Chapter Fifty

“What with all the excitement lately, I forgot to tell you that your therapist was not the only person who came around looking for you while you were in Lucent Springs,” Irene said.

“What?” Amelia yanked her attention away from the too-quiet screen of her phone and looked at Irene. “Someone else showed up here looking for me? Who?”

“Relax,” Irene said. “I don’t think you need to worry about this other guy. He was very businesslike. Well dressed. Good haircut. Looked successful. He said he was a real estate agent. Wanted to talk to you about setting up a photo shoot for a residence that he just listed.”

“How did he get in?” Amelia asked. “The entry system didn’t notify me of any callers while I was in Lucent Springs.”

“This place isn’t exactly a fortress.” Irene drank some coffee. “I heard him knock on your door so I went out to tell him that you were not home.”

“Did he say anything else?” Shelton asked.

“Not much.” Irene got up from the stool and went behind the counter to refill her cup. “Just that he’d heard Amelia had a reputation for photos that bring out the drama in a property.”

Amelia grimaced. “Translation: he’s got a fixer-upper.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Irene said. “He mentioned it was waterfront property in La Jolla.”

“Waterfront property in La Jolla ?” Amelia repeated in disbelief. “And he came here looking for me? This could be my big break. I wonder who gave him my name?” In the next instant a thought struck her, sending her spirits into a nosedive. Another unnerving chill feathered her spine. “Wait. You said the agent was male? Businesslike? Successful-looking?”

“All of the above.”

“How old?”

“Middle-aged, but very well preserved middle age, if you know what I mean.” Irene glanced at Shelton’s attire. “Good clothes.”

Amelia slipped off the barstool. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back. I’ve got a photo I want to show you.”

Irene frowned. “You think you have a picture of this guy?”

“Maybe. It’s a long shot, but I’ll feel better if you take a look at the photo I’ve got and see if you recognize the man in it.”

She went around the corner and down the hall and opened the door of her darkroom. She switched on the overhead light and crossed to the shelf where she kept the prints of the Night Island photos.

She shivered when she picked up the envelope. She stopped, not sure what to do next. Her intuition was screaming at her to run but it was not offering specific information.

The only thing she knew for certain was that something in the darkroom had changed.

She pulled the heavy blackout curtain closed and turned off the overhead fixture.

The energy prints seethed in the artificial night. They were fresh and they were everywhere—the floor, the computer, the envelope containing the Night Island photos. She recognized them.

She took a deep breath and reminded herself that she was not alone in the apartment.

She went back down the hall, past the laundry room, past the front door, and turned the corner into the kitchen–living room. She was too late.

Shelton was slumped, unconscious, on the dining counter. The coffee mug that Irene had refilled a short time ago was on its side. A small rivulet of spilled coffee ran to the edge of the counter and dripped to the floor.

She had a beat to realize that Irene was not in the kitchen or the living room. The laundry room door stood partially open. It had been closed earlier.

She turned to run for the front door.

There was no time. She sensed the presence behind her, felt the sting of the syringe needle in the back of her shoulder, had a few seconds to understand that Irene had been waiting for her inside the laundry room, and then the bottomless tide of night rose up to take her.

She fought the darkness, trying to focus on Irene, who was bending over her, easing her descent to the floor.

“The coffee,” she whispered, her voice thickening rapidly. “You drugged it.”

“I’m afraid so,” Irene said. “It’s very fast acting. Your bodyguard never knew what hit him.”

“You searched my darkroom while I was gone.”

“Now how did you figure that out? Never mind. After I found the photos from Night Island I knew for sure I had a problem and had to move quickly.”

Amelia heard the front door open. A man spoke.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” Irene said. “Take her downstairs and put her in the van. What’s the situation with Gideon Sweetwater?”

“Under control. He showed up at the house, like you said. Found the safe room. The gas got him. Weaver is questioning him now. When he’s done he’ll make sure Sweetwater disappears. What do you want me to do with the one in the kitchen?”

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll be out for a while. When he recovers he won’t have any memories of what happened.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to finish him?”

“We don’t have time to figure out how to get rid of the body,” Irene snapped. “Now pick her up. Hurry. If anyone sees you say she’s ill and we’re taking her to the ER.”

Amelia felt muscular arms sliding under her shoulder and knees, hoisting her up into the air. She could no longer fight off the dark. This was how it had been seven months ago when she and Talia and Pallas had been lured to Lucent Springs. Was she going to lose another night of her life? Maybe she would never wake up. Never see Gideon again.

That last thought acted like a shot of adrenaline, rousing her briefly. Gideon was in danger and there was nothing she could do to save him.

Gideon, I love you .

The short flash of energy dissipated. The last thing she heard was Irene’s voice. It came to her from a long way away.

“Really sorry about this, Amelia. Under other circumstances I think we could have been friends.”