The Shadow in the Dark Chapter Thirty Two

 

I sat in the chair by the motel window with the lights turned off, my knees drawn up beneath the spread of my dress, the rain ticking softly against the glass like fingertips. The room smelled faintly of damp carpet and cheap soap. The neon sign outside bled a dull red glow through the curtains, painting slow-moving shadows across the walls.

Martin slept in the bed.

 

He lay on his back, one arm flung out over the pillow, his chest rising and falling in an easy, untroubled rhythm. He looked peaceful, almost boyish in sleep. As if nothing in the world could trouble him. As if he had not been the centre of something dark and carefully constructed.

 

The car keys were back where they had been, on the small table near the door. I had put them there with shaking fingers, arranging them exactly as I had found them, like returning a piece of a crime scene so no one would know it had been disturbed.

 

Beneath the powder‑blue dress and its soft bow, beneath the ridiculous, rustling layers of my petticoat, the Glock was taped flat against my outside right thigh with black gaffer tape. It pulled slightly when I shifted, a tight, grounding pressure that reminded me it was there. The petticoat was bulky enough to blur its outline completely, the fabric falling in forgiving folds that hid the hard geometry of the weapon. From the outside I probably looked like nothing more than a nervous girl sitting in a chair.

But I was armed.

 

The knowledge made my skin prickle.

 

I wondered if he would notice the keys had been moved.

 

I wondered if he already knew.

 

Has he always been part of it?

 

That question wouldn’t leave me alone. I watched his face, searching for something - some tell-tale hardness, some flicker of calculation, but he just slept, lips slightly parted, lashes resting against his cheeks. The man I had kissed. The man I had trusted.

 

The man who had my gun in his glove compartment.

 

Had Martin been assigned to me from the beginning? Or had someone found him later, realized how much I cared about him, and folded him into the Game as another lever to pull?

 

My mind went back, over and over, to that night in Springfield.

 

The Singles bar.

 

It had felt so ordinary at the time. I had been in town for an FBI training course. I had gone out that evening alone, restless and lonely and looking for somewhere to have a drink. I could still see the street in my mind: the neon signs, the wet pavement, the hum of traffic. I remembered hesitating, then pushing open the door.

 

Why that door?

 

I had told myself I hadn’t known it was a Singles bar until I was already inside. I wasn’t looking for a connection with a man How preposterous. But now, sitting in the dark, that certainty began to fray.

 

Had there been a sign I’d noticed? A chalkboard outside? A flyer in the hotel lobby? Had someone mentioned it in passing earlier that day? A bartender? A stranger in an elevator? A woman brushing past me on the sidewalk?

 

“Try the place on Maple Street,” a voice might have said. “It’s lively tonight.”

 

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the memory into focus. All I got was a blur of impressions: noise, light, movement. No clear beginning. What if it hadn’t been spontaneous at all?

 

What if I had been nudged there, gently and invisibly, by a hundred tiny suggestions I no longer remembered? A recommendation here, a planted idea there, until I thought I was choosing freely when I wasn’t.

 

And Martin…

 

I saw him again, sitting at the bar with his drink, turning when I came in, smiling as if I were exactly who he’d been waiting for. At the time it had felt romantic. Now it felt terrifying.

 

Had he known?

 

Or had he just been another piece on the board, picked up later because I happened to care about him?

 

The tape against my thigh tugged as I shifted, and I pressed my knees together, grounding myself in the physicality of it -- the cold, hard shape beneath fabric and lace. It was the only solid thing in a room full of doubt.

 

If Martin had been planted from the beginning, then nothing about our relationship was real. Not our conversations, not our dates, not the silly arguments, not the way he held my hand when I crossed the street. All of it would be part of the Game.

 

But if he hadn’t… if he had been recruited later… then at least some of it had been genuine. And that somehow hurt even more.

 

Because it meant he had chosen to betray me.

 

I looked at him again, lying there so peacefully, and felt something tear inside my chest.

 

Why did I go into that bar?

 

The question beat against my skull. I remembered feeling lonely. I remembered wanting to be seen. I remembered thinking, just for a moment, that maybe it would be nice to talk to someone who didn’t know me as an FBI agent, someone who didn’t expect me to be strong all the time.

 

Had that thought been mine?

 

Or had it been nurtured?

 

The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the window in uneven waves. Martin shifted slightly in his sleep, mumbling something I couldn’t make out, then went still again.

 

I stayed where I was, in the shadows, the silk and tulle of my dress whispering softly around the hidden weight on my thigh, watching him - trapped between love and suspicion, between what I wanted to believe and what the evidence was already telling me.

 

Somewhere in my broken, half‑erased memory was the truth about that night in Springfield. About the door I had chosen to open.

 

And until I found it, I couldn’t know whether Martin had walked into my life by chance…

 

…or by design.

 

The first light of dawn was beginning to filter through the thin curtains when I noticed Martin stir. The bed shifted beneath him, a muffled groan of sheets and mattress. He blinked against the weak, orange glow of morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and then – slowly - he realized something was off. There was no warmth beside him, no soft weight of my body pressed close in the shared quiet of the early hour.

 

His gaze swung toward me.

 

I was already dressed, sitting in the chair by the window, knees drawn up beneath my powder-blue dress, the petticoat rustling faintly as I shifted. The white ribbon in my hair gleamed pale in the rising light. My hands rested in my lap, but beneath the tulle, I could feel the reassuring weight of the Glock taped to my thigh.

 

For a moment, I thought I saw the faintest flicker of concern cross Martin’s face. His eyes might have swept toward the table where his car keys lay, but I couldn’t be certain; my own fear and suspicion made every movement seem deliberate, loaded.

 

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep, as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “What… what are you doing up?”

 

I tried to sound calm, even casual. “I had trouble sleeping,” I said, my voice softer than I would have liked. “I went out for a few minutes to get some fresh air.”

 

His eyes lingered on me a moment longer than necessary, and again I thought - though I wasn’t sure - that there was a quick flicker of unease at the idea that I had been outside alone. But just as quickly, if it was there at all, it passed.

 

“I… I thought we’d just stay in bed a little longer,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then, more firmly, “It would have been nice to wake up together. It would have been a tender moment.”

 

I caught my breath, and shook my head lightly. “I couldn’t sleep. Sorry.”

 

He rubbed at his eyes again, sat upright fully, and finally asked the question I had been dreading. “Ashlee… what’s going on?”

 

I let my gaze drift toward the window. The street outside was wet and dimly illuminated by the rising sun. “Nothing. Really. I just… couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the morning, that’s all,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I think I want to make an early start,” I added, “leave Dunwich before it wakes up.”

 

He shook his head with the faintest smile, stretching his arms lazily. “We can leave after breakfast. I’m not driving until I’ve had something to eat. You know that.”

 

I nodded, dismissing his words with a wave of my hand. “Of course.”

 

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice soft but probing.

 

I gave him the smallest shrug. “Of course,” I said again, though my heart felt hollow at the lie.

 

He shifted in the bed, looking at me with what seemed like genuine concern. Then he began, cautiously, to ask about last night - the way I had reacted when we had tried to be intimate for the first time. The questions were gentle, probing, tinged with worry, but they carried a weight that made my stomach clench.

 

“I just… I don’t understand,” he said slowly, frowning, “why you seemed… so upset. Ashlee, you’re acting irrationally. I’m worried about you.”

 

The words hit me like ice. My mind instantly flashed to the papers in the glove compartment, the Section 12 application, the affidavits, the court orders. He could be paving the way. Planting the seed for the next step, if he chose to. My pulse quickened. Every calm tone, every gentle word now seemed layered, calculated.

 

“You think I need… professional help?” I asked softly.

 

Martin nodded slightly, hesitating before he replied, “Maybe. It’s a thought.” He leaned back slightly, sighing, then spoke with a deeper note in his voice, almost hesitant. “Ashlee… I have… feelings for you. Strong feelings. More than I’ve had for a long time. You know that.” He paused, looked away for a moment, then back at me. “I… maybe even…” He stopped himself. Almost. But not quite. Not fully. “I care about you. More than you might realize.”

 

The words landed in me like something heavy and impossible to hold. I wanted so badly to believe him, to take that hint, to sink into the warmth of it. But the evidence of the Glock, the rope, the body bag, the papers in the glove compartment, all of it whispered another truth - one where Martin was not just gentle, not just tender. He could be capable of anything.

 

I looked at him, sitting there in the soft, waking light, the man I had kissed and loved, the man I had trusted, and felt a fracture open inside me. My chest ached with the desperate need to believe in him, and with the terror of knowing I couldn’t.

 

And yet I nodded again, faintly, barely enough to seem agreeable. “Of course,” I said. And it was true - true in a way that terrified me. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust him.

 

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The morning sunlight made Dunwich look almost ordinary, though the antiquated buildings and narrow streets still carried that old-fashioned, almost frozen-in-time feel. The motel, the diner, even the small town square - everything seemed quieter now, less threatening than it had last night, yet my stomach was tight with nerves. I had eaten very little at breakfast. The tension of what was coming, the moment I knew I would have to confront Martin, weighed on me more than hunger. The Glock taped to my right thigh pressed uncomfortably through the soft layers of my dress and its rustling petticoat, a constant reminder of the reckoning I was carrying with me. I adjusted the hem slightly to smooth the bulge, heart hammering.

 

We left the inn, Martin holding the car door for me with that habitual gallantry, letting me slide into the back seat. He smiled, brushing a finger over the shoulder of my dress as I settled. “Seat belt,” he said lightly, clipping it around me himself, then kissing my forehead. “There. All safe and tucked in. Whatever’s troubling you, I’ll make sure you get the help you need.”

 

I tried to focus on his words, tried to soak in the casual warmth of his touch, but my mind was elsewhere. My plan was forming. The woods would be the perfect place - isolated, quiet, no one to interrupt. I would make him tell me everything. And I would know immediately if he lied.

 

Martin started the engine, and we drove out of Dunwich. The town seemed softer in daylight, the sinister shadows of last night erased by sunlight and the occasional bird call. He made small talk to pass the time, pointing out familiar landmarks along the way. “Remember the fair six weeks ago?” he asked casually. “I can’t believe I actually hit that target at the shooting range on the first try. That giant teddy bear was yours before I even realised it.”

 

I laughed softly, almost automatically. “You were lucky,” I said. “I would have made you pay for missing the second shot.”

 

He grinned, and the memory seemed to lift some of the tension, briefly. “You were fuming,” he said. “Crossed arms, pouting, and then… you laughed when I handed you the bear anyway. I think you tried to hide how happy you were.”

 

I remembered it clearly - the smell of fried dough and popcorn, the shrill calls of the carnival barkers, the warmth of the sun on the cotton candy stalls. I’d laughed until my stomach hurt and tried to make him look embarrassed, but he’d just smiled at me like it was the easiest thing in the world to make me smile. “I hated that you won, though,” I said, smirking. “I shoot professionally. It wasn’t fair!”

 

He laughed too, looking straight ahead at the road. “Hey, you always get the best prizes, Ashlee. I wouldn’t take that away from you. But I admit, I might have been hoping to impress you.” His eyes flicked toward me briefly, then returned to the road, careful, casual.

 

“I remember the Ferris wheel,” I said, forcing the memory to fill my mind so I could distract myself from the Glock. “You were terrified of heights, weren’t you? But you went anyway, and you held my hand the whole time.”

 

“I did,” he said, a soft chuckle escaping him. “And you kept trying to calm me down, like I wasn’t a grown man who could handle a little height. You kept saying, ‘It’s fine, Martin. Relax.’” He shook his head and smiled faintly. “I remember thinking that was… I don’t know… kind of adorable.”

 

I smiled faintly, though the tight knot of fear in my stomach didn’t loosen. “You’re ridiculous,” I said, lightly. “I wasn’t being adorable. I was just… trying not to scream.”

 

“And it worked,” he said, tone warm, almost tender. “We had that whole day just for ourselves. No work, no training, no responsibilities. Just… us. You and me. We’ve had some good times, Ashlee. I think I’m getting serious about you.”

 

I looked down at the folds of my dress, feeling the weight of the Glock beneath it. Each recollection, each small moment of laughter and intimacy, was suddenly poisoned with suspicion. Had any of this been real? Or was it all carefully designed to make me trust him, to lower my defences? My fingers pressed lightly against the tape, the cold metal beneath reassuring and terrifying at once.

 

For a while Martin was silent as he drove. Then he spoke again, casually but with a trace of concern. “I still can’t believe that teddy bear,” he said, turning slightly to me. “You carried it around the fair like it was your prize of victory. People must have thought you were ridiculous.”

 

“They probably did,” I said, but my mind was racing. I was imagining the woods, the moment I would have him alone, and the Glock pressed against my thigh under the petticoat. My pulse hammered as I rehearsed it mentally: ask the questions, watch for lies, keep control.

 

He glanced at me briefly, eyebrows raised. “Are you all right? You seem… tense.”

 

I shrugged, forcing a small smile. “Of course,” I said. “Everything’s good.”

 

The road narrowed, trees arching above us like a tunnel. Rain from last night still clung to the leaves. I could feel the weight of the gun more acutely with every turn, and finally, unable to delay it any longer, I said:

 

“Can we stop the car, please? I think I need to pee.”

 

Martin glanced at me, surprised but still calm. “Of course,” he said. “If you have to go, you have to go. There’s a spot just ahead. I’ll pull over.”

 

I took a deep breath, letting my hand brush over the folds of the petticoat to steady the Glock beneath.