The Darkness Gathers by Lisa Unger

a sickening crack. She was mercilessly pushed by the car fender as Lydia watched, helpless, astonished. An inhuman sound that was despair and anger escaped Lydia’s throat as she, unthinking, ran after the Mercedes. When it stopped, Lydia froze, and for an eternal moment the street seemed to hold its breath. A flock of small green parrots screeched overhead as they fled from the tree they’d been perched in. Then the driver slammed the car into reverse, Lydia directly in its path. She managed to leap to the side of the road and crawl behind the Jeep. Her gun was still inside the vehicle, sitting uselessly on the bottom of her bag on the backseat. She struggled toward the back door, watching the wheels of the Mercedes from beneath her car as it continued its path, backing down the street, then sped off. She lay still for a moment, gasping for breath; then she pulled herself from the ground. People had started to come from their houses.
    “Are you all right?” a frightened voice called.
    “Call an ambulance,” a more frightened voice answered, and Lydia realized it was her own voice. She ran toward Valentina, who lay on the road, a crumbled pile of herself in a spreading pool of blood. Her dead eyes registered horrified surprise, her lips slightly parted.
    “Oh God,” whispered Lydia, assailed by guilt and regret as she knelt beside the woman, Valentina’s blood soaking into the knees of Lydia’s jeans. “Oh God. What’s happening here?”

chapter eleven
     
    H e felt a shock of fear when he saw her sitting with her head in her hands and the knees of her jeans soaked through with blood. She sat alone in a glass-walled interrogation room. Her heels resting on the metal chair legs, her elbows on her thighs, she moved her fingers across her forehead in circles, as if rubbing away the sight she had just witnessed. He was reminded what a small woman she was, just under five six, weighing in at 120 pounds, give or take. He always thought of her as strong and powerful, the energy of her personality taking up much more space than her physical frame. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, perched on the stoop of her mother’s house in Sleepy Hollow, sinking into grief, terrified and traumatized. He hadn’t thought of that night in so long.
    Jeffrey and Detective Ignacio had raced back to the station house when the call came over the police radio. And the ride had been an eternity, even knowing that Valentina was the sole casualty at the scene. He’d had an instinct that Lydia should not make that trip alone, but he had kept his mouth shut, knowing that she would have given him shit for being overprotective. She easily could have been killed. It would be awhile before he could forgive himself for that.
    She raised her eyes, saw him approaching, and gave him a weak smile. He hoped she would jump up and run to him, but she didn’t. He could see as he strode toward her that she had pulled the shades down in her eyes. She had taken on the coldness that she used to protect herself in moments like this. And he hated it. Hated that she’d had cause to learn how to do that in her life, and hated that she was in a position where she needed to again. Their last year together had been so peaceful, free from murder and mayhem. He was starting to think that they needed a career change.
    “Are you all right?” he asked when he entered the room. She rose and let herself be taken into his arms, where she clung to him for a second.
    “I’m okay. Valentina Fitore is dead,” she said, moving away from him and sitting down again. Jeffrey and Detective Ignacio took seats at the table.
    “What happened?”
    “One second, we were standing on the street. The next second, a black Mercedes came out of nowhere and just mowed her down. It was unbelievable. I never saw it coming.”
    “They’re calling it a hit-and-run,” said the detective.
    “It was no accident—whoever was driving that car aimed for her and raced off after