Fade To Midnight. Shannon McKenna

The man he had begged for help, yelling at him to shut up, to go away, leave him alone. The security staff that had dragged him away. And a name. Someone was screaming a name. The monster that had to be stopped.

      Osta…Ostamen…?

      Gone. Fuck. It slid out of his mind, like sand through his fingers.

      He gasped for air, groped for the name. This felt like…fuck, it felt like a memory. Not a dream. A memory.

      Excitement pumped through him. He tried to open his eyes. Light stabbed. The stench of disinfectant assaulted his nose. His head throbbed, his insides churned. Unintelligible sounds battered his skull.

      He tried to open his eyes, turn his head. Nothing moved. His eyelids were weighted down. His body was lead. The effort to move unleashed…pain. Raw, burning pain that he hadn’t known since—

      His mind flinched away, like he’d brushed up against a lethal live wire. A memory. He’d brushed up against a fucking memory. Oh, God. And it hurt. The memory hurt. He tried to calm himself. Breathe.

      What the fuck? What was going on? He was shit scared. So intense, the sounds, the smells. He wanted to scream, writhe, cry. Hide.

      He grasped, instinctively, for the image of his little angel. His magical talisman. Her gentle gray eyes regarded him calmly. Wise and kind. He clung to her, until the panic calmed. The little angel never let him down. She had led him through his confusion, through the speechless darkness all those years ago. Back to relative normality and function. He was starting to hear now. He could breathe again. Ah.

      Voices. Audio cut in and out. He struggled to make it out.

      “…no signs of previous physical trauma in his brain that would account for the amnesia,” said a male voice. “What was his diagnosis at the time? Where was he treated? I’d like to talk to his physician.”

      There was a long pause. “He wasn’t,” said a low voice.

      A voice he knew. He tried to open his eyes. No luck. Paralyzed.

      Bruno. That was the guy’s name. Bruno. Bruno’s face, Bruno’s history, slid into place in his mind. It was an exquisite relief. Bruno Ranieri. His adopted brother. Tony’s great-nephew. Tony Ranieri. The diner. Rosa. OK. He had it. He knew who he was now. More or less.

      Kev. Kev Larsen, that was what he was called, when someone cared to call him. He clung to his name, such as it was, like a lifeline.

      “He…but he was obviously in some terrible…” The man’s voice trailed off, almost frightened. “What in God’s name happened to him?”

      Another reluctant pause. “We don’t know.”

      “Excuse me?” The man’s voice was incredulous.

      “We don’t know.” Bruno’s voice was defensive. “My uncle found him that way. He’d been tortured, we don’t know by who, or why. He doesn’t either. Like I said. He couldn’t talk. For years afterwards.”

      “And he doesn’t even know what—”

      “No.” The guy cut him off, curtly. “He does not know diddly shit.”

      “So his name…his identity, it’s only…?”

      “Yeah. Made up. It’s only eighteen years old,” Bruno finished crisply. “His previous identity is unknown.”

      There was a pause. “Ah…that’s incredible. Were inquiries made? I mean, to the police, private investigators?”

      “At the time, my uncle didn’t want to go looking for the guys that fucked him up,” Bruno retorted. “I mean, look at him.”

      “Well, yes, of course,” the other man muttered. “Terrible.”

      Kev opened his eyes. Light sliced in, an agonizing red-hot blade straight into his brain. Pain, white. Bright lights, beeping machines.

      Immobilized. In a rigor of burning agony. Fear built, as he hydroplaned through inner space, toward a memory that held a lethal charge. People touching him, making him flinch. Patting his cheek.

      “…hear me? Kev? Can you hear us?”

      “Hey, Kev!” Bruno, again. “Wake up, man, it’s me! You awake?”

      Kev squinted up into the light. The babble of excited voices was hellishly loud, battering his head. The light hurt, it hurt…

      Pat, pat, pat, on his cheek. The gentle, persistent slap made his head reverberate with sickening pain. He opened his eyes.

      Young, good looking. Dark curly hair, close-set eyes, peering down at him. White lab coat. Smiling, pleased with himself. Pat, pat, pat.

      Mad eyes, lit with hellfire. Wet red mouth, crazy smile, muscling inside his brain. Shoving, wrenching him. He cowered away from that shit-eating troll. Better to hide in a hole, to wither and die there, than to crawl out and be mind-raped again—by…by—

      “Ost…er…man.” He forced the syllables out. Osterman.

      Yes. Osterman would never hurt him again. Never.

      “What’s that?” Osterman’s fanged mouth dripped blood, his hot breath sulphurous. “Did you say something? Try again! We’re listening.”

      Kev exploded out of the bed with a scream of rage, ripping out tubes, IVs, leaping at the guy. He bore Osterman to the floor.

      Screaming. Grabbing. Punching. Cold tile against his cheek. Hands held him, pulling him from his prey, and—oh, shit. The sting of a needle.

      Back down into that hole, fast. Only place to hide, inside his own head, in the deepest, darkest place. Lights out. Shut down.

      Shovelfuls of earth rained heavily down on top of his mental hiding place, until the blackness was absolute.

      CHAPTER

       2

      Edie Parrish scanned the entrance of the restaurant and the twilit street outside as she sipped her red wine. No sign of Dad’s upright figure striding, coat flapping around his legs. She deliberately released the tension in her chest, her face, her hands. Squeeze, release. Breathe, slow. In, out. This dinner would be fine. Dad himself had asked for her to meet him. She would take that as a gesture of peace. She had to.

      Because she wanted to see Ronnie, desperately. She ached for it. Dad held the keys to that tower. It was his most effective instrument for controlling his uncontrollable daughter, and he used it mercilessly, punishing her for all perceived misbehaviors by keeping her away from her little sister. The strategy was brilliant in its simplicity.

      God knows, if not for Ronnie, she’d have run away years ago.

      She swallowed down the bitter gall of old anger. Maybe tonight she’d have some stroke of brilliance to persuade him. Maybe Dad would have a change of heart. She had to hope.

      She sank down into her chair, glanced around to make sure she was unobserved, and gave into the guilty impulse, flipping through the pages of her smallest sketchbook until she found one with some space to fill. She shook hair over her face, for discretion’s sake, and resumed people watching. Her eyes softened, absorbing infinitesimal details that her conscious mind didn’t perceive as important enough to notice. This would get her into trouble for sure, but she couldn’t resist. When she watched people, her fingers itched for the pen, the pencil. She knew she’d pay for it, but there was a part of her that just didn’t care. And that part always, always won.

      An obsession, her parents had called it. And so? What if it was?

      Her eyes seized on the death-of-a-salesman type across the room, the stringy comb-over, the reddened nose, the eye bags. He was consuming his prime rib and baked potato with glum ferocity. Edie rendered him with a few swift pen strokes, and then tried again, trying to capture the set of his shoulders, the defeated look.

      The weirdness started to happen, like it