Published by Koru House Press.
For information address Koru House Press, Koru House, Remuera, Auckland, New Zealand, 1050 www.koruhousepress.com
Dancing in the Dark
Copyright 2018 T.L. Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written consent of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Designer: Qdesign, www.qcoverdesign.com
Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design, www.champagnebookdesign.com
Editor: Sarah Collingwood, www.sarahac36.wordpress.com
table of contents
title page
copyright
epigraph
playlist
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-six
chapter thirty-seven
chapter thirty-eight
chapter thirty-nine
chapter forty
chapter forty-one
chapter forty-two
chapter forty-three
chapter forty-four
chapter forty-five
chapter forty-six
chapter forty-seven
chapter forty-eight
chapter forty-nine
chapter fifty
chapter fifty-one
chapter fifty-two
chapter fifty-three
chapter fifty-four
chapter fifty-five
chapter fifty-six
epilogue
acknowledgments
coming next from T.L. Martin
connect with me
“I love your rough edges
and soft parts
that bleed.
The ruins of your soul are poetry
to me.”
—Anita Krizzan
Listen Here
Billie Eilish—Lovely (with Khalid)
Ciara—Paint it, Black
Son Lux—Easy
Melanie Martinez—Dollhouse
Two Feet—Her Life
Sabrina Claudio—Orion’s Belt
Karliene—Become the Beast
Portugal. The Man—Modern Jesus
Billie Eilish—Six Feet Under
Sabrina Claudio—Belong to You
Konoba—On Our Knees
Ruelle—Deep End
Noah Cyrus—Again
Aurora—Murder Song (5, 4, 3, 2, 1)
Portugal.The Man—Evil Friends
Melanie Martinez—Cry Baby
Erutan—Come Little Children
“The devil asked me how I knew my way around the walls of hell. I told him I did not need a map for the darkness I know so well.”
—T.M.T.
There’s nothing like it.
Nothing comes close to the soothing, hypnotic wails of a grown man who knows these will be the last sounds he ever makes. His cries are a soft symphony set on repeat in the back of my mind, even as he stands in front of me, mouth agape, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back. With each new scream, the tendons in his neck bulge beneath a mesmerizing cascade of red. With each new scream, the outside world quiets a little more, my grip around the knife loosens, and my shallow breaths ease into an even rhythm.
Soon, his cries morph into choked whimpers. I’m so relaxed my eyes grow heavy, but I refuse to let them close and miss even a second of the scene playing out before me. The scene I orchestrated with little more than my bare hands.
They said go to therapy. No one ever specified what kind.
My lips quirk. The knife’s handle is thick and damp in my hands. The scent of blood and pain fills my nostrils, along with a high I know will fade all too soon, as it always does.
It’s not until the silence—the only sound comparable to the heavenly screams I just savored like a fine wine—returns to my ears that I remember my audience. I let the weapon slip from my fingertips. It hits the ground with a clatter as I lean against the concrete wall behind me. Kicking a leg out, I cross it over my other ankle and suck in one final, intoxicating breath.
I can’t take my eyes off the sight. Or maybe I can, but I don’t want to. It’s too perfect—the way his head’s angled a little too far to the right. The slight, red stump on the left side of his face—all that remains of his ear. The streams of crimson intertwining as they leak down his body, tiny drops staining the ceramic tiles with my mark.
Fuck, that’s good. Some might even call it artistic. I tilt my head, absorbing the terror still etched into the tight lines of his face. His hair is a little grayer than I’d hoped it’d be by the time I got to him, but it only adds a certain charm I have to admire.
Huh . . . She always thought she made epic pieces of art. If this isn’t epic, I don’t know what the hell is.
“Wanna take a picture?” Griff’s gruff voice snaps my head to the right. His bulky shoulders are broad enough to fill the entire doorway he stands in.
He’s being snide, of course, but I almost smile while I consider it. It is a shame to see years of meticulous preparation disappear as quickly as they do. But, no. I don’t need a trophy. What I need is my goddamn sanity—something I’m not quite sure I’ve ever had, and I certainly will never gain as long as this lifeless piece of shit is clouding my view.
And just like that, the familiar, dark claws of bitterness tear their way into my chest and eat away the high.
Frederick Ferguson. Fifty-six years old. Elementary school bus driver. Two ex-wives, one grown child he hasn’t seen or spoken to in eleven years.
I make a mental slash across his name on my list. Took longer than usual to get this one, but that’s only because my hands were otherwise occupied with numbers five and thirteen.
Staring at the body sagging against the column it’s tied to, I kick off the wall. “Burn him.”
I don’t exit the room until smoke blankets the air. Ash and dust, death and murder. Some drink it down like a poison until it kills them, leaving nothing more than a shell without a soul. Others, like me, are the poison. When you have no soul, there’s no threat of losing it. With no threat, there’s nothing to fear.
And without fear . . . you’re limitless.
“Do not judge my story by the chapter you walked in on.”
—Unknown
One bronze, oval button. One push. One ding, one dong.
And it will all be real.
I suck in a breath, my chest straining against the skin-tight uniform. A cold rush of unease flits down my spine as I tu
g at the mid-thigh hem of the little black dress. A dress I received on my doorstep. A dress that’s worth more than Mama’s entire trailer home. A dress that had a one-way plane ticket to New York and five crisp hundred-dollar bills stuffed inside its inseam pocket when it arrived.
Before yesterday, I’d only ever heard of designer Oscar de la Renta on reality television. Today, I’m not only wearing his clothes but also matching four-inch pumps.
Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I adjust the black, rectangular-rimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of my nose and shake my head at myself. Stop being a coward and get it over with already.
If Frankie were here, she’d smirk and shove my shoulder to edge me toward the door. But she isn’t here, is she?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I press one chewed fingernail to the doorbell and wait for the ring.
Anticipation builds with each second, gnawing at me until my palms are sweaty. Ugh. As though I don’t already have enough personal issues to deal with without adding this whole scenario to the mix.
I can hardly believe I’m really here. Not that I know where in the hell here is, exactly.
Angling my head, I try to inconspicuously scope out my surroundings. The black limo that dropped me off a few minutes ago is now a distant speck, disappearing down the endless driveway. Each side of the smooth, narrow path is lined with perfectly trimmed hedges tall enough to resemble a maze. A maze that threatens to swallow me whole if I dare venture back the way we came.
It’s impossible to see far enough, but I know the limo had to pass through a gate to get here.
Blacked-out windows blocked any clues as to where I was headed from the second I was picked up at the airport and escorted into the shady vehicle. Tinted glass hid even the driver’s seat from view, but they couldn’t mute the occasional sounds. After what felt like hours of driving with only tire noise, my ears had perked at the subtle rumble of a gate opening.
My heart thumps a little harder against my ribcage as I gaze into the clear blue sky above my head. As far as I can tell, there’s nothing to reveal my location. The plane may have delivered me to New York, but for all I know, we’ve veered all the way into Jersey or Massachusetts.
I turn back to the door, taking in the actual property, and shit . . . the place is massive. I’m a tiny speck of dirt standing before the house. No—mansion. The building is all high arches, intricate engravings, fancy terraces, and polish and shine, stretched out enough it could consume our entire trailer park.
Deep breaths.
After a soft click, the mahogany door swings open and a stunning woman stands before me. She probably has fifteen years on my twenty and looks like she just stepped off a runway. Sleek blond hair is pulled into a complex twist at the top of her head. Her high cheekbones are rosy. Her tanned skin is smooth and flawless.
“Emmy Highland?” she purrs, glossy red lips curving as she extends her hand. “Stella Larsson. So pleased to finally meet you.”
I shake her hand and try to force my shoulders to relax as I latch onto the familiar name. “Nice to meet you, too. In person, I mean.”
Her smile widens, and it only emphasizes her beauty. Stepping gracefully to the side, she releases my hand. “Please, come in.”
It’s not until she turns and I follow her into a long corridor that I notice her outfit: a little black dress ending mid-thigh, with matching four-inch pumps. Almost identical to mine, except when she shifts I see that hers has a steep V-neckline while the one I was provided has a modest sweetheart cut. She also wears a thin gold scarf curled around her neck like a choker, but the way it’s tied neatly on one side somehow makes the entire look radiate class.
My footsteps halt on their own when the corridor ends, which leads to an enormous living room. A breathtaking sea of gardens lay outside the grand windows that eat up the entire far wall. Rays of sunlight pour over the seating area, creating a glow that casts a shimmer against my skin. When I look up, I notice most of the light’s coming from a glass ceiling.
The dazzling warmth feels deceiving when I know what really goes on here. What role I’m expected to play. I take a few steps to the right until the shimmer vanishes and I’m standing in a shadowed corner.
My arm brushes a canvas on the wall. It’s a stiff, traditional landscape of a century-old mansion. Bronze and regal looking, the piece is all kinds of wrong. Definitely not how I would have done it. The building’s paint should be chipping, the garden full of weeds, reminiscent of the days come and gone. Long shadows would stretch across the cracked steps, teasing the house with ghosts of its past. A thick streak of red would mar the windowsill, an abandoned bucket of paint knocked sideways and spilling its heart.
Even states away from the sketchpad tucked so carefully in my corner of the trailer, where Mama won’t find it, my fingers itch to get lost in the brushstrokes they always crave. Each stuffy painting calls me closer with its pleas for sharp strokes of red and black, making me wish I hadn’t been instructed to leave all my belongings behind.
Of course, I never had proper materials to work with, but Frankie did what she could to get me supplies, even when I was little. Paints and sketch pads from second hand stores were easier to come by than new items. Otherwise, pencils and scraps of paper would do. No matter what, she made sure I was stocked with something, and whenever Mama caught me and threw it all away, Frankie would go out and find more.
Frankie used to say when you feel the urge to do something, it’s your soul’s way of leading you to where you’re supposed to be. Never ignore your impulses, Emmy. We’d all be lost without them.
I swallow, shoving the thoughts down and flicking my gaze from one painting to the next.
“Would you like some tea before we begin?” Stella’s smile wavers as she gazes into the dark corner I’ve chosen.
I glance down, tugging at the hem of my dress again. The thing crawls closer to my panties with each step I take. “No. Thank you.”
“Of course. Just this way.”
We cross the room, our heels clicking with each step, and reach a wide, winding stairwell. She leads the way, her hand brushing over the railing. We don’t stop until we’re standing inside a small office with a single desk at one corner and a lounging area with a glass coffee table in the center. She gestures toward the cream-colored sofa.
“Have a seat, Emmy.”
She waits until I’m sitting before taking a seat beside me and retrieving a glossy briefcase from beneath the table.
“So,” she says without looking up, her slender fingers skimming over the files, “the contract I have here almost replicates the one we reviewed last week via our long-distance correspondences. There is one minor difference you’ll notice. Where we had blacked out any suggestions as to who your new employers are for confidentiality purposes, this contract will reveal their company’s identity. All right?”
My fingers grip the hem of my dress tighter, but I quickly release the fabric and nod. If I’m going to be convincing enough to pull this off, I can’t let my unease show.
“Very well. Now, assuming you’ve had enough time to consider all aspects of what this position entails and that you’re ready to begin—seeing as you boarded the plane—we’ll move forward with the signatures, with me as your witness.”
The pounding against my ribcage evolves into a flutter, light and fast. My dress is suddenly too tight and itchy against my skin. Yes, I did consider all the aspects, but not in the ways she’s suggesting; more along the lines of what will happen if my new employers figure out what I’m really doing here. When they figure it out.
Because, eventually, they will.
Honestly, I can’t believe I’ve made it this far. Even though Frankie and I are only half-sisters and don’t resemble each other at all, there are obvious things that would reveal our ties if they ever find a reason to dig for them.
“Ah, here it is.” Stella withdraws a stapled packet and a pen, then sets the briefcase aside. Finally, she meets
my gaze with a reassuring smile. “I realize how uptight and formal this all seems now, but I promise you’ll feel more comfortable once the basics are out of the way. Just a few more t’s to cross and i’s to dot, and you’ll officially be on our payroll.”
Payroll.
Money.
Ridiculous sums of money. Figures too large for me to admit, even to myself, without feeling like a criminal. There’s no way a secretary would ever be paid this much, and it’s the very reason I assume Frankie signed up. One flickering thought of all the things money like this could mean for her, and I get it. I really do. We always talked of big dreams and getting ourselves away from Mama. Away from Mississippi altogether.
“Yeah . . .” I let out a breath, hoping Stella can’t see the questions and nerves in my eyes. “Of course.”
“Excellent.” Her grin broadens, and she extends the thin packet and pen toward me. “Just your initials here”—she points to the small line beside each paragraph, flipping through the pages as she does—“here, and here, and then your primary information at the bottom there. Leave the witness section for me to fill out. Then we’ll be all set.”
A thin layer of sweat makes my grip on the pen slippery, but I do as instructed, initialing as I go. Though my eyes skim through each familiar paragraph, I try not to pay too much attention to their words for fear I’ll back out. I’m not usually a nervous person, but then again, I don’t usually find myself in a position like this one.
Some paragraphs stand out more than others, specifically the ones revealing my new employer’s identity:
Section 13, Clause 4:
“I understand that my duty as a Matthews Secretary is to serve in any and all ways asked of me. I am here as a servant and as a servant only. Signature of this contract indicates that I, Emmy May Highland, agree to my role as a servant and will strive to ensure everything asked of me is seen through to completion and full satisfaction.”
I’ve read my variation of this document so many times I no longer bat an eye at full satisfaction, but Matthews? Still vague as hell.