Evidence of Marriage by Ann Voss Peterson Page A

laundry room.”
    Reed’s shoes scraped lightly in the darkness, moving toward the door. Moving out into the hall. He couldn’t leave her. Not in here. Not in the darkness.
    Where the killer could be waiting.
    No, the killer wasn’t in here. He couldn’t be. But he might be out in the hall. Out in the hall waiting for Reed.
    Panic flared hot in her chest. She pushed herself up from her crouch, willing her trembling knees to support her. Gripping the cage of chicken wire, she felt her way to the two-by-fours framing the locker door.
    â€œStay in the locker,” Reed whispered.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œI don’t want to have to worry about where you are.”
    Of course. What was she thinking? That she was going to save Reed? How? She had no gun. She had no weapon of any kind. And although she’d started attending classes on self-defense, at this moment she didn’t know if she could stand let alone remember a single move.
    She backed into the storage locker and lowered herself into an uneasy squat. The darkness closed around her, as heavy and oppressive as a blanket. A pall. She struggled to hear above the pound of her pulse.
    It was torture, waiting like this. Not knowing what was happening. Helpless. Images exploded in front of her eyes, memory playing out against the black screen. She remembered every excruciating moment of the days and nights she’d lain tied in that dark cabin. The burn of the ropes against her wrists. The terrible thirst that parched her mouth and throat. The emptiness that opened like a chasm inside her.
    She couldn’t push it out of her mind.
    She’d been worried about Reed then, too. She’d seen Professor Bertram hit him with the tire iron. She’d seen the way his head had bounced against the tile floor. She’d seen the blood.
    And she’d been helpless to do anything to help him. The helplessness was the worst. It ate into her until there was nothing left but bitter darkness.
    A sound came from out in the hall.
    She couldn’t sit here and wait for Reed to be attacked. Wait for the killer to find her. Wait to relive horrors she’d barely survived the first time.
    She groped in the darkness until her hands touched the cardboard flaps of boxes. There must be something here, something she could use to defend herself, to help Reed.
    She pulled the flaps of one box open. Taking a breath of dusty air, she shoved a hand inside. Her fingers brushed the spines of books. She triedanother box, her hand plunging into soft fall sweaters. Her third try, the buttery leather of a softball glove. She clawed deeper. Something cold and curved and as smooth as brushed metal met her palm. She gripped the softball bat and pulled it from the box as quietly as she could.
    It felt good in her hands. Solid. Strong. She focused on the locker door. If something happened, if someone came inside, she could take a swing at him. She could defend herself.
    The trembling in her legs spread through her whole body. Her breathing roared in her ears, yet oxygen never seemed to make it to her lungs.
    Oh, God, don’t let this happen again.
    The lights flickered, then held.
    She blinked, the sudden illumination blinding. Relief rushed through her bloodstream, relief she was afraid to feel.
    Footsteps sounded in the hall.
    She tightened her grip on the bat.
    Reed stepped around the corner.
    She let the bat clatter to the floor.
    â€œDiana.” He rushed to her side, encircling her with his arms, holding her on her feet.
    Her body dissolved, as if the muscle holding her upright had turned to quivering goo. “Who was it?”
    â€œI don’t know. But I’m getting you out of here. I’ll come back for the boxes when backup arrives.”
    â€œAnd Nadine Washburn’s mother?” Reed had planned to talk to the woman about her daughter’s disappearance. But right now, the last thing Diana wanted was for him to leave her