A Flicker in the Dark(9)

“Well, congratulations,” he said. “Where to next?”

“I’m starting my own practice. I’m a medical psychologist.”

He whistled, poking his head into the box on my car. Something caught his eye and he twisted his head distractedly, leaning in to pick up one of the books.

“Got a thing for murder?” he asked, inspecting the cover.

My chest constricted as my eyes darted to the box. I remembered, in that moment, that situated next to all of my psychology textbooks were piles of true-crime titles: The Devil in the White City, In Cold Blood, The Monster of Florence. But unlike most people, I didn’t read them for entertainment. I read them for study. I read them to try to understand, to dissect all the different people who take lives for a living, devouring their stories on the page almost as if they were my patients, leaning back in that leather recliner, whispering their secrets into my ear.

“I guess you could say that.”

“No judgment,” he added, twisting the book in his hands around so I could see the cover—Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—before flipping it open and starting to thumb the pages. “I love this book.”

I smiled politely, unsure of how to respond.

“I really should be going,” I said instead, motioning to my car and offering my hand. “Thanks for your help.”

“The pleasure was mine, Doctor…?”

“Davis,” I said. “Chloe Davis.”

“Well, Doctor Chloe Davis, if you ever need to move any more boxes…” He dug into his back pocket, fishing out his wallet before pulling out a business card and pushing it into the open pages. He flipped the book closed and thrust it in my direction. “You know where to find me.”

He smiled at me, winking in my direction before turning around and walking back into the building. When the automatic doors closed behind him, I looked down at the book in my hands, running my fingers against the glossy cover. There was a tiny gap in the pages where his business card lay wedged and I stuck my nail into the crack, flipping it back open. I looked down, feeling a foreign twist in my chest as my eyes scanned his name.

Somehow, I knew that wasn’t the last time I would be seeing Daniel Briggs.





CHAPTER FIVE




I excuse myself from Shannon and Daniel and slip outside through the sliding door. My mind is spinning by the time I make it to the back porch, my hand clutching my fourth variety of alcoholic beverage. The endless small talk is buzzing in my ears, the bottle of wine I’ve polished off buzzing in my brain. It’s still muggy outside, but the breeze is refreshing. The house was getting stuffy with the drunken body heat of forty people bouncing off the walls.

I wander toward the picnic table, the heap of crawfish, corn, sausage, and potatoes somehow still steaming on the newspaper. I put down my wineglass, grab a crawfish, and twist it, letting the juice from the head drip down my wrist.

Then I hear movement behind me—footsteps. And a voice.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

I swing around, my eyes adjusting in the dark to the body before me. The cherry-red tip of a cigarette glowing between his fingers.

“I know you don’t like to be surprised.”

“Coop!”

I drop the crawfish on the table and walk toward my brother, wrapping my arms around his neck and inhaling his familiar scent. Nicotine and spearmint gum. I’m so shocked to see him, I let the jab about the surprise party slide.

“Hey, sis.”

I pull back, inspecting his face. He looks older than he did the last time I saw him, but that’s normal for Cooper. He seems to age years within months, his hair turning grayer at the temples, the worry lines in his forehead creasing deeper by the day. But still, Coop is one of those guys who seems to get more attractive with age. In college, my roommate had referred to him as a silver fox once when his neck started to grow patchy with salt-and-pepper stubble. For some reason, that stuck with me. It was a pretty accurate depiction, really. He looks mature, sleek, thoughtful, quiet. Like he’s seen more of the world in thirty-five years than most people have seen in their lives. I let go of his neck.

“I didn’t see you in there!” I say, louder than I intended.

“You got mobbed,” he answers, laughing, taking a final drag before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his foot. “How does it feel to have forty people swarm you all at once?”

I shrug. “Practice for the wedding, I guess.”

His smile wavers a bit, but he recovers quickly. We both ignore it.

“Where’s Laurel?” I ask.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances behind my shoulder, his eyes growing distant. I already know what’s coming next.

“She’s not in the picture anymore.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say. “I liked her. She seemed nice.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “She was. I liked her, too.”

We’re quiet for a while, listening to the murmur of voices inside. We both understand the complexities of forming relationships after going through what we’ve been through; we understand that, more often than not, they just don’t work out.

“So, are you excited?” he asks, jerking his head in the direction of the house. “For the wedding and stuff?”