Authors: Angela Hunt
Let Darkness Come
Praise for the novels of
“Hunt's skill at developing interesting characters and tense stories makes this title a worthwhile read.”
â
Library Journal
on
The Face
“
The Face
is an amazing book. Impeccably researched, tenderly written, it's a fascinating character study wed to a compelling thriller. Angela Hunt always delivers something special, but this book is beyond special. It's simply wonderful.”
âKathryn Mackel, author of
Vanished
“Hunt's latest is an unusual story that's told very well. The charactersâparticularly heroine Sarahâare engaging, and the pathos of Sarah's predicament is offset by touches of wicked humor.”
â
RT Book Reviews
on
The Face
“Hunt packs the maximum amount of drama into her story, and the pages turn quickly. The present-tense narration lends urgency as the perspective switches among various characters. Readers may decide to take the stairs after finishing this thriller.”
â
Publishers Weekly
on
The Elevator
A TIME TO MEND
THE ELEVATOR
THE FACE
DREAMERS
BROTHERS
JOURNEY
Let Darkness Come
And we all go with them, into the silent funeral,
Nobody's funeral, for there is no one to bury.
I said to my soul, be still, and let the dark come upon you
Which shall be the darkness of God.
âT.S. Eliot, East Coker
T
he night was made for murder.
She waits until his breaths are deep and even; waits until he snores in a regular rhythm. Then she slips out of bed and moves to the window, raising the blind until a wave of silver moonlight floods the room.
She won't risk waking him by turning on the lamp. Moonlight suits her purposes; it has always suited her nature.
She creeps into the bathroom and pulls the basket with his sharps and bottles from beneath the sink. These she transfers to the nightstand, then she lifts a syringe, unwraps it, and presses the thin needle into the neck of a bottle.
He took his insulin before bedtime, a dose guaranteed to stabilize his blood chemistry throughout the night. This second injection will stabilize him forever.
She measures out fifty units of regular insulin and drops the bottle back into its basket. The gentle chink of glass against glass does not rouse him. The man sleeps like a log, particularly on nights when he is so full of himself that he can't resist berating his wife.
Idiot. White trash. Slut
.
Never again will those words pass his lips. Never again will she wear long sleeves on hot summer days.
Never again will his fist slam into her belly.
She lowers herself to the mattress, lifts the syringe in her left hand, and gently tugs on the covers with her right. His snoring halts, then erupts in an explosion of breath. His
body has sensed the abrupt change in temperature, and his fingers fumble at his pajama top, searching for the comforter.
When he stops moving, she slides the thin needle into the pale flesh of his abdomen and presses the plunger. The instrument of death makes no sound, nor does its bite make him flinch. The needle has nipped at this flesh many times.
Like a loving mother tucking in a child, she covers him again and stands as he slumbers on, oblivious to his fate.
She returns the basket of supplies to the bathroom vanity and tosses the syringe into the trash. Her gaze falls on the mirror, where a ghostly image of her form is reflected in shadows. Then she crawls back into the warm bed and closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep.
K
ate Barnhill, the paralegal assigned to the second-floor associates, sticks her head into Briley Lester's office. “Did you get rid of the dragon lady?”
Briley holds up a handwritten memo and drops it into the Busch file. “Case dismissed,” she says, sighing. “Now I can move on to the next innocent and misunderstood client.” She stares at the stack of folders on her credenza. “Look at all those dog cases. Franklin is breathing down my neck about clearing at least five files a week, but it takes time to handle clients properly. And since most of these are civil cases, I'm a little out of my element.”
Kate tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear and steps into the room. “At my last firm, they'd just send the client a letter saying the case wasn't worth their time.”
“And now I understand why you don't work there anymore.” Briley picks up the next file and skims the case summary. “This concerns a real estate deal. Don't we have an associate in real estate law?”
“The red-haired guy back by the water coolerâhe's handling real estate.” Kate reaches for the file, jingling a loaded charm bracelet on her wrist. “I'll carry it over.”
“I've never seen anybody in that office.”
“That's because he's always out in the field, or so he says. But though he may not be around much, somehow he manages to bill two thousand hours per year.”
“No wonder I'm getting nowhere in this firmâI'm breaking my neck to bill fifteen hundred. More and more
these days I can't remember why I ever became a lawyer.” Briley picks up the next file, skims the summary report, and frowns. “Haven't I represented Clive Thomas before?”
Kate smiles as she moves toward the door. “Surely you remember the dognapper. You pleaded him down to nine months in Cook County Jail.”
“You're rightâthe Chihuahua thief.” Briley drops the folder onto her desk. “Now he wants to sue the state over the inmates' food. He says it's nutritionally lacking.”
“You going down to the jail to brush him off?”
“No,” Briley answers, settling into her creaky desk chair. “Him, I'm writing a letter.”
I
n the windowless waiting room outside the morgue at the Cook County medical examiner's office, Erin Tomassi shivers beneath a thin blanket. Her brain buzzes with the faint rumblings of a headache while disjointed memories of the morning jostle in her mind. Impossible to believe that she's sitting in a public place in her robe, pajamas, and slippers. Impossible to believe that Jeffrey lies in the room beyond, lifeless and blue.
She stares at her hand and counts off five fingertips, one for each year of their marriage. Jeffrey is thirty-five years old; men of that age do not die in their sleep. But dead is what he is, or so the EMTs insist. They have to be mistaken, because Jeffrey is king of whatever hill he's climbing. When it comes, Death will have to wait for an appointment like everyone else.
An older man in a lab coat steps into the drab room and offers a sad smile. “Coffee?” He gestures toward a pot on the counter. “It's not very good, but it's hot.”
She shakes her head. “I'm fine.”
The man moves toward the counter and takes a foam cup from a slanted stack. As he pours, he glances in her direction. “Do you need to call someone to pick you up?”
“ThatâMy father-in-law is on his way.”
The man pours two sugar packets into his cup, then stirs the brew with a ballpoint from his pocket. “Never a spoon around when you need one,” he says, a thread of apology in
his voice as he taps his pen on the side of the cup. “Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of coffee?”
“Never learned to like it.” She catches her breath, horrified that the words have sprung so easily to her lips. If Jeffrey were here, he'd tell her to take the coffee, drink it, and act grateful for it, because one never offended voters by refusing offers of kindness.
She lowers her eyes, afraid the man might see a trace of the emotions warring in her breast. Jeffrey might be deadâ¦and if he is, she will mourn him, but she will be free. Free to refuse cups of coffee, to sleep past seven, to stay in her house and ignore the clamoring world. If she can trust what the EMTs told her, she will finally be able to relax inside her own home. She'll be able to slip on her pajamas and go to bed without a sense of dread.
But Jeffrey
can't
be dead. Because the city is still running, the sun still shining, and the planet still turning. Most telling, she is still breathingâ¦and Jeffrey always said she'd die before he did.
He'd make sure of it.