Robbi Bryant

CHAPTER 1
THUNDER SLAMMED, AND lightning broke the sky. Edward Olson
glanced at the flash that lit up the closed wood blinds. Without a word, he
sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to dump a body by the river. Not in the pouring
rain. But the urge to strangle Cynthia Langford wouldn’t let go. Edward tried
to resist. He really did. He glanced at Cynthia, who sat next to him on his
couch like a doe-eyed deer.
Couldn’t he have an occasional date without the pressure to kill?
But The Darkness, an entity only Edward could see, had its own agenda.
The creature perched on top of the coat rack—head hung low, shoulders
hunched. As if it were all a game, the beast click-clacked its upper and lower
beak. Click-clack. Click-clack. With a lift, it flapped its spiked wings, whooshed
across the room, and landed on Edward’s shoulder.
Edward glanced at his shadowy nemesis, a foot-tall creature with a beak,
talons, and bat-shaped wings that could spread double its size when the damn
thing flew—looking more like a thorn-covered Pterodactyl than a large bird.
Its teeth, sharp as broken glass and vampiric, created a sense of desperate evil.
A good candidate for Satan’s favorite pet, Edward often thought.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
The nonstop sound grated Edward’s nerves causing a hard tension to coil
through him. He felt wound up and ready to pounce. And The Darkness
wouldn’t shut up. Always push-push-pushing Edward into a rage. If only
the creature would disappear. He often daydreamed of living in a world
unhampered by the monstrosity and its cravings. He tried to imagine himself
with problems like a bad job, a broken-down car, or a steep mortgage. But his
fraternity in life had members like Theodore “Ted” Bundy, Son-of-Sam David
Berkowitz, and Blind-Torture-Kill murderer, Dennis Rader—all plagued by
entities that forced them to kill.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Edward’s jaw clenched, and he swiped at the creature on his shoulder.
The Darkness squawked, zoomed around the room, and landed on the other
shoulder—its talons sunk deep.
As if it had a mind of its own, Edward’s heel pumped up and down. His
head pounded. Leave me alone, Edward thought—the words whizzed in his
mind like a violent hurricane. The intensity of his need gnawed at him until
he had no choice.
Edward glanced at Cynthia and muttered, “Can you excuse me a sec?”
“Sure, doll.” Cynthia kissed his cheek. “Hurry back,” she cooed. “I miss
you already.” She batted her hooded eyes.
Kill her, The Darkness insisted and leaped onto the coat rack.
Edward peered at the malicious creature as it snapped its beak open and
shut, open and shut—escalating—becoming harsher, louder. Each click and
clack taunted him. He felt as if a torture device was stretching his skin.
At one time, Edward thought he would get used to the click-clacking, but
that never happened. The repetitive sound fucked with him like a hungry
mosquito serenading an ear until it drove him into a rage. Edward curled his
hands into fists, dug his nails into his palms, and sprang from the couch. As
he barged toward the kitchen, he focused on maintaining control.
Just get me to the kitchen before I snap. But the ruthless shadow was already
in the kitchen. Waiting. Click-clacking. The beast snorted then ground its
jagged teeth together. The crunch of bone on bone—hideous.
Trying to get ahead of the terrible compulsion, Edward grabbed a bottle
of Johnnie Walker Blue and gulped a shot. Sometimes it cooled him down.
But not tonight.
A zap of recklessness jolted through him.
Edward paced. Another shot.
And the click-clacking. The racket infuriated him. He needed a break.
“What should we watch?” Cynthia called from the screening room.
Edward had planned a quiet night—pizza and a movie—until The
Darkness opened its cruel beak. And now, not even allowing Edward a chance
to choose a film, the entity put him to the test.
Click-clack, click-clack.
Would you fucking stop? Edward slammed the scotch bottle against the
Italian tile counter so hard it shattered. Glass and whiskey flew across the floor.
“Are you okay?” Cynthia’s voice swirled from the other room.
And The Darkness—again with the beak clicking. The sounds ricocheted
from wall to wall. Edward knew only one thing would ease the wrath that
boiled inside him. Only one antidote could heal the sickness that cursed
him.
“Edward?” Cynthia called.
Her voice wove between the booming sounds in Edward’s head. His blue
eyes, now black as death, focused as he strutted into the entertainment room.
He no longer saw Cynthia. He no longer cared. She was nothing.
“Edward, what’s wrong?”
Her shrill voice seemed too much to bear. And the incessant clicking, then
crunching of the teeth drove him mad. He grabbed Cynthia by the neck and
squeezed.
Cynthia’s eyes filled with confused terror.
The Darkness landed on Edward—dug its talons into Edward’s back—and
rode him hard. The snapping and click-clacking reached a crescendo.
Cynthia, kicking and gasping, struggled to escape, but Edward held her
firm—his strength too much for her. Although the light faded from her eyes,
Cynthia refused to stop fighting.
Edward liked it when they struggled. It added to the drama.
The choking went on until Cynthia lost consciousness. Edward let go and
slapped her until she came to. At first, she seemed disoriented, but seconds
later, she tried to scream. His large hands went right to her throat—squeezing
until she passed out again. He brought her back. Then strangled her once
more. He took pleasure in blacking them out then reviving them.
It’s like playing chess with Death.
Edward’s smile turned vicious, and he skidded into a frenzy. He tightened
his hands around Cynthia’s neck. Trying to untangle herself from his grip, she
kicked. But Edward hung on. Squeezing the life out of . . . of . . . whoever
the hell she was . . . until she succumbed. Burst blood vessels in the whites of
her eyes looked like veils of red lace. Her tongue turned a tell-all blue. Small
marks dotted her neck.
Edward fell back onto the couch, the kill rushing through him. He howled
like the predator he was. He was so drunk with pleasure he felt as if he could
float with the clouds, dance with autumn leaves, sleep on the sea. The sensation
lasted a minute, sometimes less. Didn’t matter. Those seconds of ecstasy, those
seconds of freedom, were worth the hassle of getting the body to the river in
the rain. Mud or not.
The Darkness lifted from Edward’s back, stretched its wings, and
disappeared into a gloomy corner of the room. Heady from the release,
Edward pulled himself back into the now. Back to Cynthia, sprawled on the
couch like a discarded rag doll.
Edward glanced at the clock. No wonder he was hungry. He picked up the
takeout menu—pepperoni or sausage? He couldn’t decide. Hell, he had no
idea what Cynthia preferred. To be fair, he ordered a half-and-half with a side
of garlic fries then turned on the TV. Scrolling through the movies, he settled
on Sleepless in Seattle. Romantic comedy, his favorite.
STARTLED, EDWARD JERKED out of a dream. It took a few moments to
orient himself. He was still in the screening room—one arm wrapped around
Cynthia Langford’s body. The red light from the clock cast a hollow glow. On
TV, a shady-eyed preacher tried his best to sell God.
2:45 a.m.
Edward peeked between the blinds and appraised the early morning.
Moon slivered. Slight drizzling. He could make it down to the river and back
dry if he wore rain gear—another hassle. He lifted Cynthia and hauled her
out to his three-car garage. Her stiffening body felt like a bag of cement, but
he crammed her into the trunk and slammed it.
As he drove toward Cynthia’s new resting place, Edward listened to de
Senneville’s music. Once parked, he fast-forwarded to “Mariage d’Amour,”
the perfect piece for carrying Cynthia’s body down to the river’s edge—she
would have loved the romance of it all.
Edward took a moment to take in his surroundings. Low-lit industrial
buildings stood like gravestones against the sky. The air was still, and the
sound of the water gurgled like a death rattle. He lay Cynthia on the concrete
and dirt silt and noticed her foot dangling in the water. Would she mind?
A gentleman, he dragged the body toward the incline that led to the fence.
Should he head home and return later? Or grab the tarp and have sex with
her now?
BY THE TIME Edward dumped Cynthia and returned home, it was 4:30
a.m. His first class, Legal Writing, was less than a few hours away. Shit. The
last thing I want is to ruin my buzz. He decided, instead, to take a road trip to
Las Vegas. It would be a luxury to escape the bloated, dull Seattle clouds and
the stresses of being a student.
Edward turned onto I-84, heading east. He debated how long he wanted
to be on the road. Most times, he drove to Vegas. He’d lose himself in reflective
thought, dissecting his behavior and mood. Sometimes he’d focus on finding
the next woman. Today, he felt like driving for its own sake. Take in the
scenery. Enjoy the desert heat.
Law school was a goddamn albatross. First, it was time-consuming, and
second, at thirty, he was the oldest in the class. It would be hip to say he was
an attorney, but he hadn’t realized the work involved in becoming one. Shit.
Why not drop out of school and just say he was a lawyer? How hard would
it be to add law books and fake files to his office? It’s not like he needed the
money.
His long-lost grandmother had skipped his bitch-of-a-dead-mother and
had left her fortune to him. The six million-plus allowed Edward to live well.
He had an estate on five acres, and women adored the seclusion—that is until
they screamed for help, and nobody came. The pool, the screening room, the
home gym, and the woods that surrounded the 4500-square-foot house were
only a few features his luxury home offered.
Edward decided he’d stay at the Bellagio. Sometimes he’d meet a woman
at the pool, take her to Sinatra’s for Veal Parmigiana, maybe catch a show, and
walk her back to the hotel. But this trip, he’d spend time at the casinos, shop
at Caesar’s, and cruise the streets. There are always women in Vegas looking
for some fun.
After two days, the death of a hooker, and three thousand in winnings,
Edward headed back to Seattle. Instead of working out in his home gym, he
stopped at his health club near the University.

CHAPTER 2
AFTER A BUSY Monday at work, twenty-six-year-old Cate Derry headed
to the gym. She’d been a nurse at the University of Washington’s Harborview
Medical Center for a month and was now familiar with the protocols.
Although worn out, she convinced herself to get on the elliptical trainer for
thirty minutes. She put in her earbuds, turned on her music, and claimed the
last open machine. Next to her, a Dylan McDermott look-alike glanced at
her, smiled like he knew her, and returned to his workout. In trendy workout
clothes, he looked like new money. His tousled dark hair—shaved close on the
sides and longer on top—highlighted his haunting blue eyes. His cheekbones
were high fashion. Oh, yes, she’d seen his type before and was certain women
threw themselves at him.
But not Cate.
She pulled herself back to her workout and kept her pace while Lady Gaga
sang. Perspiration cleansed the stress she carried in her neck and shoulders.
Critical care was for strong-willed and tough-minded nurses. Cate, however,
vowed she would leave her career if she ever felt hardened.
Cate’s workout slowed from the fifteen-minute cooldown to a complete
stop. The guy next to her wound down as well.
“Looks like you worked your butt off,” he said, his voice casual.
Cate pulled the earbuds out. “I’m sorry, I . . . ah . . . what did you say?” She
blushed. Her lack of experience with men presented as social awkwardness.
She didn’t like small talk. Didn’t have the gift.
“You’re new here?” The Dylan-McDermott-of-the-gym asked.
“Nope. I usually come around six. I didn’t realize the gym would be empty
later in the evening.”
“Don’t get used to it. It’s an off-night.”
“Right.” Cate stepped off the elliptical and blotted her face with a towel.
“What do you do that keeps your workout late?” He grabbed his towel.
“I’m a nurse.” Her anxiety revved to high, and she glanced toward the
locker room. Okay, Gotta run, she thought she’d say. But he’d steered the
conversation forward before she could speak.
“Impressive. Hey, I like the ponytail.”
She’d pulled her straight hair back that morning—part of her daily
routine–and put her ponytail near the crown of her head. Made her look
spunky, which she liked. The scrubs in her locker were a cheery blue with a
small-rabbits-and-carrots design. The blue pants matched. Cate felt cartoon
tops made her less intimidating to patients and highlighted the difference
between her and the bully nurses who ran the fifth-floor Critical Care Unit.
Well, say something. Don’t just stand there like an idiot. “Keeps it out of my
face.” Cate glanced at the two yellow balls in his elliptical’s cupholder. “What
do you do with your balls?” Holy cheeses. Did I just say that? Cate felt her face
heat.
He laughed. “Well, that’s an interesting question.”
“I know. I meant . . . I didn’t think before—”
“Works out my hands,” he said with a wink. “I like to keep them strong.”
He picked up a ball and squeezed it. “I’m a defense attorney. You never know
when you might need to punch an obnoxious prosecutor.”
“Smart and funny.” Fine. Enough small talk. It was the perfect time to
untangle herself from this conversation. “Gotta run.” She headed toward the
women’s locker room.
“Hey, wait.” He hurried to her side. “Is your name Caitlyn Derry?”
“Do I know you?”
“We . . . uh . . . had a class together. I dropped it after three days, but I
remember you.”
“Really?” Cate eyed him. “What class?”
“What class?” he repeated. “Biology. I thought about medical school.”
“Good memory.” How could he possibly remember me? Cate thought. But
it didn’t matter—not really. “Well, nice to see you again,” she mumbled, still
walking.
“How about dinner Saturday night?”
“Sorry.” She felt her face flush as she shook her head.
He caught up with her. “Lunch?”
“I don’t date.”
“Coffee and a bagel?”
Deep within, she felt an undercurrent of magnetism she didn’t understand;
even so, she stopped, turned toward him, and smiled. “I’m sorry. No.”

CATE STEPPED OUT of the gym to the parking lot and moaned. Her back
tire sat flat against the ground. “Oh, sheets!” She tossed her gym bag across
the asphalt. “Now what?” A tear welled in her eye. It was times like this that
she missed her dad more than usual.
“Looks like you’ve got a bit of a problem. Let me give you a hand.”
Cate turned to find Dylan-of-the-gym right behind her. He’d crept upon
her without making a sound. Oh God, did he see me having my tantrum? She
tried to be nonchalant as she walked across the lot to retrieve her bag.
He squatted next to the tire. “There’s a nail in the sidewall. You got a
spare?”
“Yes, but I have no idea how to change a tire.”
“Don’t you worry. The cavalry has arrived.”
Cate watched the chivalrous stranger take off the flat and screw on the
spare. She had to admit; he was gorgeous with his contagious smile, sculpted
nose, and commanding eyes. The right height for her five-foot-five frame—he
looked just under six feet with arms as strong as her dad’s. And the guy seemed
just as sweet.
After he finished changing the flat, he stood and stretched. “How about
that coffee and bagel?”
And what could Cate say after he’d rescued her from what would have
been an exasperating night? “Just coffee and a bagel?”
The man nodded and crossed his heart. “I promise.”
“Sure, okay.”
“You know where Bean and Bagel is?” He wiped his hands together.
“Fortieth and fifteenth, right?”
“Does tomorrow morning work for you? Say, seven?”
“See you then,” Cate replied. “Hey, thanks again.” Already, she wished
she’d said no. She imagined them at a table for two at Bean and Bagel. What
would they talk about? The pressure would be excruciating. The small talk
unbearable. What would he think if she had nothing fascinating to say?

CATE ENTERED BEAN and Bagel, her strawberry-blonde hair in the
ponytail he’d liked. Tiny, pink elephant barrettes captured most of the stray
hairs. Her ivory skin showed-off her Pacific-blue eyes, her nose was lightly
sprinkled with freckles.
He was already at a table. A bouquet of daffodils lay on top.
“For you.” He stood and handed her the lemon-yellow flowers.
“Oh my, they’re stunning.”
Although this gesture suggested more than “just coffee,” Cate no longer
cared. Once again, she felt that same familiarity as she had at the gym. It was
as if they were cohorts sharing a secret no one else knew. Why?
“I might as well tell you my name, Caitlyn.” He laughed. “I’m Edward.”
He offered his well-manicured hand.
“I go by Cate.” She liked his firm handshake. “Last night, I realized that I
hadn’t gotten your name. Goofy, huh?” Goofy, huh. What a ridiculous thing to
say, she silently admonished herself.
“I like Caitlyn.” He smiled. “So, you’re a nurse.” He seemed to appraise her
scrubs as he pulled out a chair for her. Cartoon elephants decorated her top.
The pink pants matched the color of the elephants.
“I work in critical care.” Her voice cracked.
“Next time I need critical care, I’ll be sure to ask for you.” Edward winked.
“Not so fast. Gosh, I’d feel awful if I accidentally killed you.” She giggled.
“Do you like being an attorney?”
“All smoke and mirrors,” Edward said.
“What’s your specialty?”
“My specialty?” His voice was as silky as expensive stockings. “Federal
criminal defense—forfeiture.”
It surprised Caitlyn how easy it was to chat with Edward. He exuded
confidence while remaining humble. A take-charge man yet respectful. Every
subject he mentioned, she had a response. He made her comfortable. Enjoying
herself, Cate almost relaxed.
“I’m thinking sesame bagel, toasted. And cream cheese. What about you,
Caitlyn?”
“I go by Cate,” she repeated, her voice firm. Ever since they took her father
away, she went by Cate. Period. “I’ll have the same with coffee.” As Cate
placed her menu back in the slot, the back of her hand knocked over her glass.
Water soaked her pants.
“Sunny beaches. That’s cold.”
“Sunny beaches?” Edward laughed, blotting the table with paper napkins.
“I don’t swear,” she replied. She pulled a wad of napkins from the holder.
“My dad never swore. I liked that about him.”
“So sunny beaches is Caitlyn talk for son of a bitch?” He emphasized the
“lyn” in her name.
“It’s Cate,” she mumbled, looking down at her wet lap.
“What got you into nursing?” Edward sopped up the water on the table
with a handful of napkins and waved to the waiter.
“I’ve always wanted to help people. It’s my life’s purpose.” She peeked at
the clock. “Heck. Where did the time go? I’ve got to get to work.”
“Jesus, it takes forever to get a waiter,” Edward complained.
Cate shrugged and stood. “Sorry, I can’t stay.”
“How about a picnic Saturday instead?” Edward asked. “You know, a
raincheck?”
“I—”
“It’s only fair.” Edward handed her a napkin and pen.
Cate hesitated. Would she regret giving him her number? She glanced
at his foot tap, tap, tapping against the linoleum floor. Obviously, he was as
nervous as she was.
She scribbled her number and her name, Cate, which she underlined
several times to reinforce that she went by Cate not Caitlyn.
Edward picked up the napkin, said the number out loud, and repeated her
name. “Caitlyn.”
“Cate,” she said, irritated that he refused to use her name correctly. Was he
stubborn? Not listening? It was enough for her to consider canceling.
But he looked her straight in the eyes and said, “Caitlyn—a beautiful
name for a beautiful woman.”
Cate reached for the bouquet and smiled.