Gathering Dark Candice Fox (e reader TXT) 📖

But there is something that I can do. I hope that my house, where Bernie and I shared so many beautiful memories, goes some small way to demonstrating to you how grateful I am for your service. It’s just a house, and you’ll come to understand that. But please understand that, to me, it is not just a building where I shared the greatest years of my life with my child. The house represents the only powerful act I have been able to exercise after what happened to her. I couldn’t help her, but I can thank you for helping her.

I hope that it becomes a place of beautiful memories for you too. Maybe you’ll raise a family there. But if you should sell it, or give it away, please know that I am happy with your decision. This gesture is undeniably selfish of me. I realize it will cause problems for you with your job. But I ask you to bear it, as you have done so much already.

With my deepest regard, and eternal gratitude,

Stanley Michael Beauvoir

The phone rang in Jessica’s hand, startling her. Rachel Beauvoir’s name appeared on the screen, as though she had been summoned by Jessica casting her eyes over the woman’s name in the letter. She answered, and heard a rush of breath on the other end of the line: relief.

“Jessica, I’ve just got off the phone with Sal Eriksson at 915 Bluestone Lane. He says there are flashlights sweeping around Stan’s hou—your house. Is that you?”

Jessica gripped the phone. The napkin she had been given lay in tatters on the bar before her. She knocked back the rest of her drink, thinking.

“Flashlights?”

“Inside the house. He’s concerned there are prowlers. Should we call the police? Security?”

“No, no, no.” Jessica pulled a bill from her wallet and left it on the bar. “That’s me. I tripped a circuit and I’m just looking for the breaker. Oh, yep. Yep. I think I’ve got it. No need to worry.”

She hung up, pushed through the door of the bar into the street, and ran back toward her apartment, still gripping the phone.

There were indeed flashlights roaming through the house when Jessica arrived on Bluestone Lane. She parked her car and drew her weapon, skirting a thick hedge to reach the front of the property. The sight of an unmarked police car in front of the house gave her pause, then filled her with dread. A heavy weight flopped into the pit of her stomach like a stone.

Jessica went to the front door and found it ajar. She pushed it open. Blackness cut through with slices of light from the back of the house, the windows lit by the pool. She heard something break upstairs, a crunch and the tinkling of glass. Laughter.

“Whoops,” someone cackled. A familiar voice. “So clumsy of me.”

“Get down here, assholes,” Jessica called. There was silence, then footsteps on the floating stairs. Vizchen appeared first, a thin outline with his characteristically hunched shoulders and immaculate military-style haircut, before he blasted the flashlight into Jessica’s face. Wallert came slowly afterward. Jessica could smell the bourbon on him from where she stood in the foyer. She saw Wallert’s gun was out of his holster, then noticed Vizchen going for his.

“Put your guns down!”

“You put yours down,” Vizchen said. He raised his weapon. “We’ve had reports of a break-in at this property. We’re securing the scene.”

“You’re pointing your weapon at a fellow officer!” Jessica snarled. “How fucking dare you? Wally, drag your bitch into line!”

“No can do, Sanchez. You’re on leave. A civilian. For your own safety, we’ll have to disarm you.”

“Hey, hey! What the fuck?” Jessica was shocked at the desperate sound in her voice as Wallert batted away her pistol and shoved her into the wall. She heard the jangle of his cuffs. “You’re drunk. This is … Wally, stop!”

She twisted out of his grip and scraped a boot down his shin, extracting a yowl that filled the house. Vizchen’s arm slid under hers, wrapped around the back of her neck, a sudden shove downward locking the hold into place. Outrage was paralyzing her. She needed to think about escape routes, counter-maneuvers, words and threats that would stop them. But the surprise that they dared touch her at all was so all-consuming that she could only stand there, held like a suspect.

“What do you fuckheads want?”

“We just wanted to come see the place.” Wally walked into the living room. Vizchen pushed Jessica in after him. “Half of this was supposed to be mine. Look at the pool. It’s fucking beautiful. I can see myself out there, margarita in hand. It’s like a postcard. Look at the pool house, Viz. They store their fucking surfboards in something bigger than my apartment.”

“Every house in Brentwood has a pool,” Vizchen chipped in. “I told you so.”

“Listen to me,” Jessica said. “Whitton will have your badges for this. This is break and enter, and assault on a police officer.”

“We were conducting routine drive-bys and we saw evidence of a prowler.” Wallert shrugged. “Just like you did on Lonscote. What are you going to say? We struggled with a suspect who subsequently fled, some shit got broken. It’s part of the job, Sanchez.”

The big man pulled an arm back and threw his flashlight through the plate-glass wall separating living room and deck. The glass split and shattered in a fantastic explosion of electric-blue light and falling shards. Vizchen laughed while Wallert went to retrieve the flashlight. Vizchen’s chest was hot against Jessica’s back, her twisted arm. She finally came to herself, aroused by the gunshot sound of the glass smashing, and drove her foot into Vizchen’s ankle.

“Oh, Jesus!” He fell and she landed a boot in his ribs. She went for his gun and felt the air leave her body as Wallert barreled into her side, a heaving black mass reeking of sweat and alcohol. Vizchen had recovered enough to pin her to the plush carpet, twisting her arm again, his fist