Page 1 of Darach

Chapter One

The moment she was inside and alone, Charlotte Walsh pulled off her too-thin black jacket and grabbed the duvet from the hotel room bed. Housekeeping must have just changed the linens, as the fabric seemed stiff and smelled of detergent. She didn’t care. During the ride back from the funeral she had grown so cold her hands and feet had gone numb. She looked around, desperate for a place to sit and huddle. Aside from two wooden chairs by a tiny table, a shallow windowsill, and a low dresser under the wall mirror, only the bed offered a perch. She hadn’t slept more than an hour or two for weeks.

If I lay down I will never get up again.

Sitting on top of the dresser, Charlotte leaned her head against the mirror. Her muscles ached with stiffness; all through the service she had sat rigid and unmoving, her gaze fixed on the flower-draped, smiling portrait of Zoey Vincent. Every word delivered by the minister had sounded soft and consoling, but that had been his job. He’d been there to provide spiritual reassurance for the family and friends Zoey had left behind in life. According to him the young artist had been a kind, generous person who had contributed so much to the community through her extraordinary talent. She had moved on to a better place now, the minister had promised, but she would not be forgotten.

That’s such a load of crap, Zoey would have said. I hated my family, drank my way through art school, wasted what little talent I had painting tedious tourist scapes, and slept around too much. I even got myself brutally murdered––only that was your fault, wasn’t it, Blondie?

Condensation from Charlotte’s breath formed on the mirror in a misty swatch of white that widened and shrank. She knew the voice in her head didn’t belong to her dead friend but her conscience, which had been tormenting her ever since finding Zoey’s body. She could do nothing but endure, and hope in time it would stop. For now she just needed to rest and collect herself; in a minute she would get up and turn off the air conditioning. In the glass she saw the reflection of tiny words printed in white on the front of her black T-shirt.

Stop staring at my boobs, pervert.

The shirt belonged to Zoey; Charlotte had pulled it on this morning thinking it was solid black. No wonder everyone had given her those weird looks; she’d worn a joke T-shirt to her friend’s funeral. For the past three days she’d been functioning on auto-pilot, doing whatever was required of her but remaining emotionally disconnected. She’d been like this ever since coming back from her studio and seeing what was left of her friend on the kitchen floor.

I let you move in with me and look what happened. Zoey, sassy and plump and filled with endless energy, grinned at Charlotte from her memories. He was waiting for you when I walked into the house. You know I was alone with him for hours, right? That too-chatty cop mentioned that I didn’t die right away, remember?

“Stop.” That came out of her like an apology, not a warning. “Please.”

I have nothing better to do now, Blondie. Want to know what it’s like to be tortured? Not as much fun as sleeping around, I can tell you that. What are the odds that they’ll ever find the rest of me? I wonder what the funeral etiquette is for that kind of thing.

Charlotte pushed off the comforter and staggered into the bathroom, falling to her knees in front of the toilet and ripping off the paper sanitized band before she threw up. Doing that until her stomach emptied finally silenced the phantom voice in her head, but it left her throat raw and her legs unsteady. She hauled herself up to rinse out her mouth and brush her teeth, and splashed her face with cold water before looking at herself in the sink mirror.

Even dripping wet, the tall brown-eyed blonde in the glass appeared remote and unaffected, no doubt the only benefit of inheriting her chic mother’s cold, elegant genes.

Why are you upset? Leona Walsh would ask her if they had still been speaking. Better her than you.

As Charlotte took off the T-shirt and replaced it with a white sweater, she didn’t look at herself again. Being blonde, well-built and almost six feet tall had made her unable to escape unwanted attention all her adult life; having her mother’s regally beautiful face had been bitter icing on an unpalatable cake. Throughout Charlotte’s childhood, Leona had been like an iceberg, silent and invulnerable, ready to smash and sink anyone and anything that tried to collide with her. She never attacked, but whenever Charlotte didn’t do as she wanted, Leona would smile and say something devastating.

Why should you make me happy? You never have before now.

You’re as careless and ridiculous as your father.

Someday when you’re in the sewer you’ll wish you had listened to me.

A Parisian fashion buyer who traveled the world, Leona had reluctantly married Peter Walsh after becoming pregnant from, what had been for her, a week-long fling. Twelve unhappy years later, Leona decided that she couldn’t squander the rest of her youth mothering her shy, awkward daughter. Once resolved, she had found herself another, richer man, filed for divorce, and promptly returned to France. Before she’d left, Leona had told Charlotte all of the sordid details of her conception, and blamed her for her lack of success as well as the marriage and divorce.

That is how you ruined my life, by being born. If I hadn’t wasted all these years on you and your pathetic father I would have my own label now.

Peter Walsh had tried to make up for the damage her mother had done to Charlotte, but he’d genuinely loved Leona, and couldn’t get over her dumping him. He kept making excuses for her mother when he knew she hadn’t loved either of them, and then drank himself unconscious every night after Charlotte went to bed. She’d only found out about his alcohol abuse a few years ago, when Peter had died suddenly. The autopsy revealed the terrible damage his secret drinking had done to his heart and liver.

Dutifully calling Leona once a year on her birthday had been the only contact Charlotte could maintain with her mother. After losing her dad she couldn’t bear even that one stiff, unfriendly conversation, and had stopped making the calls. Leona had never bothered to find out why.

Here I am, throwing a pity party for myself on the day of Zoey’s funeral, while I’m wearing her T-shirt. I’m worse than Mom ever was.

A knock on the room door made Charlotte dry her face and compose herself as she walked out and looked through the peephole. The armed plain-clothes officer standing outside had a take-out food bag, and looked bored. He’d been the one sitting behind her through the service; his partner had sat beside her. They had promised not to let her out of their sight until they caught Zoey’s killer. She took in a deep breath before she unlocked the door and opened it.

“Some lunch for you, Ms. Walsh.” Arranging his expression in a semblance of sympathy, he held out the usual bag and a can of soda.

“Thank you.” Charlotte took the food and glanced down the hall. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“Headquarters finally has the safe house, and we’ll move you there tomorrow.” As he spoke he tilted his head back to meet her gaze, but the corners of his mouth dropped. Like most men shorter than her, the officer resented having to look up at a woman. “Detective Logan will be coming by later to brief you on what happens from here. We’ve disconnected the room phone, and I have to ask for your cell.”

She handed it to him. “I really don’t have anyone to call.”

“It would be best if you only talk to us.” He pocketed her phone and stepped out.

Charlotte closed and locked the door before she let out a breath. At least the authorities finally seemed ready to take her seriously, but she hadn’t been the one to persuade them. Whoever had been stalking her had made it clear he would do anything he had to in order to get to her, and that included killing two patrolmen assigned to watch her. Poor Zoey, who had gone home on her lunch hour to get something she’d forgotten, had surprised the killer as he was searching the place.