white light above envelops her coldly, sending shivers racing down her back. Her breaths comes in sharp pants as she tries to gain control, but nothing is working. Each breath feels like a dagger in her ribs. It hurts! She tries to breathe calmly, but every time, the anxiety and worry creep back, knowing, somehow, what they might say.
Slowly, the panic and anxiety attack flow away, and yet she still shakes. Her eyes, closed and aimed toward her clasped hands, slowly open. Trepidation swells through her as she hears footsteps approaching from somewhere beyond the room. Slowly, she raises her eyes.
It feels like a lifetime before the door finally opens. A suited man steps in, closes the door behind him, and crosses the room in three long strides. He offers a sideways glance at Erin while he sets down a small machine and presses a button.
She can’t read his face; it’s as blank as the walls that surround her. Erin knows what’s happening. They’re trained to not give anything away. It’s all part of the intimidation process. A chance for the detective to unnerve the suspect, to exert their authority and take control from the start.
“Erin Meyer, I’m Detective Roberts. It’s your right to know that I’m recording this conversation, and anything you say can be used in a court of law.” He drags out the chair with a screech and lowers himself into it, straightening his tie. “Do I have your permission for that?”
Her mouth is full of cotton. She swallows at the word court. “Yes.”
“Excellent.” Detective Roberts scooches forward and rests his hands on the table, interweaving his fingers. He’s a good-looking guy, well-built, with dark hair, stern dark eyes, and a strong jaw. But there’s something about him that says he’s more than just a detective; there’s stress in his voice, and that humanizes him. “Miss Meyer, tonight’s events concern me greatly. Do you understand why you’re here?”
Erin is dead certain. She didn’t need reminding. “Jack Brooker was attacked, and you think I did it.”
The detective nods. “Did you do it?”
“Hell no.” She tries to sound strong, but there’s a crackle in her tone, and weakness that he’s no doubt picked up on.
“Then why would I think you did?”
Erin shakes her head and glances at the door, almost expecting to be let out, that in the heat of the moment, it was a mix-up. “Because Kris DeCarles has also been questioned, and if I know her—which I do—she’s already weaving her own little tale.”
“There are marks on her face that speak volumes.”
“I know how it looks.”
“You don’t seem too worried about that.”
“I guess I’m kind of hoping Jack will back me up.”
“What’s your relationship to Jack?”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Detective Roberts looks her dead in the eye. His thoughts are unreadable, his eyes moving up and down her bloodstained body. He breathes harder; his nostrils flare. Finally, he reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small notepad. The pen comes next. He clicks it into action and starts scribbling, nodding to himself. “It’s funny, Kris says the same thing about herself.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Why’s that?”
For a moment, the detective locks eyes with her. He’s examining her every moment, each word that passes her lips, and her eyes. Yes, her eyes. They tell him much more than the broken words that occasionally spew from her.
“Because she’s looney-tunes.”
Roberts pauses and stares down at his notepad, his eyes closing for just a few seconds. “Excuse me?”
“She’s been doing this for weeks. Months, even.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
Erin takes a deep breath and clasps her sweaty hands together to stop them from shaking. She can’t give in. She can’t let him control her. She tries to meet his stare, but finds it intimidating. Damn. Just play it cool, she tells herself. Play it cool and explain what happened, and when Jack wakes up, he can confirm everything you say. “Kris has been a problem for me and Jack. We should have seen it coming, really, but we didn’t think it would go this far. That’s our biggest mistake.”
The detective raises a hand to pause her. “Hold up. Are you saying Kris attacked Jack?”
“Yes.”
“And that Jack is your boyfriend, not hers?”
Erin’s hands shake. Sweat forms just below her hairline. She knows each word must be chosen carefully, or they’ll misinterpret everything she says. But deep down, she knows it’s okay, because they’ll have no choice but to believe the truth…won’t they? “Yes, Jack is my boyfriend, and Kris is obsessed with him.”
“Then why would she hurt him?”
Erin shrugs. “I don’t know what the hell is going on in that head of hers—you’ll have to ask her, I’m no shrink. All I know for sure is that she’s dangerous. Very dangerous. She’s clever at deception and painting an image of the injured party. But it’s an act, it’s all an act. I’ve thought of reporting her in the past, but like I say, we honestly didn’t think she would go this far. Now I feel like an idiot for not taking it seriously.”
Detective Roberts makes a note. “When the officers arrived, they saw you straddling Kris,” he says. “Apparently you were screaming, and aggressive. Want to tell me about that?”
Oh, go to Hell. Erin sighs. “It would look guilty, yes. I appreciate that. But I was keeping hold of her as she was trying to get away. Don’t you see? I had to wrestle her, to keep her down until your officers arrived. That look of aggression? That was because she’d just swung a one-pound glass ashtray at Jack’s skull and wanted to take a swipe at me, too. You’re telling me you wouldn’t feel a little adrenaline if you were in that situation?”
Roberts clicks his pen three times, his gaze fixed on her, unsure what to make of her. It’s early days; he’s still forming an opinion of her. His chin is raised, his eyes lowering down at her like he’s observing from above. His mouth forms a small circle, and he blows through it. “I suppose I would, yes. But look, all I’ve got is hearsay and half a statement from Kris DeCarles. There’s only so much I can say, but her statement contradicts yours, and my job is to find out who’s lying and who’s the innocent party in this. You keep saying she’s dangerous. What makes you say that?”
“Because she is.” Erin steadies herself, her mind wandering back to those nights when Kris forced herself into her thoughts. The past few months have been torture, sure, but all that could come to an end now. All she has to do is explain herself. No matter which path she takes, it always comes back to that woman. Erin shakes her head mutely. She’s been here an hour, tops, or this is some sick nightmare, and she’s had plenty of those to last her a lifetime already. She breathes. It isn’t real—how can it be? “Clearly, the fact that she attacked Jack is proof enough.”