Hello, Darkness Read online

  Praise for #1 bestselling author Sandra Brown and her electrifying thriller

  HELLO, DARKNESS

  “[A] fast-reading thriller. The unmasking of the killer comes with a riveting finale that will leave fans begging for an encore.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Strong characters, crisp dialogue . . . the suspense builds in Ms. Brown’s capable hands.”

  —Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “Gripping.”

  —The Denver Post

  “A sexy, fast-moving thriller.”

  —The Daily Oklahoman

  “Brown’s latest thriller is full of thrills and chills that will keep readers turning the pages. . . . With an abundance of likely suspects, this sexy, engrossing thriller will keep readers guessing until the very end.”

  —Booklist

  “Gritty and compelling . . . sure to satisfy Brown’s loyal readers while impressing new ones.”

  —Library Journal

  “Thrilling, frightening, and utterly absorbing.”

  —Market Wire

  “Plenty of heart-stopping action.”

  —Port St. Lucie News

  Thank you for purchasing this Simon & Schuster eBook.

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  contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Acknowledgments

  prologue

  Up until six minutes to sign-off, it had been a routine shift.

  “It’s a steamy night in the hill country. Thank you for spending your time with me here on 101.3. I’ve enjoyed your company tonight, as I do each weeknight. This is your host for classic love songs, Paris Gibson.

  “I’m going to leave you tonight with a trio of my favorites. I hope you’re listening to them with someone you love. Hold each other close.”

  She depressed the button on the control board to turn off her microphone. The series of songs would play uninterrupted right up to 1:59:30. During the last thirty seconds of her program, she would thank her listening audience again, say good night, and sign off.

  While “Yesterday” played, she closed her eyes and rolled her head around on her tense shoulders. Compared to an eight- or nine-hour workday, a four-hour radio show would seem like a snap. It wasn’t. By sign-off, she was physically tired.

  She worked the board alone, introducing the songs she had selected and logged in before the show. Audience requests necessitated adjustments to the log and careful attention to the countdown clock. She also manned the incoming telephone lines herself.

  The mechanics of the job were second nature, but not her delivery. She never allowed it to get routine or sloppy. Paris Gibson the person had worked diligently, with voice coaches and alone, to perfect the Paris Gibson “sound” for which she was well known.

  She worked harder than even she realized to maintain that perfected inflection and pitch, because after 240 minutes on air, her neck and shoulder muscles burned with fatigue. That muscle burn was evidence of how well she had performed.

  Midway through the Beatles classic, one of the telephone lines blinked red, indicating an incoming call. She was tempted not to answer, but, officially, there were almost six minutes left to her program, and she promised listeners that she would take calls until two A.M. It was too late to put this caller on the air, but she should at least acknowledge the call.

  She depressed the blinking button. “This is Paris.”

  “Hello, Paris. This is Valentino.”

  She knew him by name. He called periodically, and his unusual name was easily remembered. His speaking voice was distinctive, too, barely above a whisper, which was probably either for effect or disguise.

  She spoke into the microphone suspended above the board, which served as her telephone handset when not being used to broadcast. That kept her hands free to go about her business even while talking to a caller.

  “How are you tonight, Valentino?”

  “Not good.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes. You will be.”

  The Beatles gave way to Anne Murray’s “Broken Hearted Me.”

  Paris glanced up at the log monitor and automatically registered that the second of the last three songs had begun. She wasn’t sure she’d heard Valentino correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You will be sorry,” he said.

  The dramatic overtone was typical of Valentino. Whenever he called, he was either very high or very low, rarely on an emotional level somewhere in between. She never knew what to expect from him, and for that reason he was an interesting caller. But tonight he sounded sinister, and that was a first.

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “I’ve done everything you advised me to do, Paris.”

  “I advised you? When?”

  “Every time I’ve called. You always say—not just to me, but to everybody who calls—that we should respect the people we love.”

  “That’s right. I think—”

  “Well, respect gets you nowhere, and I don’t care what you think anymore.”

  She wasn’t a psychologist or a licensed counselor, only a radio personality. Beyond that, she had no credentials. Nevertheless, she took her role as late-night friend seriously.

  When a listener had no one else to talk to, she was an anonymous sounding board. Her audience knew her only by voice, but they trusted her. She served as their confidante, adviser, and confessor.

  They shared their joys, aired their grievances, and sometimes bared their souls. The calls she considered broadcast-worthy evoked sympathy from other listeners, prompted congratulations, and sometimes created heated controversy.

  Frequently a caller simply needed to vent. She acted as a buffer. She was a convenient outlet for someone mad at the world. Seldom was she the target of the caller’s anger, but obviously this was one of those times, and it was unsettling.

  If Valentino was on the brink of an emotional breakdown, she couldn’t heal what had led him to it, but she might be able to talk him a safe distance away from the edge and then urge him to seek professional help.

  “Let’s talk about this, Valentino. What’s on your mind?”

  “I respect girls. When I’m in a relationship, I place the girl on a pedestal and treat her like a princess. But that’s never enough. Girls are never faithful. Every single one of them screws around on me. Then when she leaves me, I call you, and you say that it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Valentino, I—”

  “You tell me that I did nothing wrong, that I’m not to blame for her leaving. And you know what? You�
�re absolutely right. I’m not to blame, Paris. You are. This time it’s your fault.”

  Paris glanced over her shoulder, toward the soundproof door of the studio. It was closed, of course. The hallway beyond the wall of windows had never looked so dark, although the building was always dark during her after-hours program.

  She wished Stan would happen by. Even Marvin would be a welcome sight. She wished for someone, anyone, to hear this call and help her get a read on it.

  She considered disconnecting. No one knew where she lived or even what she looked like. It was stipulated in her contract with the radio station: She didn’t make personal appearances. Nor was her likeness to appear in any promotional venues, including but not limited to all and any print advertising, television commercials, and billboards. Paris Gibson was a name and voice only, not a face.

  But, in good conscience, she couldn’t hang up on this man. If he had taken to heart something she’d said on air and things hadn’t turned out well, his anger was understandable.

  On the other hand, if a more rational person disagreed with something she had said, he simply would have blown it off. Valentino had vested in her more influence over his life than she deserved or desired.

  “Explain how it’s my fault, Valentino.”

  “You told her to break up with me.”

  “I never—”

  “I heard you! She called you the night before last. I was listening to your program. She didn’t give her name, but I recognized her voice. She told you our story. Then she said that I had become jealous and possessive.

  “You told her that if she felt our relationship was constricting, she should do something about it. In other words, you advised her to dump me.” He paused before adding, “And I’m going to make you sorry you gave her that advice.”

  Paris’s mind was skittering. In all her years on the air, she’d never encountered anything like this. “Valentino, let’s remain calm and discuss this, all right?”

  “I’m calm, Paris. Very calm. And there’s nothing to discuss. I’ve got her where no one will find her. She can’t escape me.”

  With that statement, sinister turned downright scary. Surely he didn’t mean literally what he’d just said.

  But before she could speak her thought aloud, he added, “She’s going to die in three days, Paris. I’m going to kill her, and her death will be on your conscience.”

  The last song in the series was playing. The clock on the computer monitor was ticking toward sign-off. She cut a quick glance at the Vox Pro to make certain that an electronic gremlin hadn’t caused it to malfunction. But, no, the sophisticated machine was working as it should. The call was being recorded.

  She wet her lips and took a nervous breath. “Valentino, this isn’t funny.”

  “It isn’t supposed to be.”

  “I know you don’t actually intend—”

  “I intend to do exactly what I said. I’ve earned at least seventy-two hours with her, don’t you think? As nice as I’ve been to her? Isn’t three days of her time and attention the least I deserve?”

  “Valentino, please, listen—”

  “I’m over listening to you. You’re full of shit. You give rotten advice. I treat a girl with respect, then she goes out and spreads her legs for other men. And you tell her to dump me, like I’m the one who ruined the relationship, like I’m the one who cheated. Fair’s fair. I’m going to fuck her till she bleeds, then I’m going to kill her. Seventy-two hours from now, Paris. Have a nice night.”

  chapter 1

  Dean Malloy eased himself off the bed. Groping in darkness, he located his underwear on the floor and took it with him into the bathroom. As quietly as he could, he closed the door before switching on the light.

  Liz woke up anyway.

  “Dean?”

  He braced his arms on the edge of the basin and looked at his reflection in the mirror. “Be right out.” His image gazed back at him, whether with despair or disgust, he couldn’t quite tell. Reproach, at the very least.

  He continued staring at himself for another few seconds before turning on the faucet and splashing cold water over his face. He used the toilet, pulled on his boxers, and opened the door.

  Liz had turned on the nightstand lamp and was propped up on one elbow. Her pale hair was tangled. There was a smudge of mascara beneath her eye. But somehow she made deshabille look fetching. “Are you going to shower?”

  He shook his head. “Not now.”

  “I’ll wash your back.”

  “Thanks, but—”

  “Your front?”

  He shot her a smile. “I’ll take a rain check.”

  His trousers were draped over the armchair. When he reached for them, Liz flopped back against the heaped pillows. “You’re leaving.”

  “Much as I’d like to stay, Liz.”

  “You haven’t spent a full night in weeks.”

  “I don’t like it any better than you do, but for the time being that’s the way it’s got to be.”

  “Good grief, Dean. He’s sixteen.”

  “Right. Sixteen. If he were a baby, I’d know where he was at all times. I’d know what he was doing and who he was with. But Gavin is sixteen and licensed to drive. For a parent, that’s a twenty-four-hour living nightmare.”

  “He probably won’t even be there when you get home.”

  “He’d better be there,” he muttered as he tucked in his shirttail. “He broke curfew last night, so I grounded him this morning. Restricted him to the house.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until he cleans up his act.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  “Stay in the house?”

  “Clean up his act.”

  That was a much weightier question. It required a more complicated answer, which he didn’t have time for tonight. He pushed his feet into his shoes, then sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. “It’s unfair that Gavin’s behavior is dictating your future.”

  “Our future.”

  “Our future,” he corrected softly. “It’s unfair as hell. Because of him our plans have been put on indefinite hold, and that stinks.”

  She kissed the back of his hand as she looked up at him through her lashes. “I can’t even persuade you to spend the night with me, and here I was hoping that by Christmas we’d be married.”

  “It could happen. The situation could improve sooner than we think.”

  She didn’t share his optimism, and her frown said as much. “I’ve been patient, Dean. Haven’t I?”

  “You have.”

  “In the two years we’ve been together, I think I’ve been more than accommodating. I relocated here without a quibble. And even though it would have made more sense for us to live together, I agreed to lease this place.”

  She had a selective and incorrect memory. Their living together had never been an option. He wouldn’t even have considered it as long as Gavin was living with him. Nor had there been any reason to quibble over her relocation to Austin. He had never suggested that she should. In fact, he would have preferred for her to remain in Houston.

  Independently, Liz had made the decision to relocate when he did. When she sprang the surprise on him, he’d had to fake his happiness and conceal a vague irritation. She had imposed herself on him when the last thing he needed was an additional imposition.

  But rather than opening a giant can of worms for discussion now, he conceded that she had been exceptionally patient with him and his present circumstances.

  “I’m well aware of how much my situation has changed since we started dating. You didn’t sign on to become involved with a single parent of a teenager. You’ve been more patient than I had any right to expect.”

  “Thank you,” she said, mollified. “But my body doesn’t know patience, Dean. Each month that passes means one less egg in the basket.”

  He smiled at the gentle reminder of her biological clock. “I acknowledge the sacrifices you’ve made for me. And c
ontinue to make.”

  “I’m willing to make more.” She stroked his cheek. “Because, Dean Malloy, the hell of it is, you’re worth those sacrifices.”

  He knew she meant it, but her sincerity did nothing to elevate his mood, and instead only increased his despondency. “Be patient a little longer, Liz. Please? Gavin is being impossible, but there are reasons for his bad behavior. Give it a little more time. Hopefully, we’ll soon find a comfort zone the three of us can live within.”

  She made a face. “ ‘Comfort zone’? Keep using phrases like that and, next thing you know, you’ll have your own daytime TV talk show.”

  He grinned, glad they could conclude the serious conversation on a lighter note. “Still headed to Chicago tomorrow?”

  “For three days. Closed-door meetings with folk from Copenhagen. All male. Robust, blond Viking types. Jealous?”

  “Pea green.”

  “Will you miss me?”

  “What do you think?”

  “How about I leave you with something to remember me by?”

  She pushed the sheet away. Naked and all but purring, lying on the rumpled bedding on which they’d already made love, Elizabeth Douglas looked more like a pampered courtesan than a vice-president of marketing for an international luxury-hotel chain.

  Her figure was voluptuous, and she actually liked it. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she didn’t obsess over every calorie. She considered it a workout when she had to carry her own luggage, and she never denied herself dessert. On her the curves looked good. Actually, they looked damn great.

  “Tempting,” he sighed. “Very. But a kiss will have to do.”

  She kissed him deeply, sucking his tongue into her mouth in a manner that probably would have made the Viking types snarl with envy. He was the one to end the kiss. “I’ve really got to go, Liz,” he whispered against her lips before pulling back. “Have a safe trip.”

  She pulled up the sheet to cover her nudity and pasted on a smile to cover her disappointment. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “You’d better.”

  He left, trying to make it look as if he wasn’t fleeing. The air outside settled over him like a damp blanket. It even seemed to have the texture of wet wool when he inhaled it. His shirt was sticking to his back by the time he’d made the short walk to his car. He started the motor and set the air conditioner on high. The radio came on automatically. Elvis’s “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”