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Haunted
November 11, 2009, Washington, D.C.
Ryan exhaled, trying to clear his head. That shitty morning kept coming back to haunt him, making him cringe every time. He always struggled with his temper. Junior high was the worst, but he got better at managing it with age. The day he met Sie, he swore to himself he’d never let her see that ugly side of him, and he’d kept his promise—until he didn’t.
The whole thing was now forever seared into his mind. She was dreaming one of her strange dreams, murmuring something he could never quite make out. That morning, though, she was having an erotic dream. And damn it, she looked so hot moaning all by herself, he had to make that dream a reality. What a mistake that turned out to be.
It was odd how she said that name, like she wasn’t speaking English. Then she repeated it—and something snapped inside him. The rage blinded him after that name entered their bedroom. Without a doubt, it belonged to the asshole in her sketch. Christ... He shook his head, wincing. He’d almost got her with her drawing pad.
Yet was it only his self-righteous outrage at her supposed betrayal? Not if he were to be one hundred percent honest. What was baffling and seriously fucked up was deep down, he almost liked it. Nah, not almost. He liked it. Why deny it? He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The truth was, he liked it so much, it turned him on all over again the second time she said it. The way she whispered that goddamn name—so sensually—he’d wanted to keep hearing it. What kind of bullshit was that?
There was something about it he didn’t understand and couldn’t name, and he didn’t do well with ambiguity. But what drove him even crazier than the ghost of that fucker in their bedroom was, for some sick and twisted reason, he couldn’t hate the man. Those long, miserable days of confinement with his shoulder wound, he’d go into her studio and study the sketch, drawn to it against his will. She was a talented artist. The warrior seemed almost real, so many intimate details in his arrogant face. The small scar under the lower lip—probably a minor accident that left a mark.
Why the hell was he thinking of that asshole’s scar? What the fuck was wrong with him? He had a buddy in college who was into that sort of thing—his girlfriend with someone else. He never noticed those types of tendencies in himself. That wasn’t what he wanted, was it?
Christ, to even wonder about it.
Yet, the facts kept staring him in the face. His wife had said another man’s name, and he liked it. Maybe he was even kinkier than he thought. Either way, his perverse liking of that name on her lips was the main reason for his rage. And he’d lashed out at her.
He released a long, steadying breath. There was more to it still. Despite Sie’s insistence of the man being some warrior she’d dreamed up, he knew that asshole from somewhere. Emma did, too—she said so herself. The man was real. Now, he always had superb memory. It was one of the things that made him damn good at his job. So why couldn’t he peg the fucker? Damn it, he even had the face run through the facial recognition database—with zero results. Of course, no matter how realistic, it was only a drawing.
All that aside, and most puzzling of all, he also knew Sie wasn’t having an affair. Sure, all the evidence pointed to it, and anyone with half a brain could see it, but he just knew she wasn’t. She didn’t fit the profile. Their marriage didn’t fit the profile. No logic, no proof behind it. Only faith.
He pressed the lock button on his car remote and got into the elevator. Then, hoping against hope, he opened the door. Nothing had changed since yesterday, of course. Motionless and pale, she was still beautiful. A new, ethereal beauty, almost otherworldly. She’d grown thin in the last three months, the delicate bones of her face coming to the surface beneath her smooth skin. The graceful arch of her eyebrows seemed serene, undisturbed by mundane worries. Her eyelashes were so long, they caressed her cheek. A single eyelash rested on it. He touched it, and it clung to his finger.
If only she’d open her eyes. He’d give everything to see the warm glow of those two bottomless mahogany pools with golden flecks. His gaze traveled to her lips, soft and pink like a rosebud, so easily curving into the sweetest smile he’d ever seen. What he would give to see her smile. He touched her cheek. Feeling life run through her gave him a small measure of comfort. Her hair, the color of whiskey, woodlands, and autumn leaves, felt silky beneath his fingers. If only these smooth waves would bounce on her graceful shoulders again.
But her eyes were closed, lips unmoving, hair fixed on the pillow. Same as yesterday.
He buried his face in his hands. What if she never wakes up? The thought plagued him day and night. Nights were the worst. He started taking sedatives to get a few hours of shut eye. Their large bed had grown cold and empty. This morning again, he automatically searched for the feminine curves of her body, only to be reminded she wasn’t there. She wasn’t there because she was here, in this sterile hospital room, hooked up to these indifferent machines without which she’d be dead. Dead he’d be, too. Dead inside. He was already dying, drowning.
I’ll never meet anyone like her again. The thought came unbidden. But he couldn’t think this way. He took her slender hand in his. It was listless, her small fingers almost weightless in his. He brought them to his lips. If only he could breathe health into them.
“Come back to me, Sie. I’m lost without you.”
Lost more than I knew. The memory returned uninvited, a deep twinge of shame cutting to the quick.
That goddamn Lindsey showed up at his doorstep a week ago, dressed in one of her tight-fitting outfits and high heels. No text, no phone call, no notice of any kind. Guinness growled at her, which was embarrassing, and he pulled the dog away.
“Hey—” She’d dropped her gaze, bit her lip. “I just wanted to... ask about Sie. May I come in? For a minute?”
Fuck’s sake.
She stepped into his condo. “I mean... even if Jason and I didn’t work out, you and I are still friends, aren’t we?”
Her sideway glances, coy smiles, limp wrist. He should have walked her out, but he felt bad. A goddamn dickhead.
He hadn’t showered after his useless afternoon run and still wore his shorts and a sweat-soaked t-shirt. He pointed to the couch when she tried to give him a hug. She didn’t sit but took one look around and began to tidy up.
“Please, Lindsey, you don’t have to do this.” He compressed his lips. “I was just going to clean up.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. I know how hard this must be for you, Ryan.”
She picked up random articles of clothing, chip bags, beer bottles. The place was a fucking mess.
“How is she? Any improvement?” She tossed an empty whiskey bottle into the kitchen recycling bin, then reached for a half-dead houseplant. It was a small succulent Sie had found somewhere.
“No, leave that—” He stood to pour some water into the pot, then returned to the couch.
“Ryan, how are you holding up?” She sat beside him. “Listen, I’m sorry about that afternoon. Jason and I were having problems, as you know, and I just... lost my mind a little.” She peered into his eyes, pouting.
“Hey, I forgot all about it.” He’d see her out now. “Anything to drink?” He offered half-heartedly instead, not wanting to appear rude.
“Sure... you got more whiskey, by chance?”
He glanced at his unopened bottle, gleaming behind the glass cabinet door. His recent alcohol consumption bordering on abuse, he’d resolved to keep it sealed. He was sure she’d ask for a glass of water. Since when was she drinking whiskey?
He got up. “Ice?”
“Thank you, just a little, please. It helps take the edge off. I’ve been such a mess with the divorce, and all that—” She fiddled with her earring. “How is he? I hope you don’t mind my asking. I still care for him, you know.”
“As expected.”
He brought two whiskey glasses to the coffee table. What the hell was he doing drinking with Lindsey?
One drink, then I’ll take Guinness out for a walk.
“What do the doctors say?” She took a tiny sip, shuddering. “I mean... do they know when she might wake up?”
He drained half a glass. “They won’t commit to anything.”
“But she’s young and healthy, right? She’ll wake up soon, Ryan. You have to think positively.”
She took another sip from her glass, and he drained his.
“Wait a minute! I don’t want to be drinking alone!” She went to the kitchen and returned with the bottle. “She’s—okay otherwise—like no damage, right?”
He winced. He didn’t know. He didn’t fucking know the answer to this hideous question.
“Oh... sorry, I shouldn’t have asked—” She clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.
He took the bottle from her and filled his glass to the rim. Drinking never failed to make his misery a little blurry around the edges. He poured the calming liquid down his throat, waiting for it to take effect.
“Listen, I know this whole thing is awful, but hang in there.” Lindsey patted his arm. “I’ve read somewhere people can come out of a coma totally unscathed. And then, they just continue with their lives, especially if they didn’t have health issues before, you know. Let’s drink to that!”
He poured himself some more, clinked his glass with hers, and knocked it back. Maybe he was wrong about her. She was making a real effort to be there for him, as a friend should. Too bad she and Jason were getting divorced.
The conversation fizzled out, and Lindsey pulled out her phone.
“You know what?” She brightened. “I’m having some friends over at my new place this weekend. Why don’t you come by? We’ll watch a game, order pizza—it’ll be good for you.”
He leaned back, the buzz enveloping him like a warm and cozy blanket. “I’ll pass, but thanks for the invite.” He smiled. She was sweet for thinking of him.
“Hey—” She returned his smile. “Have you seen the mural? Siena is such an amazing artist, isn’t she...? The man, the warrior, I mean, he seems familiar somehow. Do you know him?” She peered into his eyes, tucking a long blonde strand behind her ear.
“She said she’d dreamed him up.” He almost laughed at this absurdity. Of course, he was real—first, Emma, now Lindsey.
“Oh yeah? Did that make you jealous? He’s kind of out of this world...” Her teeth sank into her plump lower lip. “I wonder who he is...” She tilted her head back, massaging her neck. “Ah... too much time at the computer...”
Her gaze landed on his empty glass. “Jesus, Ryan, I can’t keep up with you!” She grabbed the bottle and poured more for him, spilling it over the rim. “Oops! That’s why I could never be a bartender!” She tittered, blushing.
He’d never seen her laugh like this before. He studied her pretty face and full, soft cleavage. Why was I in such a hurry to see her out? She was just a sweet girl who’d come by to check on him. She seemed to really get him, too, which was nice. He picked up his overflowing glass, spilling more and not giving a shit.
“All right, this is a mess.” He shrugged and drained it in one go. It was good to have female company for a change, and such a pleasant one, too.
“I’ll get some paper towels.” She sashayed to the kitchen, her shapely hips swaying with every step.
“All clean.” She smiled into his eyes, bending over the coffee table as he put down his glass. “Oh... what’s that in your hair? Did you go on a run?” She leaned in, her bare cleavage firm and smooth. “Look, it’s so cute and perfect!” Her eyes locked with his as she held up a small red leaf between her fingers with long, pink fingernails.
“Your hair has gotten long,” she murmured, sitting so close, they touched. “You look like a surfer...” Her eyes were beautiful: light blue iris rimmed with a dark circle and framed with long black eyelashes. The eyelashes fluttered, and she drew closer, breath quickening. “I like the beard, too...”
He needed to get off the couch and end this, but he remained where he was, gazing into those deepening ponds of blue like a fool.
“Let me fix your hair...” She raked his strands, her breathy voice putting a spell on him.
He inhaled, trying to control himself. She smelled good. Some sweet perfume and—lust. Fuck... A powerful stir surged through him, all self-control going out the window. This is wrong... The thought faded into the thickening alcoholic haze.
She brought her lips to his. Her mouth was warm and insatiable, her body soft and pliable in his arms. Desire, thick and urgent, jolted through him, each nerve standing on end. Then, they were entwined on the couch, his hands in her long hair, her legs wrapped around him.
“That’s right...” She breathed into his mouth. “Let yourself be happy... you deserve it, handsome, I won’t tell.”
Guinness barked beside them in a deafening outburst, and he batted at the dog, unseeing. What the hell was his problem?
You’re everything I could ever wish for, baby, and so much more. Sie’s silvery voice cut through his fog of lust. The new diamond solitaire sparkled on her pretty finger, their clothes discarded on his bedroom floor.
This is so thoroughly fucked up.
He removed his hands from Lindsey’s hair, trying to shake the alcoholic cloud.
“Come on, baby...” She reached to unzip her dress.
Baby. This was wrong on so many levels, he couldn’t even begin to count them. What possessed him to get loaded and make out with Lindsey? It’d been so long since he last held Sie in his arms. He hadn’t been sleeping well. Excuses. He was out of his everloving mind. Gently, he untangled himself from Jason’s soon-to-be ex-wife and stood.
She gaped. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“I’m sorry.” He shook himself.
“What—?”
“This is wrong, Lindsey. In so many ways. You shouldn’t have come here.”
White as a sheet, she zipped her dress and smoothed her hair with her hands. She seemed crestfallen, biting her lip as if fighting tears. He had no idea what he’d do if she cried. But she didn’t cry. She stared unblinking, her expression shifting from sullen to pissed off.
“I cannot believe you, Ryan,” she said at length, voice low and shaky. “Why is this wrong? Tell me why! I want you, and you obviously want me!”
“Lindsey—”
“We’re both adults.” She raised her chin. “And right now, I’m without a husband, and you’re without a wife. We can do whatever the hell we want! Why is this wrong, Ryan?”
The buzz and the lust had receded.
“C’mon, Lindsey, you don’t want me to say it.”
“Oh yes, I want you to say it.” She nodded, defiant. “Say it, Ryan!”
No one to blame but himself. He pushed the buzz as far back as he could, shoving his misplaced lust along with it.
“I have a wife.” He met her eye. “And Jason is my buddy and partner. Should I continue?”
“What does any of it have to do with us?” She stood, eyes blazing. “What a load of bullshit!”
She glared, lips pinched, hands tightened into fists at her sides. Hurt pride, pain of rejection. She wouldn’t leave until she drew blood and had blood drawn. Only himself to blame.
Ryan rubbed his forehead. “You’re... very attractive, but I’m not looking for this.”
“And what are you looking for, Ryan?” She flared. “She might never wake up! And even if she does, she’ll never be the same! A brain injury put her in a coma! You know this deep down—she’s gone!”
A bandage ripped from a gaping wound. He drew back, ice creeping under his skin.
“What can she possibly have that I don’t?” Lindsey’s bulging eyes and flaring nostrils had transformed her face into something revolting. “You’re rejecting me—real, alive, and warm—for a phantom, a ghost who’s as good as dead!”
He straightened. “I’ll see you out now.”
“Don’t bother!” She started for the door but turned. “You have got some nerve to moralize me. It was as much you as me there!” She jerked her head at the couch. Not quite leaving, she reached for the door handle. “When you’re alone in your cold bed tonight, just think what you’re missing!” She pulled at her dress, and the stretchy fabric clung to her curves. “You’re not getting it now! You couldn’t handle me anyway!” She slammed the door so hard, Guinness gave a sharp yelp of surprise.
Ryan shook off the memory, carving his newly cut hair. Sie seemed so peaceful in her hospital bed. He blew out his breath. She can never know.
But he needed to get to what he came to tell her.
“I’m going back to work next week—I have no choice, Sie.” He hesitated. “There was another murder. Same guy, same crime. I have to find him before he does more damage.”
This case drove him up the wall and filled him with dread he’d never experienced on a job. It was the same guy, no question. The new victim, found five days ago in an abandoned warehouse, was a copy of the other three. Hands tied in the front with plastic cable tie, beaten and mutilated, brutally raped, strangled in the end. One sick fuck.
The most baffling thing about this goddamn case was the total absence of DNA samples, no usable evidence whatsoever, and only one unreliable witness. Nothing to grab on to. Exasperated, he kept studying the only clue he had—that shitty facial composite based on the homeless man’s description. The face was common as dirt. The only distinguishing feature were the killer’s deep-set eyes, devoid of emotion. Ryan couldn’t help himself—they were like Ken Worgen’s. He’d noticed it when he watched the museum director through the two-way mirror. But the man in the sketch looked ten years younger and twenty pounds lighter.
He knew he was biased, so he ran the idea by Jason, who said it was far-fetched. It didn’t matter either way. Ryan was only days away from getting the green light on the surveillance and a warrant to search Worgen’s flat and records.
In the meantime, the Ghost was as elusive as ever. The forensics always came back with the same results: latex—lots of it. He must cover himself in it from head to toe. His last victim’s severe allergic reaction was a sure telltale sign if they ever needed one. That one threw him more than the other three. The girl was an undergraduate student at Georgetown, the same school Sie went to. She had long strawberry blonde hair and blue eyes, like his ex.