Silence

PROLOGUE

COLDWATER, MAINE

THREE MONTHS AGO

THE SLEEK BLACK AUDI ROLLED to a stop in the parking lot overlooking the cemetery, but none of the three men inside had any intention of paying respects to the dead. The hour burned past midnight, and the grounds were officially closed. A strange summer fog hung thin and dreary, like a string of rising ghosts. Even the moon, a slender waxing crescent, resembled a drooping eyelid. Before the road dust settled, the driver leaped out, promptly opening the two rear car doors.

Blakely exited first. He stood tall with graying hair and a hard, rectangular face—nearly thirty in human years, though markedly older by Nephilim count. He was followed by a second Nephil named Hank Millar. Hank, too, was uncommonly tall with blond hair, snapping blue eyes, and charismatic good looks. His creed was Justice over mercy, and that, combined with his quick rise to power in the Nephilim underworld during the last few years, had earned him the nicknames the Fist of Justice, Iron Fist, and most famously, the Black Hand. He was hailed among his people as a visionary leader, a savior. But in smaller backroom circles, he was quietly referred to as the Blood Hand. Hushed voices murmured not of a redeemer, but of a ruthless dictator. Hank found their nervous chatter amusing; a true dictator had absolute power and no opposition. Hopefully, someday he could live up to their expectations.

Hank stepped out and lit a cigarette, taking a long drag. Are my men assembled?

Ten men in the woods above us, Blakely answered. Another ten in cars at both exits. Five are hiding at various points within the cemetery; three just inside the doors of the mausoleum, and two along the fence. Any more, and we’d give ourselves away. Undoubtedly, the man you are meeting tonight will come with his own backup.

Hank smiled in the darkness. Oh, I rather doubt that.

Blakely blinked. You brought twenty-five of your best Nephilim fighters to go against one man?

Not a man, Hank reminded him. I don’t want anything to go wrong tonight.

We have Nora. If he gives you trouble, put him on the phone with her. They say angels can’t feel touch, but emotions are fair game. I’m certain he’ll feel it when she screams. Dagger is standing by, at the ready.

Hank turned to Blakely, giving him a slow, appraising smile. Dagger is watching her? He’s hardly sane.

You said you wanted to break her spirit.

I did say that, didn’t I? Hank mused. It had been four short days since he’d taken her captive, dragging her out of a maintenance shed inside Delphic Amusement Park, but he’d already determined precisely which lessons she needed to learn. First, never to undermine his authority in front of his men. Second, devotion to her Nephilim bloodline. And perhaps most important, to show her own father respect.

Blakely handed Hank a small mechanical device with a button at the center that glowed an unearthly shade of blue. Put this in your pocket. Press the blue button and your men will swarm in from every direction.

Has it been enhanced with devilcraft? Hank asked.

A nod. Upon activation, it is designed to temporarily immobilize the angel. I can’t say for how long. This is a prototype, and I haven’t thoroughly tested it.

Have you spoken of this to anyone?

You ordered me not to, sir.

Satisfied, Hank pocketed the device. Wish me luck, Blakely.

His friend patted his shoulder. You don’t need it.

Flicking aside his cigarette, Hank descended the stone steps leading to the cemetery, a rather foggy patch of land that made his vantage point useless. He’d hoped to see the angel first, from above, but was comforted by the knowledge that he was backed by his own handpicked and highly trained militia.

At the base of the steps, Hank peered through the shadows warily. It had started to drizzle, washing out the fog. He could make out towering gravestones and trees that twisted wildly. The cemetery was overgrown and almost mazelike. No wonder Blakely had suggested the spot. The likelihood of human eyes accidentally witnessing tonight’s events was negligible.

There. Ahead. The angel leaned on a gravestone, but at the sight of Hank, he straightened. Dressed strictly in black, including a leather motorcycle jacket, he was difficult to distinguish from the shadows. He hadn’t shaved in days, his hair was unruly and unkempt, and there were lines of worry around his mouth. Mourning the disappearance of his girlfriend, then? All the better.

"You look a little worse for wear . . . Patch, is it?" Hank said, stopping a few feet away.

The angel smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant. And here I thought maybe you’d had a few sleepless nights yourself. After all, she’s your own flesh and blood. From the looks of it, you’ve been getting your beauty sleep. Rixon always said you were a pretty boy.

Hank let the insult roll off. Rixon was the fallen angel who used to possess his body every year during the month of Cheshvan, and he was as good as dead. With him gone, there was nothing left in the world that frightened Hank. Well? What do you have for me? It had better be good.

I paid a visit to your house, but you’d skulked off into hiding with your tail between your legs and taken your family with you, the angel said in a low voice resonating with something Hank couldn’t quite interpret. It was halfway between contempt and . . . mockery.

Yes, I thought you might try something rash. An eye for an eye, isn’t that the creed of fallen angels? Hank couldn’t tell if he was impressed by the angel’s cool demeanor, or irritated. He’d expected to find the angel frantic and desperate. At the very least, he’d hoped to provoke him to violence. Any excuse to bring his men running. Nothing like a bloodbath to instill camaraderie. Let’s cut the pleasantries. Tell me you brought me something useful.

The angel shrugged. Playing your rat seemed unimportant next to finding where you’ve stashed your daughter.

The muscles in Hank’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t the deal.

I’ll get you the information you need, the angel answered, almost conversationally if it weren’t for that chilling gleam in his eyes. But first release Nora. Get your men on the phone now.

I need insurance you’ll cooperate long-term. I’m keeping her until you make good on your side of the deal.

The corners of the angel’s mouth tipped up, but it was hardly a smile. There was something truly menacing in the result. I’m not here to negotiate.

You aren’t in a position to. Hank reached into his breast pocket and retrieved his phone. I’m out of patience. If you’ve wasted my time tonight, it’s going to be an unpleasant night for your girlfriend. One call, and she goes hungry—

Before he had time to carry out his threat, Hank felt himself tripping backward. The angel’s arms flashed out, and all air escaped Hank in a rush. His head hit something solid, and waves of black rolled across his vision.

This is how it’s going to work, the angel hissed. Hank tried to muster a shout, but the angel’s hand was clenched at his throat. Hank kicked his feet, but the gesture was pointless; the angel was too strong. He scratched for the panic button in his pocket, but his fingers fumbled uselessly. The angel had cut off his oxygen. Red lights popped behind his eyes and his chest felt as though a stone had rolled on top of it.

In a burst of inspiration, Hank invaded the angel’s mind, teasing apart the threads that formed his thoughts, focusing fixedly on redirecting the angel’s intentions, weakening his motivation, all the while whispering a hypnotic, Release Hank Millar, release him now—

A mind-trick? the angel scorned. Don’t bother. Make the call, he commanded. If she walks free in the next two minutes, I’ll kill you quickly. Anything longer than that, and I will rip you apart, one piece at a time. And trust me when I say I will enjoy every last scream you utter.

"Can’t—kill—me!" Hank sputtered.

He felt a searing pain erupt across his cheek. He howled, but the sound never made it past his lips. His windpipe was crushed, vised in the angel’s grip. The raw, burning pain intensified, and all around, Hank could smell blood mixed with his own perspiration.

One piece at a time, the angel hissed, dangling something papery and drenched in dark liquid over Hank’s whirling vision.

Hank felt his eyes widen. His skin!

Call your men, the angel ordered, sounding infinitely less patient.

Can’t—talk! Hank gurgled. If he could only reach the panic button . . .

Swear an oath to release her now, and I’ll let you talk. The angel’s threat slipped easily into Hank’s head.

You’re making a big mistake, boy, Hank fired back. His fingers brushed his pocket, slipping inside. He clenched the panic device.

The angel made a guttural sound of impatience, ripped the device away and hurled it into the fog. Swear the oath or your arm goes next.

I’ll uphold our original deal, Hank returned. I’ll spare her life and bury all thought of avenging Chauncey Langeais’s death if you’ll bring me the information I need. Until then, I vow to treat her humanely—

The angel slammed Hank’s head against the ground. Between the nausea and pain, he heard the angel say, I’m not leaving her with you another five minutes, let alone the time it will take me to get what you want.

Hank tried to peer over the angel’s shoulder, but all he saw was a fence of gravestones. The angel had him on the ground, blocked from view. His men couldn’t see him. He didn’t believe the angel could kill him—he was immortal—but he wasn’t going to lie here and let himself be mutilated until he resembled a corpse.

He curled his lips and locked eyes with the angel. I’ll never forget how loud she screamed when I dragged her away. Did you know she screamed your name? Over and over. She said you’d come for her. That was the first couple of days, of course. I think she’s finally starting to accept you’re no match for me.

He watched the angel’s face darken as if with blood. His shoulders shook, his black eyes dilated with rage. And then it all happened in stunning agony. One moment Hank was on the verge of blacking out from the white-hot pain of his pummeled flesh, and the next he was staring at the angel’s fists, painted with his blood.

A deafening howl thundered out of Hank’s body. The pain exploded inside him, nearly knocking him unconscious. From some distant place, he heard the running feet of his Nephilim men.

Get—him—off—me! he snarled as the angel tore at his body. Every nerve ending raged with fire. Heat and agony leaked from his pores. He caught sight of his hand, but there was no flesh—only mangled bone. The angel was going to shred him to pieces. He heard grunts of effort from his men, but the angel was still on top of him, his hands raking fire everywhere they touched.

Hank swore viciously. Blakely!

"Pull him off now!" came Blakely’s gruff command to his men.

Not soon enough, the angel was dragged away. Hank lay on the ground, panting. He was wet with blood, pain stabbing him like hot pokers. Slapping aside Blakely’s offered hand, Hank climbed with effort to his feet. He felt unstable, swaying and intoxicated with his own suffering. By the gaping stares of his men, Hank knew he was a horrific sight. Given the severity of the wounds, it might take him an entire week to heal—even with the enhancements of devilcraft.

Should we take him away, sir?

Hank dabbed a handkerchief to his lip, which was split open and hung from his face like pulp. No. We have no use for him locked up. Tell Dagger the girl is to have nothing but water for forty-eight hours. His breathing was ragged. If our boy here can’t cooperate, she pays.

With a nod, Blakely turned from the scene, dialing on his phone.

Hank spat out a bloodied tooth, studied it quietly, then tucked it in his pocket. He fixed his eyes on the angel, whose only outward sign of fury came in the form of clenched fists. Once again, the terms of our oath, so there’s no further misunderstanding. First, you will earn back the confidence of fallen angels, rejoining their ranks—

I’ll kill you, the angel said with quiet warning. Though he was held by five men, he no longer struggled. He stood deathly still, his eyes black orbs burning with vengeance. For one moment, Hank felt a pang of fear strike like a match inside his gut.

He strove for cool indifference. —following which, you will spy on them and report their dealings directly to me.

I swear now, the angel said, his breathing controlled but elevated, with these men as my witnesses, I will not rest until you are dead.

A waste of breath. You can’t kill me. Perhaps you’ve forgotten from whom a Nephil claims his immortal birthright?

A murmur of amusement circled his men, but Hank waved them to silence. When I’ve determined you’ve given me enough information to successfully prevent fallen angels from possessing Nephilim bodies this coming Cheshvan—

Every hand you lay on her I will return tenfold.

Hank’s mouth twisted into a suggestion of a smile. An unnecessary sentiment, don’t you think? By the time I’m through with her, she won’t remember your name.

Remember this moment, the angel said with icy vehemence. It’s going to come back to haunt you.

Enough of this, Hank snapped, making a disgusted gesture and starting back toward the car. Take him to Delphic Amusement Park. We want him back among the fallen as soon as possible.

I’ll give you my wings.

Hank stopped his departure, not sure he’d heard the angel correctly. He barked a laugh. What?

Swear an oath to release Nora right now, and they’re yours. The angel sounded haggard, giving away the first hint of defeat. Music to Hank’s ears.

What use would I have for your wings? he retorted blandly, but the angel had caught his attention. As far as he knew, no Nephil had ever torn out the wings of an angel. They did it among their own kind now and then, but the idea of a Nephil having that power was quite the novelty. Quite the temptation. Tales of his conquest would sweep through Nephilim households overnight.

You’ll think of something, the angel said with increasing weariness.

I’ll swear an oath to release her before Cheshvan, Hank countered, smothering all eagerness from his voice, knowing that to reveal his delight would be disastrous.

Not good enough.

Your wings might make a pretty trophy, but I have a bigger agenda. I’ll release her by the end of summer, my final offer. He turned, walking away, swallowing down his greedy enthusiasm.

Done, the angel said with quiet resignation, and Hank released a slow breath.

He turned. How is it to be done?

Your men will tear them out.

Hank opened his mouth to argue, but the angel cut him off. They’re strong enough. If I don’t fight, nine or ten of them together could do it. I’ll go back to living beneath Delphic and make it known the archangels tore out my wings. But for this to work, you and I can’t have any connection, he warned.

Without delay, Hank shook a few drops of blood from his disfigured hand to the grass at his feet. I swear my oath to release Nora before summer’s end. If I break my vow, I plead that I may die and return to the dust from which I was created.

The angel tugged his shirt over his head and braced his hands on his knees. His torso rose and fell with every breath. With a certain bravery Hank both detested and envied, the angel told him, Get on with it.

Hank would have liked to do the honors, but his wariness won out. He couldn’t be certain there weren’t traces of devilcraft all over him. If the place where an angel’s wings fused into his back were as receptive as rumor had it, one touch might give him away. He’d worked too hard to slip up this late in the game.

Quelling his regret, Hank addressed his men. Tear out the angel’s wings and clean up any mess. Then dump his body at Delphic’s gates, where he’ll be sure to be found. And take care not to be seen. He would have liked to order them to brand the angel with his mark—a clenched fist—a visible display of triumph sure to increase his stature among Nephilim everywhere, but the angel had a point. For this to work, they could leave no evidence of association.

Back at the car, Hank gazed over the cemetery. The event was already over. The angel lay prostrate on the ground, shirtless, two open wounds running the length of his back. Though he hadn’t felt an ounce of pain, his body appeared to have gone into shock from the loss. Hank had also heard a fallen angel’s wing scars were his Achilles’ heel. In this, the rumors appeared to be true.

Should we call it a night? Blakely asked, coming up behind him.

One more phone call, Hank said with an undercurrent of irony. To the girl’s mother.

He dialed and put his cell phone to his ear. He cleared his throat, adopting a strained and worried pitch. Blythe, darling, I just got your message. The family and I have been on vacation and I’m rushing to the airport now. I’ll catch the first flight out. Tell me everything. What do you mean, kidnapped? Are you certain? What did the police say? He paused, listening to her anguished sobs. Listen to me, he told her firmly. I am here for you. I’ll exhaust every resource I have, if that’s what it takes. If Nora is out there, we will find her.

CHAPTER

1

COLDWATER, MAINE

PRESENT DAY

EVEN BEFORE I OPENED MY eyes, I knew I was in danger.

I stirred at the soft crunch of footsteps drawing closer. A dim flicker of sleep remained, dulling my focus. I was flat on my back, a chill seeping through my shirt.

My neck was crooked at a painful angle, and I opened my eyes. Thin stones loomed out of the blue-black fog. For a strange suspended moment, an image of crooked teeth came to mind, and then I saw them for what they really were. Gravestones.

I tried to push myself up to sitting, but my hands slipped on the wet grass. Fighting the haze of sleep still curled around my mind, I rolled sideways off a half-sunken grave, feeling my way through the vapor. The knees of my pants soaked up dew as I crawled between the haphazardly placed graves and monuments. Mild recognition hovered, but it was a side thought; I couldn’t bring myself to focus through the excruciating pain radiating inside my skull.

I crawled along a wrought-iron fence, tamping down a layer of decaying leaves that had been years in the making. A ghoulish howl drifted down from above, and while it sent a shudder through me, it wasn’t the sound I was most frightened of. The footsteps trampled over the grass behind me, but whether they were near or far I couldn’t tell. A shout of pursuit cut through the mist, and I hurried my pace. I knew instinctively that I had to hide, but I was disoriented; it was too dark to see clearly, the eerie blue fog casting spells before my eyes.

In the distance, trapped between two walls of spindly and overgrown trees, a white stone mausoleum glowed through the night. Rising to my feet, I ran toward it.

I slipped between two marble monuments, and when I came out on the other side, he was waiting for me. A towering silhouette, his arm raised to strike. I tripped backward. As I fell, I realized my mistake: He was made of stone. An angel raised on a pediment, guarding the dead. I might have smothered a nervous laugh, but my head collided against something hard, jarring the world sideways. Darkness encroached on my vision.

I couldn’t have been out for long. When the stark black of unconsciousness faded, I was still breathing hard from the exertion of running. I knew I had to get up, but I couldn’t remember why. So I lay there, the icy dew mingling with the warm sweat of my skin. At long last I blinked, and it was then that the nearest headstone sharpened into focus. The engraved letters of the epitaph snapped into single-file lines.

HARRISON GREY

A DEVOTED HUSBAND AND FATHER

DIED MARCH 16, 2008

I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. Now I understood the familiar shadow that had lurked over my shoulder since waking up minutes ago. I was in Coldwater’s city cemetery. At my dad’s gravesite.

A nightmare, I thought. I haven’t really woken yet. This is all just a horrible dream.

The angel watched me, his chipped wings unfurled behind him, his right arm pointing across the cemetery. His expression was carefully detached, but the curve of his lips was more wry than benevolent. For one moment, I was almost able to trick myself into believing he was real and I wasn’t alone.

I smiled at him, then felt my lip quiver. I dragged my sleeve along my cheekbone, wiping away tears, though I didn’t remember starting to cry. I desperately wanted to climb into his arms, feeling the beat of his wings on air as he flew us over the gates and away from this place.

The resumed sound of footsteps pulled me out of my stupor. They were faster now, crashing through the grass.

I turned toward the sound, bewildered by the bob of light twinkling in and out of the misty darkness. Its beam rose and fell to the cadence of the footsteps—crunch . . . sweep . . . crunch . . . sweep—

A flashlight.

I squinted when the light came to a stop between my eyes, dazzling me blind. I had the terrible realization that I definitely wasn’t dreaming.

Lookie here, a man’s voice snarled, hidden behind the glare of light. You can’t be here. Cemetery is closed.

I turned my face away, specks of light still dancing behind my eyelids.

How many others are there? he demanded.

What? My voice was a dry whisper.

How many more are here with you? he continued more aggressively. Thought you’d come out and play night games, did you? Hide-and-seek, I reckon? Or maybe Ghosts in the Graveyard? Not on my watch, you aren’t!

What was I doing here? Had I come to visit my dad? I fished through my memory, but it was disturbingly empty. I couldn’t remember coming to the cemetery. I couldn’t remember much of anything. It was as if the whole night had been ripped out from under my feet.

Worse, I couldn’t remember this morning.

I couldn’t remember dressing, eating, school. Was it even a school day?

Momentarily shoving my panic deep down, I concentrated on orienting myself physically and accepted the man’s outstretched hand. As soon as I was sitting upright, the flashlight glared at me again. How old are you? he wanted to know.

Finally something I knew for certain. Sixteen. Almost seventeen. My birthday was coming up in August.

What in the Sam Hill are you doing out here by yourself? Don’t you know it’s past curfew?

I looked around helplessly. I—

You ain’t a runaway, are you? Just tell me you’ve got someplace to go.

Yes. The farmhouse. At the sudden recollection of home, my heart lifted, followed by the sensation of my stomach plummeting to my knees. Out after curfew? How long after? I tried unsuccessfully to shut out the image of my mom’s enraged expression when I walked through the front door.

Does ‘yes’ got an address?

Hawthorne Lane. I stood, but swayed violently when blood rushed to my head. Why couldn’t I remember how I’d gotten here? Surely I’d driven. But where had I parked the Fiat? And where was my handbag? My keys?

Been drinking? he asked, narrowing his eyes.

I shook my head.

The beam of the flashlight had slipped marginally off my face, when suddenly it was square between my eyes yet again.

Hold on a second, he said, a note of something I didn’t like slipping into his voice. You’re not that girl, are you? Nora Grey, he blurted, as if my name was a knee-jerk response.

I retreated a step. How—do you know my name?

The TV. The reward. Hank Millar posted it.

Whatever he said next floated past. Marcie Millar was the closest thing I had to an archenemy. What did her dad have to do with this?

They’ve been looking for you since end of June.

June? I repeated, a drop of panic splattering inside me. What are you talking about? It’s April. And who was looking for me? Hank Millar? Why?

April? He eyed me queerly. Why, girlie, it’s September.

September? No. It couldn’t be. I would know if sophomore year had ended. I would know if summer vacation had come and gone. I’d woken up a mere handful of minutes ago, disoriented, yes, but not stupid.

But what reason did he have to lie?

With the flashlight lowered, I looked him over, getting my first full picture. His jeans were stained, his facial hair tufted from days without a razor, his fingernails long and black under the tips. He looked an awful lot like the vagabonds who wandered the railroad tracks and shacked up by the river during the summer months. They were known to carry weapons.

You’re right, I should be getting home, I said, backing away, brushing my hand against my pocket. The familiar bump of my cell phone was missing. Same with my car keys.

Now just where do you think you’re going? he asked, coming after me.

My stomach cramped at his sudden movement, and I broke into a run. I raced in the direction the stone angel pointed, hoping it led to a south gate. I would have used the north gate, the one I was familiar with, but it would have required me to run toward the man, instead of away. The ground cut away beneath my feet, and I stumbled downhill. Branches scraped my arms; my shoes slapped against the uneven and rocky ground.

Nora! the man shouted.

I wanted to shake myself for telling him I lived on Hawthorne Lane. What if he followed me?

His stride was longer, and I heard him tramping behind me, closing in. I flung my arms wildly, beating back the branches that sank like claws into my clothes. His hand clamped my shoulder, and I swung around, batting it away. Don’t touch me!

Now hold on a minute. I told you about the reward, and I aim to get it.

He lunged for my arm a second time, and on a shot of adrenaline, I drove my foot into his shin.

Uuhn! He doubled over, clutching his lower leg.

I was shocked by my violence, but I didn’t have any other choice. Staggering back a few steps, I cast a hasty look around, trying to get my bearings. Sweat dampened my shirt, slinking down my backbone, causing every hair on my body to stand tall. Something was off. Even with my groggy memory, I had a clear map of the cemetery in my head—I’d been here countless times to visit my dad’s grave—but while the cemetery felt familiar, down to every last detail including the overwhelming smell of burning leaves and stale pond water, something about its appearance was off.

And then I put my finger on it.

The maple trees were speckled with red. A sign of impending autumn. But that wasn’t possible. It was April, not September. How could the leaves be changing? Was the man possibly telling the truth?

I glanced back to see the man limping after me, pressing his cell phone to his ear. Yeah, it’s her. I’m sure of it. Leaving the cemetery, heading south.

I plunged ahead with renewed fear. Hop the fence. Find a well-lit, well-populated area. Call the police. Call Vee—

Vee. My best and most trusted friend. Her house was closer than mine. I’d go there. Her mom would call the police. I’d describe to them what the man looked like, and they’d track him down. They’d make sure he left me alone. Then they’d talk me back through the night, retracing my steps, and somehow the gaps in my memory would stitch back together and I’d have something to work with. I’d shake off this detached version of myself, this feeling of being suspended in a world that was mine but rejecting me.

I stopped running only to hoist myself over the cemetery fence. There was a field one block up, just on the other side of Wentworth Bridge. I’d cross it and weave my way up the tree streets—Elm and Maple and Oak—cutting through alleys and side yards until I was safe inside Vee’s house.

I was hurrying toward the bridge when the sharp sound of a siren wailed around the corner, and a pair of headlights pinned me in place. A blue Kojak light was attached to the roof of the sedan, which screeched to a halt on the far side of the bridge.

My first instinct was to run forward and point the police officer in the direction of the cemetery, describing the man who’d grabbed me, but as my thoughts came around, I was filled with dread.

Maybe he wasn’t a police officer. Maybe he was trying to look like one. Anyone could get their hands on a Kojak light. Where was his squad car? From where I stood, squinting through his windshield, he didn’t appear to be in uniform.

All these thoughts tumbled through me in a hurry.

I stood at the foot of the sloping bridge, gripping the stone wall for support. I was sure the maybe-officer had seen me, but I moved into the shadows of the trees bowing over the river’s edge anyway. From my peripheral vision, the black water of the Wentworth River glinted. As kids, Vee and I had crouched under this very bridge, catching crawdads from the riverbank by inserting sticks speared with hotdog pieces into the water. The crawdads had fastened their claws to the hotdog, refusing to let go even when we lifted them out of the river and shook them loose in a bucket.

The river was deep at the center. It was also well hidden, snaking through undeveloped property where no one had forked out money to install streetlights. At the end of the field, the water rushed on toward the industrial district, past retired factories, and out to sea.

I briefly wondered if I had it in me to jump off the bridge. I was terrified of heights and the sensation of falling, but I knew how to swim. I only had to make it into the water . . .

A car door shut, yanking me back to the street. The man in the maybe-police car had stepped out. He was all mob: curly dark hair, and dressed formally in a black shirt, black tie, black slacks.

Something about him slapped my memory. But before I could truly grasp it, my memory slammed shut and I was as lost as ever.

An assortment of twigs and branches littered the ground. I bent down, and when I straightened, I was holding a stick half as thick as my arm.

The maybe-officer pretended not to see my weapon, but I knew he had. He pinned a police badge to his shirt, then raised his hands level with his shoulders. I’m not going to hurt you, the gesture said.

I didn’t believe him.

He sauntered a few steps forward, taking care not to make any sudden movements. Nora. It’s me. I flinched when he spoke my name. I’d never heard his voice before, and that made my heart pound hard enough that I felt it clear up around my ears. Are you hurt?

I continued to watch him with growing anxiety, my mind darting in multiple directions. The badge could easily be fake. I’d already decided the Kojak light was. But if he wasn’t police, who was he?

I called your mom, he said, climbing the gradual slope of the bridge. "She’s going to meet us