Laying my palms flat against the mattress, my breathing comes thick and fast as a yearning growls in the pit of my stomach. Running my hands across my chest and down my arms, I confirm I’m alone and that the ghostly hands of the women have gone. But Valdemar remains—not in person, buthis voice, his words, and his stare are all imprinted in my brain so I will never forget them, never sleep another night without his presence.
Five weeks ago, I wanted nothing more than to kill him, to watch his blood spill at what he did to my brother, to me, to my future. But now….
What’s changed in the last few weeks?
Is it because I know his background, where and how he grew up, and what he went through to get to where he is now? Is it because I know my brother asked him to shoot him, a mercy killing to avoid being bricked up alive? Is it the dreams, his invasion of my nights, the knowledge of what his touch is like, what his words sound like, or is it because of yesterday when he protected me like I was the most precious thing he’d ever held?
Or am I just being a complete fool and letting sexual desire rule my head? Have I been coerced by these dreams into thinking he can give me what I want, what I’ve failed to find?
Fighting the urge to relieve the throbbing between my legs, I swing myself out of bed and pad into the bathroom, not knowing the answer to any of these questions but aware I will have to endure this dream for the rest of the week until my next visit with Valdemar and that the dream will change again if the pattern is to continue.
Next week is my last visit before he’s released, and then what? I’ve been naïve in thinking that our contact will end after his release when really it will only just begin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In my youth,I imagined life as a hotshot journalist would be action-packed, fraught with danger and intrigue to the point where I would almost feel like a spy. I wanted to change the world, to make it a better place, to make people feel like they had a voice and that their story mattered. But today marks an all-time low in my career as I stand in the frozen-food section of The Eldorado Food Emporium, surrounded by row upon row of fish fingers and faced with a terrified old lady who had her purse stolen from her two days ago.
“Can you tell me what happened, Mrs Wyatt?”
Marian Wyatt tugs at the sleeves of her grey coat as if she’s trying to disappear inside it.
“We can do this interview somewhere else if you’d prefer,” I say.
Interviewing Mrs Wyatt in the very aisle where she had her purse stolen was not one of Captain’s better ideas. She’s clearly traumatised by what happened to her, and she’d be far more happier talking to me in the safety of her own home. But Captain had argued that revisiting the scene of the crime might bring back some memories and would make for a better story.
“The readers will feel her fear,” he’d said. “Nothing is frightening about an old lady sitting in the comfort of her own home while drinking tea and telling you all about the thief who snatched her purse.”
“I’m fine, honestly,” Mrs Wyatt tells me, her wide eyes saying otherwise. “I’ve been shopping here for twenty years, ever since my husband, Ronald, died. I don’t want these thugs to win. They’ve already stolen my purse and my money. Why should they get to steal my life as well?”
There’s a glimmer behind her rheumy eyes, and for a second, I almost believe her. But I think we both know the thugshavewon, and it breaks my heart.
“So, you were in this very aisle when the theft happened?”
“Yes. I was buying Napoleon his favourite fish fingers.” Mrs Wyatt gestures to the boxes of Titan Fish Fingers in the freezer behind us.
“Napoleon?” I ask as I fiddle with my Dictaphone.
“He’s my cat. Fussy little beggar when it comes to dinnertime, but he’s been my only companion since Ronald died. He’ll only eat this brand of fish fingers, and this shop is the only one that stocks them. Anyway, I was just putting the box in my basket when I remembered that I had a coupon for them. So, I got my purse out of my bag and started to look for the coupon, and that’s when the girl came up behind me and snatched my purse from my hand.”
“You must have been so scared.”
“Not at first. I was angry. What would Napoleon have for his tea if I didn’t get him his fish fingers?”
“Did you get a good look at the girl?” I ask.
“I say girl, but she was a teenager. Dark clothes, a hooded jumper pulled over her head, and pink patterned boots that looked too big for her feet. She was so brazen. Just snatchedit from my hand and walked out of the shop as if she’d done nothing wrong.”
Mrs Wyatt shakes her head, and I can see some of her anger washing away, the fear she arrived with settling back in. I can’t help but think about seventeen-year-old Valdemar and how he had something of value taken from him as easily as this girl had taken Mrs Wyatt’s purse.
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Pfft.” She scrunches up her face. “And what do you think they would have done? Nothing, that’s what. How many crimes are committed in this city that the police have no power to do anything about? How many reports have you covered where a victim has been left helpless because the police are unable to reprimand the criminals?” She folds her arms. “I got the man on the checkout to go and get the manager, and even he said there was no point in calling the police. He told me that theft in this shop has doubled over the last few years, but the police are powerless. They know they can’t catch these villains, and even if they did, they have no authority in this city. I don’t feel safe anymore, and I’ve lived here all my life. I should be able to go and buy some fish fingers for my cat without being afraid. This city is going to the dogs. There was a time when someone would have done something about the rising crime. Would have hunted these criminals down and strung them up.”
She’s right. This cityisgoing to the dogs, and I see it now, the influence the Raven Hands had over this city ten years ago, the fear they used to wield over the criminals, the punishments they would dole out so that the law-abiding citizens could live in peace. And I hate that she’s right, but even more, I hate the fact that all I can think about is how much I would like to teach these criminals a lesson—one they won’t forget.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs Wyatt,” I say, switching off my Dictaphone and stuffing it into my bag. “I think I have all I need.”
“You have my number if you have any more questions.”
