5. Going Dark （Talia）

5

GOING DARK (TALIA)

I don't know what I'm doing here.

Honest to God.

Not after Officer Ainsley texted directions to a secluded spot on Still Lake, over on the far side where it's all trees hugging close to a thin strip of grassy shore.

It's cold for April. The night breeze seeps under the collar of my light jacket and gives me goosebumps everywhere.

The chill. That's all it is.

Not me wondering what Micah Ainsley really wants with me.

Something to do with the job for Xavier Arrendell, I guess. Which makes me as uneasy as Xavier himself, and considering Officer Ainsley is a cop…

I wonder if it's something dangerous.

Something I should run away from before I even find out what it is.

Yet somehow, I can't.

I can't help wanting to see him and find out anyway.

I can't miss a chance to be brave when I grew up afraid of my own shadow.

It's definitely a challenge, considering who I'm meeting with.

Micah Ainsley, with those cold quicksilver eyes and that moonstone skin. Deadly, sharp, and honed.

And soon, all alone with me.

Just a strange, gorgeous man and a thousand wild thoughts I shouldn't have.

Nothing spicy will happen, of course.

Officer Ainsley is an ordinary cop and he honestly seems like a bit of a hardass.

I'm a grown woman who definitely shouldn't be having fantasies fit for a high school diary.

I wonder if that's one of the ways I've never quite grown up, though.

Because I stayed inside, cooped up with my illness, I never made many friends. I never had the young, dumb experiences other kids did.

So did I really grow up at all?

Sighing, I crane my head back, gazing up at the clear night sky. The Milky Way glows overhead, the yawning universe with its necklace of stars framed by tall trees.

It's like an eye opening up to let me look inside its jeweled colors. Breathtakingly beautiful, but a little lonely, too.

I just don't know what I'm pining for.

A life I never had?

Some days, I feel like I only live for work.

It's not that I don't love what I do.

I live for feeling smoothly sanded wood under my fingers, the awl in my hands, the scent of sawdust. Grandpa's workshop was where I first started to learn to control my breathing, so I could savor that scent without the dust triggering an attack.

So I could be with him , caught up in his warm approval as he taught me how to shape wood, how to etch, how to engrave, how to know the difference between carved designs and burned, and so much more.

For a child shut-in who spent half her free days at the doctor, he gave me a life.

Grandpa's workshop was pure magic.

He was a sorcerer and I was his happy apprentice.

Still, I feel like I missed out on so much else.

Running and playing with other kids. Sports and band. Going to dances to peek at boys over my fingers.

Stealing young kisses behind the bookshelves in the library.

Even dating in college. I just never learned how .

All the little social rituals that turn into flirting and dates and kisses and more still feel like a mystery.

Anytime someone tried the first half of that call with me, I panicked.

Every time, I dropped the ball awkwardly and left the guy fumbling away from me with confusion. Like he thought he'd tried to win over a girl and then realized he was actually chasing some weird, gross bug.

Miss Grey .

Does Officer Ainsley see me the same way?

He calls me Miss Grey like he's from another time. That doesn't stop my mind from spinning daydreams about him in a waistcoat, lurking against a window with the moonlight in his eyes and reflecting off his deadly lips.

He almost looked upset when I asked him about his teeth.

But I get it.

For him, it's part of what singles him out and makes him so different.

Just like my asthma.

He probably got picked on as a kid for his teeth and his albino skin, the same way I did because I couldn't run or play or fight.

When I think about him that way—the real man behind the fantasy—it stops being this taboo thrill.

It just makes me hurt for him.

It makes me want to tell him it's okay to be different.

And he's definitely different from what I expect tonight when I hear a faint metallic jingle and look up, realizing it's a dog collar.

Officer Ainsley makes his way quietly along the thin strip of grassy shore, his reflection mirrored in Still Lake's glossy surface. He's walking a German Shepherd that looks like a small bear—an older dog, I think.

The dog moves slower and a little unevenly, but Ainsley matches the canine's pace, stopping when the dog wants to stop.

And when I stop and get a good look at him, my breath stalls.

He's so normal tonight.

Almost rugged in dark jeans, dark hiking boots, and a deep blue and black plaid flannel shirt, the sleeves cuffed to his elbows. The open throat shows off stark lines of collarbones.

Instead of the side-parted sweep he wore earlier today, his hair is a little messy.

He might look perfectly ghostly under the moonlight, but the way he's dressed, the way he moves, the way he looks down at his dog with his eyes brimming with clear affection?

It reminds me he's a man.

Not some prop for swirling hormones and juvenile fantasies.

It's nice seeing him like this, honestly.

And there's also something else.

Something melancholy about him, like a human echo of Still Lake itself.

I don't realize I'm straight-up staring until our eyes meet.

My heart lurches—and then tries to stop its frantic beating when he smiles.

Yes, he sort of smiled at me a few times this morning. But it was a curt, professional cop smile meant to put me at ease.

This is a small, reserved smile, too. But more honest, more real.

It also suits him better when he's so quiet with his feelings and shows only as much as he needs to.

I try to smile back, but my lips won't work. I can't even remember to blink as he makes his way closer.

"Miss Grey," he says, drawing into earshot.

"Hi!" I'm already mentally kicking myself.

Seriously, why am I freezing up?

To distract myself, I look at the dog because it's easier than looking at him.

"I heard you had a dog," I say, offering my fingers for the German Shepherd to sniff. "What's his name?"

"Rolf," he answers. "He's a K-9 retiree from New York. He makes good company."

"Oh, wow. I bet he does." I can't help smiling while Rolf stretches his neck, tongue lolling, and sniffs my hand.

But his ears flip back with a disgruntled sound and he turns his face away, the slow wag of his tail completely stopping.

"I'm sorry?" I pull my hand back.

"Don't worry about it," Ainsley says. "He's old, spoiled, and set in his ways. He doesn't warm up to new people easily. Always takes the guys on the police crew a hundred treats to bribe him into feeling civil."

I smile again, wondering if he's talking about the dog or himself.

With a nervous laugh, I look away and run a hand through my hair.

"It probably doesn't help that I still smell like varnish no matter how much I shower. That stuff's potent, and aren't their noses pretty sensitive? He's a drug dog, right?"

"He was," he says.

Then nothing.

I look him over carefully. He's staring out over the water, his face pensive. Rolf settles at his feet, quietly leaning against his legs.

"So, what did you want to talk about, Officer Ainsley?"

"Micah," he clips, his lips firm. "I'm not on the job right now."

I huff out a breath. "Wait. I'm supposed to call you Micah, but I'm still Miss Grey? I'm not on the clock, either."

"Using a respectful title has nothing to do with your job." He's so still, so quiet, the only motion is his thumb rubbing the leash looped around his cragged knuckles. "You can call me Mr. Ainsley, if you'd like."

"It just feels stiff. I'm fine with calling you Micah if you are. You're the one who won't say my name."

" Talia ," Officer Ainsley— Micah —growls.

Oh God.

His voice feels like a cloud of frost. I shiver.

My eyes widen as I hug my arms around myself.

Suddenly, I can't even feel the cool night breeze.

I'm too hot, burning from my scalp all the way to my toes.

Breathe.

I count three breaths in, three breaths out, reminding myself I can't get so flipping worked up over a guy saying my name, even if it's with a voice like frozen sin.

"You wanted to talk about Xavier Arrendell?"

"Yes," he answers, suddenly all business. His voice drops from cool to downright frigid. "How much do you know about the Arrendells' scandals?"

"Um…" I bite my lip, racking my brain. There's so much, growing up in this town, let alone the news lately. "I mean, until the last year or two, it was all rumors, right? The kind of stuff where you never really know what's true and what's gossip. I know the oldest son, Vaughn, he left a long time ago and no one knows why. But people think he did something really awful. And Montero, he's a known womanizer. He and Lucia act like they kind of hate each other. I don't know why they stay married."

"Go on." Micah nods.

"…but they know a lot of big celebrities and power broker types, don't they? And people think Lucia's connected, like using her money for dark stuff and not just charity, buying off rich folks for favors. Plus, all the rumors about the missing girls, but that turned out to be Ulysses and that whole rotten business with the new teacher. Then the Faircrosses and their trouble... I heard Aleksander jetted around the world, throwing wild parties with sex and supermodels before he started to settle down—" I stop and clear my throat. "I mean, before he tried to marry his half sister. Gross. "

"Nasty as hell," Micah rumbles. "What else? What do you know about Xavier?"

"Xavier… I guess nobody talks about him as much. He's older and not as flashy as the other two. But I thought there were rumors he's been in and out of rehab since he was a teenager? He's kind of standing in everyone else's shadow, but it's more like he's a shadow himself." I let out a rush of breath after tumbling over those words. "Did I miss anything?"

Micah's eyes sharpen.

He lets out this low, rolling laugh like sandstone and grit. It lights up his face in a way I couldn't have imagined, like a glacier catching the sun.

"Glad your lungs are doing better," he says. "I don't think you even stopped for breath once. When you showed up wearing the same color, I admit you had me worried."

I glance down, blushing at my windbreaker. "This? It's just my coat."

"And the gloves, the purse. Does all that pink give you some special powers with your woodwork?"

"Hey! You can't come at a girl for having a favorite color and a sense of fashion." I turn my face up mockingly.

He chuckles like thunder moving in.

God help me, I can feel it in my bones.

"Whatever, Strawberry Shortcake. I really am glad you're doing better, well enough to launch into speeches and all."

With my face on fire, I clear my throat and fiddle with the wrists of my jacket. "It's just a little stream of consciousness. I guess I just got carried away."

"It's fine," he says, though that cryptic smile lingers. "It means I don't have to catch you up on much. I expected you'd know more than I would, growing up here. I'm just a transplant. But I also have sources you don't—and those sources know a hell of a lot more about Xavier Arrendell than any vague rumor mill."

"Like what?" Alarm thumps through me.

"Like the fact that he may be more than a drug fiend. He's in deeper, and I think it's connected to the Jacobins. Linking them together with solid proof, that's the trouble." He shakes his head with a weary sigh. "Those hillfolk have been here for generations. They know how to hide their shit too well, how to make themselves invisible. It doesn't help that Chief Bowden lets them off lightly. He treats it like something harmless, like it's petty crime and a little rotgut moonshine won't hurt anybody."

I shrink back, staring at him.

"You think it's more than moonshine?"

"I do," he snarls without hesitation. "Something uglier that reaches far beyond the borders of Redhaven, or even North Carolina. I think one reason it's so easy to slip under the radar is the power and influence the Arrendells have to make things magically disappear."

"But… but Chief Bowden, you said? You think he's part of it?" It almost hurts, thinking the kind old chief could join up with something bad. "He's always been so nice."

"Nice folks aren't always good, Talia," Micah replies. His strange, intense eyes lock me in place. "You truly are innocent, aren't you?"

I don't know how to answer that.

I don't know if I want to answer, when I've never really thought of myself as innocent.

Just sheltered.

But now, I feel na?ve.

I push on, trying to keep my composure.

"I guess I don't get it. What do you want me to do with this information? How am I supposed to help you?"

"Easy. Just do your job for Xavier, and if you can, keep your eyes open."

"For what ?"

His face hardens, all cold-eyed hunger again. "Anything that might interest a man who wants to destroy everything Xavier Arrendell stands for."

Holy crap.

It's so quiet, yet so forceful it takes my breath away.

And why does it feel personal ?

Like there's something more driving him to go poking around.

I wonder what Rolf senses radiating from his master that I don't know when the German Shepherd finally moves again. He thrusts his head under Micah's trusting hand with a low, comforting whine.

Micah answers with his fingers, scratching through mottled brown and black fur.

Shivering, I wrap my coat tighter.

"Wouldn't the other guys on the force be better for this? Why aren't you asking them for help?"

"They're not insiders, for one. Even in a town this small, we're stretched thin. Plus, the Arrendells know them—and me —on sight. They keep things tighter than a drum when we show up at the big house. They'd never let their guard down or let anything incriminating slip. A pretty girl, though, one so innocent she's disarming, and who's already there on legitimate business… They'd never see it coming."

Whoa.

Hearing him describe me like that makes my ears burn.

I sputter and pinch the cuffs of my sleeves.

"That's just it!" I protest. "Innocent. As in, I have no guile, no game, and no idea how to hide anything from someone like Xavier, much less an ulterior motive. How can I get away with snooping around? He's pretty smart. He'd see right through me."

"Would he?" His eyes narrow. Skewering. Incisive. "You were so nervous with him that it triggered a panic attack. If he's used to you being nervous and thinks that's just how you are, he won't notice if you're a little on edge."

No.

He might actually enjoy it, judging from the way he acted when we met.

The thought makes me feel slimy. It also makes me feel like a terrible person.

Whatever else he's up to, Xavier Arrendell is busy grieving two huge losses. I was probably misreading his behavior when people tend to get weird with grief.

When I don't say anything, caught up in inner turmoil, Micah steps closer.

"You can always say no," he says gently.

"Wh-what?"

"This isn't a command or a direct order. I'm not telling you to do this because I'm a cop asking for a little help from the public. This is you and me, Talia, and it's completely off the books."

Oof.

That alone should make me wary. It's like it's not just that he doesn't want to burden the other guys at Redhaven PD.

I think he's actively keeping this to himself, for some weird reason.

But it's like he has a magnetic choke hold on me with that unblinking icy stare, stealing my thoughts. Soon, I can only hear the way he speaks, hypnotic and intense.

"You can walk away from me right now if you'd like. Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise," he whispers. "I'm not making demands with my badge. I'm asking you to help me as a human being. And if you feel that what I'm asking you is wrong, or if it scares you, or even if you just don't want to—tell me no. We'll never speak of it again. I'll go back to being that cop you say hello to now and then whenever we pass each other on the street. Not the strange man asking you to help him scale a goddamned mountain."

I don't know why that hurts.

Yes, I've been tossed into Micah's orbit so fast it's left me dizzy. Yet the thought of being cast back down and just being acquaintances leaves an odd tightness in my chest.

He basically saved my life, didn't he?

And I wonder if that's my conscience talking when he's asking me for help or if it's that damsel in distress reaction I can't smother, getting emotionally attached to a white knight who came charging to my rescue.

Whatever it is, I can't stop myself from asking, "…and what if I say maybe? What if I say I'll think about it?"

"Then I'll ask you to go camping with me tomorrow night." His eyes are smiling when he says it.

"I… What ?" He's very good at that, catching me off guard. I can never figure out what goes through this man's head. "I don't follow. What does camping have to do with Xavier Arrendell?"

"Everything," Micah whispers. "You aren't sure because you need proof, you need more info—and I'm going to show you, Miss Grey."

I'm still reeling by the time we part ways.

I take the long way home to give myself time to think, walking alone under the clear night sky without Micah turning me upside down with his nearness.

I'm so confused.

I don't know how I'm supposed to trick Xavier Arrendell into incriminating himself in front of me, or even what incriminating clues would look like. This idea that Xavier's a drug dealer, that he may be behind a major regional drug operation…

This isn't my world.

It's not something I understand, and it's definitely not somewhere I belong.

I can't unknow what I know now, though.

Even if I tell Micah no, I'll still have that awareness in the back of my mind, always watching Xavier like a skittish animal.

God, I don't know what to do .

If I listen to Micah and he's wrong, I could wind up hurting a man whose worst crime is struggling with complex grief over his dead brothers. It could be true that Xavier's a drug addict, and honestly, being an Arrendell would probably drive anyone to bad habits.

But if he is, couldn't he be a victim of the drug dealers, too?

And if I tell Micah no and he's dead-on right…

How many people will end up hooked on cocaine and dead? All because I was too scared to do anything?

This feels too big for me, like a gaping hole opening up in the fabric of my reality.

It's not the kind of decision I can make quickly—if I can make it at all.

Right now, I can't even decide if I'll go camping with Micah to find out what he wants to show me.

I'm also nowhere closer to an answer by the time I make it home.

Grandpa's waiting up for me like usual. I can tell before I cross the street to the shop.

The light in the window over the storefront is on, and when I slip into the narrow alley between our shop and the building next door, where the private outside entrance to the upstairs waits, I instantly feel safer.

The light's on over the door, its golden glow filling the dark crevices of night.

The kitchen upstairs is just as warm, too.

I let myself in and climb the narrow stairs behind the workshop to our loft.

My grandfather sits at the raw wood kitchen table, cradling a mug of tea, his eyes almost disappearing under the thick grey bushes of his eyebrows. There's a half-eaten loaf of banana bread in front of him, courtesy of the bakery next door.

Mrs. Brodsky stops in practically every night when I'm not around, bringing him goodies. Last year, when I asked her to check in on him, she jumped at the chance when he reminds her so much of her own deceased father. She didn't even ask about his condition.

As far as she knows, I'm just asking for help to keep an old man company. Not to check in to make sure he hasn't abruptly lost another piece of his mind and started the place on fire—though Grandpa's never been anywhere near that reckless and absent-minded.

I hope— I pray —that sort of worry is a long way off.

Still, better safe than sorry.

Coming home instantly brightens my evening.

Everything in this kitchen was handcrafted by him, from the dining set to the wood countertops and giant butcher-block island. It's all white ash, carefully selected and shaped and artificially aged. Every deceptively simple piece is a quiet testament to untold hours of meticulous craftsmanship.

I stop and sigh, hoping I'll be a tenth as good as he is someday.

There's a second mug of tea sitting across from him, still steaming. It's like he can tell when I'm coming back.

I shrug off my jacket and hang it on the peg by the door, then settle in across from him and curl my hands against the ceramic for warmth.

"Hey, Grandpa," I say.

"Hey, yourself. Late night, sweetheart?" He gives me a long, searching look and sips his tea, smacking his lips.

"I was meeting a friend." I shrug flippantly. "Why'd you wait up for me so long? Mrs. Brodsky must've left an hour ago."

"Yeah, well." He stops there.

He worries about me a lot, I think.

But one reason I love him is because he's never tried to tell me how to live my life, even knowing how careful I have to be.

We're partners, and he trusts me to take care of myself.

So it's not like him to be waiting.

But tonight, I'm glad he is.

Because right now the homey warmth of this kitchen, surrounded by the sweet smell of hot herbal tea and the ever-present scent of sawdust, feels like something I didn't know I needed.

It grounds me again.

Makes me feel like I can figure this mess out, if I just sit down and take my time and really think it through.

"Guess I couldn't wait to see my granddaughter. Is that a crime now?" He snorts, but his eyes are shrewd over his mug. "You went up to the big house today."

"Oh, yes. I did. You remember?"

"Took me a minute, but yes." He doesn't dance around his dementia episodes.

After they pass, he's open to talking about them and where he is mentally. The practicality of his generation makes him the kind of man who won't shrink away from facing his reality.

"What was it about again?" he asks. "Help an old fart out."

"Mm." I stare down into my tea, watching the misty curls of smoke rising. "Xavier Arrendell has a job for us. A big one. He wants us to redecorate the entire manor. Top to bottom, every piece of furniture, all the interiors. Half the stuff he wants, I'm going to have to get like a whole new certification to know how to do. An army of subcontractors. Something."

"Damn. But it's something you can do, if you want to," he points out, those blue eyes still holding mine. I seem to be surrounded by men who like to skewer me with heady looks, but Grandpa's gaze is a familiar thing. Very different from the way Micah Ainsley makes me shiver just by staring. "The real question is, do you want the work, Tally-girl?"

"I don't know," I admit. "It's a lot of money, even if we could use it." He knows why. I don't need to say it. "But it's also a lot for us to take on alone, even with some hired help." I bite my lip, watching him. "Do you want to do it?"

He laughs roughly.

"You know I'm no stranger to hard work, even if I might have my doubts about the client. Those folks up on the hill always did leave a sour taste in my mouth, but I suppose I wouldn't have to deal with them, if you're already talking to that Xavier boy. Which leaves this in your hands." His gaze softens. "I'll leave it up to you, Tally." There's a softness to the way he says that name that just chokes me up every time. "If you want to take it on, I'll follow your lead. But if you don't want to, there's no shame in turning it down."

But I don't want to!

Instant knee-jerk thought.

I'm not just talking about the job, either.

There's a stubborn, restless part of me that balks at playing it safe, at being careful like I have been for my entire life.

I may tell myself I'm different now—not that frightened little girl locked away behind closed doors anymore—but when do I ever get a chance to prove it?

I've also never been a big fan of people who tell me how brave I am just for trying to have a normal life. It feels patronizing. Like I'm this small pathetic thing who can't hope for anything bigger and better.

Maybe sometimes I feel like that's what I actually am, but I don't want to be.

I won't deny I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of Xavier Arrendell.

I'm afraid of what Micah's asking me to do.

But I don't want that, either.

So I offer Grandpa a smile as resolve hardens inside me.

"I need to think a little more," I say. "But it could be interesting."

I need to think, sure.

I also need to meet Micah tomorrow night.

Because if he really has something compelling up his sleeve, then he deserves a chance for me to hear him out.

And I deserve a chance to find out how brave I can be.