A Darkness Absolute (Casey Duncan #2)(18)

“They wouldn’t,” I say, “but you don’t know me well enough to be sure of that, so we’ll talk through the door. Will says you want to stay in Rockton.”

“I…” Silence. She tries again. “I…” Another pause. Then “You’re right. This will be easier if I let you in. Can you do me a favor, though?”

“Name it.”

“Tell the others to step back five paces and then say something, so I know they’re not right outside the door.”

They do as she asks. The door opens, and I slide through.

It’s dark inside. The walls are several layers thick for insulation. There’s just a hint of light from under the door. I turn on my flashlight and look around. The building is almost empty. Ice has just started being brought in, kept in a pit scraped down to permafrost and covered with our version of hay for the horses.

The roof is low to minimize warm airflow, and even at not quite five two, I can’t straighten. I start to sit on a hay bale, but Nicole motions for us to move farther in, where the others can’t hear.

When we’re seated, she pulls an ice pick from under her jacket. “I will do it,” she says. “I just want to be clear on that. I know it’d be more convincing if I were freaking out, ranting and waving this around. But”—a wan smile—“I don’t have the energy for that. I just want you to know I will.”

“Okay.”

She shifts on the hay bale. “I know how I’d do it. I spent a lot of time thinking of that. He made sure I didn’t have anything to use, but I got creative. In my head, at least. I’d think of all the things he might bring and how I could use them to kill myself. Once, I even tried swallowing rocks, seeing if I could choke myself and reasoning that even if they passed, they might kill me in my digestive tract. It’d be a worse death than choking. It’d do, though. Anything would do.”

She runs her fingers along the ice pick. “I tried dehydration. That seemed to be the one sure way to go. I remembered the sheriff giving lectures before we were allowed out on hikes. He said you can go without food for weeks, but you’ll die of dehydration in days.” She looks up with that twisted smile. “He made it seem so easy. When I tried, the guy just knocked me out and poured water into me. I didn’t choke then either. Unfortunately. But this?” She lifts the ice pick. “This is a no-brainer, as my goddaughter used to say.”

“You have a goddaughter? How old?”

She waves a finger. “Uh-uh. I know the suicide prevention tricks. Get me to talk, remind me of my life.”

“Actually, I was just making conversation.”

“Do you know what I used to dream of in that hole, Casey? Even more than killing myself?” She waves around us.

“The icehouse?”

A burst of a laugh. “No. Good one, though. Lighten the mood. That’s another trick. I dreamed of Rockton. Do you know why I’m here?”

“Eric filled me in. He maintains the privacy of residents unless I need to know more. I needed to know more.”

Nicole was the daughter of a cartel accountant. When she was ten, the Feds got hold of her father. The cartel murdered his wife, the message being he still had two children, so he might want to keep his mouth shut. Instead, he took his family into witness protection, which would have worked out better if the cartel hadn’t had a few DEA officers on its payroll.

After a couple of close calls, her father withdrew his family from the program, figuring he could hide them better himself. Then, when Nicole was twenty-four, living under an assumed name, the cartel sent photos of her to her father, who did the one thing he thought would finally solve the problem—took his own life. The cartel still pursued, believing her father had had money and information, which he’d bequeathed to his children. When Nicole was twenty-nine, they caught up with her older brother and killed him. A year later, she arrived in Rockton.

“I spent my life not knowing the meaning of safe,” she says. “For me, safe was that honeymoon period after we moved—yet again. When I felt secure enough to sleep in a bed, not huddled in the closet, clutching a knife, being very quiet so my father wouldn’t find me. Do you know what he’d do if he found me there? Cry. I don’t think there’s anything worse than seeing your father cry.”

She shifts on the bale. “When I was little, my father was safety for me. Nothing bad could happen if he was there. And then that changed. He’d catch me in the closet, clutching my knife, and tears would roll down his cheeks, and he’d hug me, shaking, and all I could think was He can’t protect me. He didn’t protect my mother. He couldn’t protect us. And if your dad can’t? Well, then, no one can.”

A pause before she continues. “For most of my life, safe was the six months after we ran. That’s how long it’d take the cartel to find us. I’d spend one month waiting to see if they followed. Three months being able to sleep. Then I had to start worrying again, knowing they were coming. They were always coming.”

She sets the pick on her lap. I don’t let my gaze follow it, or she’ll know I’m not letting it out of my sight. I just have to grab it—she lacks the strength to fight me. But I won’t. She needs to talk. I need to hear what she has to say.

She continues, “When I came to Rockton, I spent the first week sleeping with my back to the wall, holding a stolen knife. I’d listen to people in the street, out having a drink, laughing, flirting, goofing around. Then, one night, there was a knock at the door. It was Petra and Will and a few others wanting to know if I’d like to come out for a drink. And I’m standing at the door, with a knife behind my back, saying no, I’m fine, thanks. Then, after they leave, Will comes back, and I’m clutching that knife, certain this is it—the others are gone, and I’m alone with this guy, and he’s going to do something. He tells me I should keep my windows shut at night. The weather’s been good, so people are leaving them open, and there’s been a rash of break-ins. By ravens.”